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Thunder darkened Ambrose’s face as he shrugged on his cloak, then thrust his medical bag into her hands. “Can ye carry that? I’ll take Evan.”
Eala felt ashamed of her cowardly thoughts. “We should get there before nightfall.”
“I’ll lead the way,” Molloy said, grabbing a lantern from the chipped mantel.
Ambrose scooped Evan up from the bed as if he weighed nothing.
Close to tears, Eala had no choice but to follow, willing her wildly beating heart to calm.
* * *
Ambrose could scarcely believe he was carrying a dying man across a windswept moor in the wake of a farmer and a massive, frolicking mongrel clearly happy to be free of its chain. It was a far cry from the heartwarming Yuletide sojourn with his family he’d looked forward to.
Yet, despite his conviction Evan Bruce was likely to die as a result of the travesty, exhilaration thrummed through his veins. This was what medicine was all about—doing his utmost to save a man’s life. The baptism of fire confirmed his belief he’d chosen the right calling.
His heart went out to Eala who trailed behind. He didn’t blame her for sobbing. It was tempting to offer his help traversing the uneven, boggy terrain but, if he stopped…
Evan wasn’t a big man and, thanks be to God, he was still unconscious, but the burden seemed to get heavier and heavier as the shadows lengthened and there was still no sign of the bothy. “How much further?” Ambrose shouted breathlessly.
He filled his lungs, ready to shut out his relief when the crofter lifted his lantern to reveal a small, derelict shed made of wooden planks cobbled together.
Molloy put his shoulder to the door to coax it open. Ambrose gritted his teeth when they entered the abandoned hut. “Do ye nay use this any more?” he asked, left with no alternative but to kneel in order to carefully deposit his patient on the dirt floor.
“Nay,” Molloy replied. “Dinna keep sheep now. Pigs are less work.”
Shepherds in Ambrose’s native Ayrshire stocked their moorland shelters with blankets; some even had cots. The only thing Molloy hadn’t been able to remove was the rough stone fireplace and chimney. “Is there peat?” he asked.
“I’ll fetch ye some,” the crofter replied, leaving them alone in the desolate gloom with only the meager light from the candle lantern and the dog. The animal lumbered from one dark corner to another, scratching and whimpering when his unseen prey eluded him.
Ambrose spread his cloak over Evan and stood, acutely aware of Eala swaying beside him.
“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” she murmured.
Ambrose privately thought they might all be lucky to survive a frigid night in the shack with no food or water, but the despair in her voice prompted him to take her into his embrace. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised as she sobbed into his shoulder. Anger tightened his throat. He was painfully aware he could do nothing. Evan Bruce’s life was in God’s hands.
Guilt soared when Eala stopped shivering and melted into him. His treacherous body reacted predictably. Even after the ordeal she’d endured, traces of the exotic perfume lingered in her tangled tresses. She felt so right in his arms—but she loved another.
* * *
Ambrose had given up his cloak for Evan, yet the heat from his big body calmed Eala. His strength and courage left her in awe. He hadn’t hesitated to act to save them all from Mrs. Molloy’s vindictive betrayal.
She ought to be ashamed of herself, seeking solace in the arms of another while her betrothed lay dying in a ramshackle hut. But Ambrose’s embrace was where she belonged. She’d never been so close to a man, and his masculinity threatened to overwhelm her. A sensual craving blossomed deep within.
The spell was broken when Molloy returned laden with a bundle of kindling atop slabs of peat. “A wee bit damp,” he lamented, kneeling in front of the hearth.
She pulled away from Ambrose and went to stand by the hearth, watching Molloy remove the candle from his lantern and coax a flame to life among the kindling. She toyed with the idea of asking the crofter for blankets, but knew the family had none to spare. “Thank ye,” she said as he doffed his cap and leashed his dog. “Ye’ve risked a lot for us.”
The flame in the kindling didn’t last long after Molloy left, but the peat caught and began to smolder.
“’Twill take a while for the fire to get going,” Ambrose said, stretching out beside his patient. “We must keep Evan warm. Can I ask ye to lie down alongside him so he’s between us?”
Eala nigh on wept at the irony, but she obeyed, her heart doing somersaults when Ambrose stretched his arm across Evan and pulled her closer. “Get as close as ye can. Spread the cloak over yerself too,” he suggested, covering his own legs with a corner. “This way, we’ll share our body heat.”
She stifled the lunatic urge to climb over Evan and lose herself in Ambrose’s heat, but she needed an anchor as the world spun out of control and tears threatened. She threw caution to the winds by grasping Ambrose’s arm.
“Aye, lass,” was all he said, so softly she knew he needed the reassurance of her touch as much as she needed his. She clung to him like a shipwreck survivor clings to wreckage.
“’Twill be a long night,” he warned.
