Chapter Three
Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped from his temples. The agony was beyond what Flaherty remembered from the last time he’d been shot.
Garahan grunted and reminded him, “The last time ye had to suffer the inconvenience of being shot was a few years ago. Do ye not remember ye needed to have the entry and exit wounds cauterized?”
Flaherty bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
“Now that ye mention it, the scent of seared flesh was nauseating.” He was having trouble concentrating on not making a sound as the lead balls were dug out of his side.
The heat of the blade that widened the wounds did not hurt as much as the physician fishing around with the tip of it to find the blasted shot that had peppered his side—thank God the weapon was moving at the time, and he’d only received a few of the lead balls, not the entire load of shot!
A strip of folded leather appeared in his line of vision. Flaherty blinked and met Garahan’s worried gaze. “Bite down on it while Dr. Higgins removes the last of the balls from your side.”
Flaherty took the offering, placed it in the left side of his mouth—the same side he’d been shot—and clamped down hard. The pain of the heated blade poking, prodding, and slicing had him barely hanging on to consciousness.
All at once it ceased, and there was a deep basin in front of his face. He spat out the thin, flattened bit of leather and emptied the contents of his stomach.
Garahan handed him a small cup. “Swish this in yer mouth and spit it out.”
Weak, but thankfully conscious, Flaherty did as he was told.
The cup appeared in front of his face a second time. “Twice more, then I’ll let ye have yer flask.”
Relief speared through Flaherty when he’d spat the last of the noxious taste of bile from his mouth. He took the proffered damp cloth, wiping his face and the back of his neck. “Where’s me flask?”
Garahan grinned as he handed it to him. “Nothing like uisce beatha to remind a man he’s still alive.”
Flaherty took a swig. The welcoming warmth eased the ache in his jaw and soothed his abused throat. He took another, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and sighed. “Whiskey truly is the water of life.”
“You haven’t lost too much blood, Flaherty,” Dr. Higgins remarked. “I’m of a mind to close the wounds with boiled threads, though in the past I have cauterized wounds.” Intense, dark eyes beneath white brows were fixed on Flaherty’s.
Garahan nodded to the flask in Flaherty’s hand, and Flaherty drank from it. “Searing them closed is faster.”
“Aye,” the doctor agreed. “It is, though you did just mention the process nauseated you. You still have to sit still while I cleanse the wounds thoroughly. Do you think you can hold down the healthy portion of whiskey you just drank?”
Though Flaherty thought the words may have been said in jest, the physician’s expression gave no indication that he’d mean it to be humorous. “I won’t be wasting a drop of the Irish.”
Dr. Higgins nodded and began the arduous process of cleaning out the wounds. Flaherty held his breath for part of it. When the physician paused, Flaherty asked, “How much longer?”
“Nearly finished.” He met Flaherty’s gaze and said, “One more deep breath should do it.”
Garahan chuckled. “Faith, it reminds me of when O’Malley used his body as a shield to protect the baron from those sharpshooters who were lying in wait on the other side of the stables.”
Flaherty added, “O’Ghill was here that day to cart O’Malley’s arse into the house. Do ye remember how O’Malley thanked him a short while later?”
Before Garahan could reply, Dr. Higgins chuckled as he tied off the last knot.
“Ah,” Flaherty said. “Ye’re thinking of what happened to O’Ghill when he tried to keep O’Malley from cracking his head on the floor when he spiked a fever.”
The physician was trying not to smile. “I didn’t hear that O’Ghill complained about his injury.”
Flaherty added, “He did not. Though nothing is harder than the back of a man’s skull—”
“—bashing into a man’s nose,” Garahan finished with a grin for the doctor. “Ye’ve managed to distract himself with a tale worth repeating, Dr. Higgins, while ye stitched him up. Thank ye.”
The physician accepted the thanks and then turned to Mrs. Green. “That ought to do it. Thank you for anticipating what I’d need to take care of Flaherty.”
Flaherty tried to ignore the bloody bowl of water and the needle that had been used to pierce his torn flesh and pull it back together.
His head felt light, but he wasn’t about to admit it to anyone.
He’d already disgraced himself by emptying the contents of his stomach.
Keeping his thoughts to himself for the moment, he wondered how the women he’d rescued—and little Roarke—fared.
