Chapter Nine
After another cautious scan of the great hall, I hurried forward to the figure on the floor. Sprawled out with his pistol still in his hand and bloodied sword lying near the other, Iskair’s pale face looked lifeless. Tears streamed down my face as I dropped to my knees at his side. I touched his face, the pulse at his neck, and heaved a sigh of relief to feel the pulse ticking in his throat, his skin still warm.
I ran my hands over his body, pulling his jacket aside but seeing no blood on his shirt. A growing circle of dark wetness soiled the mustard yellow of his tartan, and without hesitation, I lifted the hem of his kilt. A hole in his right groin oozed blood at a steady pace, and instinctively I pressed down with the heel of my hand on what I recalled from first-aid classes to be a pressure point above the wound. Blood seeped down onto the cold stone floor.
I glanced over my shoulder again as if whoever had attacked the castle, the Macleods I presumed, were on the point of returning, but the eerie silence continued.
I had no medical training other than first aid, and I hated to remember that I had slept through my biological anthropology classes. Iskair’s skin was cold, clammy, and I wondered if he was going into shock from blood loss. I had choices to make—release the pressure point and attempt to treat his shock or release the pressure point and find something to cover the wound. Neither were good choices.
I released Iskair and jumped to my feet, running around the room gathering whatever things I could...most of them lengths of cloth that had been left behind. I grabbed up my own arisaid, still spread on the floor. I didn’t want to think about the fate of the babies. I saw no other blood on the floor but Iskair’s.
I ran back to his side, bundled up a few of the plaids and rolled them up under his legs to elevate his feet. I wrapped my own arisaid around his cold body, lifting him from side to side to protect him from the cold floor. I then ripped off a square bit of my own skirt hem, rolled it up and pressed it against his wound. With my spare hand, I reapplied pressure to the point above his injury, and I watched to see if my makeshift bandage soaked through.
I held still for an agonizing ten minutes while I watched Iskair’s face and his wound. I hoped it wasn’t my imagination when I noted a faint tinge of peach returning to his normally bronzed face. I didn’t lift the bandage, to prevent renewed bleeding, but my hand remained dry. I released the pressure on his groin. No blood spilled out onto the floor that I could see.
Iskair wore no undergarments, and I shuddered to see how close the wound had come to his reproductive organs. If he survived, he would probably still have children, but I wasn’t sure that he would survive with pistol shot imbedded in his groin.
I wasn’t sure what my next step would be, so I continued to keep the bandage on the wound. If I attempted to dig the pistol shot out of his wound, I might restart a bout of bleeding that I couldn’t stop. If I left the shot in there, I imagined it would prevent whatever vein it had lodged in from healing—not to mention that I assumed the shot to be lead.
I waited, unable to make the decision—another one of my character flaws. I struggled with decisions, terrified of making the wrong one. In this case, I supposed I could forgive myself since Iskair’s life hung in the balance.
Under normal circumstances, I probably would have called for help, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I stared at Iskair, wondering what had happened. If he had been right and the Macleods had managed to follow us to the castle, then they would have taken Archibald and Sarah and probably the women...as Iskair had said they would. But surely they would have killed the men.
My heart dropped to my stomach as I thought of Dylan. I really didn’t think he could have survived hand-to-hand combat with a sixteenth-century warrior Scot.
Another scan of the hall verified there were no more bodies. I hadn’t seen any on the ground floor or outside the castle. I looked up as if I could see through the stone ceiling to the next level.
Dylan, Rob, Kenny, Euan, the rest of the men and the old men—where were they?
A moan brought my attention back to Iskair. His eyes fluttered, then closed again. Clearly he suffered even in his unconscious state. But that he had almost opened his eyes encouraged me. At least he wasn’t in a coma.
With my free hand, I brushed the sweat-dampened brown curls from his forehead as I knelt beside him. Dark winged eyebrows and long lashes gave his face a romantically dashing look. His lips in repose were full, the bottom more so than the top. The thick silky beard and mustache did not cover his handsome mouth. I wondered how he had managed to keep his classically straight nose unbroken and unscarred.
