Highland Heat (2 page)

His gaze searched the battlefield. “Jesus Christ in heaven,” he murmured in a gruff voice.

“I know. It's terrible.” She swallowed hard and pointed toward the edge of the field. “Do you see that wagon by those trees? It'll take us to the hospital, where we can find a doctor to look at your arm.”

He glanced down at his dangling arm as if he'd forgotten it.

“Oh. Aye,” he said distractedly as she began to lead him across the field, noting that he walked with a bit of a limp, though it wasn't too bad. He might have strained something or suffered a minor blow. But she'd ask the doctor to look at that as well.

Duncan was silent as they walked, his expression grim. Either he was in terrible pain or lost in the truth of the destruction surrounding them and his own memories of the battle. She didn't press him.

Captain Stirling stood up ahead, near the wagon, and she felt Duncan stiffening as he approached his superior. When the captain recognized Duncan, he didn't smile, but relief crossed his face.

“Sergeant.” His eyes scanned over Duncan, hesitating over the dangling arm before moving to his face. “I thought we'd lost you.”

“Nay,” Duncan replied soberly. “Not yet.”

For the first time, Grace realized that Duncan's green-and-yellow kilt matched the captain's. She'd not noticed before because the fabric had been hardly visible beneath all the mud. They were in the same regiment, then, the 92nd Regiment of the Gordon Highlanders. The regiment now commanded by her brother-in-law, who still lay on a bed in Waterloo Village, unconscious.

“Is it your arm that's been injured, then?” the captain asked.

“Aye.”

“We'll get you to the hospital.” Captain Stirling turned to Grace. “Are ye ready to return to your sister?”

She let her arm slip away from Duncan's back. He stood perfectly well on his own, and she'd kept it there for far longer than was appropriate. She'd rather liked it there, though. The thought made her glance down at her muddied hem in mortification as her cheeks heated yet again.

“I think I should like to accompany the sergeant to the hospital to see what I can do to help, if you don't mind, Captain.”

Stirling tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Verra well.”

They were herded into a carriage that had been converted into a transport for injured men. Two men lay on stretchers, both moaning in pain. Duncan settled onto the single bench with Captain Stirling beside him, but Grace lowered herself into the small space between the two poor men, helpless to do anything to ease their pain. Instead she held their bloodied and muddy hands and spoke to them in a soothing voice as they bounced along, each rut in the road causing both men to wince and cry out in misery.

Behind her, Duncan was silent. She glanced over her shoulder at him once, to see him watching her, his blue-green eyes brilliant in the dim light.

They'd been so familiar with each other. In the smug, regimented environment of London, her behavior would be considered entirely unseemly. But this was the aftermath of a terrible battle. Things were different here.
Grace
was different here.

There was no harm in doing whatever she could to help these men. No harm at all.

Grace was utterly beautiful, her bonny locks of golden hair coming loose and curling below the rim of her straw bonnet. Her back was straight beneath a long row of pearl buttons that encased a lithe figure in expensive ivory muslin, now covered in patches of mud. It was as if she didn't care that she'd ruined a dress that likely cost more than Duncan would make in the next few years as a sergeant in the 92nd.

She was a fine lady, but she was dirty and on her knees, holding two rough men's hands, one of them covered in new, wet, shiny-red blood where he'd been clutching his shoulder, which had been sliced open, likely by a bayonet.

The vision of Grace, this lady, was incongruous while at the same time completely natural. As if she were in her element in this ugly place, a powerful, bright force in the midst of men weakened and darkened by a bloody battle.

She released one of the men's hands and gently smoothed a lock of greasy hair back from his sweaty forehead.

She had soothed Duncan earlier, and now she soothed these soldiers. Something unfamiliar surged within Duncan at the sight. He'd met ladies of her status before, and they had always been aloof, snobbish, and superficial. Not Grace. She was…
real
. A real woman, who smiled and blushed and showed compassion and strength. A woman who'd kneel down in the dirt and allow a stranger's blood to cover her hand.

But he had been near her…and she had touched him. Earlier, she'd had her arm wrapped around him, a small but firm support as he'd limped along, clenching his teeth against yet another sprained ankle. He'd broken the bloody thing once when playing ball as a lad, and sprained it countless times since then. The men in his regiment called him Unbreakable Mackenzie, uninjurable except for his “Achilles Ankle.”

He glanced down ruefully at his arm. His first real injury since he'd enlisted in the army. “I suppose I'm no' Unbreakable Mackenzie now,” he told the captain.

Stirling, who'd been lost in his own thoughts, turned to him, seeming to struggle to focus on him. “You're still in one piece, as I see it,” he said finally. Almost immediately, he turned away, his gaze growing unfocused again, and Duncan left him to his own thoughts.

Distractedly, Duncan cataloged his wounds. There was his ankle—not a bad sprain, and it should be healed in the next few days. He had a beast of a headache, and his chest hurt when he breathed. But he was certain his arm was the worst of his injuries, by far. He wondered how bad it was. Whether he'd lose the arm and be a cripple for the rest of his life, of no further use to the army.

