He hoped Roan’s men wouldn’t come barging through the door any minute. He hoped they wouldn’t come and harass this kind family tomorrow. He’d been careful with his trail even in the dark, but there was only so much care one could take with a wounded man who needed speed more than he needed discretion. Discretion took time and Preston hadn’t any of that to spare.
‘Here’s the items you wanted.’ The woman held up a needle, already threaded. She offered a friendly smile. ‘I have to be prepared with these three around. There’s always cuts and bruises on a farm.’ She sobered. ‘How bad is it?’
Liam stepped aside, letting her look as he held the needle in the flame. ‘I don’t think anything vital was hit, but he’s lost a lot of blood.’ He nodded his head towards the whisky bottle. ‘Give him some to drink now, he’ll need it once this needle goes in him.’ With luck, Preston would pass out after the first couple of stitches. But first, he had to bathe the wound. He wanted a clean working surface. The fresh hot water was ready now and he dipped a cloth in it. Washing away the blood made it look better, better being a relative term. The bleeding had stopped, he could see that now, and he could put aside his worry that the knife had punctured a lung. But the gash was long and it was ugly, made by a jagged blade. Preston wasn’t going to get out of this without a scar.
The farmer took up a position at Preston’s head with one of his sons. ‘You’ll probably need two of us. Your friend looks like quite the fighter.’ The woman and the other son each grabbed a leg. Liam drew a deep breath, prayed for steady hands, crossed himself and began to sew.
* * *
It was over in a matter of minutes although it felt like hours. Liam was exhausted. He looked at his handiwork. Would it be enough? Had his precautions been enough to ward off inflammation? He’d been in enough battles to know it wasn’t the wound that killed a soldier. More often than not, it was the swelling that followed, or the poor medical work, lace-curtained training or not. He couldn’t bring himself to think of being the agent of Preston’s demise instead of his salvation. If it hadn’t been for Preston, he would still be scrambling for work and living hand to mouth in the streets.
The farmer slipped an arm about his shoulders, drawing him back from the table. ‘My boys will watch him while the wife cleans up. Let’s go and have something to drink. You’ve had a hell of a night.’
And it wasn’t even over. The farmer pressed a glass of whisky into his hand. ‘We’ll make up a pallet for you in front of the fire. You can be near your friend.’
‘No, I have to push on.’ Liam swallowed the whisky, letting the gulp burn down his throat and warm his belly. The illusion of warmth gave him the strength he needed to resist the offer. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and stay near, but he had promised Preston. He had miles to go before he could rest. The more distance between him and Cabot Roan, the better. ‘You’ve already done so much, but I have one more favour to ask.’
‘Consider it done,’ the farmer interrupted. ‘We’ll watch over your friend as best we can and hope no fever sets in.’ Preston was stitched, but that wasn’t a miracle cure-all.
‘I can pay you. He’ll need food, meat to build back the blood he’s lost.’ Liam reached in his pocket for a bag of coins and pressed it into the farmer’s hand.
‘It’s not necessary.’ The farmer tried to give back the bag.
‘It is, I assure you. You have done a greater good tonight than you realise.’ Liam furrowed his brow. ‘You’ve done so much and I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Taylor. Tom Taylor. And yours?’
Liam grinned. ‘My friends call me Case.’ The farmer nodded sagely, understanding the protection Liam had offered him. Sometimes names could be dangerous. Better that this good family not know too much. Liam did not want them harmed in return for their generosity.
The farmer jerked his head towards the inside. ‘Do you think anyone will come looking for him?’ He’d want to know, would want to protect his family.
‘Maybe.’ Liam wouldn’t lie to them. He hoped not. Preston would need a couple of weeks to recover, a month even to be back to full strength. He glanced inside at Preston’s prone figure. He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t wait. Edinburgh was a long way from where he was. He’d need a head start if he was going to reach May in time, assuming Cabot Roan even knew to look there. Liam hoped he didn’t. He wanted to gamble that May’s remote and unexpected location would protect her. Then he could stay until Preston was in the clear.
The farmer looked to the sky. ‘There will be rain tonight. A lot of it. Are you sure you want to go?’
He wasn’t sure at all. He didn’t want to go, but he’d given Preston his word. He had to go to May whether she needed protection or not, never mind she’d be about as pleased to see him as he was pleased to be there.
Liam didn’t bother to go back inside. His resolve was weak enough. The offer of a fire and a hot meal would do him in. He shook the farmer’s hand, thanked him once more and mounted up with a wary eye skyward. Maybe the rain would hold off, he was due some luck. Two miles down the road the clouds broke in a soaking deluge. Whoever said the Irish were lucky definitely hadn’t met Liam Casek.
Village on the Firth of Forth, Scotland—November 1821
‘A penny and nothing more,’ May Worth argued, facing down Farmer Sinclair and his carrots in the market. Farmer Sinclair didn’t want to sell her carrots any more than she wanted to buy them from him, not at that price. ‘Three pennies for a bundle of carrots is highway robbery.’
‘A man’s got to feed his family.’ Sinclair rubbed his stubbly chin with a weathered hand. He gave her a steady look. ‘What do you care if they’re one penny or three, you can afford it either way.’
‘Being of means, as modest as they are,’ May emphasised, ‘doesn’t mean I squander them unnecessarily.’ In the four months she and Bea had been in residence, they’d tried to live frugally in an attempt to call the least amount of attention to themselves as possible. Still, despite their best efforts, there were some like Farmer Sinclair who’d concluded they were ladies of independent means.
Sinclair grumbled, ‘Two and a half. These are fine carrots, the best in the village, and the last fresh you’re likely to get until spring.’ It was hard to argue with that. Sinclair’s produce was always reliable. The carrots were likely worth two and a half this late into autumn, but May didn’t like losing. At anything. Now that she’d engaged in battle she couldn’t back down.
‘Two.’ Sinclair would lord it over her if she gave in too easily and so would Bea when she told her. Bea would laugh and that was worth something. These last few weeks had been hard on Bea. She was in the last month of her pregnancy, large and constantly uncomfortable. She was unable to walk as far as the market these days without her feet swelling. ‘Two. For Beatrice and the baby,’ May added for pathos.
That did the trick. ‘Two,’ Sinclair agreed. ‘Tell Mistress Fields I send my regards.’ He handed her the orange bunch and she tucked them victoriously into her market basket. But it was only a partial win and Sinclair knew it as well as she did. Bea would have got a better price without haggling. Everyone in the village liked Beatrice. It wasn’t that they didn’t like her, it was possible to like more
