Page 52 of Laird Of Her Heart

She awoke in a dark room. It took a moment for her to get her bearings. For one thing, she was not altogether sure she was alive. If Liam was dead, no doubt she’d faded into some limbo. Wherever it was lost souls went.

But limbo probably didn’t have fur coverlets on the beds.

Limbo probably didn’t have beds.

She felt around and found a bedside table with a candle and a flint, but she had no idea how to strike a flint, so she fumbled around some more until she found a window and yanked back the heavy drapes.

The moonlight flooded in and she surveyed her surroundings. She was in a modest chamber about midway up the south tower—as far as she could tell. And she was wearing a flowing nightdress.

She tried the door and, delighted to find it not locked, she looked out into the hallway. It wasn’t a hallway as much as a curving staircase. Voices wafted down from above, so she headed that way. The staircase ended at a broad door which was open. She peered in and knew this would be the laird’s solar. It was a large round room that took up the whole floor of the tower.

Dominic laid on the four-postered bed by the hearth. He was surrounded by several men.

Declan glanced up as she slipped into the room. He blanched. “Ye shouldna be here.”

She ignored him. “Is he all right?”

The other men took in her attire and their nostrils flared. Without a word, Declan found a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“It’s just a nightdress, she muttered.

“’Tis not seemly.”

She blew out a breath. It was a fricking night dress. It covered her from neck to toes. But still, her attire was the least of her worries. “Is he all right?”

“He hasna woken up.”

His chest was broad and bare. The knife had been removed but the wound was open and covered with… Her stomach roiled. “Are those leaches?”

“They are necessary.” An old man with a prissy expression sniffed. “To remove the evil humors.”

“Take them off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Take them the fuck off.”

The doctor glanced at Declan, possibly in outrage, but Declan nodded. “Do as she says.” It gratified her that he took her side.

“Bleeding patients is crucial,” the doctor muttered, but he began peeling the nasty leeches off.

Thank God.

Seriously. Who knew where they’d been?

“Bleeding patients only weakens them. What he needs is that wound sewn up. A little antiseptic would not go awry.”

The doctor reared back. “I willna be responsible for his health if you doona listen to me.”

“Fine,” Declan said, leading him to the door.

Maggie was more than happy to see the doctor leave. Though she was far from a medical expert, no doubt she had a better grasp on healthcare than a man who believed in body humors and trepanning. Besides, she’d seen tons of medical dramas on TV.

Through the night, she did everything she could think of—everything she’d learned from Dr. Blake Braxton—from hot compresses to salt washes, but Dominic didn’t get better. He didn’t awake. By morning, his fever had spiked.

The next day it was worse, and by the third day, it was clear an infection was setting in. The wound was horrendous. Black around the edges and raw inside. What scared her to death was the red stripes fanning out, a sign that the contamination had entered his bloodstream, perhaps leading to sepsis. Sepsis was fatal.

Even without having binged on Game of Thrones and having watched Khal Drogo fade away, she knew, without medication, Dominic would die.