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Finally, the water boiled, and she placed clean strips of his cotton shirt in the cauldron to sterilize the material.
Once she was satisfied they had boiled long enough, she wiped the tears aside, berated herself for being such a wimp, and set about cooling some of the strips of material in the freezing Scotland air.
Turning to the man, she took a sharp breath and began cleaning his wounds. He had many on his neck and chest, but most were surface scratches and cuts. The wound in the side that he’d held on to when he’d walked wasn’t as bad as she had feared. It looked like a sword had just caught him. There was a cut, serious enough to worry about infection, but not deep enough to cause him any long-term discomfort. She wished she had some alcohol. At least then she could wash it better.
After laying a clean rag over the injury, she searched for more grievous wounds. She quickly checked his torso and down to his feet. Picking up his legs one at a time, she inspected the backs of his black curly-haired limbs. Nothing serious, only a few scrapes and superficial cuts.
She leaned forward and brushed his damp hair away from his high forehead. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to roll you over again. I need to see if there are any other injuries on your back.”
With her arms still refusing to muscle up, she used her shoulder to manhandle him over as far as needed so she could examine his skin.
She sighed in relief when she couldn’t find another wound and, as gently as possible, reset him on his back.
That only his upper body had met the swords and not one bullet had pierced his flesh was something of a miracle. She frowned. But why was he unconscious? Abby didn’t think any of his injuries were bad enough for that.
Maybe he was just asleep. Fighting in war must have been exhausting.
Recalling Scottish history and the moor where she’d arrived, she was sure the battle had to be the Battle of Culloden and the Scot was a Jacobite. Although Jacobites weren’t only Scottish fighters—some English sympathizers joined Charles Stuart’s army. Irish Piquets, formed from regiments of the Irish Brigade and a squadron of Irish from the French army, also served in the battle.
However, his accent was definitely Scottish.
She gave a small shake of her head. The Jacobites were brave and fought to the death for their country and the Stuart king they wanted on the throne, but they didn’t fare so well. She glanced at the door and wondered how long before daylight. She had to get back to her own time.
Another worry added to her previous ones.
The Highlanders were a superstitious race. What if they thought she was a witch? Would they burn her? Stone her?
He moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. He beamed. “God has sent me an angel.”
Abby opened her mouth to tell him she was no angel but remembered the Scots’ strong belief in God, and how some Highlanders mixed that faith with their long-held superstitions of fairies and other magic folks. She smiled back at him, noticing the specks of green in his warm brown irises. She could stare at those eyes forever, watching the jade flecks lighten and darken as if they pulsed to some silent inner rhythm. As he moved his head to the side, he grimaced and closed his lids.
***
Deep into the night, Abby was becoming increasingly anxious about staying there too long in case the English came back that way.
She wished the man would get better quickly. She had done her best with what was available, and she had kept his wounds clean and dressed. The scratches and cuts on his body were looking slightly healthier. They would heal, although some would leave scars.
What she was worried about was an infection. She sat on the rickety chair, watching him and dozing while he lay there like a baby and slept.
Sometime during the night, she had nodded off completely and fell to the floor. She awoke in a fright and remained confused until she realized where she was. Giving up her seat, she curled up on the floor in front of the waning fire.
Woeful moans floated to her ears. She willed her tired lids to open and blinked. She sat up and scooted away from the noise. Clearing the sleep from her mind, she focused on the form lying on a bed.
He flung his head from side to side and called out. “Aingeal.”
Abby guessed he was speaking in Gaelic. Had he said angel? I wish. At least if she were an angel, she could fly herself right back to her time, to her family home, to her brother and sisters.
Rubbing her eyes, she returned to the bed and, as if in a sleep-induced trance, brought the chair close to him, sat down, and began wiping his warm face.
He kept ranting, sometimes in Gaelic, sometimes in archaic English, but always the word “angel” was interspersed in his ravings.
Drained and exhausted, she had somehow fallen asleep with her head on her folded arms on the bed. She opened her eyes, and they felt as if someone had poured sand into them.
