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Ambrose took a step back from the bed when a wave of trembling relief swept over him. His patient might yet die; all kinds of things could go wrong. But he’d successfully carried out his first major unassisted surgery. Eala’s stoic presence had been a major contributing factor.
“’Tis thanks to ye it went well,” he told her. “Most females of my acquaintance would have fainted dead away.”
He regretted the words when her tentative smile fled.
“Nay that I ken many women,” he said, sounding lame to his own ears. “I meant…”
She came to his rescue. “I expect yer work takes up most of yer time.”
“Aye,” he replied, reluctant to explain his lack of success with courting the fairer sex. Most lasses from good families dismissed him after a short while as too serious, too preoccupied with his calling. Like many of his fellow students, he’d turned toladies of the eveningfor relief of his male urges, but their high-pitched laughter and lewd behavior quickly palled.
It was difficult to understand how, in the midst of the most challenging event of his life, in a filthy hovel on the lonely moor, he’d fallen in love with the woman holding down his tormented patient.
The gratitude in her wide, brown eyes as she gazed at him worsened his guilt. He was no hero, lusting after a lass who loved another, a man who hovered at death’s door, a patient in his care.
Eala rose to help when he began cleaning up. “Nay,” he insisted, “stay with him. Hold his hand. Reassure him of yer love when he wakes up.”
They were the hardest words he’d ever uttered. “I need air,” he said, heading for the door.
The Bothy
Sitting on the edge of Evan’s bed, Eala lost track of time.
Arms folded, Ambrose perched on the only stool in the croft, the strain of the last hours marring his handsome face.
Longing to curl up in her own bed, she forced her eyes to remain open as they kept vigil, but Ambrose would refuse to leave his patient with Dallis Molloy. Their driver hadn’t returned with the berlin.
She startled when Mr. Molloy entered with three of his younger bairns, even more surprised when it was he who shushed their usual racket.
“How’s yon laddie doing?” he asked, dithering in the doorway.
“As well as can be expected at this stage,” Ambrose replied.
“We still dinna ken who won the battle,” the crofter muttered. “One o’ the shepherds hereabouts is saying the redcoats with the black cockades routed the rebels, knockin’ ’em o’er like ninepins.”
Eala believed it, given the rumors of government soldiers hunting relentlessly for Jacobite fugitives.
“Another shepherd claims the rebels drove the Redcoats back to the Forth.”
Eala clenched her jaw. Why was Molloy prattling on about things that no longer mattered? It had become clear days ago that there’d been no decisive victor. And where was Mrs. Molloy?
Fidgeting with the cap in his hands, Molloy looked ready to weep. “Er…ye have to leave.”
Frowning, Ambrose stood. “What?”
“My wife…she’s dead set against Jacobites. I dinna understand the reason, given her steadfast devotion to theauldreligion. Who can read a daft woman’s mind?”
Dread tied a knot in Eala’s stomach.
“She’s gone into the town to report ye. I’m right sorry.”
Eala knew instantly what had to be done. If she and Ambrose set off at a brisk pace in the direction of Perth, they’d be well away before Mrs. Molloy returned with the authorities. Evan was going to die anyway.
Ambrose ran a hand through his hair. “Ye realize he’ll nay survive if we move him. And where can we go?”
“There’s a bothy, only a mile or so from here. Ye can hide there.”
Nay, nay.
