Chapter 12
Twelve
Rhys came so close to kissing Tempest the night before, but he just couldn’t. There were too many unknowns. When they were free of this place and living a normal life, then he would kiss her, if he still wanted to.
Of course he wanted to. What man wouldn’t want to pull her into his arms and kiss her most thoroughly?
“If you use a hammer and nails to make a board fit, won’t you be putting more holes in the boat?” Ellen asked.
She’d been his shadow since he had eaten breakfast and then came out here to measure the hole, the boards, the hole again. He had one chance to get it right.
“I will seal them with the tar.”
“I will hold them,” Ann called as she ran forward then got in the boat to hold a board in place.
“I have got the other.” Ruth joined her sister and now both pieces of wood were exactly where they needed to be. Rhys stood back to examine if there were any openings or if they fit as if they belonged there.
He had to get this right.
Ellen came to stand next to him, mimicked his stance and tilt of his chin.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“What are you thinking?” Rhys countered.
“I think they fit.”
“I do too.”
He then stepped closer to look for any gaps, which there were none.
It was perfect.
“It sure has taken you a long time,” she said.
“I wanted to get it right,” Rhys defended himself to the six-year-old.
“But all day?”
The child was right. He had been procrastinating because he was afraid that if he got this wrong he would not only ruin the new wood, but the boat, and then they would have no means of escape.
“Mr. McNaught. Please come quickly. Tempest has been hurt,” Margaret cried as she ran from the direction of the hut.
His heart nearly stopped. “Where is she? What happened?”
“She slipped picking berries and cut her hand.”
His pulse slowed at the explanation. A cut hand was not as bad as a broken ankle or being bitten by a snake.
“It looks really bad with lots of blood.”
“I will go see if I can help.” He turned and looked at the children and pointed. “Do not touch the saw, hammer, nails…any of it. Come away from the boat. You cannot be there without me.” The last thing he needed was for them to do more damage.
* * *
Of all the foolish things Tempest could have done was grasp onto a vine without looking when she started to fall. Had she, she would have just fallen instead of the gradual slip to the ground while thorns from an Apple-liana dug through her palm, leaving one behind.
Nicoll had run for fresh water to boil so that she could wash her palm and while Tempest looked for something to wrap her hand in, Margaret had run for Rhys.
Tempest had called her back because this was not so dire a situation that he had to be pulled from fixing the boat, but her younger sister had ignored her.
Once he sees that it is merely a cut, he will return to work. Of that she was certain, and she would apologize for his being disturbed.
“I will put some water on to boil right away,” Nicoll announced as she entered.
Tempest took a towel and then sat on a bench to really look at her hand. It hurt, as one would expect after something had torn through it, but she had not been expecting a gash in her palm. Not the full length or width of it, but long enough that it would prove to be difficult in the coming days.
“What did you go and do?” Rhys asked from the entry. “The way Margaret came yelling, I was certain you had managed to cut off a limb.”
“Hardly. At the worst I will have a scar,” Tempest answered. “Would you by chance have tweezers?”
He frowned and came forward, then lifted her hand for better inspection.
“You need more than tweezers.”
“Yes, to be washed out and a bandage, Mr. McNaught. I have been cut before.”
“You need stitches,” he announced.
Tempest’s stomach rolled with the very idea of a needle pricking her skin to close the wound. “I am certain that is not necessary.”
He pulled back, humor in his green eyes. “What is this? Is Miss Driscoll finally afraid of something.”
“She hates needles,” Nicoll offered from the stove.
“Is that water hot yet?” Tempest snapped.
“She nearly gave up sewing when she pricked her finger too often so she is not going to be pleased if you try to stitch her hand,” Nicoll offered as she ignored her sister.
“Would you hurry and then go watch over the girls?”
“I will see to the water, Nicoll,” Rhys offered. “What I need for you to do is bring me a bottle of rum.”
“You brought back rum yesterday with the supplies,” she reminded him.
“Which have disappeared along with the others.” His green eyes bore into hers. “A man should be allowed his rum.”
“It is the principal of the matter.” She sniffed. “As I have already told you.”
“Yes. We have discussed that along with morals and being a good example, but I do not want it for drinking. I need it to wash out your hand.”
She frowned.
“It also works as an analgesic and may help keep away infections.”
Tempest narrowed her eyes. “You are using that as an excuse. I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Because you haven’t been in battle,” he grumbled. ‘There are doctors who swear by the practice of pouring alcohol in a wound before or after it is cleaned while others think it is foolish.”
“You do not think it foolish?”
“No. The doctors who prescribed such treatments had fewer infections than those who did not. It is not exactly scientific and I do not know why it would matter, but because it may, I will follow the practice.”
Tempest had overheard various discussions in her father’s home about war, battles, and the wounded and someone had mentioned alcohol but it was dismissed by another in the discussion. “It cannot hurt me more, can it?” She did not want to risk a worse injury.
“It will sting at first, and likely burn, but will not make the injury more likely to have an infection.”
“Very well.” Tempest blew out a sigh. “Retrieve one of Mr. McNaught’s bottles of rum.”
Nicoll reached under the bed and produced one.
“Are they all there?” he asked.
“I would not be so foolish to put them in the same place in the event you found one.”
“The water has boiled,” Nicoll announced.
“Set it aside so that it cools enough for me to clean your sister’s wound.”
“I can clean it myself,” Tempest insisted.
“Go watch the children,” Rhys ordered, sending Nicoll from the hut. He then uncorked the bottle and took a drink.
“I thought that was for my hand.”
“It is…or will be.”
“I will not have you tending my palm if you are drinking.”
“Miss Driscoll do be quiet.” He then grabbed a cup and poured rum into it and held it out. “Drink. You will need it.”