She shut the door and locked it. They had got this far; the last thing they needed was to be discovered because it was in the small hours of the night and she had thought them safe and they were not.
‘At last.’ Irritation was a burr in The Ferguson’s voice. ‘I began to think something had happened to you.’
She looked at him. The light cast his face into angles and shadows. His mouth was a sensual curve, his eyes dark hollows. She realised anew how attractive he was.
‘I had to go to the top floor to find clothes so as not to waken anyone.’
He scowled. ‘He is worse.’
Her hands clenched, her nails going through the cloth she held. Kneeling down, she dropped the material and reached for Gavin. His forehead radiated heat.
‘He has a fever.’
‘I was afraid so.’ Worry made his voice harsh.
She spared a glance for the man. ‘I will not let anything happen to my cousin.’
‘So you are a miracle worker and would undo what the English have done.’ Bitter derision laced each word. ‘You, the daughter of Bloody Ayre. What if Gavin were not your cousin? Would you have saved him then or turned him over to the redcoats in the tavern?’
Her shoulders tensed at his name for her father, but she knew better than to argue. She could not win and Gavin needed help—now.
‘I have not the time for this.’ Rising, she moved to her work table. ‘Get him dressed.’ Without seeing if her order was being followed, she rummaged in her vials. She pulled the stopper from one. ‘This is laudanum. Added to what he has already had, it will keep him unconscious while I remove the bandage and clean his wound.’
She held it out. The Ferguson rose with a fluid grace that was more like that of a wild animal than of a man. She wondered if he had gained such power from fighting the English he hated so.
He had removed his gloves as she had, and when he took the glass from her their fingers touched. Tingles raced up her arm and she started. He pulled his hand back as though he had been stung. He turned his back on her.
Dazed, she spent a precious moment watching him. With his overcoat and jacket off, it was easy to see that his back was broad and his hips narrow. He was a fine figure of a man. Belatedly, she noted there was a black stain on his white shirt, as though mud had dripped from his wet hair.
Unwilling to continue pondering the man who had sparked her admiration for his bravery and daring from the first time she had heard of his exploits, she focused on her work. Gavin needed her.
She picked up the pot she kept ready and flung tea leaves into it. She filled it with water from a nearby bucket and hung the pot on an iron rail which she swung into the flames. In Gavin’s mug she put ground willow bark. It would be bitter, but it would help with the fever.
‘We can all use something hot. Gavin particularly. We need to warm him so he does not catch an inflammation. I see you found the blankets.’
He wrapped the woollen covers all around Gavin in spite of the heat from the fire. She noted that he had saved none for himself.
She fetched clean cloths and several herbs to make a poultice. After she laid everything down, she got a brace of candles, which she handed to The Ferguson.
‘I will need the extra light from these to see what I must do.’
He grunted as he took the brass holder. Wax dripped down the sides, but he managed to keep the candles angled so the hot material did not fall on Gavin.
Her cousin moaned as she wrestled with the soaked bandages.
‘It would be easier if you cut those off.’
‘You are right. I should have thought of that.’ Chagrin at her failure made her voice skip. She had been too self-conscious at his nearness. This was not like her.
‘No one is perfect,’ The Ferguson said softly. ‘Even you.’
Not knowing how to answer, she ignored his comment. All her life she had striven to be the best she was capable of. Nothing else was acceptable. That was Papa’s motto, and she had taken it as her own.
‘A knife is on my work table—will you get it, please?’
She sensed him standing and leaving. The fire still heated the side of her closest to it, but there was an emptiness on her other side, a coldness not born of temperature. More like loss.
She took several deep breaths and willed her fingers to be still. She was not normally fanciful.
‘Here.’ He held the knife, handle first, to her.
She took the sharp instrument from his hand, careful not to touch his fingers. She didn’t want to know if she would experience the same frisson of awareness that she had before when their skin had met.
Gingerly, she cut away the blood-and-water-soaked bandage. She could not smell rot in the wound, but knew it was too early. She must ensure that it stayed this way.
‘Please pour the tea,’ she said. ‘Mugs are on the shelf above.’
She was grateful that he did as directed without protest. Her mug he set on the fireplace grate. Gavin’s he gave to her.
She shook her head. ‘I need you to get it down him.’
Without waiting to see how effective he would be, she took one of the clean cloths and dipped it in the nearby bucket of water. Gently she cleansed the wound. Even sedated, Gavin began to move and groan. Some of the tea dribbled down his chin. The Ferguson stopped.
‘He needs it all. The warmth and the willow bark I put in it will help him.’
The Ferguson nodded and continued dripping the hot fluid into Gavin, wiping up what spilled.
She found the small knife where she had laid it near the fire. Using the tongs used to put coal on the fire, she picked up the knife handle and held the blade in the flames. She felt rather than saw The Ferguson tense, but he said nothing.
He had been in many battles and seen many men wounded. He knew what she intended. She would cauterise the flesh. Better pain now than lingering death from rot.
‘Please hold his shoulder.’
She pulled the knife from the fire and grasped it with a wad of cloth to protect her fingers from the heat. She took a deep breath to steady her hands and pressed the hot metal to Gavin’s skin.
The hot sizzle of burning flesh filled the room. Gavin’s eyes started open, and his body jerked beneath The Ferguson’s hold.
‘Hold still, Gavin,’ The Ferguson ordered, his deep baritone a soothing rumble that even Jenna started to obey before catching herself. ‘She needs to make sure there is no dead flesh to fester later.’
Moisture filled Gavin’s eyes, and his jaw clenched into harsh angles. But he stopped fighting.
Jenna finished as quickly as possible. The bleeding had also slowed with the burning. ‘Good.’ Her murmur was barely audible. ‘I am sorry, Gavin.’
He looked at her. ‘I know, Jen. I know.’ Exhaustion dragged his eyelids down, and his entire body relaxed.
She took another deep breath, this one shuddering as tears threatened. It was hard enough causing pain to someone she did not know or knew slightly, but to cause her beloved cousin such agony was hard to bear. But she knew it had been necessary.
‘I am going to bind you back up, Gavin, but first I want you to finish the tea.’ She nodded for The Ferguson to put the mug to Gavin’s lips. ‘You need the warmth. Then I am going to finish with you, and we are going to get you into hiding.’
Gavin drank greedily now that he was awake. Still some dribbled on to the blankets.
Over her cousin’s