Page 65 of The Widow Wore Plaid

“Pity the wound did not occur lower on the extremity. I could then have amputated it mid-humerus and you’d have been up and moving in a week.” Robbins sighed and reached for the pot of salve beside the bed. “There is, of course, no way to amputate the shoulder.” He dabbed the paste of honey, garlic, and onion onto the wound.

Wincing at both the sting and the smell, Gareth stirred restlessly. “It seemed better yesterday morning. Not as much pain and I could move it just fine.”

“You said Lady John had bathed it in willow bark tea, which probably accounts for the slight improvement. However, you exacerbated the injury with all the activity you related to me last night.” He wiped his hands and applied a clean cloth to the wound. “Hold this, please.”

Gareth held the cloth in place and rolled onto his side so Robbins could see to his back.

“Had you remained immobile and continued to treat the wounds with the tea it might not have taken a turn for the worse.”

“If I’d stayed in the lodge and nursed this shoulder, I’d be dead right now. We had to move or my cousin would have killed me.” Likely he’d done that anyway. Robbins seemed to hold out little hope of recovery at this point.

“Well, we will continue this treatment with the salve day and night and hope for the best.” He secured the bandage and eased Gareth back onto the pillows. “Continue to drink the willow bark tea and some good beef broth. The tea will help with the pain and the broth will strengthen your system. You really should be bled, my lord. It would do you a world of good.”

Gareth gave a shake of his head. More than that and he became dizzy. “I’ve lost enough blood as it is. I don’t need to lose more.”

With a sigh, Robbins pulled the cover up over him. “I beg you to change your mind, Lord Kinellan. The situation, as it is, is quite grave.”

“I understand that, Robbins. God knows I feel wretched enough to believe my chances are slim at best.” Gareth looked the surgeon in the eyes. “If the wound continues to sicken . . .” He paused, but made himself go on. “If it does not take a turn for the better, how long . . . before I die?”

The doctor returned his forthright stare. “Less than a week if you’re lucky, my lord. Should the wound become gangrenous, the longer you linger, the greater the agony will become.”

Gareth had always liked Robbins. The man wouldn’t sugarcoat the truth, no matter how bad it might be. He’d feared he’d have little time and was glad to know it. “Thank you, Robbins. You’ll return this evening?”

“Of course, my lord.” The surgeon closed his medical bag and gripped the handle. “If there is a change for the worse, send for me sooner.”

As soon as Robbins left, Gareth sagged back onto the pillows. The effort to remain alert during the doctor’s visit had been exhausting. Anything he did was exhausting because everything about him hurt. He really didn’t need Robbins to tell him he was dying, his body itself told him that. The fever that had been so slight yesterday now raged throughout him. Every muscle he possessed hurt like the dickens from the forced march he and Jane had taken. He had no appetite nor desire to drink. Sleep was his only solace, his only respite from pain. The doctor had left laudanum for him and he would take some later. But for now, he must make plans.

Foremost on his mind, of course, was Jane. They must marry properly, today if at all possible. He’d send to Mr. Ross and insist on holding the ceremony here, in this chamber if it came to that. After all Jane had been through, he wanted more than ever to have a wedding she would remember always. She would remember this one, he was sure, but not for the reasons he’d like. No one wanted their wedding day to also be the day their husband died, but they had no choice in the matter. As long as she became his wife, she would be safe and secure.

Lord, there was so much they would have to do before this evening. Send for Ross, sign the settlements for Jane. Lathbury could help with those. A way to transport him downstairs to the drawing room. He’d rather have the wedding there than in a sickroom. His feverish mind spun with all the details to be made. And he was so tired.

Gareth glanced at the laudanum, sitting within easy reach, wishing for nothing more than the peace that only drug-induced sleep would bring now. He stretched out his hand and closed his fingers around the clear glass bottle. The stuff tasted bitter and foul, even when diluted in water. Straight from the bottle must be vile indeed but might work all the quicker. Gareth wavered a moment, then uncurled his fingers and drew back his arm. If he slept now he’d never have everything in place. Never marry Jane. He could not allow that to happen, so he’d soldier on a while longer. All he need do was think of her beautiful face, her wit, her spirit, her compassion. She would be his wife, if only for a fleeting moment.

As though his thoughts had conjured her, the door opened and Jane stepped briskly in, a cheery smile on her face, but a concerned look in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now you’re here.”

Her smile brightened. “Then you’ll never be rid of me.” She moved to the chair drawn up beside him. Before she sat she laid her hand to his forehead, then took his hand. Her brow dipped down in a deep V. “Your fever is back.”

“Robbins said that’s to be expected. After all the exertion yesterday, he said I would likely be worse before I got better.” Not the whole truth, but he couldn’t tell her that. She deserved to know, but he couldn’t be the one to do that to her. “I’m still a little groggy, but I wanted to ask what finally happened with Rory.”

When they’d arrived back at the castle last night, Jane and Lathbury had spirited him off to his bed. He’d seen the doctor and Jane and no one else, so he had no idea if Rory had been arrested or fled or was still in his room here.

“From what I heard from Brack and Wrotham this morning, they locked him in the root cellar until the sheriff arrived. By that time Mr. Robbins had seen him and dressed his wounds, which were much less severe than yours.”

“Wounds?” Then the shot he’d fired from the porch had hit the man.

“He had four actually.”

“Four? What—”

“Apparently Lathbury got in a lucky shot while on the trail yesterday. It grazed Rory’s ear, so it was a near thing. Had Lathbury been an inch over, we’d have never had that confrontation by the loch.” She seemed perturbed at Lathbury for missing.

“And my first one? I know my last went into his leg.” Another bad shot, but he hadn’t had time to aim. He’d scarcely had time to shoot.

“It tore a hole in the sleeve of his jacket and nicked his upper arm.” She rubbed his arm, the contact soothing him. “I think you should stick to shooting grouse.”

“I do too.” A good thing, in the end. He’d have killed Rory if given the chance, to keep him and Jane safe, but he’d just as soon not have his cousin’s blood on his hands. “Is Rory still in the root cellar?”