Brown eyes met mine, and I reared my head.
“Iskair?” I said softly. “Are you awake?”
“Aye,” he said in a raspy voice.
“How do you feel?”
“Pain.”
“I can only imagine,” I said, looking down at the blood on the floor. “The bleeding has slowed, but I think you have pistol shot in you.”
He lifted a hand to cover mine.
“Dinna tell me ye have pulled up my kilt?”
“Well, I had to. You were shot in the groin. You’re lucky you still have your parts.”
An awkward half smile passed across his mouth.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Macleod.”
“Where is everybody?”
Iskair tried to lift his head, but the effort seemed to be too much. His eyes fluttered, and he passed out again.
“Iskair?” I whispered, a sob in my throat. I wondered if he had lost too much blood, if he was dying.
“Iskair?” I called again, leaning close to his face as if I could breathe life into him. “Wake up! I know it hurts, but I need you to wake up.”
Still, his eyes remained close. I laid my cheek against his, the position awkward given that I still held on to his wound.
“Iskair,” I said into his ear. “I’m frightened. I don’t know what to do to help you. I’m sure the bullet needs to come out, and I don’t think I can go digging around in the wound. I might make things worse. Please wake up.”
A deep voice murmured against my ear.
“I have a sgian-dubh inside the lining of my coat, Debra. Ye’ll have to pry the shot out wi the tip of the knife.”
I jerked up to a sitting position. Iskair looked at me with half-open eyelids.
“I can’t!”
“Ye must, lass. Ye can do this.”
His eyes fluttered again.
“Iskair! Where is everyone? Are they hiding? Can I find someone to help? One of the guys?”
“Gone. Macleod took them. I dinna ken about the lads.”
“What about Dylan?”
Iskair’s eyes closed again.
“Iskair?”
He had fainted again. I lifted my hand and peeked under the bandage. His wound still oozed, and I suspected that the pistol shot was keeping the wound from clotting.
I searched the lining of his jacket for the sgian-dubh and pulled out a sheath from which I retrieved a deadly looking short, sharp dagger. I removed my bandage from his wound and studied the broken reddened skin.
Rising up on my knees, I leaned close, the metallic smell of blood pungent. I couldn’t immediately see the pistol shot, which I assumed would be a round lead pellet. I glanced at Iskair’s face. He appeared to be unconscious again, the better for him.
I dreaded sticking a knife into Iskair’s groin, terrified that I would push the shot farther or nick an artery. I set the sgian-dubh aside and slipped my index finger into the wound. Iskair didn’t flinch so I assumed he was well and truly out of it. I didn’t feel the shot at first and pushed my finger in farther before encountering a hard surface. Too thick to pull out with one finger, I reached for the sgian-dubh with a shaking hand. Guiding the tip in slowly, I maneuvered it around the shot, pricking myself in the process.
As Iskair and I mixed blood, I imprisoned the shot between my finger and the blade and withdrew it slowly. Blood started flowing then, and I gritted my teeth, as I had no doubt that it was Iskair’s blood. I had plenty to spare. He did not.
The shot popped out, and I dropped everything, grabbed the bandage and reapplied pressure both to his groin and the wound. I had no way to stitch Iskair and no intention of doing it anyway. My head throbbed. I had reached my limit of personal bravery and was about ready to pass out myself.
My shoulders sagged, and I longed to drape myself over Iskair’s chest, but his breathing appeared rapid and shallow. I didn’t dare. I kept the pressure on for another ten minutes and then lifted my hand. Peeking under the bandage, I saw that the blood flow had stopped.
I searched for something to tie the bandage with. Ripping a strip off my arisaid, I wrapped it around Iskair’s hips as best I could and tied it off. Then I lay down by his side, wrapped an arm through his and either slept or fainted.
“Lass?” I heard sometime later.