If that was the case, he'd survive it. Return to the Highlands to his parents' farm and try to be as helpful as he could with only one arm…

But these were dour thoughts, and Duncan wasn't prone to dourness. He would manage his arm, no matter how bad it was. For now, he was content to watch the woman kneeling before him and wonder what it would be like to twine a silky blond lock of that shining hair around his finger.

Pushing his dark thoughts of last evening's battle aside, Duncan fell into daydreams about Grace—he'd no idea what he should technically be calling her. She was a lady for certain, but should he address her as “my lady,” or “miss,” or was she married to—

No,
he thought, with a more-than-appropriate sense of satisfaction. She'd blushed furiously whenever she'd touched him. When she'd fallen onto his lap, she'd been so flustered that he was concerned she might burst into flames of embarrassment.

Bonny Grace was most definitely a virgin. It wasn't as if he'd be the man to ultimately deflower her, but it gratified him to know he was likely the first man—except for her father, and perhaps brothers if she had any—she'd been so close to. The first man she'd touched in any place beyond the formal, gloved touch of hands as she met one of her high-ranking peers at balls and soirees, and whatever other events ladies of her ilk attended.

So lost was he in his thoughts that he didn't realize they'd stopped until the wagon door was opened, revealing a harried group of officers who immediately unloaded the two more seriously injured men. Grace tried to help, her lovely face pale, but her efforts were brushed off. When the men had been carted away, she looked at Duncan and Stirling, her big dark blue eyes shining.

“Do you think they will live?”

When Captain Stirling didn't have an immediate answer, Duncan spoke. “I dinna ken,” he told her honestly. “I hope so.”

“So do I.” She looked down, then her shoulders straightened. “Come. We must have that arm seen to.”

He allowed her to help him from the wagon. As soon as they stepped down, the captain just behind them, the driver saluted then drove off. Other than that, no one paid any attention whatsoever to them. Men hurried this way and that, some carrying medical supplies, others carting the injured on stretchers.

The field hospital loomed before them, a long, low, whitewashed structure with few windows and a large door propped open by a rock. Men, and a few women, flowed in and out, occupied with their own tasks and completely disinterested in them.

The captain drew in a long breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his coat. He turned to Grace. “Milady, I must return to the regiment. May I accompany you back to the village?”

Milady.
She
was
a titled lady, then, Duncan mused.

“No, Captain. Please return to your regiment. I'm sure they need you in the absence of the major. I'll look after Sergeant Mackenzie and make sure his wounds are attended to.”

The captain's gaze flickered to Duncan, then back to Grace. “Are ye certain, milady?”

“Yes, of course. I'll find my way back to the house when I am finished here.”

“Verra well.” Captain Stirling gave Duncan a long, hard look that Duncan could read as easily as a newspaper headline. The captain was ordering him to look after the lady, to make sure no one accosted her, and to ensure she returned to the village without incident. Duncan gave a sharp nod to the officer. He'd follow the order, and Captain Stirling knew he could be trusted.

Duncan and Grace entered the hospital to find themselves in an enormous crowded space, the smells of cauterized flesh, sweat, and blood ripe in the air. Grace caught a man by his sleeve as he was hurrying past. “Where might we find a doctor, sir?”

The man glanced past her to Duncan, his gaze going to his arm. Everyone noticed the arm first, Duncan thought ruefully. It must look bad. And, while it had been numb when he'd first awakened, now it felt like the flames of hell had caught hold of it and were burning it to ashes. Duncan pressed his lips together and kept his expression stoic.

The medical man looked back at Grace and gestured to Duncan. “For this soldier?”

“Yes.”

The man shrugged. “The doctors are busy, ma'am.”

“The sergeant requires a surgeon's attention.” Grace possessed the tone of a lady accustomed to having her orders obeyed. Different from the officers' voices when they barked out commands—hers was soft and smooth and kind, but Duncan imagined that nevertheless people leapt to do her bidding every single time. She possessed the poise and confidence of the higher orders, and even dirt-streaked as she was, those aristocratic traits were impossible to miss.

“Right.” The man nodded. “Well, I suppose you can wait. There aren't any beds at present, so you must make do here until a doctor is free to look at it.”

“Very well,” Grace said crisply. “But Sergeant Mackenzie's arm has begun to bleed again. Is there anything can be done?”

The man's eyes flickered over Duncan briefly, then he shook his head. “Sorry. He'll have to wait.”

“We will wait, of course, but I require some bandages and brief instruction on what to do to stop the bleeding.”

The man passed the back of his hand over a sweaty brow. “Yes, ma'am. Come with me, please.” He leveled a gaze on Duncan. “Stay here,” he ordered.

“Aye.” As long as they remained within sight, he would stay. If they left the room, he'd be following. He wasn't going to let Grace out of his sight until she was returned to her sister safe and sound.

