The ostler was trying to light a lantern, but Isobel pushed him aside, falling to her knees beside the bed.
“Stephen,” she said, her voicing shaking. She touched his shoulder and drew back. He was on fire. She glanced over her shoulder at Gillian, who stared down at Stephen wide-eyed.
Isobel looked to the ostler. “How long has he been this way?”
He shook his head grimly. “Night afore last. He and his friend paid me well, so I’ve been keeping him, hoping his Fergus friend or his family showed up. I’m glad you lassies are here now. A man shouldna die alone.”
“What happened?” Isobel breathed.
Stephen’s face was turned away from her and she could only see a tangle of blond hair. But his shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. She leaned over him, moving his hair aside and saw his face, bruised and scabbed as if someone had taken a club to him.
“I dinna know, Miss. Someone shot him and gave him a fairbeating…dinna know what happened to his friend, the dark one, but was told he was beaten pretty bad, too. I saw this one lying in the street all bloody. Thought he was dead, but once I realized he wasna, I brought him back here. The barber removed the bullet. He’s been babbling something about the earl of Irvine and I would hiv sent a message, but I dinna even know the lad’s name. He keeps saying Sir Philip, but I didna think that was him. I think that was the other man.”
“Has he been delirious?”
“In and out. He’s a big lad, so I fear he’ll go slow.” The ostler shook his head and made a clucking noise. “A damn shame. Nice lads, they were—paid in advance.” He sighed and started for the door. “Is there aught I can bring ye? Any messages ye’ll be needing sent?” He looked at Stephen’s motionless body meaningfully.
Isobel tried to force herself to think clearly. “Yes…bring me fresh linens and clean hot water…And send a message to the earl of Irvine. Tell him his nephew is dying.”
“Nephew?”
When Isobel nodded distractedly, his eyes widened, and he hurried out the door.
After a moment Gillian joined Isobel beside the bed. “What are we going to do?” she whispered. For the first time since they’d been reunited, Gillian sounded scared. “We should have brought Rose.”
“We’ll send for her,” Isobel said. “And Uncle Roderick, too.”
Gillian put a hand out, touching Stephen’s skin experimentally. “Jesu. There’s no time for that, Isobel. He’s practically steaming.”
Isobel covered her mouth with a gloved hand and shook her head. “Thereistime. There must be.” Isobel felt the beginnings of hysteria and firmly reined it in. She could not fall apart. “The first thing we’ll do is re-dress Stephen’s wound and discover how severe it is. He’s the only person who can tell us what happened to Philip.” Because Philip couldn’t be dead. Not yet. Though the ostler’s words had given her a start, Isobel knew from experience that unless she intervened, Philip would die in Hawkirk, strapped to a stake; therefore, he could not have died in Wyndyburgh.
“You could touch something of his,” Gillian offered. She began to look around the room. “Look—some of this stuff might be Sir Philip’s”
Isobel peeled her gloves off, not so that she could divine things, though that often was a by-product, whether she wanted it or not, and she was adept at blocking most visions she didn’t want to see. She couldn’t tend Stephen’s wound with the gloves on.
She gingerly unwrapped the linen, hissing when the dried blood stuck to him, though he seemed oblivious. A knock sounded on the door, and a boy entered with hot water and clean linens. Another soon followed with a platter of food.
When they were gone, Gillian said, “Mayhap you should mention you’re betrothed to the earl of Kincreag and see what the ostler does for us next.”
Isobel was too busy cleaning the wound in Stephen’s back to answer. It was a gunshot wound—right at the small of his back, beside his spine. It was once probably small and circular, but no longer. The barber had removed the bullet with no finesse, and the skin around it was ravaged and swollen.
“Who would do this?” Isobel said under her breath. What enemies did Stephen have? Isobel thought of all Philip’s warnings about how Highlanders were hated. Could that be what happened? But Stephen wasn’t even a Highlander. As Isobel cleaned the wound, Gillian knelt near Stephen’s head and washed his face andneck with a cool cloth, then tied his hair back.
Isobel had just rewrapped his wound with clean dry linens when Stephen groaned and tried to turn his head.
“Get water,” Isobel said.
Gillian leapt to her feet, returning with a tin cup full of water.
He was a big man, and moving him was out of the question, but between the two of them, they got his head turned. Gillian held the cup to his lips and tilted it, but it just ran down his face.
“Dammit, Stephen, drink!” Isobel said, frightened and upset by his condition.
To her surprise he did. A blue eye cracked open. He blinked a few times, as if clearing his head. “I’m dreamin’ again,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.
Isobel grabbed Stephen’s chin. “No you’re not. It’s Isobel and Gillian, and we’re really here.”
His eyes opened again, and he squinted at them. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” He tried to move his arm, but it was pinned awkwardly against his side, as if he’d been shivering and brought his arms up to warm himself.
