He frowned and came forward, then lifted her hand for better inspection.
“You need more than tweezers.”
“Yes, to be washed out and a bandage, Mr. McNaught. I have been cut before.”
“You need stitches,” he announced.
Tempest’s stomach rolled with the very idea of a needle pricking her skin to close the wound. “I am certain that is not necessary.”
He pulled back, humor in his green eyes. “What is this? Is Miss Driscoll finally afraid of something.”
“She hates needles,” Nicoll offered from the stove.
“Is that water hot yet?” Tempest snapped.
“She nearly gave up sewing when she pricked her finger too often so she is not going to be pleased if you try to stitch her hand,” Nicoll offered as she ignored her sister.
“Would you hurry and then go watch over the girls?”
“I will see to the water, Nicoll,” Rhys offered. “What I need for you to do is bring me a bottle of rum.”
“You brought back rum yesterday with the supplies,” she reminded him.
“Which have disappeared along with the others.” His green eyes bore into hers. “A man should be allowed his rum.”
“It is the principal of the matter.” She sniffed. “As I have already told you.”
“Yes. We have discussed that along with morals and being a good example, but I do not want it for drinking. I need it to wash out your hand.”
She frowned.
“It also works as an analgesic and may help keep away infections.”
Tempest narrowed her eyes. “You are using that as an excuse. I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Because you haven’t been in battle,” he grumbled. ‘There are doctors who swear by the practice of pouring alcohol in a wound before or after it is cleaned while others think it is foolish.”
“You do not think it foolish?”
“No. The doctors who prescribed such treatments had fewer infections than those who did not. It is not exactly scientific and I do not know why it would matter, but because it may, I will follow the practice.”
Tempest had overheard various discussions in her father’s home about war, battles, and the wounded and someone had mentioned alcohol but it was dismissed by another in the discussion. “It cannot hurt me more, can it?” She did not want to risk a worse injury.
“It will sting at first, and likely burn, but will not make the injury more likely to have an infection.”
“Very well.” Tempest blew out a sigh. “Retrieve one of Mr. McNaught’s bottles of rum.”
Nicoll reached under the bed and produced one.
“Are they all there?” he asked.
“I would not be so foolish to put them in the same place in the event you found one.”
“The water has boiled,” Nicoll announced.
“Set it aside so that it cools enough for me to clean your sister’s wound.”
“I can clean it myself,” Tempest insisted.
