A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(53)

Kate opened the chest and found a clean-looking length of gauze in the medical kit. She used it to dab blood from the seeping wound.

“Don’t bind it,” he said. “Not yet.”

She nodded. “I know. What do we do next?”

“You go back to the village. I either live or I don’t.”

The words were so absurd, she choked on a wild laugh. “Are you mad, Thorne? I’m not leaving you.”

She rifled through the bottles and jars in the medical kit, straining to read the faded labels. None of the contents looked familiar. “You said you own four books. I don’t suppose any are books of physic?”

He nodded toward a shelf. Kate dashed to it and found a well-thumbed military drill book, a Bible coated in dust, a bound collection of geographical magazines . . .

“Aha.” She seized on a large black volume and peered at the title. “Treatment of Ailments and Injuries in . . .” Her hope dwindled as she read the remainder aloud. “ . . . in Horses and Cattle? Thorne, this is a veterinary book.”

“I’ve been called a beast.” He closed his eyes.

Kate decided she didn’t have the time to be particular. She quickly paged through the book until she found the section on bites and stings. “Here we are. Adder bites. ‘The sting of the adder is rarely fatal.’ Well, that’s reassuring.”

Although she would have felt a great deal better had it read “the sting of the adder is never fatal.” To say adder bites were “rarely fatal” seemed to her the same as saying “adder bites are occasionally fatal,” and Thorne did pride himself on being an exception to ordinary conduct.

But there was a lot of him, she reminded herself. And all of it was young, healthy, and strong. Very strong.

There were several possible remedies suggested in the text.

She read aloud, “ ‘First, squeeze out the blood.’ We’ve done that, haven’t we? Good.” She made an impatient swipe at a lock of hair dangling in her face and continued. “ ‘Take a handful of the herb crosswort, some gentian and rue, boil together in a thin broth with Spanish pepper and some ends of broom, and when that is done, strain and boil with some white wine for about an . . .’ ” She growled. “About an hour?”

Drat. She didn’t have time to go scouting for a dozen different herbs, much less boil them for an hour. She didn’t even dare leave Thorne for the time it would take to run to the village for help.

She glanced at his face again. God, he was so pale. And his arm was entirely swollen now. Despite the tourniquet, those streaks of red had reached his elbow and beyond. His fingers were purple in some places.

“Do be calm,” she said, even as anxiety pitched her voice. “I’ve several more remedies to go through.”

She went back to the book. The next suggested remedy was to wash the affected area with salt and . . .

Urine.

Oh, good Lord. At least that substance was obtainable, but still. She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. Or perhaps she could, to preserve a man’s life. But she’d never be able to look at the preserved man again.

She sent up a fervent prayer that the third remedy would prove suitable to save both his life and their combined dignity. She read aloud with rapidity. “ ‘Lay a plaster to the area, with a salve made of calamint pounded with turpentine and yellow wax. And give the animal some infusion of calamint to drink, as a tea or mixed in milk.’ ”

Calamint. Calamint sounded perfect. If only she had some.

Kate went back to the medical kit and peered at all the contents of the bottles. She uncorked a vial stuffed with a dried herb that looked promising. When she held it to her nose and sniffed, she supposed it smelled as much like calamint as anything.

She looked around the room. There was a great deal to be done. Light a fire, boil water, melt wax, pound the salve, make a tea. And Thorne was tilting dangerously on that stool she’d given him. At any moment he’d topple the small pedestal table and crash to the floor.

She decided his wound had bled long enough. The extreme swelling had slowed the blood flow to an ooze, anyhow. She wrapped a bit of linen about his wrist as a loose bandage, then made her way to his good side.

“Up,” she directed, sliding her shoulder beneath his unbitten arm. “We’re going to take you to the bed.”

As she helped him to his feet, she could feel his eyes on her. His stare was heavy and intent.

“Am I causing you pain?” she asked.

“Always. Every time you’re near.”

She turned her face away to hide her wounded reaction. “I’m sorry.”

“Not what I meant.” He sounded drunk. With his healthy hand, he nudged her jaw until she faced him. “You’re too beautiful. It hurts.”

Wonderful. Now he was hallucinating.

Together, they shuffled toward his narrow bed. It was only a distance of a half-dozen feet, but it felt like miles. Her spine hunched under his formidable weight.

At last they reached the edge of the mattress. She managed to turn them so that when she removed her support, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Without much urging from her, he reclined onto his back.

There. That took care of head, shoulders, and torso. Now, to get his legs on the mattress, too.

“I feel strange,” he said dreamily. “Heavy.”