The baron’s cook sighed. “I never expected to gain as much experience as I have since the baron married and arrived with not only his lovely bride, Lady Phoebe, but three of the Duke of Wyndmere’s private guard.”
Garahan flashed a grin at her. “Ye’re a wonderful woman to keep us in scones and not bat an eyelash assisting when one of us is wounded in the line of duty.”
Flaherty agreed. “We’ll do our best not to get shot too often.
” He noticed his assurance had eased the lines of strain on the kindly cook’s forehead.
He thanked the physician and waited while his side was bandaged, trying not to flinch as Dr. Higgins wrapped a long strip of linen around his middle.
Once the bandage was secured, and the ends tied off, the physician stood and walked over to the pitcher and bowl to wash his hands.
Flaherty heard the rumble of voices as his cousin and the physician were speaking, but ignored it in favor of taking stock of his injury.
He admitted to himself that it although cauterizing a wound from a lead ball was quicker, the pain of his flesh being seared was about the same as being pierced over and over as his wounds were repaired.
The worst of it was the digging out of the blasted lead balls.
Accepting that his side pained him considerably—and would until it healed enough for the threads to be removed—Flaherty said a silent prayer of thanks that he had not been hit square in his gut at close range.
He doubted he would have survived the extraction, and the infection that would likely have followed.
It was still possible that he’d end up with wound fever.
“Will ye be listening to Dr. Higgins’s advice, then, Dillon?” Garahan asked.
“I will, as long as I can eat me fill. I’m famished.”
“An invalid’s diet is what ye’ll be needing.” The tone of Garahan’s voice had Flaherty meeting the intensity in his cousin’s dark-brown eyes. “Not one of us ever ignored a physician’s advice when more than a few cracked or broken ribs were involved, and ye know it.”
Flaherty looked at Dr. Higgins, who gave a brief nod. He knew then he’d be existing on weak broth and calves’ foot jelly for the next while. “How many days will I have to suffer from hunger?”
“One thing at a time, Flaherty,” the physician advised. “I’ll return tomorrow afternoon to assess your wounds.”
“Aye, Dr. Higgins. I’ll try me best not to complain, but I’m hungry.
” The sound of low voices out in the hallway had him cocking his head to the side to listen.
Garahan looked over his shoulder and gave a slight shake of his head.
Soft footfalls moving away from the room had Flaherty’s temper simmering.
“Am I confined to quarters, or am I to be allowed to return to me duties?”
The physician was slipping into his coat, but paused for a moment. “I have to say, Flaherty, that I have only had one or two other patients who had been shot ever ask me that.”
“Meself and O’Malley?” Flaherty asked.
Garahan chuckled. “As I have been lucky enough not to suffer the indignity—”
“Yet,” Flaherty reminded him.
“Aye,” Garahan agreed. “Yet.”
They listened while Dr. Higgins reminded Flaherty what he could and could not do for the next few days. Flaherty was still grumbling beneath his breath when O’Malley stood in the doorway. “Well now, how many stitches was it, or do I still hold the record?”
Flaherty was grateful for the interruption. “I wasn’t counting.”
“Well then, ’tis done, and ye don’t look half dead, Flaherty.” O’Malley paused. “There’s another matter I’m hoping ye’ll be up to attending to. Miss Stanhope—”
Embarrassment coupled with humiliation had Flaherty’s temper simmering at the mention of the woman’s name.
“A hundred years ’twill be too soon to have to deal with that woman.
I’ll be leaving that to the two of ye to sort out.
” At their silence, Flaherty emphasized, “I’ll not be speaking to the lass again, but I will be happy to speak to Mrs. Trentchester. She didn’t shoot me!”
When his cousins shared a knowing glance, Flaherty looked away, ignoring them.
A movement near the open door caught his eye.
Bloody hell! Miss Stanhope’s expression was a combination of horror and shame.
He knew the lass was only aiming at him to protect her friend, but then he’d startled her, and she’d stepped wrong.
The blunderbuss went off on impact with the ground—she had not intended it to.
Her blue-gray eyes welled with tears. It added to the guilt swirling inside of him. The first one fell—and it unmanned him. When he drew in a breath to speak, she disappeared from sight, and he knew he’d be the one apologizing.
Bloody hell! To take his mind off one more problem added to his day, he needed to gain back the strength that had been drained by the physician’s diligent search for lead balls and the deep cleansing that followed. “Is it too soon to ask for a bit of broth and bread?”