"Oh, yes!" Her hand went unerringly to a small green flask. "Flowers of laudanum," she read from the label. "Will that do?"
"Perfect." I accepted the flask gratefully.
"All right, then," I said briskly to Jamie, pouring a small amount of the odorous liquid into a glass, "you'll need to sit up just long enough to swallow this. Then you'll go to sleep and stay that way for a good long time." In fact, I had some doubts as to the advisability of administering laudanum on top of such a quantity of whisky, but the alternative—reconstructing that hand while he was conscious—was unthinkable. I tipped the bottle to pour a bit more.
Jamie's good hand on my arm stopped me.
"I don't want drugs," he said firmly. "Just perhaps a wee drop more of whisky"—he hesitated, tongue touching the bitten lip—"and maybe something to bite down on."
Sir Marcus, hearing this, crossed to the lovely glowing Sheraton desk in the corner and began to rummage. He returned in a moment with a small piece of well-worn leather. Looking more closely, I could see the dozens of overlapping semicircular indentations in the thick leather—toothmarks, I realized with a shock.
"Here," Sir Marcus said helpfully. "I used this myself at St. Simone; got me through it while I had a musket ball dug out of my leg."
I looked on, open-mouthed, as Jamie took the leather with a nod of thanks, smoothing his thumb over the marks. I spoke slowly, stunned. "You actually expect me to set nine broken bones while you're awake?"
"Yes," he said briefly, placing the leather between his teeth and biting down experimentally. He shifted it back and forth, seeking a comfortable grip.
Overcome by the sheer theatricality of it, the precarious control I had been hoarding suddenly snapped.
"Will you stop being such a goddamned frigging hero!" I blazed at Jamie. "We all know what you've done, you don't have to prove how much you can stand! Or do you think we'll all fall apart if you're not in charge, telling everyone what to do every minute? Who in bloody hell do you think you are, frigging John Wayne!"
There was an awkward silence. Jamie looked at me, open-mouthed. Finally he spoke.
"Claire," he said softly, "we're perhaps two miles from Wentworth Prison. I'm meant to hang in the morning. No matter what's happened to Randall, the English are going to notice I'm gone soon."
I bit my lip. What he said was true. My inadvertent release of the other prisoners might confuse the issue for a time, but eventually a tally would be made, and a search begun. And thanks to the flamboyant method of escape I had chosen, attention was bound to be focused on Eldridge Manor in short order.
"If we're lucky," the quiet voice continued, "the snow will delay a search 'til we've gone. If not…" He shrugged, staring into the flames. "Claire, I'll not let them take me back. And to be drugged, to lie here helpless if they come, and maybe wake up chained in a cell again… Claire, I couldna bear it."
There were tears blurring on my lower lashes. I stared wideeyed at him, not wanting to blink and let them run down my cheeks.
He closed his eyes against the fire's heat. The glow lent a spurious look of ruddy health to the white cheeks. I could see the long muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.
"Don't cry, Sassenach," he said, so softly I could hardly hear him. He reached out and patted my leg with his good hand, trying to be reassuring. "I imagine we're safe enough, lass. If I thought likely we'd be captured, I'd certainly no waste one of my last hours having you mend a hand I'd not be going to need. Go and fetch Murtagh for me. Then bring me a drink and we'll get on wi' it."
Busy at the table with the medical preparations, I couldn't hear what he said to Murtagh, but I saw the two heads close together for a moment, then Murtagh's sinewy hand gently touch the younger man's ear—one of the few uninjured spots available.
With a brief nod of farewell, Murtagh sidled toward the door. Like a rat, I thought, darting along the wainscoting, not to be noticed. I was behind him as he went out into the hall, and grabbed him by the plaid just before he escaped altogether through the front door.
"What did he tell you?" I demanded fiercely. "Where are you going?"
The dark, stringy little man hesitated for a moment, but answered evenly, "I'm to go wi' young Absalom toward Wentworth and keep watch in that direction. If any Redcoats are headin' this way, I'm to beat them here, and if there's time, I'm to see you and him both hidden, then ride off with three horses, to draw followers away from the Manor. There's a cellar; it might do for hiding, if the search isna too thorough."