Falling for Her Captor. Elisabeth Hobbes

Hugh gave a guttural sigh and opened his eyes to see his soldier and his prisoner staring at each other angrily.

      ‘Is it over?’ he whispered huskily through cracked lips.

      ‘Hardly started,’ Duncan raged. ‘This madwoman wants to sew you together like—like a tapestry!’

      Again Aline explained her plan, ignoring the snorts from the old soldier behind her. Sir Hugh lay silently as she spoke, all the while looking up at Aline.

      ‘Please, let me try?’ she asked.

      Sir Hugh held her gaze for what felt like hours before nodding slowly.

      ‘I’m going to need warm water and clean cloths,’ Aline ordered.

      Jack hastened to fill the pot and set it onto the fire. Duncan walked to the cart and pulled a leather roll out of a box, grumbling all the while under his breath, then returned bearing a selection of needles and tools.

      Leaving Sir Hugh lying alone, Aline retrieved her old dress from the cart. As rapidly as she could she cut it into strips with the dagger, unpicking the thread that decorated the bodice. She returned to where Duncan and Jack had positioned her patient. They had moved him against the cartwheel and sat either side, supporting his weight. With a lurching heart Aline saw that the only way she could reach the wound was to kneel astride the reclining man.

      She gathered her skirts and moved as carefully as she could into position. She reached a timid hand to his smooth chest, feeling for the torn flesh.

      Sir Hugh managed to smile weakly despite the pain. ‘There are some advantages to being mauled, I see.’

      ‘You flatter yourself, Captain,’ Aline said in a voice lighter than she felt. ‘I prefer my companions to be less bloodstained!’

      The man’s face darkened as he obviously recalled when he had said something similar and he looked away.

      Aline’s slim fingers probed the area where the skin was torn. She noted with relief that the blood no longer flowed so quickly. She had sounded more confident than she felt when describing the procedure; now, faced with actually doing it, she was beginning to lose her nerve.

      ‘This is going to need a lot of stitches and it needs to be well cleaned. Are you sure you want me to do this?’ she asked cautiously.

      Sir Hugh nodded, his eyes half-closed. Aline took a deep breath and began.

      She dipped the strips of dress into the hot water, ignoring the sting in her hands. She cleaned what blood she could from round the wound, ignoring the wincing this caused. Jack passed the whisky bottle to Aline, who drank deeply, then held it to Hugh’s lips. Her hair fell across her face and she paused, twisted it into a roll and secured it with a strip of skirt. Knowing she could put the moment off no longer, she took a deep breath and pushed the needle through Hugh’s skin. He jerked and let out a growl, but did not pass out again.

      The needle was blunter than Aline would have preferred, and sewing the wound took what seemed like hours. It turned out that skin proved a lot tougher to pierce than tapestry cloth.

      The sky was almost pitch-black by the time she was finished. Hugh had remained still after the first few stitches and contented himself with groaning or swearing depending on the depth of the stitch. Now Aline knotted the final thread with a sigh of relief. The Captain had lost a lot of blood, but with luck he would survive if he kept the wound clean. She used the remaining strips of dress to wrap the wound as best as she could, winding it across Sir Hugh’s chest and behind his shoulder.

      Duncan brought a pile of blankets from the cart and rolled two up for a pillow, then covered Sir Hugh’s legs with another, fussing around him until the Captain waved him away irritably. Duncan patted Aline on the shoulder and gave her a smile of approval, then moved off to tend the fire. Jack went to the cart and returned with another bottle of whisky.

      The four sat together, passing it between them, any hostility gone for now. They talked over events until they had pieced them together. Though Sir Hugh was exhausted, and weak from the loss of blood and his exertions, he had revived sufficiently to join in the conversation.

      Aline was unused to drink that strong, but the warmth spreading through her body was far too comforting for her to care, and she soon found her head spinning. Jack made a further, slightly wobbly trip to the cart and returned with another bottle. He warned her in a slurred voice it was his own brew and would be ‘very, very much too strong for a woman.’

      Her pride stung, Aline snatched it from his hand. Tilting her head back, she drank defiantly, conscious of Sir Hugh’s soft laugh as it caused her to cough abruptly and made her eyes water.

      * * *

      The night wore on and peace descended on the camp. Everyone became preoccupied with their own thoughts as the drink took effect. Duncan sat cross-legged with his back to the cartwheel next to Hugh, singing the same song over and over—something about cheeses and a maiden, though he seemed to know only half the words and was humming the rest. Jack lay on his back a little way off, hiccupping and ranting to the stars about how he should have followed his father into the ironmongery trade.