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“Aye. But I’ll wager he willna last long if they do as they say and leave with him in the wagon.”
She grasped his arm as tears threatened and the room tilted. “I canna bear much more of this,” she wailed.
He took her into his embrace. “We must keep our wits about us. Panic will only endanger Evan, and Giles.”
Dr. Raincourt’s plight penetrated the fog of her despair. “He isna even a Jacobite. Just amontrying to save lives.”
“And if he hadna insisted we leave, we’d be prisoners, too.”
Reality dawned. “The dog…”
Ambrose nodded. “Aye. Molloy’s in all probability. His wife will be beside herself. I just hope they don’t arrest him. She’ll have a hard time surviving out on the moor without a husband.”
Eala tucked away the malicious thoughts about the vindictive woman seething in her brain. “Aye. It canna be easy at the best of times.”
Ambrose found a small strip of gauze in his bag and a dark bottle of some liquid. “Can ye be strong?” he asked.
She filled her lungs, bracing for what he was about to ask. “What do ye want me to do?”
“I’ll need yer help convincing them to let me see Evan,” he said. “But dinna let on ye ken him.”
“Ye want me to play the flirt?”
“’Twill kill me to watch, but aye.”
* * *
Ambrose hoped he was doing the right thing. Eala hailed from Perth. There was a small chance one of the soldiers might recognize her, although most of them sounded like they were from the northern counties of England.
“Courage,” he whispered as they navigated the stairs and entered the public rooms.
The ruckus ceased as soon as the men set eyes on Eala. It was what he’d hoped for, but their ogling rankled just the same. “Gentlemen,” he announced, his arm still linked with Eala’s, “my wife is a nurse. She can assist with any medical problems ye may have.”
She tensed but kept the smile on her face as the soldiers gaped.
Several scratched their heads, probably trying to come up with some malady or wound. One or two hands wandered to groins, no doubt the source of painful swelling.
“Let me see,” she cooed, taking the afflicted hand as she fluttered her eyelashes. “Poor thing. My husband will take good care of it for ye. Ye dinna want it to turn to gangrene.”
Ambrose admired her ploy. Every soldier looked to the door. They were transporting a man who’d fallen victim to putrefaction and had seen the consequences.
“Aye…er…nay,” the soldier stammered, holding out his hand to Ambrose. “Do yer worst, doctor.”
Eala watched intently as he sluiced the bite with a few drops from his bottle, then began to wind the bandage. “My husband tells me ye’ve a gravely wounded prisoner in the wagon outside, but I canna credit brave souls like ye would allow asoldierto suffer so.”
They exchanged guilty glances, clearly taken off guard by her softly spoken rebuke.
She looked directly into the eyes of Ambrose’s patient. “Especially when ye ken there’s a capable surgeon here who could at least ease his pain.”
“But he’s a Jacobite,” one retorted lamely. “And he’s dying anyway.”
Hands fisted on hips, Eala gaped. “Do ye mean to tell me ’tis true? Ye’re prolonging amon’sagony? And how do ye ken he’s dying? Are ye a doctor?”
Ambrose worried she might overdo it as she carried on, ranting about Christian men becoming cruel heathens, and war turning decent folks into a shadow of their true selves, but the soldier in charge eventually yelled, “Fetch him in.”
“Nay,” Neville yelled. “The Black Swan isna an infirmary.”
“Very weel,” Ambrose interjected. “Since my wife insists, I’ll go out and examine him.”
