She would worry about it later. Now, a cold chill ran down her back like the hand of the devil urging her onward.
She pushed onward despite the squeak of a rat nearby and the smell of blood stinging her nostrils.
Picking a candle off the wall, she fit it into a small sconce and held it up to her eyes.
Beyond a locked door of wrought iron bars, the prisoner’s wrists looked to be chained to a post splayed across his shoulders. The post held him up, just off the floor, where he half knelt-half lay on the dirty ground.
Without thinking of anything but saving him, Elspeth snatched the keys to the door from the table and then tucked her fingers into Gilchrist’s pocket and removed another key—the key to the stranger’s chains and hurried to the door.
She unlocked it and pulled the heavy door open. The prisoner didn’t stir. She prayed he wasn’t dead. She went to him slowly. When he still didn’t stir, she knelt beside him. She looked at his face bent toward the ground.
“Sir?” she tried. When he said nothing, she fit Gilchrist’s key into the locks binding his wrists. The instant he was free, his body crumbled to the ground.
Elspeth reached for the basin to bring it closer.
Taking his collar in her fists, she tore his shirt down his chest to expose his wound. A blade had gone deep and left a gaping hole. The bleeding had stopped but the wound needed her care.
Reaching into a fold in her skirts, she removed two medium-sized wrapped packets. One of yarrow to stop the bleeding, and the other made from bog myrtle to destroy any unwanted disease that tried to infect him. She’d known he would need her medicines and made sure to bring her supply of sphagnum moss for dressing.
Wringing water from the rag, she carefully applied it to his flesh and cleaned it as best she could. Still, he did not stir. Pulling back her hand and her bloody rag, she bent to his chest to listen for a heartbeat. Was she too late?
When she straightened, she saw that he was alive. His eye that wasn’t swollen had opened and was moving over her face. It was the color of charcoal clouds ready to burst forth torrents of water.
His awakening jarred her. How dangerous was he? How close to death was he?
She could barely make out his face beneath all the blood and dirt caked onto it. Not knowing what to say and a little afraid to say anything at all, she dipped the rag into the water and rinsed and wrung it in her hands again.
“I willna hurt ye,” she promised on a whisper and lifted the rag to his face.
His eyelid grew heavy, and he closed it again.
Poor soul, she thought, almost in tears at his condition.
But there wasn’t any time to contemplate him. She quickly mixed the ingredients of her packets with water and made poultices for his wound, then dressed it with the moss. Hopefully, he would escape and live a better life.
But first, he had to get out of here.
She tore the hem of her skirts and wrapped it around him to cover the wound. “Sir.” She gave him a gentle shake. “Ye must wake up and escape. Do ye hear me, my lord? Ye must leave now. There is nae time to—” A noise from above silencedher. Something crashed to the floor upstairs. Someone had awakened!
She dropped what was in her hands and rushed out of the cell and into the shadows. Truly, she didn’t know why she was hiding. The guards would know it had been she who made them sleep.
Someone carrying a torch came rushing down the stairs. Elspeth almost stepped out of the shadows, but the man approaching out of the darkness was not anyone she had ever seen before. He wore a dark bonnet atop auburn waves. Deep red, also, were the mustache and beard covering his set, merciless jaw.
What? Her mind raced. Who…?
“Jamie! Doun here!” he shouted upstairs then narrowed his eyes on the man in the cell. He swore and then hurried to Gilchrist.
No! Elspeth watched in utter horror while the intruder ran his sword into Gilchrist’s back, almost impaling him to the table.
She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep silent, even while tears poured from her eyes. Gilchrist was dead because of her. How could she ever forgive herself for rendering him helpless?
She made a strangled sound, for her guilt weighed heavy.
The murderous Highlander looked toward the shadows.
Another man with bright golden waves entered the dungeon, distracting the first. They were Highlanders. The first carried a long claymore, and the other, a flintlock pistol.
They hurried into the open cell and to the prisoner as three more strangers entered the dungeon.
