Page 33 of The Widow Wore Plaid

The bloody fabric had stuck around the edges of the bullet hole. Pulling the fibers away tore the fragile skin and opened the wound anew so rivulets of blood trickled down his chest.

Kinellan’s face had gone white, his lips pressed into a thin line, his breathing labored.

“Do you need to sit?”

He shook his head, stoically silent, though he swayed in an effort to remain standing.

To ward off disaster, Jane grabbed a chair and thrust it under him just as his knees buckled. He sat down hard, grunted, and closed his eyes.

“All right, stubborn man.” She pressed a muslin strip to the seeping wound. “Hold this here, please.” She placed his hand over the cloth and pressed lightly. Tossing his clothing onto the other chair, she headed toward the fireplace.

A sense of urgency assailed her as she swung the pot off the fire. The water was boiling hot so she dipped some up in a big crockery bowl from the cabinet and left it to cool, then did likewise with a mug for his drink. Turning her back to Kinellan, she lifted the skirt of her habit and released the drawstring that held up what remained of her petticoat. She’d need all of it to first cleanse then bandage the wounds. She took it over to the table and began to rip it into strips. “How are you doing, Kinellan?”

A low mumble brought her head up in time to see his head loll back on the chair.

“Drat it.” She bolted over to him, scattering the strips as she went. “Kinellan.” No response. “Gareth.” Stubborn, stubborn man. Her hand brushed the pocket of her riding habit, striking something hard. Oh, good. One more weapon in the arsenal of healing. She pulled out her little green glass vinaigrette, popped the stopper off, and waved it under his nose.

Gasping, Kinellan bolted upright and grabbed her arm, almost making her drop the smelling salts. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Then don’t faint on me again.” She dropped a kiss on his brow, recapped the bottle, and shoved it back in her pocket before heading for the cooling bowl of water. Along the way she retrieved the fallen cloth strips and dropped several into the steaming water. Walking carefully so not to spill it, she headed back to Kinellan, once again peering out of the window. “You can either go to the table or hold the bowl.”

At the withering look he gave her, she thrust the bowl onto his lap. “Hold the bowl it is.” Carefully dipping her fingers into the hot water she pulled out a strip and wrung it out. “You can take that pad away, Gareth.”

As soon as the hole was exposed, she eased the wet cloth around it, cleaning the angry-looking wound. Thank goodness she wasn’t squeamish. “Have you thought any more about who might be out there?” She nodded toward the window. “Who on earth would want to kill you?” Cocking up an eyebrow, she looked at him askance. “Do you have enemies you haven’t mentioned to me?”

He shrugged and winced but continued to watch the window. “No. I quite honestly can’t think of anyone I’ve offended. I’ve been here at the castle since March. There have been no feuds, no sharp dealings to my knowledge. The only person who even frowned at me is Aunt Pru and that’s because I didn’t have a bride.” He glanced up at her, a flash of amusement in his eyes. “Now even she doesn’t have a reason to wish me harm.” Returning his gaze to the sunny clearing, he sighed. “Except for this fellow, it seems.”

“Then who could he be?” Jane dipped the cloth in the water, now a darker red, and applied it to one of the long streaks of blood that had dried on his arm. Best keep him talking to distract him from the pain. Ragged, swollen, the hole in his shoulder looked angry and raw. She couldn’t imagine the agony of having someone poking around it. Somehow Kinellan seemed impervious to it.

Perhaps this type of pain men bore easily, as women did childbirth. Save for the shot that killed him, Tark had never been wounded, so she’d never had occasion to ask how men remained stoic when the surgeons were cutting and scraping at their wounds. She gave herself a shake. This was not the time for such musings. “If not someone in Scotland, then London perhaps?”

A brief shake of his head and he sighed again. “The only possible person with any kind of grudge might be Lord Wetherby for our part in thwarting his pursuit of Maria at Christmas. But I’d say he’d be more likely to blame Granger than me.”

“Yes, I think you’re right there. Hugh did plant him that grand facer before Wetherby was thrown out on his arse.” Jane had to giggle at that memory. The gentleman had certainly had it coming to him. “But no one else with a score to settle?”

“Not in such an ungentlemanly manner.” Kinellan crossed his arms, then grimaced and slowly unfolded them. “This shoulder hurts like the devil if I do even the slightest thing with my arm. Damned inconvenient.”

“Well, thank goodness you don’t need to do anything with it.” She continued her ministrations, although the redness around the wound seemed to be spreading. That could simply be because of her manipulation of the injury. Still it was worrying. Hopefully, the willow tea would help with that.

“That remains to be seen.”

Had Kinellan’s tone been more lecherous, that sentence would not have worried Jane quite so much. Instead it made her glance out the window herself, suddenly expecting to see the gunman. In her imagination now he stood seven feet tall with a huge rifle and sinister beard. Whatever he actually looked like he was a formidable opponent. If Kinellan had to defend them from him in his weakened condition, it might go badly for both of them.

The front wound completed, she paused long enough to hand him the mug with the willow bark tea. “It’s not going to taste very pleasant without honey in it, but trust me, it will make you feel better once you get it all down.”

He grunted, sniffed the contents of the mug, then took a cautious sip. His lips puckered and he wrinkled his nose, but he swallowed it down and made a face. “You’re right about needing the honey.”

“I’m sorry, but you need to finish it all.”

“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes, and she thought he would balk, but instead he took another sip without further complaint.

Satisfied, she began on the back of his shoulder, a larger hole this time, with more damage and more blood. “There’s no other weapon here, is there?” She hadn’t seen anything, but men were always resourceful that way, producing firearms out of nowhere sometimes, just as Kinellan had earlier.

“I had a rifle on the saddle, which is with Hector, likely almost home by now.” He bit his lip. “That might not be a bad thing. If he or your horse shows up at the stable without us, at least the staff will know something is wrong.”

Jane stopped in the middle of wringing out another cloth. “Do you think one of them will find their way home?”

“Hector’s a relatively new addition to my stable, so he may stop and simply crop grass for the rest of the day. Penelope, however, was born at Castle Kinellan. We’ve a good chance she’ll make for home as quick as she can.” But he didn’t look very hopeful.