He watched them approach a table piled high with medical supplies—surgeon's tools, blankets, bandages, buckets, and the like. Grace leaned toward the man, listening attentively as he spoke to her. Then he gave her a spool of white cloth and a small bottle of something, turned, and went on his way.

Grace made her way back to Duncan. “I'm so sorry, Sergeant Mackenzie.”

He was tempted to ask her to call him Duncan again, but among all these people, that probably wouldn't be wise. If one of the officers heard her speaking so familiarly to him, her reputation might be damaged.

“We need to wait for a bit,” she continued, “but I think I should wrap your arm. I'm inexperienced in medical matters, but I'll try my best.”

“Are ye certain you wish to do that?” He searched her face for any sign of squeamishness, but he didn't find any. Then again, she was tenacious for someone so young, and brave—for though the horror had been plain on her face in the battlefield, her hands had been steady and she'd held herself with confidence.

“Of course. I'll bandage it and then remain with you until the surgeon arrives. I don't want you to have to wait alone.”

He bowed slightly. “I'd be honored. Milady.”

Her gaze grew tentative. “I saw a bench just outside. I rather think the air is better out there. And in any case, there is nowhere to sit in this hall.”

She was right. The hall was littered with men on stretchers, slumped against walls, or sitting on the floor. All of them waited for their turn with the surgeons. The sounds of this place were ripe with misery—moaning, cries of pain, weeping, coughing, terse commands, and pleading voices.

“It'll be some time before they're able to see my arm, lass,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I should return you to the village first.” He could take her to her sister, then return here to have his arm seen.

“I've time to wait with you.”

He acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. “Aye, then.”

They returned outside and approached the stone bench. “Sit down,” she commanded.

He nodded and sat, watching the bustle of men, carts, wagons, and horses moving this way and that over the churned-up ground. The air was thick, damp, and unseasonably warm, with gray-white clouds boiling overhead. If he could, Duncan would take his coat off, but he had a feeling that the fires of hell would grow far hotter if he moved his arm, so he was content to swelter.

She gazed at his arm, then tentatively touched a finger to his coat, which was stiff with blood. “You ought to remove this.”

Bloody hell. He nodded.

“But first, here. Drink this.” She opened her palm to reveal the small bottle the man had given her.

“What is it?”

“Laudanum. It should dull the pain.”

He raised his brow. Laudanum? For him? The fanciest pain-duller he'd ever partaken of was a glass of whiskey thrown in his face. “I'm no' in any pain,” he lied.

“But you will be, no doubt.” She held it out. “Take it.”

He took it, more out of curiosity than anything else, and swallowed it down, nearly choking. “Bitter stuff.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “But it should help.”

He nodded.

She knelt before him and began to unbutton his coat. He stiffened under her touch, feeling a sudden surge of protectiveness—an English lady undressing him in such a fashion was wildly inappropriate. He didn't want to have any hand in damaging this sweet woman's reputation. He glanced around, but no one paid them any heed.

She pressed a hand flat against his chest, and he wouldn't have been surprised if his heart stopped beating right then and there.

“It is all right,” she said softly, reading his agitation. “I am only helping you. No one will care.”

He wasn't so sure about that. There were plenty of high-ranking men here who might take such gossip back to England.

Still, she seemed convinced, so he allowed her to continue. She finished unbuttoning his coat, then pulled the sleeve over his good arm. Then she began the painstaking task of peeling the blood-stiffened fabric off his injured arm.

“Goodness,” she murmured, “I've never seen such enormous muscles.”

Her gaze flicked to his, and her cheeks colored. But he'd hardly heard her. The fiery bowels of hell had gained sharp teeth and were eating him alive. Duncan clenched his jaw and tried to focus on the subtle whooshes of her breaths as she worked.

Finally, she had the damned thing off. She leaned back, gazing at his arm in horror. “What did this to you?”

Duncan closed his eyes, unable to look at the wound. “Bayonet.”

“I see the bone.” She sounded as if she was about to weep. “It almost sliced your arm clean off.”

Duncan remembered. The sensation of being cut open, and the jarring through his entire body as the bayonet had struck bone. He'd killed the man with his sword, then sank to his knees, clutching his arm in agony. The pain in his head had seemed to shoot through his entire body. He didn't remember anything after that, until he'd seen Grace crouching beside McGee.

“ 'Tis good fortune that bone was in the way, then,” he said lightly. “I've bones of steel, ye ken.” They didn't call him Unbreakable Mackenzie for nothing.

She blew out a slow breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was steadier. “Good fortune, indeed.”

He opened his eyes. She had a lovely, perfectly symmetric oval face framed by loose curls peeking out from the edges of her straw bonnet. Her focus remained on his arm, and she chewed her lip contemplatively. “Does it hurt terribly?”

“I'll manage it.”

“The laudanum is helping?”

He didn't think the laudanum had had time to take effect, but he didn't have the heart to tell her that. “Aye, I think it is.”