HELPLESS
The short distance between tents didn’t provide sufficient time for Morgan to solve the complicated problem of Hannah Kincaid.
His own shelter was a little farther away from the castle and he hoped the reek of smoke hadn’t permeated, but it was a forlorn wish. Bits of ash floated in the air, even within the canvas walls. He batted them away, preferring not to dwell overlong on what had gone up in flames in the chapel besides wood and vestments.
He sat on his pallet and pulled on his stockings, realizing too late he should have cleaned the muck off his feet, not to mention the dried blood from gouges caused by stones on the steep path. Young Smythe would have had the common sense to do so. Blodwen had been a dutiful wife who met his every need and he’d trained Smythe to do the same.
He peeled off the hose, then looked about for something to cleanse his feet. “She wants you to fetch bandages and clean water and you can’t even find a rag for yourself,” he lamented aloud. “And what the fyke is comfrey?”
He grabbed the thin army blanket off the end of the pallet and used it as a towel. No matter, since it provided no warmth or comfort and he often slept in his buffcoat. Sometimes he envied the men in his crew who at least had the body heat of others to warm their tent. He slept alone…though perhaps there was a way to get Hannah Kincaid…
Twpsyn! He was an idiot.
He put on a stocking, realizing it was still full of sand from his first attempt. He pulled on his boots, resigned to the discomfort. Time was wasting while a young lad lay in pain, besides which he wanted to impress Hannah Kincaid with…
“With what?” he scoffed out loud. “You’re a grown man who can barely take care of himself.”
He wiped the sweat from his arms and chest with the blanket, remembering the way she had looked at him. It should mean nothing that he was the object of a treacherous peasant woman’s lust. Indeed she was worthy of scorn.
But no woman had ever looked at him exactly that way. He’d been lusted after on many occasions—it was an officer’s lot—but something in Hannah’s gaze was different, though he couldn’t say what. She might be a peasant and a traitor, but at least she’d made her life count for something. She had dared.
Morgan’s accomplishment had been to join Cromwell’s army after fleeing Wales at the earliest opportunity, aware his older brother was relieved to see him go. Since then he’d hauled cannon all over England and Scotland and blown things to bits.
“Not much of a legacy, Morgan, my lad,” he admonished.
He stood, shrugged on the same undershirt he’d worn before, then a clean shirt he managed to find in his trunk after some searching. Seaweed had left red and green blotches on his knee breeches. Ordinarily he would have changed, but he’d wasted enough time. No doubt Abbott would raise his eyebrows if he caught sight of him, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He retrieved the shirt he’d removed earlier and held it up, trying to ascertain if he should use his knife or simply tear it into strips for bandages.
~~~
Hannah covered the shivering lad with a blanket.
“Will he be all right?” another of Morgan’s soldiers asked.
“The shock has taken hold,” she replied. “He must be kept warm. Pass me another blanket.”
She smiled inwardly when two of the youths almost fell over each other in a rush to comply.
“We need to keep his ankle raised,” she explained as she rolled up the second blanket and tucked it under the injured foot. She noticed several blankets neatly folded atop pallets. It was a confined space, but they kept it organised. “Ye’re tidy for a bunch o’ lads,” she remarked.
“Have to,” one replied, cocking his head, “our captin’s a stickler for keepin’ things neat ’n’ tidy.”
There was murmured agreement from the others, but she detected no resentment. She got the feeling they liked and respected their commanding officer.
But where had he got to? “Your captain went off to search for water and bandages,” she said impatiently, worried about the rapidly discoloring ankle.
One youth rolled his eyes. “He won’t know where to find anything,” he said. “He’s an officer. Leave it with us.”
With that they disappeared, and she was alone with Smythe. Left with no means of tending the injured boy until supplies arrived, she pulled the blanket back up to his chin, sat down on the groundsheet, held his hand and hummed a lullaby her mother had sung to her as a babe.
The well-loved tune freed her anxious spirit to contemplate the information she had overheard. Why was the cannon being sent to Inverness? Her uncle was in the Highlands, mustering the clan army, preparing to strengthen the rebellion. Mayhap a spy in the Glenheath camp was keeping the English apprised of the progress. Her uncle might be riding into a trap, but she was helpless to warn him.
She startled when the tent flap was thrust open. Captain Pendray strode in and she was tempted to giggle. Without his buffcoat he looked more like a pirate than an English officer, his upper body clad in only a fine linen shirt, his feet and legs encased in bucket-top boots.
He thrust pieces of fabric at her, then clasped his hands behind his back, directing his gaze to the boy. “That’s the only thing I could find for bandages, but Carr assures me he will bring more from the civilian camp.”
