Be strong.
She wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her hands and cry, but she would never let him see how much he'd hurt her. She closed her eyes and forced back the emotions, knowing this was not the time.
He was right. When this was all over she would never have to see him again, but right now she needed him. She hated it, but it was the truth.
She tried not to look at him. She shouldn't care about what he was doing.
She heard a tearing sound and knew that he was making the opening in his breeches bigger.
Dear God, he was actually going to do it. She felt a cold chill settle in her stomach.
Telling herself that it was only because she needed him to survive, she asked, “Do you need any help?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I've tended enough battlefield wounds to know what to do. It's not too deep—I can see the ball. If he'd waited a few more feet before firing we would not be having this conversation.” He gave her a sideways glance. “You might not want to watch.”
She pursed her lips. She wasn't some squeamish girl. But she found herself clenching the wool of the plaid between her fingers nonetheless.
After taking a long drink from one of the skins—which she suspected held something stronger than water—Patrick put the hilt of his eating knife in his mouth and used his dirk to dig into the soupy, bloody mess. The reason for the knife in his mouth became clear a moment later. His entire body tensed at the invasion—his teeth clamped down hard against the hilt, the muscles in his neck and arms went taut, and a guttural sound emitted from deep inside him. The pain must have been unbearable, but his hand showed no hesitation. In one smooth, determined stroke, he plunged the tip of the dirk deep into the hole.
He made another grunting sound as he appeared to maneuver the tip under the ball. The hand that held the knife pressed down, levering the ball up; then, using two fingers from his other hand, he dug it out.
Blood gushed from his leg—so much blood that she feared something must be wrong. Unwittingly, her heart fluttered wildly.
He used the cloth that she had given him bunched up in a square to press against the wound and took another long drink from the skin before he started to heat the blade of his dirk in the fire.
She might despise him, but she could not sit aside any longer. Without a word, Lizzie got up, walked over, and knelt beside him, taking over the stanching of blood with the cloth. The metallic scent mingled with the smell of whisky.
Their eyes met, and she read his thanks in his gaze.
He held the blade in the flames, turning it until it glowed. After removing the steel from the fire, he lifted her hand and the cloth from his leg. Gesturing for her to get back, without hesitation, he placed the flat of the blade against the open wound.
His entire body clenched. The scent of burning flesh nearly made her gag, but she forced herself not to turn away. She put her knuckle in her mouth to keep from crying out. God, how could he do such a thing?
Having someone else do to him what he'd just done was bad enough, but doing it by yourself … took some kind of strength. Toughness that she couldn't even begin to comprehend.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was likely only a few seconds, he removed the blade from his leg and the hilt of the knife from his mouth.
Lizzie tossed up her skirts again and ripped a fresh piece of muslin from her underskirt, which now came down only to her knees. She handed it to him, and he used it to bind the seared wound.
They exchanged a long look. The lingering pain in his eyes made her heart twist, and she had to fight the urge to comfort him. He was so pale, with deep lines of pain and weariness etched around his mouth.
He seemed to understand her quandary.
“Go, get some rest, Lizzie,” he said gently. “We only have a few hours. It's too dangerous to travel into these hills at night; we'll need to leave at first light.”
She wanted to say something, but what was left that hadn't already been said? Instead she nodded and returned to her place on the plaid. Alone. She lay down and purposefully turned away from him, lest she be tempted to watch over him. He didn't need her; why had she ever thought he did? Closing her eyes, she let the pull of exhaustion take her under.
The crunching sound of someone walking quietly over rocks sounded in her ear where it pressed against the ground, startling her awake. Her eyes fluttered open in the semidarkness, and she was relieved to see that it was only Patrick. For a moment, her heart leapt with joy—forgetting where they were and what had happened—then the truth brought her crashing back to reality. Reality in the form of a dark, rocky cave, musty with animal scents, with more crevices than she cared to explore.
The fire had gone out, but surprisingly, she wasn't cold. She looked down to see the plaid wrapped around her.
“You can tend to your needs down by the loch,” he said, raking his fingers through his still-damp hair. “I've left you some dried beef and a bit of oatcake. It's not much, but we need to ration just in case.” He motioned to a rock near the saddlebags. “I'm going to climb up the hill to get a better vantage of the area before we go.”
Lizzie felt an unwelcome pang in her chest. He looked horrible. Though if she didn't know him so well, she might not notice the lines of strain etched around his mouth, the flatness of his eyes, and the slight pallor of his skin. The signs of a long night spent in pain that no dunking in the loch could wash away. Her foolish heart went out to him. She'd be surprised if he had slept at all.
“Your leg …,” she started. “Does it hurt very badly?”
He shrugged. “I've had worse.”