“Iskair?” I opened my eyes and jerked upright. Iskair lay flat on his back where I had left him, though he turned his head to look at me. Over his shoulder, I saw through one of the apertures that twilight descended.
“Can ye help me rise? I must search the castle for the others. No sooner did I reach the hall than I was shot. I knew no more.”
I scrambled to my knees and paused. “I’m not sure I want to pull you upright. I’d really like to see your wound clot. I did manage to dig the shot out.”
“Thank ye,” he said, his voice huskier than ever. I searched for one of the containers of water but remembered seeing none of them. Presumably, the Macleods had taken all the food and drink.
“I canna lie here. I must search the castle. Help me rise, lass.”
I rose and held out my hand, eyeing Iskair’s large frame with misgiving. I doubted that I could really pull the big man up. Iskair grasped my hand and rose to a sitting position. He paused, breathing heavily, my hand still caught in his.
“Please don’t do this, Iskair.”
“I must,” he said. Balling up a fist and pressing it against his wound, he worked his way onto his knees, grasped his sword, and then pushed himself upright, obviously sparing me as much of his weight as possible by leaning on the sword like a cane.
Upon reaching his full height, he swayed, and I dropped his hand and ran up under his left arm to support him. To attempt to support him, that was. With my slight frame, I needed to brace my feet apart as I struggled to steady him. It was as if I tried to hold a falling oak tree upright.
Beads of sweat ran down Iskair’s face though the temperature had cooled as evening fell.
“Please don’t faint,” I muttered. “You’ll hit the ground and start bleeding again.”
I reached for his kilt to examine the wound, but Iskair stayed my hand.
“Lass, I canna have ye lifting my kilt.”
I looked up at him and rolled my eyes. “You have got to be kidding me! There’s nothing you have that I haven’t seen by now, Iskair.”
“I ken that is true, but allow me my pride. What is it that ye wish me to see?”
“I want to know if blood is soaking through the bandage.”
He nodded, sheathed his sword and turned partially away from me. He lifted his kilt to examine the wound. Dropping the material, he turned back, still allowing me to steady him.
“No blood flows down my leg.”
“Okay,” I said in an exasperated voice. “Well, now that you’re up, what do you want to do?”
“I must search the second floor and the garret to see if the lads are–”
“Are?”
“If harm came to them.”
I nodded grimly.
“I haven’t heard sounds to suggest that anyone else is here...or alive.”
He nodded. “Can ye hand me my pistol?”
I leaned over and picked up the pistol. He stuck it in his belt.
“The sun is fading. We must find water and something to eat.”
“You do need to drink. You’ve lost a lot of blood. There was that well down below, but I would need to boil the water.”
“Come—let us climb the stairs.”
Iskair, to my amazement, stepped out of my arms and moved toward the spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. Granted, he walked with a painful-looking shuffle, but he willed himself to move.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, looking upward, his head half-turned, as if he listened.
Instinctively, I whispered, “Do you want me to run up there and see what I can?”
He shook his head. “Nay, if there is blood, I dinna wish ye to see it.”
“I’ve seen plenty of blood today.”
Iskair turned and looked down at me.
“I didna mean the fluid.”
I nodded, understanding then that he meant death. If the Macleods had slaughtered any of the Morrisons, he didn’t want me to see it.
He began his ascent on his right foot, dragging his left leg behind him. I reached up to steady his back so that he didn’t fall over, but I knew I couldn’t possibly have stopped his fall.
I followed his slow progress up the stairs, hoping that his blood loss and obvious pain didn’t make him keel over. He reached the upper floor and paused. I had never been up there and had no idea what he looked at.
“Nay, there is no one here,” Iskair said in a low voice. He shuffled out of sight, and I ran up behind him. Upon reaching the second floor, I saw him standing on a stone slab just inside an arched doorway. I imagined what I looked at must have been a hallway with rooms leading from it, but the floor was largely gone. I saw bits of wood planking here and there, but most of it had disappeared. I assumed much of the wood had been carried away by locals over the years for firewood. All that remained were the vaulted ceilings of the great hall below.