She fingered the costly material in her hands. He seemed ill-at-ease and appeared unconcerned about the lad, yet he’d torn up his own shirt for bandages. She suspected few officers would have done so. “Were ye able to find water?” she asked.
For a moment their eyes met. The endearing glimpse of panic she espied in his gaze caused her body to heat.
He held up a finger. “I forgot.”
It seemed his men were right that he relied on them to find the things she needed. He exited the tent but was back a few seconds later with a small, long-necked earthenware bottle. “My bellarmine,” he explained, handing it to her. Their fingertips touched as she took the bottle. His were warm, as was the pottery where he’d held it.
“It will have to suffice in the meanwhile,” he explained in reply to her curious frown. “The men will haul water from the camp below.”
He was sacrificing his own drinking water for a subordinate. The gesture and the tentative look in his eyes reminded her of a small boy anxious to please.
But his next words chilled her. “The well in the fortress is bone dry.”
She shivered. Many of the brave defenders had likely died of thirst. There was no doubt she was drawn to this English officer in a way she’d never experienced. However, he was her enemy, and it was possible he’d figured out her role in the theft of the regalia, though why he hadn’t exposed her was a mystery.
She eased the wooden stopper out of the bottle and carefully poured water on the strips of cloth. When she set the bottle down she noticed an ugly face carved into base of the neck.
“You’ve not seen one before?” Pendray asked, hunkering down next to her to replace the stopper.
She shook her head, inhaling the scent of his clean shirt and the lingering aroma of dulse that clung to him. “Nay. Can ye lift his ankle for me?”
Smythe slowly opened his eyes when his captain slid one hand under his heel and raised his foot. “Don’t worry, boy. You won’t lose your limb. This lass will see to that.”
Again he seemed to be crediting her with more skill than she had, yet this time he sounded confident of the truth of his words.
The lad flinched when the first wet bandage touched his skin, but relaxed as she wound the cloth around his ankle.
“Bellarmino was a Roman Catholic cardinal,” Pendray said.
She risked a glance at his face, fearing she’d perhaps missed something important. “I dinna…”
“The effigy on the bottle. Bellarmino was famous for his…”
She stared, unable to tear her eyes away from his full mouth as he expounded on the Jesuit’s dealings with Galileo, his theories about the movement of the sun around the earth, his debates with King James about Calvinism, finally ending with, “and I don’t know how his effigy came to be on almost every bottle issued to officers in Cromwell’s army, but I suppose it amuses the Protestant Protector to have a Catholic full of wine or ale.”
“Miss,” Smythe whispered, jolting her out of the trance.
Gooseflesh marched across her nape when she looked back at her patient and realized she’d only half finished the task of wrapping the injured ankle. She clenched her jaw and continued her ministrations, ripping the end of a strip neatly in two and tying a tight knot. “There,” she declared. “We’ll change the bandages when we get more water.”
She doubted Pendray would have a clue where to find the herb she’d requested, but his lads might. “And perhaps comfrey?”
He blinked, as if just remembering something. “Er, Atherton reckons seaweed will do just as well. Claims he’s seen it used for wounds and the like. They’ve gone down to the beach to gather some.”
She jumped when he stood abruptly. “The beach,” he rasped, his eyes boring into hers as she looked up at him. “You’d been collecting seaweed there, hadn’t you, the day I first saw you?”
Gooseflesh chilled her whole body. She wasn’t sure if he’d made a statement or asked a question. The stern set of his jaw told her it was a trap. The longing in his blue eyes begged her to lie.
~~~
For Morgan, the sorrow in Hannah’s green eyes offered some consolation. She regretted the lie she was about to tell.
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “Dulse.”
Unexpectedly, she kept her gaze locked with his. Liars looked away. The tension in his jaw slackened. Perhaps there was truth to her words. He breathed more easily. His suspicions were unfounded.
He proffered his hand to help her rise. “No need to address me thus,” he said softly. “My name is Morgan.”
“Morgan,” she whispered shyly as she accepted his help to stand. The warmth of her skin, the pretty blush that crept into her cheeks, his name spoken in a sultry way he’d never heard before: all served to arouse his male interest, prompting him to lift her hand to his lips and brush a kiss on her knuckles as if she were lady and not a peasant wench. “Hannah,” he said.
His brain recognised it was folly, but his cock refused to listen. Still holding her hand, he smiled, only slightly unsettled by a trace of hesitation in her eyes.
His relief was short-lived when Atherton and Carr hurried into the tent, their grinning faces flushed. Both had water-skins slung across their bodies, wads of cloth stuffed into the front of their uniforms. Baxter and Wilcock followed, each laden with armfuls of seaweed.
Syddall came last, a sodden length of rope looped over his shoulder. “I brung this up from the beach, sir,” the wide-eyed youth explained, “seein’ as how you had to leave it behind when you carried Smythe.”