Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) (8 page)

After a moment, Samuel nodded at Tommy and released his shoulder. The boy hurried off, back to the kitchen.

Samuel knew that the other men were watching him to see what he’d do. He wasn’t about to surrender his position to a mere slip of a thing, no matter what manners might dictate. After all, she was a mere woman, and he was Duncan’s second in command.

His eyes narrowed as he appraised her. “All right, we’ll boil the water. Now, you can stay, but keep out of my way.”

He meant to elbow her aside, but Beth held fast to her
position. She was certain that she could do Duncan far more good than this grizzly beanpole of a man, no matter where his heart lay.

“No, sir, I think that you will have to keep out of mine.”

Hank snickered until Samuel gave him a black look.
Jacob merely gaped, his mouth open in awe. He’d never seen a woman stand up to Samuel before, not even
Amy, the cook, who put the fear of God into the rest of
them.

Samuel squared his shoulders. “I’ve always tended to his wounds before.”

She glanced toward Duncan. His eyes were shut, and she wondered if perhaps it was already too late to help him. There was so little to be done. But as little as it was, she knew she could do it better than this man.

“And I’m sure there have been many of them.” She turned and pinned him with a look that made him want to squirm, though he hadn’t the faintest notion as to why. “Are you a physician?”

The word sounded as if it had something to do with
relieving himself. He took umbrage, especially since Hank was giggling again like some silly young wench being taken for the first time.

“I am not, indeed,” he said, with all the dignity he had at his disposal. “I’m a barber.”

“A barber,” Beth repeated. She should have known. There were sections of the country, both here and at home, she’d heard, where a barber doubled as a healer, cutting both a man’s hair and his life short with one careless pass of his instruments.

Beth looked down at Duncan’s finely chiseled face. It was as white as the pillow it lay against.

“Well, when he needs his hair cut, and it appears that he does, you are welcome to tend to that. But he sustained his wound helping me, and I cannot stand aside and simply let you make the matter worse, bathing him with fly-infested water and drying him with towels stained with spittle.”

Hank stared, confused. He looked at his brother. “What’s she talking about, Jacob?”

“Foolishness,” Samuel bit off.

He and the interloper stared at one another, a standoff in the making.

Sylvia moved forward and placed a hand timidly on the man’s bony shoulder.

Samuel turned, his face a mask of annoyance. He tried to subdue it for the older woman’s sake. It was not her fault that her companion was more headstrong than the ancient mule that was stabled below.

“Yes?”

Suddenly aware of the intimate contact she had initiated, Sylvia dropped her hand to her side. She was not accustomed to touching strange men.

“She’s a little sharp-tongued, but her father taught her well, though the why of it none of us ever understood.” It had always seemed to Sylvia a rather shocking thing for a man to teach his daughter about things that had to do with the human body.

Samuel was attempting to exercise patience. He glanced and saw that the young woman was beginning to remove Duncan’s bandage. She appeared to know what she was about. “And her father would be—?”

“A doctor. A healer,” Sylvia added, for good measure.

When Samuel pressed his thin lips together, they had a tendency to disappear altogether. “I know what a doctor is, mistress.”

Samuel always knew when he was outmatched, and he knew it now. There was no reasoning with the wench, short of tossing her into irons. And she seemed
sure of herself. Perhaps she could help Duncan. Duncan
was, after all, his main concern.

His only concern.

Frowning, Samuel scratched his head, as if that could
help him perceive things more clearly. Duncan had al
ways been his to care for, and if the truth be known, he
loved the man like no other.

He watched a moment longer as Beth carefully removed the bandages from his arm. “You won’t hurt him?”

Beth didn’t believe in making promises she couldn’t keep. “I’ll try not to.” A small smile flickered over her lips. It was the best she could offer.

Duncan pried open eyes that felt weighed down. He had heard the exchange between Samuel and the girl.

As it heightened, he had struggled to sit up, but to no avail. He was as weak as a day-old pup, and it fed a fury within him he hadn’t the strength to display. But he finally mustered enough to speak.

