Page 26 of Hold Fast

Una’s heart broke with that plaintive cry and braced herself for Ewan to scold his brother. It would break her heart to hear. Instead, Una heard him murmur comforting words in a low burr, his soft, deep voice sounding like far distant thunder, muffled by a forest between.

Una remembered Blair telling her the story of his mother dying. Of how his brother had come upon him weeping in the buttery and boxed his ears for being weak. This man, this laird MacDonald, whatever he might be, was not Malcolm Cameron.

Ewan squeezed his brother tightly before releasing him, gripping Rabbie’s shoulders and looking into his eyes. “Get to bed, Rabbie. You’re exhausted. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

After an affectionate clap on the shoulder, Ewan gently pushed him down the hall towards Una. Rabbie bowed his head and said, “M-m-m’lady,” before shuffling into the room nearest the stairs on the right.

Una turned and found herself snared in Ewan’s intense gaze. His eyes glittered in the torch light, his jaw was tight, and the dancing shadows made the deep purple beneath his eyes all the more visible.

“Are you ready, Una?” he asked, lifting the latch on the door and beckoning her through.

Una registered the stench of Connor’s wound before she even crossed the threshold. She rushed to the bedside. The bedclothes were tangled around one of his legs, and he moaned fitfully, his leine drenched in sweat.

There was always a moment, a scant collection of seconds, before the healing began where she felt a bit unmoored. Either by the age of the patient, or the severity of the malady or injury, or, in this case, both. But in every case, she knew to take a deep breath and to remember that she had been taught by the very best, to remember that in this room, in this moment, she was the one most likely to be able to help. That knowledge was enough to help her shake off the nerves and settle into the familiar rhythm of her work.

Clasping his limp hand in both of hers, Una chafed it gently. “Connor, my name is Una. I am a healer, and I must have a look at your leg.”

His sandy blond hair was soaked and clung to his forehead and cheeks, which still held a remnant of youthful roundness. He mumbled incoherently, semi-conscious. Regardless, Agatha had taught her to talk to the patient whether they could hear or not, and describe what was happening to them.

“We cannae ken for certain what a person may hear between the veils, Una,” she had preached.

Una drew back the sheet and choked on her gasp as she beheld a tusk goring that stretched from the top of the boy’s knee nearly to his groin. Tidy, even stitches held the wound closed, and Una recalled Ewan telling her that his sister, Catriona, had put them in.

Unfortunately, for all that the stitches were neatly placed, the wound needed to be reopened and cleaned. Una set her satchel down on a small table near the bed and began pulling out bottles, vials, and pots, arranging them hastily on the polished wood surface.

“Give me something to do,” Ewan said in a hoarse voice behind her. “I beg of you.”

She understood the request. Being busy helped to keep the mind from entertaining the worst possible thoughts. Thoughts which, it occurred to her, had likely been rattling around in Ewan’s brain ever since he had left his brother to find her.

She turned. Ewan looked haggard standing before her, his eyes glassy with tears, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking.

Una sighed. “I must reopen the wound, but I cannae give him anything to sedate him for fear he willnae wake from it. He’s lost a great deal of blood and has been weakened by the fever.”

“Aye,” Ewan replied, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. “I didnae drug him during the first stitching for the same reason. I will… hold him.”

She nodded, pleased that he had shown such good instincts. “You did right,” she said grimly.

He closed his eyes, pained, and without thinking, she reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it with all her might. His eyes opened and he stared at their joined hands, looking as surprised as she felt.

Una cleared her throat. “Fetch your men, m’laird. We shall do our verra best.”

“Aye,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand, before stalking from the room.

And if Una had felt a shock of heat from that press of fingers against palm, she ignored it entirely. It meant nothing anyway.

“Una, what may I do?” Fiona asked, standing by the fire and wringing her apron with shaking hands. She appeared to be holding onto her composure by mere threads, but she was holding onto it nonetheless. Another worried heart. Another person in need of a job. But another set of hands to help.

“The laird has gone to fetch the muscle, so you may help me with the medicine. We’ll need more cool water to bathe him to bring down the fever.”

“I’ve had a maid replacing the cool cloths day and night.”

“Good,” Una said, pleased. “I will need water boiling at all times and clean linen as well.”

Fiona marched swiftly toward the door, turning just before leaving through it.

“I shall return shortly with cool water and something for you to eat. You’ll need your strength. I’ll set Fenella to work on the rest. The keep is at your service.”