“Nay, he doesnae,” Fergus assured her, but between her adjusting her skirts and Aiden’s smirk, she was pretty sure she was right.
However, she was keeping a secret of Aiden’s, too. If Fergus knew that he was in Lottie’s room, kissing her with the door closed, he would be furious.
So Jeane would keep his secret, and hopefully, Aiden would keep hers. She would not want the whole castle thinking her a harlot.
Fergus took her hand, bringing her knuckles up to brush his lips across them.
“Ye will meet me in the great hall?”
“If I can find it,” Jeane chirped, and Fergus smiled.
Jeane thought to herself that she could get used to that smile.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jeane was reviewing her supplies in the healer’s quarters when the door burst open with such force it slammed against the wall.
Mary stood there, her face pale and streaked with tears.
“Miss Liliana! Please, ye have to come quick!”
Jeane was already on her feet, grabbing her black bag. “What’s happened?”
“It’s wee Thomas, Cecily’s oldest boy. He fell from the barn loft. He’s bleedin’ somethin’ awful, and he willnae wake up.”
Jeane’s heart lurched, but she forced herself to stay calm. Panic wouldn’t help anyone.
“Take me to him. Now.”
She followed Mary through the castle at a run, her bag clutched in her hands. They burst out into the courtyard where a crowd had gathered around a small form lying on the ground.
Jeane pushed through the people, dropping to her knees beside the boy.
Thomas was maybe seven years old, his face pale beneath the dirt and blood. A gash across his forehead bled freely, and his left arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Worst of all, he wasn’t moving.
Cecily knelt beside her son, sobbing. “He’s dead;. he’s dead; oh God, me boy.”
“He’s nae dead,” Jeane said firmly, pressing her fingers to his throat and finding a pulse. Weak, but there. “He’s breathin’, but we need to move him inside. Carefully. Someone get me a board—a door, anythin’ flat and sturdy.”
“I’ll get one,” a deep voice said, and Jeane looked up to see Fergus pushing through the crowd. His eyes met hers for just a moment before he disappeared back toward the castle.
“Cecily, I need ye to be calm,” Jeane said, taking the woman’s hands. “I ken ye’re frightened, but Thomas needs me to focus, and I need ye to trust me. Can ye do that?”
Cecily nodded, tears still streaming down her face. “Aye. Aye, just save me boy. Please.”
Fergus returned with a wooden board, and Jeane directed several of the men to help her move Thomas onto it without jostling him too much. The boy let out a weak moan which Jeane took as a good sign—unconscious but responsive to pain.
“Take him to me quarters,” Jeane ordered. “And someone bring me hot water, clean cloths, and all the bandages ye can find.”
The men carried Thomas carefully, Cecily walking beside him with her hand on his chest. Jeane followed, mentally cataloging his injuries and what she’d need to do.
Head wound, likely causing the unconsciousness. Broken arm would need to be set. But were there internal injuries? Broken ribs? Bleeding inside that she couldn’t see?
She couldn’t think about that now. She could only deal with what was in front of her.
They laid Thomas on the bed in Jeane’s quarters, and she immediately went to work, cutting away his tunic to examine his torso. Bruising was already blooming across his ribs, but when she pressed gently, he didn’t cry out.
“Ribs might be bruised, but I daenae think they’re broken,” she muttered.