“I’m not the last piece of meat on a plate in prison. Stop fighting over me, and dig out the ball. My arm feels as if it’s being burned off.”

Beth looked at the wound. The hole in his shoulder was angry and red. His arm would swell up soon.

“Whisky.” She looked at Samuel over her shoulder. “I need whisky.”

Samuel stared at her. Was she daft? “ ’Tis a bad time to be drinking, mistress.”

The old man was a fool. She gestured to Duncan. “For him. This is going to hurt like the devil.”

“Jacob, fetch a bottle,” Samuel ordered. The younger man began backing away, his eyes still fixed on Duncan’s face, like a servant looking to his master.

“Hold, Jacob,” Duncan cried weakly. He meant to put
his hand out to stop him, but it remained at his side. Duncan looked at Beth. He wanted his senses clear. Above all, there was to be no display of weakness before his men. “All I need is to gaze at you and I’ll be drunk enough to stand whatever you turn your hand to.”

Samuel shook his head. “Half out of his head, and he
still talks that way.” He leaned forward, looking at Dun
can over Beth’s shoulder. “Women’Il be the death of you, Duncan.” His small, dark eyes slanted toward the young woman. “If one hasn’t been already.”

Guilt grew, chewing away at her conscience. He had taken the wound because he had come to her aid. If he hadn’t been talking to her, he would have readily seen
the highwayman raise his pistol. This was her fault. And
her responsibility to right, if she could.

She looked around at the men surrounding her. “The knife?” she asked impatiently.

“I’ve one here.” Hank hastily produced the one he wore sheathed at his side.

Beth took it from him and carefully turned the knife over in her hand. She examined both sides. There was
no rust on it, but it was far from clean. Tommy had re
turned with a fresh basin of water. She dipped her hand into it quickly and sprinkled water on the blade, then handed the knife to Samuel.

“Place it in the fire for a moment.”

Samuel stared at her as if she was speaking gibberish.
“Why?”

If he questioned everything she requested, they would
be standing here all night debating while Duncan lay dying.

“I’ve not time to explain to you, sir; please, just do it.” Beth paused, then changed her tone. “It’ll be better for him if you do.”

Because her voice had softened, Samuel nodded. He brought the blade to the fire Duncan always wanted kept blazing in the hearth and poked it toward the flame. He moved the knife quickly, tempering it. The metal turned
dark.

“That’s enough,” Beth called. “I’ve need of it now, not tomorrow.”

Samuel swallowed an oath about women knowing their place and turned from the hearth. As he passed Sylvia, he shook his head.

“Bossy, that one is.” He dropped his voice to a whisper.

Sylvia smiled, knowing full well how he felt. Still, loyalty was second nature to her. “Her heart’s in the right place.”

By now Samuel wasn’t certain that the wench had a heart at all.

“I’ll be taking your word for that, mistress,” he mur
mured. He crossed to the bed and presented the knife to
Beth, bowing with a flourish. “Will there be anything else, Your Highness?”

Beth saw the tall man she’d sent out returning with a bottle. She was glad he’d come back. She’d probably need all three to hold Duncan down as she worked. She doubted the old man had much strength, certainly not enough to manage half the task himself.

“Yes.” Her fingers wound around the knife’s hilt. She’d watched her father do this before, but had never attempted it herself. Fear tightened its hold. “I’ll need you to help hold him down.”

“There’ll be no need for them to lay their sweaty hands
on me,” Duncan murmured. “ Tis only a whisper-thin needle you hold in your hand.”

Bravery was all well and good, but it wouldn’t hold
him still when she needed it, Beth wagered. She nodded
toward the men.

“Hold him,” she ordered grimly.

Hank gripped Duncan’s good side and Jacob placed
his hands on the other. Beth bit her lip as she watched
Duncan wince. She wanted to cry out that Jacob’s hold should be gentler, but she knew that it couldn’t be. If
Duncan bucked, she ran the risk of cutting him severely
and doing far more harm than good.

When she was certain that the men held Duncan down securely, Beth raised the knife.

A prayer flashed through her mind.