“Wow,” I said. “This really is a ruin.”
“Aye.” He turned around. “To the garret where I sent Kenny and Euan. I am no looking forward to reaching it.”
We returned to the stairs, and Iskair dragged himself up to the top floor. We emerged onto a stone parapet that ran the circumference of the square tower. While the walls supporting what must have been the roof were still intact, the roof itself was gone, leaving a vast hole in the middle of the castle.
“Where are they?” Iskair asked, stepping out onto the walkway. “Mind yer step.”
I followed him as he scanned the roofline. He made his way toward one of the square openings in the walls and looked out. From the way Iskair looked down at the ground, I wondered if he searched for men who had been thrown off. The idea made me queasy. I walked over to the next window and thrust my head out to look down.
We faced the back of the castle, and I saw no broken bodies on the green turf below, though as Iskair had said, sunlight was fading. I felt him at my elbow, and I looked up.
“Do you think Kenny and Euan didn’t come up here?”
“Nay, I am certain that they did. It is possible that they saw the Macleods coming and ran down to warn the others, then engaged in battle. I dinna think it likely that Angus Macleod would take the men hostage.”
“He would have killed them,” I said flatly.
Iskair nodded.
“Aye.”
I turned and searched the rest of the roofline. The stones of the parapet on the front side of the castle had fallen away, and we couldn’t go over there, but I knew that no dead men littered the ground in front of the castle.
“So where are they?”
“I dinna ken. I didna see them when I rushed back into the castle. The Macleods had already gathered the women and children afore I reached the hall. I saw Ann and the woman Catherine holding the auld men, before I was shot. It would seem that the women prevailed and the auld men were taken alive.”
“So you think the Macleods actually took the women and children? They didn’t—”
“Nay, Angus would no harm his grandbairns, and truth be told, he fancies Ann. I believe they are alive.”
“Fancies Ann?” My eyes widened.
“Aye, he did want her for himself when he first saw her. She is in some danger from him, but I dinna ken he will kill her.”
“Would they have killed Dylan?”
Iskair startled me by placing gentle fingers under my chin to lift my face to his.
“I didna see him, lass. I dinna ken why they would take him. He is of no use to the Macleods.”
I remembered Dylan told me Cynthia had saved herself by pretending her father would pay ransom.
“What about ransom? Dylan comes from a wealthy family. They would pay for him!”
Iskair eyed me intently before shaking his head.
“Again, ye concern me, lass. If Dylan is yer brother, why do ye speak of him as if he comes from another family? Secondly, perhaps ye were no aware, but the promise of ransom has already been shown to be a falsehood. Angus would no believe such a thing were I to speak of such an offer again. He kens that my cousin, Murdo Macaulay, was betrayed by Cynthia. I was betrayed by Cynthia. My time has no been easy since she escaped.”
“I heard about that,” I said ruefully.
“Did ye now? That I was made a fool of?”
“No, no one thinks that, Iskair. Cynthia was just fighting for her life.”
“Cynthia and I have made our peace, but Murdo no longer trusts my judgment.”
“No, I guess not. I’m sorry.”
Iskair tilted his head. “Ye have no need to apologize, but I thank ye for yer kindness. If ye wish yer water, we must go down to the well on the ground floor. I dinna ken what has become of my pouch. I will collect some wood for fire, and ye can boil yer water as ye wish.”
Iskair gestured that I should precede him, and I climbed down the stairs, pausing when he stopped to rest, until we reached the ground floor, where the small well centered the chamber.
“I’ll go get the wood,” I said. “I saw some downed branches when I came through the forest.”
“Nay, I canna have ye marching about on yer own. I dinna ken if Macleod left some of his lads here, perhaps hoping that the Morrison men would come.”
“Why would they assume John and his men would come here? They didn’t know about the courier you sent.”
“They would if they captured him afore he reached John.”