Beloved Highlander

“No, and I do not think I want to.”

Those dark lashes lifted again, and now he seemed wary, confused. But before he could open his mouth, Malcolm tugged the last stretch of bandage free. The wound was revealed, a sword slash that looked deep and painful, a brutal incision into the hard, muscular swell of his upper arm, with the edges gaping.

They all grimaced.

Sweat trickled down Gregor’s brow. Confronted with the damage to his arm, he took a deep uneven breath. Meg took a breath of her own, stilling her squeamishness.

Malcolm Bain probed at the wound with one blunt finger.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Meg demanded sharply when Gregor gasped a word in Gaelic that sounded profane.

Malcolm Bain cast her the briefest of glances. “My grandsire was a surgeon in Dundee’s army in 1689,” he told her matter-of-factly, as if that were an answer. “We will have to sew it up,” he added. “Won’t heal otherwise. The bleeding’s stopped, so we dinna need to cauterize the wound. I’ll clean it and then we can sew it.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes intent. “Are ye a competent needlewoman

, my lady?”

Meg blinked, failing to follow the change in subject. “I can sew a seam, if that’s what you mean. Why?” And then, realizing exactly why, her face drained of all color. She had always had a weak stomach when it came to such things. It was an embarrassment to her, because she well knew that the lady of an estate such as Glen Dhui was looked upon as someone who would treat the illnesses and the hurts of her people. Meg did her duty, but she had never found the role easy.

“You are the surgeon’s grandson,” she said in a husky whisper.

“Aye, I am, only I’m no’ so good at the sewing part, my lady. It would be better if ye did that. Now dinna fash yersel’! It’s as easy as mending a rip in a petticoat.”

“I doubt that,” Meg retorted. “Why are you asking me? Surely there are others in Clashennic who can sew better than I.”

Gregor had fixed her with mocking eyes. “Are you refusing to help a wounded man? ’Tis clear you have not been sliced by a sword.”

“Nor would I be so foolish as to get in the way of one, Captain.”

“I dinna do it on purpose,” he said, a little sulkily.

Morag was sent for water and clean bandages, and a needle and thread. Malcolm Bain uncorked a bottle of whiskey and poured Gregor a large dram.

“For the pain,” he said, when Meg’s lips tightened.

“Surely he’s had enough to numb his whole body?”

“Dinna be harsh, lass,” Gregor murmured, savoring the brew. “’Tis not you who has to suffer Malcolm’s tender ministrations. Last time he sewed me up it came out all crooked.” He turned his uninjured arm to show her, and she gazed in dismay at a small but very puckered scar near the bend of his elbow.

Morag had returned, and Malcolm Bain set to washing the wound, trickling cold water into the gash again and again until it came out clean. When that was done, he lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured it straight onto the raw flesh. Gregor’s breath hissed and he went as white as a ghostie.

Meg groaned in sympathy.

But Malcolm Bain was already taking up the needle, holding it poised in his big, blunt fingers. “Are ye ready then, lad?”

Gregor choked. His eyes lifted to Meg’s. There was emotion in them, not so much a plea, but rather a request. She wanted to refuse, to turn and walk away; she wanted to pretend she didn’t understand. But she had come all this way to see this man, to ask of him a favor of her own, so how could she refuse him now? And yet…there was more to it than that—she didn’t want his smooth, hard arm to bear a scar as puckered as Malcolm Bain’s last effort. And she could sew a seam—she had told him so.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, opened them, and gave a decisive nod. Hopefully she could do this without fainting. Without showing all these Highland men what a frail and fragile woman she really was beneath her outward show of toughness.

“I am grateful,” Gregor said softly.

Malcolm Bain cleared his throat, and held out the needle. She took it with fingers that shook a little. Duncan brought a stool and placed it beside the chair, so that Meg would be sitting higher than her patient, with a better view of his arm. Malcolm Bain stood close behind Gregor, and carefully pinched the edges of the wound together, holding it firm for her. She watched Gregor’s chest rise and fall, a little quicker now, and the tightening of his mouth.

There was an expectant hush about her.

I can do this, Meg thought. I can do this, just as I have done everything else that has been asked of me so far….

Slowly, pretending she was somewhere else, Meg pressed the point of the needle against the flesh of Gregor’s arm, and pushed it through.

It wasn’t as difficult as she had thought.