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She’d bleached white as chalk. Perspiration beaded her hairline, plastering short curls to her forehead. Her hands were clamped like vises on the edge of the cane seat.
He feared she was about to faint. “Lean against my shoulder, lass.”
Instead, she pulled upright and stared straight ahead, sucking in slow, measured breaths, as if silently counting them.
Logan wanted to whack himself over the head with the old frying pan he’d found in the pantry. If he’d known her foot was this damaged, he’d have dealt with it hours ago—by force, if necessary. While Donella had the courage of ten Highland warriors, she was insanely stubborn, just like her curmudgeon uncle.
She dredged up a sickly smile. “I’m not the swooning sort. I’m just woozy from the whisky, although I can’t say I’m sorry I drank as much as I did.”
“Most men would have keeled right over.”
He lifted the cloth. One blister was the standard sort, although as ugly as Hades and almost as big as a guinea coin. The other, right next to it, was an oozing blood blister. It was a miracle she hadn’t gone into a dead faint when he’d touched it.
Aye, she was a stoic one. In temperament, she reminded him of his brother, Royal. He’d been grievously injured during the war but had never uttered a word of complaint. Also like Royal, Donella’s stubborn pride skated a wee bit too close to martyrdom. Sometimes, demanding a bit of attention—fighting for what one needed—was exactly the right thing to do.
Donella, however, seemed to prefer to sacrifice comfort in order to do what she thought was necessary.
It was an admirable trait, but right now Logan couldn’t help but worry about the state of her foot. During his years in Canada, spending months in backcountry, he’d seen more than one strong man and woman brought down by infection. Even a small scratch could go bad and with frightening speed. Once the poison got into the blood, it was usually impossible to stop without taking drastic measures.
Measures like cutting off a foot. He’d seen that happen to an Acadian trapper he’d had to help hold down during the amputation. It was a hard, vivid memory that Logan had never forgotten. The idea of that happening to this sweet, courageous girl—
A cool touch to his cheek yanked him out of the ugly memory.
“You’re looking a little queasy yourself,” Donella said.
For a moment, all he could do was stare back, arrested by the emerald glitter of her gaze and the smooth texture of her winsome features. With her full lips so close to his, he suddenly felt a powerful bolt of lust, one so appallingly inconvenient he almost choked.
Comic alarm transformed Donella’s expression.
“You’re not going to be ill, are you?” She snatched her hand away. “Donotbe ill on me, sir.”
Logan forced a quick recovery. “Don’t be daft. It’s just a wee blister or two, as you said yourself.”
She leaned down to look again. “I don’t believe I did say that. And it’s disgusting.” She sighed. “I suppose I should have listened to you, after all.”
“What’s done is done.”
“I hope Alasdair brings horses along with him tomorrow. I cannot imagine how I’ll put those dreadful boots back on.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Just let me clean and wrap this, and then we’ll see if we can rustle up some tea and food.”
She flashed him a grateful smile but fell quiet again when he carefully started to wash her foot with a fresh cloth and warm water. It took some time, since bits of wool from her sock were stuck to one of the blisters.
He glanced up from his grisly work to see her teeth grinding down on her lower lip. She clearly needed a distraction annoying enough to take her mind off the pain.
“So, the good sisters gave you the heave-ho for obvious reasons,” he said. “But what I can’t understand is why you’d want to join them in the first place.”
She shot him a scowl. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it seems a waste. You being the Flower of Clan Graham and all.”
“I believe I asked you not to use that ridiculous term. And there’s nothing wrong with being religious—or Catholic, for that matter.”
“Of course not, though I was raised to be a dutiful member of the Church of Scotland, myself.”
“It apparently failed to take.”
He bit back a laugh as he wrung out the cloth. “My wife was Catholic, as was her family.”
