Page 27 of Hold Fast

The door closed behind her with a dull thud, leaving Una alone with Connor. She returned to the bedside, smoothing her hand over his forehead and pressing his hair back and away from his eyes. He was a strong, resilient age. Young, but not too young. If anyone had good odds to come out of this alive, it was a hearty, hale lad like him.

Una crossed to the window and lifted the fur covering, tying it up and away. She would need all the light that could be had. A gust of icy wind blew through the open window, whipping Una’s hair, and she couldn’t help but remember how windy it had been as she’d walked away from the Cameron keep. Had it really only been two days ago? It felt like a lifetime.

And yet she had commitments to keep. She needed to reach the Stewarts. Blair was counting on her. And while she wanted to believe in Ewan’s integrity, that he meant it when he promised to take her there regardless of whether Connor lived or died, she couldn’t trust it. She couldn’t trusthim. Not completely. Not yet. Probably not ever.

Failure was not an option. She could not afford for the boy to die. She wanted him to live because he had a lot of life ahead of him to experience, but sheneededhim to live to protect her future. It felt selfish and perhaps it was, but she could live with that.

Selfish, perhaps, but not unreasonable, she reminded herself.

Una forced a cheery expression onto her face as she turned back to the bedside.

“Well, Connor, we’re in this together now. Let us both do our verra best, aye?”

Connor was delirious with fever, but he nodded his head slightly, fingers fluttering restlessly over the sheets.

“Glad I am to hear it, Connor. You’ll be good as new in nae time,” she said, forcing even more cheer into her voice as she went back to her medicines and began placing them in the order they would be needed.

Deep in the bottom of the bag was a very special jar filled with a salve made from wine, garlic, onion, and oxgall. One of Agatha’s creations. The preparation was left to cure in a bronze vessel for exactly nine days. Una had made a large batch the week before the end of her handfast after using the last of it on a particularly nasty knife wound on one of the kitchen maid’s hands.

The door creaked open behind her, and Ewan stepped into the room, followed by three men and Fiona. Two of the men were clearly Ewan’s brothers, the resemblance uncanny with sun-bleached, oat-colored hair and heavy eyebrows. The third man had short, dark hair and dark eyes. Not family, but close, given the ease with which he held himself around them.

Fiona scurried over, setting a basin of water on the side table before thrusting a piece of bread into Una’s hands.

“Eat,” she commanded.

When Una opened her mouth to protest, Ewan repeated the command. “Eat, Una. That’s an order.”

Her eyebrows flew toward her hairline, but he crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. She bristled at this man thinking he couldorderher about. But there wasn’t time, and so Una tore a bite of the fresh bread with her teeth. After eating she dusted the crumbs from her clothing and washed her hands in the basin in the corner.

As she dried them on a new cloth, she turned to Ewan. “Are you ready to hold him?”

He nodded and came to the bed, gently lifting Connor’s torso and sliding behind him on the bed so that he could hold him against his chest. The other three men arranged themselves around the bed, holding him but leaving her access to the wound. She took the sgian dubh from her boot and carried it to the hearth, crouching low and thrusting the blade into the flames, praying for steady hands.

By the time she finished the grisly task of removing the stitches, cleaning the wound thoroughly, applying a thick portion of salve, and restitching, her back and shoulders cried out for relief. Blood and sweat drenched her gown, and loose hairs were plastered to her face. Her hands shook as she applied more salve to the closed wound before bandaging it in clean cloth.

She staggered away from the bedside, and Fiona dove to take her place, cool cloth in hand, crooning softly to Connor as she bathed his face. The men filed stiffly from the room without a word. Except for Ewan, who stepped closer. So close that his broad chest filled her vision. His leine shirt was like a second skin, soaked with sweat and clinging to his chest.

“And now we wait?” he murmured,

She cleared her throat and shook herself, bringing her attention back to his face. “Aye. I can give him tinctures for the fever, and we will keep bathing him in cold water to bring it down. But beyond that, all we can do is wait.”

Una raised a hand to brush the sticky hairs off of her forehead when, in a flash, she found herself pressed against Ewan’s wet chest. His arms wrapped tightly around her back and squeezed her against him. She flinched, her whole body going rigid in his arms. She was frozen, her breath trapped in her chest as the panic began to rise. What was he doing? What in God’s name was hedoing? She had to get away. She had to fight.

She wiggled in his hold to push herself back when he dropped his forehead to her shoulder and she felt his body shake around hers, his breath shuddering. And then she felt the hot, silent tears drip down her neck, between her breasts, soaking into the blood and sweat already drenching her gown.

He was weeping.

Like water leaking through the weave of a basket, her panic drifted away, leaving her exhausted and shaking. Una took a fortifying breath and carefully brought her arms around him, patting him on the shoulder with one hand and rubbing between the blades with the other. His heat enveloped her, making her feel feverish in the already warm room.

This close, she could smell him. Sweat, mostly, but also blood, leather, and the scant trace of horse. It was an overpowering combination and not a terribly pleasant one either, but she allowed him to hold her because she had the suspicion that Ewan didn’t have anyone else to hold him while he fell apart. She knew that feeling. She knew it well.

And so she held him until his shaking body solidified again, and as she did, she let go of the tension that she’d been holding since first taking her knife to Connor’s wound. Ewan released her, stepping away quickly, as if he’d forgotten himself. His gaze was intense, entirely focused on her, and she struggled to look away.

“I shall find you a chamber nearby,” he said gruffly. “You must rest.”

“Nay, m’laird. I must stay close to Connor. Perhaps someone can bring up a pallet.”

He scowled but didn’t argue.