Debbie Mazzuca: Lord of the Isles

“How did you get in his chambers?” His manner had changed, no longer aggressive; there was an odd look in his eyes.

Ali let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know. I fel asleep in another room, and then I found myself in bed with him.”

She jerked her chin toward the man named Rory, and heat suffused her cheeks. “So maybe the question isn’t how I got in here, but who the hel put me in his bed, and why?”

It was something she wanted to know, along with why they were dressed the way they were, and what this Rory person was doing here instead of at a hospital. But now was not the time for discussion. LORD OF THE ISLES

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Iain looked at the older man, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Fergus, they sent her.”

“Quiet, lad,” the other man snapped.

Ali crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what the two of you are talking about, or what’s going on here, but I’m warning you, you’d better send for an ambulance. Your friend needs to be in a hospital, so I’d suggest you cal 911 immediately.”

Again with the blank stares.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t 911 in Scotland. “I don’t care what number you cal , but we have to get him to a hospital.”

The man named Fergus shook his head slowly from side to side. “’Tis up to you, lass. There’d be no one else.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’d be no time to explain. See to our laird, if you please.”

“Laird?”

“Aye. Laird MacLeod.”

Lord Rory MacLeod, the clothes, the . . . no, she wouldn’t go there. Not now. Whoever he was, he needed her help. With one last look at the men who watched her, their expres

sions bemused, she returned to her patient’s bedside. Rory MacLeod’s look-alike reached out his big hand. Clamping it around her wrist, he jerked her toward him.

“Who . . . who are you?” he rasped, the effort obviously costing him.

“Doctor Aileanna Graham.” She pried his fingers from her wrist.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Ali silenced him with a firm, “Be quiet.” She placed a finger to his lips when he tried to protest. “Shh,” Ali said, trying not to think about how that particular set of lips had felt, pressed to hers. She pushed aside her wayward thoughts and her profes

sional persona slid into place. “Your questions can wait.”

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Debbie Mazzuca

She laid her palm against the side of his face, then his fore

head, relieved to find he didn’t have a fever.

“Could you get Duncan for me?” she asked Iain, who was closest to the bed.

“Duncan?” the younger man asked, his brow furrowed.

“There’d be no Duncan here.”

Ali took in a deep, calming breath. Don’t think about it. Do. Not. Think. About. It. “I need something to stop the bleeding. Can you bring me some fresh linen? And I’l need some more candles, or whatever it is you use for lighting.”

“Aye.” Iain shot a quick glance over his shoulder before heading for the door.

“And clean water and soap while you’re at it,” Ali cal ed after him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brought Rory’s arm across her lap and wrapped her fingers around his thick wrist to check his pulse. She tried to ignore his intense gaze, fighting the urge to smooth the heavy lock of raven black hair from his forehead. Ali shook her head when Fergus tried to speak to her; without a watch she needed to concentrate. The older man didn’t argue. Placing his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels. Waiting patiently, his fierce expression softened when every so often he glanced at her patient.

Ali rose to her feet and lowered the comforter. Removing the makeshift bandage, she tried to mask her reaction to the deep, jagged gash in his side and the fresh gush of blood. She swal owed. The muscle in his jaw pulsated, sweat beaded on his brow, and his complexion turned chalky.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have to examine the wound. I’l be as gentle as I can.”

He gave a jerky nod.

“How did it happen?”

“In battle,” he said between clenched teeth. Battle? Ali assumed she must have misunderstood him. LORD OF THE ISLES

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Unless he meant they did reenactments of battles here. She had gone to one in Virginia, and even though she knew it wasn’t real, she’d had to leave. “No, I mean, what did this to you?”

“A sword, lass,” he explained, as though he spoke to a child.

A sword . . . in battle. “For God’s sake, did you have to use the real thing? Honestly, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. A real sword.” She shook her head while she palpitated his abdomen. Moving lower, Ali folded back the comforter to just below the top of his hipbone.

“Lass, I doona’ think I can manage that. ” A weak smile tugged at the corner of his ful , sensuous mouth. Ali raised a brow. She couldn’t believe the man had the strength to tease. The amount of blood he appeared to have lost should have rendered him unconscious. He cursed, glaring at her when she pressed her fingers inches from the wound. Ali staunched the flow with the clean side of the old bandage, and held the fabric to the candle on the bed side table. Examining it for signs of infection, she was re

lieved when she didn’t see any. She sniffed at the cloth just to be sure. A commotion at the bedroom door drew her attention. A gray-haired woman in a long puce gown fol owed Iain—

who carried the buckets of water—into the room with an armful of white sheets, and a lantern dangling from her hand. When Ali came around the bed to retrieve the linens, the older woman drew in a shocked breath.

“Lass, yer naked,” she exclaimed.

“Nay, Mrs. Mac, her dress may be odd, but she is no’

naked. I would’ve noticed,” her patient assured the older woman.

Ali looked down at her T-shirt. She didn’t know what was so odd about it. But if she could have found her damn suitcase she would’ve changed. She might not be naked, 20

Debbie Mazzuca

but knowing she had nothing on underneath, that’s pretty much how she felt. She turned on him. “Shh, rest.”

He rol ed his eyes.

“Here, lass, put this around you. ’Tis no’ decent what you have on.” The woman retrieved a long length of red and black tartan and a thick black belt from the end of the bed. Wrapping the fabric around Ali, she fastened it at her waist with the belt. It fel wel past her calves with one end draped over her shoulder. Mrs. Mac stepped back to view her handiwork. “’Twil have to do.”

Ali clamped her mouth shut, knowing to protest would do her no good. A trace of humor glinted in her patient’s eyes and she scowled at him. “Not a word out of you.”

“I was only goin’ to say my plaid is verra becomin’ on you, lass.”

She snorted. “I’m sure. Mrs. Mac, I need some alcohol to disinfect his wound. Unless you have some antiseptic on hand, it’s the only thing I can think of.”

“I doona’ ken what ant . . . antiseptic is, lass, but I think I ken what you mean by alcohol.” With that said, the woman set off.

Ali pressed her fingers to her temples, rubbing in a slow, circular motion. Don’t think, don’t think. She repeated the mantra in her head. She took a cloth and dipped it into one of the buckets, groaning when she saw the color. “I can’t use this water. It’s dirty.”

“Nay, lass, ’tis fine.” Fergus’s brow furrowed.

“No, it’s not fine,” she snapped. “If any of this gets into his wound he risks infection. The water has to be boiled first.”

She glanced over at Rory, expecting him to say something, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing seemed shal ow. Ali cursed, ignoring the men’s startled expressions.