The dawn heralded a bleak gray light into the room from the open windows, and she remembered where she was and with whom. She sat up and placed her hand on his forehead. It was warm but not feverish.
The dolt had tried to roll onto his injured side. His left leg was over his right, but his upper back was still against the bed and his face was contorted in pain. Abby pushed his leg alongside the other one.
She pressed him into the bed. “Don’t move! Do you want to make it so this thing never heals?”
She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but if she didn’t manage his wound properly, the risk of infection was high. Abby just wanted, no, needed him to get well so she could leave and find the orb. Every moment there increased her chances of being discovered by the English, but she wasn’t going to leave him, not until he could take care of himself. She would never be able to live with herself if she did.
During that first day, the sword injury began to look better. The surrounding redness had lessened, and it looked clean. He must have been an extremely fit man, because his body healed faster than she could have thought possible.
However, he was still weak from the blood loss, or some other hurt Abby hadn’t found—she didn’t know. He moaned, slept, and smiled at her at different times.
She would have liked to believe the smiles were really for her, but she figured he was probably delirious with pain.
Sometimes those smiles took in her whole being. Her heart fluttered when his intense gaze held hers for a moment and then traveled down the length of her body and back up to her eyes, where his smile often shifted to a twitch of humor, and she glared at him for laughing at her. But at other times, her heart nearly stopped beating at the menace that grew along his tight mouth and settled in the darkening green specks in his brown orbs.
She alternated between wondering if he was ogling her, chuckling at her, or if he meant to do her great harm. In the latter moments, she hoped he was delirious.
It didn’t matter. For better or worse, he was in her care. However, if his look turned mean and she was certain he would live without her aid, she would leave before he had the strength to chase after her.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since Garrett’s dinner. She took stock of what she had. Water. Maybe she could make a soup of sorts. She ventured outside and scoured the ground for something she could use. The heavy rain had ceased, but in its place, a persistent drizzle fell from the sky. She wondered if the sun ever came out in Scotland.
A noise she couldn’t name sounded to her left. She halted and held her breath. Turning her head slowly in the direction of the sound, she started as a rabbit hopped into her line of sight.
It froze, and they stared at one another for a moment before the rabbit bounded off across the field.
Abby let out a laugh, thankful it was just an animal and not the English army.
Wild mushrooms grew in abundance, but uncertain which were poisonous, she decided not to pick them and went back into the cabin to search for anything they might eat.
After taking the damp vest off and laying it before the fire, Abby pulled everything out of the crate and collected another, smaller rolled-up blanket. She quickly unrolled it and found, to her delight, two loaves of stale but not moldy bread and a chunk of cheese. The owners must have been planning to come back for the box. Maybe they still would, and if they did, what would they make of her and the wounded man? She preferred not to find out.
Not wanting to linger there any longer, she wished he would wake up. She wanted to recover the orb, and he needed somewhere safer to stay.
Folding a cold wet cloth, Abby bent over to place it on his forehead.
He grabbed her hand and brought her fingers to his mouth, kissing them. “Thank ye.”
Her breath hitched, and all she could do was stare at his lips, open enough to glimpse his surprisingly white teeth. His lips stretched into a smile, and she realized she was staring. She darted her gaze to his.
Those clear brown eyes were smiling at her. Was he laughing at her? She whipped her shaking hand away and sat back in the chair, gazing at the cloth in her hands.
He cleared his throat. “Water?”
That was a good sign. Abby jumped up and poured some cooled boiled water into a mug and held it to his lips. He drank thirstily.
“Not too fast.” She moved the mug away. He reached out for it again, his fingers brushing hers. Her heart picked up in tempo as her whole hand tingled at his brief touch. She put her reaction down to her excitement that he was awake at last. “Wait for a moment and then you can have more.”
When she returned the cup to his lips, he clasped his hand gently over hers while he drank his fill.
“Thank ye. Who are ye?”
“No one. It’s late. Go to sleep now and we’ll talk in the morning.”
And then I can find the orb and travel home.