“Aye, every word. Methinks I should have thrown ye overboard and be done with it.”
Molly’s eyebrows rose. “Charming!”
Conall grinned. “Ye ken I’m just teasing ye, lass.”
Molly smiled despite herself. “So, what do we do now?”
Conall’s expression grew serious once more. “That is the question, isnae it?”
Molly’s eyes traveled to his arm. The gash was bleeding freely.
“Well, how about we start with sorting that out?” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any antiseptic or anesthetic?”
“At least now I know why ye say things I canna even begin to understand,” he said with a smile. “Nay, lass, I havenae got any antiseptic or anesthetic. Nor do I know what they are.”
“Antiseptic is to stop infection setting in and anesthetic is to numb pain.”
“Ah, in that case, ye are talking about honey and poppy juice. Both of those we use to treat wounds. Unfortunately, I have neither.”
Molly took a deep breath. “Then this is going to have to be done the hard way.” She bit her lip. “It will hurt.”
“Tell me something I dinna know already.” He sighed, looked at his arm, and picked up the needle and thread again. “Ye might want to look away, lass. I know I do and it’s my wound.”
“You can’t sew it yourself!” she replied, shocked. “That’s just plain crazy!”
“Are you volunteering?”
“Actually, I think I am.”
“I was jesting, lass. Ye dinna need to do this.”
“I think I do.” She stepped forward and neatly plucked the needle and thread out of his hand, then bent over and inspected the wound. Her stomach churned at the sight of it, but at least it was straight and clean, with no sign of dirt or sand inside. Even so, she cupped some of the water from the pot in her hands and dribbled it over the wound, flushing it out. In this time, it was probably the best she was going to be able to do.
She peered closely at the wound, deciding where to sew. She could feel Conall’s eyes on her, but he didn’t speak or move, trusting her completely. Molly chewed her lip. She only hoped she’d prove worthy of that trust.
She chose the spot to start, then turned to Conall. “Do you have something you can bite down on? Your belt should do it.”
“Ye sound like ye’ve done this before.”
Molly nodded. “I have. With my da. You would not believe the kinds of wounds a fisherman will come home with. Splinters in the flesh, rope burns, sprains, bruises, cuts and lacerations. He would never go to the hospital—he’s a stubborn old goat when he wants to be—so I learned to treat them at home as best I could with needle and thread, bandages, and a bottle of TCP.”
“So ye are a doctor?”
She snorted. “Hardly. But I do know basic first aid. I couldn’t run my business without it. I have to do a course every year to keep my license so I can take passengers out on my boat. If one of them gets hurt, I need to know what to do about it.”
She realized suddenly that he was talking to distract her, to help calm her nerves. It worked. Talking to him usually did. His calm, steady gaze and lilting accent had that effect on her, like waves gently lapping against the shore.
He took off his belt and placed the leather between his teeth, biting down hard. Then he gave her a nod. Sucking in a steadying breath, Molly set to work. In one quick movement, she drove the needle into the flesh of his arm and pulled the thread through. Conall jerked but gave no other sign of pain, his teeth clamped down tightly on the belt.
Molly worked as quickly as her trembling hands would allow. Oh, heck. Why had she volunteered for this? Sure, she might have a basic qualification in first aid, but putting a sticking plaster around the finger of some tourist who’d gotten a splinter whilst climbing into her boat, or patching up her da’s cuts and abrasions, was a world away from sewing up a sword-cut on a medieval warrior’s arm.
She paused long enough to wipe the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. It had turned cool and blustery, but Molly felt hot and sweaty. She worked doggedly, refusing to look at Conall in case the sight of his pain undid her, and sewed the wound with tiny, neat stitches.
Finally, it was done and she stood back, breathing heavily. She lifted the pot from the ashes of the fire and used the last of the sterilized water to wash away the blood. What was left was a neatly sewn gash that she hoped would heal cleanly.
“Do you have a bandage?”
Conall, with the belt still between his teeth, nodded and pointed to a little pouch sitting on the rock next to him. Molly opened it and found a small medical kit inside, including some neatly rolled bandages. She took one out and quickly wound it around Conall’s arm, making sure it was tight enough then tying it off. Then she stepped back and pulled in a shaky breath before wiping her forehead again.