Chapter Eight

Perspiration, warm and sticky, slowly slid down a spine that was already damp as Beth gingerly placed the knife to the wound. Tension gripped her arm like the tightening jaws of an attacking wild boar. Her heart drummed in her ears. She watched Duncan’s nostrils flare as she probed, but he made not a sound, stirred not an inch beneath the men’s firm hold.

She hated the fact that she was hurting him with each slow, painful turn of the knife. An apology burned in her throat, but she knew it would be an insult to him if she said it aloud.

She felt nothing. The knife came in contact only with flesh. The ball had eaten its way more deeply into Duncan’s shoulder than she had first suspected. She had been afraid of this, afraid that once she started, more would be required of her than she was capable of providing. Beth held her breath and probed deeper.

The flame grew in his arm, turning hot, then cold, then hot again. Duncan stared at the ceiling, searching for the words to dirty songs Samuel had taught him in his youth, trying vainly to cast his mind somewhere else. Someplace else.

The words wouldn’t come. The pain seared through him like a thousand flaming arrows.

Duncan felt his blood flowing. He knew it was staining his chest and the woman who was hovering over him, delving into his flesh. There was blood on her hands and on her clothes. His blood.

That bound them.

Duncan’s breath hitched in his throat, bursting to be set free in a lusty scream. He kept it prisoner, clenching his jaw so hard, he thought it would shatter at any moment as cleanly as a pitcher being thrown down on a floor made of stone.

He lowered his eyes to watch her, his mind winking
in and out, seeking a darker, cool place to be, one where
there was nothing. By an act of sheer will, he managed to remain conscious. Sweat was gliding down her fore
head, clinging to her lashes. The firelight shone there,
making her glow until he thought she was not real, but only some figment of his imagination.

A spirit.

Where is it, dear God, where is it?

The frantic question beat in her brain like a thunder
ous tattoo. She couldn’t continue digging in his shoulder
like this, but she had to get the ball out. It had to be here somewhere. The wound was not clean through.

There was no noise in the huge bedroom. All held
their breath, waiting, as they watched Beth’s hand move
slowly, turning the blade in Duncan’s flesh. Those who knew how prayed.

Time dripped, slowly, relentlessly, as if there was no
beginning and no end.

And then, Beth felt the tip of the knife hit something
hard. She became aware that her lungs were aching, exploding. She released the breath she’d been unconsciously holding.

It rushed out with her words of triumph and relief. “I
found it.”

She looked up quickly and saw that Duncan was watching her. His eyes burned into hers. For a moment, all her thoughts fled, save one.

His life was hers to save.

Quickly, she looked back to her task. “It won’t be long now,” she promised.

“It’s already been too long,” he snapped from between clenched teeth.

“I’m doing the best I can.”

Biting down on her lower lip in empathy, Beth moved the knife swiftly. Within moments, the ball slid out in a river of red. Beth caught it and held the lead in her fin
gertips. There was no way to describe the relief she felt.

“There.” She sighed as she deposited the offending sphere of lead on the night stand. Then she raised her eyes to Jacob and Hank. “You can let him go now.” They were quick to release him.

Tommy picked up the ball and stared at the tiny bit of
metal in wonder. “Just this?” he asked, looking up at Samuel.

“ ‘Just that’ can kill a man,” Samuel answered gruffly. Tommy flushed and set the metal down.

Beth washed the blood from Duncan’s shoulder. She turned toward Jacob. “I’ll take that whisky now.”

Jacob looked at her sheepishly. “I couldn’t find the whisky, but I brought some rum—“

It was the alcohol that was important, not the type. “That’ll do. Give it here.” She extended one hand, the
other pressing against the wound to keep the blood from
flowing.

Jacob placed the bottle in her grasp, then stood watching, curious to see what she would do with it. Tommy’s eyes grew wide as he watched her pour a liberal amount over the wound she’d just been probing.

Taken by surprise, Duncan started. He caught a shout of pain before it could emerge from his throat, strangling the sound. His eyes reddened and filled with it.

“The devil take you, woman,” he yelped. “What are you doing, pouring spirits over me like some pig about to be roasted?”