The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [551]
Would he wish that himself?
I reached for the cup of water by Jamie’s head and drained it myself. I wouldn’t ask him. The choice was his by right—but he was mine, and I had made my choice. I wouldn’t give him up, no matter what I had to do to keep him.
“You’re sure you’re all right, Da?” Marsali had been watching my face. Her eyes darted from me to Jamie and back, looking scared. I hastily tried to rearrange my features into a look of competent assurance.
Jamie had been watching me, too. One corner of his mouth turned up.
“Aye, well, I did think so. Now I’m none so sure, though.”
“What’s the matter? Do you feel worse?” I asked anxiously.
“No, I feel fine,” he assured me—lying through his teeth. “It’s only, when I’ve hurt myself, but it’s all right, ye always scold like a magpie—but if I’m desperate bad, ye’re tender as milk. Now, ye havena called me wicked names or uttered a word of reproach since I came home, Sassenach. Does that mean ye think I’m dyin’?”
One eyebrow rose in irony, but I could see a true hint of worry in his eyes. There were no vipers in Scotland; he couldn’t know what was happening to his leg.
I took a deep breath and laid my hands lightly on his shoulders.
“Bloody man. Stepping on a snake! Couldn’t you have looked where you were going?”
“Not whilst chasing a thousand-weight of meat downhill,” he said, smiling. I felt a tiny relaxation in the muscles under my hands, and repressed the urge to smile back. I glared down at him instead.
“You scared bloody hell out of me!” That at least was sincere.
The eyebrow went up again.
“Maybe ye think I wasna frightened, too?”
“You’re not allowed,” I said firmly. “Only one of us can be scared at a time, and it’s my turn.”
That made him laugh, though the laughter was quickly succeeded by coughing and a shaking chill.
“Fetch me a hot stone for his feet,” I said to Marsali, quickly tucking in the quilts around him. “And fill the teapot with boiling water and bring that, too.”
She darted hastily toward the kitchen. I glanced toward the window, wondering whether Brianna was having any luck in finding maggots. They had no equal in cleaning pustulant wounds without damage to the healthy flesh nearby. If I was to save his leg as well as his life, I needed more help than Saint Bride’s.
Wondering vaguely if there were a patron saint of maggots, I lifted the edge of the quilt and stole a quick look at my other invertebrate assistants. Good; I let out a small sigh of relief. The leeches worked fast; they were already swelling into plumpness, sucking away the blood that was flooding the tissues of his leg from ruptured capillaries. Without that pressure, healthy circulation might be restored in time to keep skin and muscle alive.
I could see his hand clenched on the edge of the table, and could feel the shuddering of his chill through my thighs, pressed against the wood.
I took his head between my hands; the skin of his cheeks was burning hot.
“You are not going to die!” I hissed. “You’re not! I won’t let you!”
“People keep sayin’ that to me,” he muttered, eyes closed and sunken with exhaustion. “Am I not allowed my own opinion?”
“No,” I said. “You’re not. Here, drink this.”
I held the cup of penicillin broth to his lips, steadying it while he drank. He made faces, squinching his eyes shut, but swallowed it obediently enough.
Marsali had brought the teapot, brimful of boiling water. I poured most of it over the waiting herbs, and left them to steep, while I poured him a cup of cold water to wash away the taste of the penicillin.
He swallowed the water, eyes still shut, then lay back on the pillow.
“What is that?” he asked. “It tastes of iron.”
“Water,” I replied. “Everything tastes of iron; your gums are bleeding.” I handed the empty water jug to Marsali and asked her to bring more. “Put honey in it,” I said. “About one part honey to four parts water.”
“Beef tea is what he needs,” she said, pausing to look at him, brow furrowed with concern. “That’s what my Mam did swear by, and her Mam before her. When a body’s lost a deal o