Page 53 of The Scot Who Loved Me
She chuckled. “It does smell something awful, but ye’ll thank me in the morning.” One final dab and she circled him, checking her work. “All done, laddie. No bandage tonight. Best tae let the wounds breathe while ye sleep. I’ll wrap the worst of them tomorrow.”
He tipped the jug and drank. He wanted something stout, something he might find at the Iron Bell along with answers to his questions about the night Anne was attacked. Surely someone heard something? Saw something? Those plans were thwarted the moment Aunt Flora slathered her stinky unguent on his back. At present, her gnarled hands held up the once-fine shirt. A dozen candles lit the kitchen, illuminating smears of blood and bodily humors.
“Is the shirt still good?” He cuffed ale at the corner of his mouth.
Aunt Maude looked up from her work. “It’s cotton.”
“An’ verra expensive,” Aunt Flora said. “Let me see what I can do tae save it.”
“Donnae waste yer time, Flora. Toss it tae the rag heap and be done.” Aunt Maude shucked peas with a steady cadence. She scored each pod with her thumbnail. Then a pinch, it split open, and her finger sloughed green peas into a bowl, the empty pod discarded.
Both women were his companions for the night. The whole evening was agreeable. Everyone had lingered over dinner, the company pleasant, the food satisfying, but to say that wouldn’t suffice. Lots of dinner tables had amiable people and good food.
He’d looked around the table when chatter swelled, a question coming to mind.
Do these women know what they have?
Did he know? Was it family? Contentment? An accord that ran deep?
Their voices had ebbed and flowed, his heart caught in their rhythm.
Anne and he had regaled them with their tale of the day’s adventure. The beauty of Grosvenor Square’s private garden. The countess’s early return to London had met with clucks of concern, and Mr. Rory MacLeod with mixed reactions.
Was he friend or foe? Every woman had an opinion.
The wax lump had been passed to Mary Fletcher who in turn regaled the table with her excitement at making a silver key. She had a half ingot of silver, and she expected to begin work on the key that night. His cousin yawned first. Chairs scraped regretfully back. Dishes were cleared, and Mr. MacLeod’s appearance was relegated to a minor detail. No great cause for concern, Aunt Maude had said. They should bear up and move on. The gold would be theirs in a matter of days. With that, the Fletcher sisters and his cousin disappeared into the night.
He’d gone to the kitchen, commenting on his back’s discomfort, and Aunt Flora whipped out her unguents, insisting she have a look.
Before he knew it, his shirt was off and Anne had vanished.
When he asked about her, Aunt Maude had clucked, “Never mind her, lad. Anne is a grown woman, twice widowed. She can come and go as she pleases. But you? Yer back is festering, and we cannae have you catch a fever. Sit there—” she’d pointed at the kitchen table bench with the authority of a general “—and let Aunt Flora tend ye.”
He did, taking a Mortlake jug with him.
Aunt Maude had settled down with her bowl of peas, muttering, “It’s a wonder. Why didna Anne take care of yer back yer first night here.”
He could’ve told her Anne was too busy taking off his kilt, and he was too busy trying to survive it. The back of him hadn’t been his concern. The front of him... well, that was another story. Being well mannered, he drowned his words with another swig of watered-down ale.
Aunt Flora settled on the bench near him, wiping her hands with her apron. “It’s best ye sit here awhile and let the unguent soak in.”
“I’m no’ going anywhere, no’ smelling like this.”
“I shoulda warned ye of the smell,” Aunt Flora said, but something in her smile told him she had him right where the dear old woman wanted him.
He craned his neck to see over his shoulder. Light glistened on his skin. “Thank you, ma’am, for taking care of me. For always taking care of me.”
Her aged eyes softened. Aunt Flora had been as close to a mother as he’d ever had. She’d taught him to read and tended youthful cuts and bruises. Companionship with her was easy. If life was a weave, she was the ever-present thread in his boyhood, steady and kind, never a harsh word. And understanding... always understanding.
Her keen eyes took in his discarded shoes. She bent over and hooked them with her fingers. The bigamist’s shoes hung like awkward specimens.
“An excellent pair,” she mused.
“They are.”
His was polite agreement only. The heel was too high and the cut too tight. They would never be his. He preferred his loose boots, the leather worn and brown, the soles repaired twice by a cobbler. Staring at those black shoes, their sparkly paste buckles mimicking diamonds, he faced a new fact. Anne’s many changes these eight years might include the wish for a man who liked diamond buckle shoes, even the paste variety.
“They don’t quite fit, do they?” Aunt Flora said sagely.
