"And if there isn't time to hide?" I eyed him narrowly, daring him not to answer.
"Then I'm to kill him, and take you wi' me," he answered promptly. "Willing or no," he added, with an evil grin, and turned to go.
"Just a minute!" I spoke sharply and he stopped. "Do you have an extra dirk?"
His scruffy brows shot upward, but his hand went to his belt without hesitation.
"Do ye need one? Here?" His glance took in the opulence and serenity of the entrance hall, with its painted Adam ceiling and linenfold paneling.
My dagger-pocket was shredded beyond use. I took the proffered dagger, and slid it between kirtle and bodice in the back, as I had seen the Gypsy women do.
"One never knows, does one?" I said evenly.
Preparations complete, I probed as gently as possible, assessing harm, deciding what must be done. Jamie drew in his breath sharply when I touched an especially bad spot, but kept his eyes closed as I felt my way slowly along each separate bone and joint, noting the position of each fracture and dislocation. "Sorry," I murmured.
I took his good hand as well, and felt carefully down each finger of both the good hand and the injured, making comparisons. With neither X rays nor experience to guide me, I would have to depend on my own sensitivity to find and realign the smashed bones.
The first joint was all right, but the second phalange was cracked, I thought. I pressed harder to determine the length and direction of the crack. The damaged hand stayed motionless in my fingers, but the good one made a small, involuntary clenching gesture.
"I'm sorry," I murmured once more.
The good hand pulled suddenly out of my grasp as Jamie raised himself on one elbow. Spitting out the leather gag, he regarded me with an expression between amusement and exasperation.
"Sassenach," he said, "if you apologize each time ye hurt me, it's going to be a verra long night—and it's lasted some time already."
I must have looked stricken, because he started to reach toward me, then stopped, wincing at the movement. He controlled the pain, though, and spoke firmly. "I know you dinna wish to hurt me. But you've no more choice about it than I have, and there's no need for more than one of us to suffer for it. You do what's needed, and I'll scream if I have to."
Replacing the leather strip, he bared his clenched teeth ferociously at me, then slowly and deliberately crossed his eyes. This made him look so like an addlepated tiger that I burst into half-hysterical laughter before I could stop myself.
I clapped my hands over my mouth, cheeks flaming as I saw the astonished looks on the faces of Lady Annabelle and the servants, who, standing behind Jamie, naturally could see nothing of his face. Sir Marcus, who had caught a brief glimpse from his seat at the bedside, grinned in his spade-shaped beard.
"Besides," said Jamie, spitting out the leather once more, "if the English turn up after this, I expect I'll beg them to take me back."
I picked up the leather, put it between his teeth and pushed his head down again.
"Clown," I said. "Know-all. Sodding hero." But he had relieved me of a burden, and I worked more calmly. If I still noticed every twitch and grimace, at least I no longer felt it as badly.
I began to lose myself in the concentration of the job, directing all my awareness to my fingertips, assessing each point of damage and deciding how best to draw the smashed bones back into alignment. Luckily the thumb had suffered least; only a simple fracture of the first joint. That would heal clean. The second knuckle on the fourth finger was completely gone; I felt only a pulpy grating of bone chips when I rolled it gently between my own thumb and forefinger, making Jamie groan. Nothing could be done about that, save splint the joint and hope for the best.
The compound fracture of the middle finger was the worst to contemplate. The finger would have to be pulled straight, drawing the protruding bone back through the torn flesh. I had seen this done before—under general anesthesia, with the guidance of X rays.
To this point, it had been more a mechanical problem than a real one, deciding how to reconstruct a smashed, disembodied hand. I was now smack up against the reason that physicians seldom treat members of their own families. Some jobs in medicine require a certain ruthlessness to complete successfully; detachment is necessary to inflict pain in the process of effecting a healing.
Quietly, Sir Marcus had brought up a stool by the side of the bed. He settled his bulk comfortably as I finished the strapping, and gripped Jamie's good hand with his own.
"Squeeze all ye like, lad," he said.