Outlander aka Cross Stitch - Gabaldon Diana (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗
MacRannoch caught my elbow and pulled me away. “We’ll do best to get him inside quick, lass. Come with me. Hector will bring him along to the house.”
In the main drawing room of Eldridge Manor, MacRannoch’s home, Hector humped his burden onto the rug before the fire. Seizing one corner of the blanket, he unrolled it carefully, and a limp, naked figure flopped out onto the pink and yellow flowers of Lady Annabelle MacRannoch’s pride and joy.
To do the Lady Annabelle credit, she didn’t seem to notice the blood soaking into her expensive Aubusson rug. A birdlike woman in her early forties, arrayed like a goldfinch in a sunburst of yellow silk dressing gown, she had servants bustling in all directions with a brisk clap of her hands, and blankets, linen, hot water, and whisky appeared at my elbow almost before I had got my cloak off.
“Best turn him on his belly,” advised Sir Marcus, pouring out two large whiskies. “He’s had his back flayed, and it must feel fierce to lie on it. Not that he looks like he feels anything, much,” he added, peering closely at Jamie’s ashen face and sealed, bluish eyelids. “You’re sure he’s still alive?”
“Yes,” I answered shortly, hoping I was right. I struggled to pull Jamie over. Unconsciousness seemed to have tripled his weight. MacRannoch lent a hand, and we got him positioned on a blanket, back to the fire.
A rapid triage having established that he was in fact alive, missing no body parts, and not in immediate danger of bleeding to death, I could afford to make a less hurried inventory of the damage.
“I can send for a physician,” said Lady Annabelle, looking dubiously at the corpselike figure on her hearth, “but I doubt he can get here under an hour; it’s snowing something fierce out.” The reluctance in her tone was only partly on account of the snow, I thought. A physician would make one more dangerous witness to the presence of an escaped criminal in her home.
“Don’t bother,” I said absently, “I am a physician.” Disregarding the looks of surprise from both MacRannochs, I knelt beside what was left of my husband, covered him with blankets and began to apply cloths soaked in hot water to the outlying parts. My chief concern was to get him warm; the blood from his back was a slow ooze, which could be dealt with later.
Lady Annabelle faded into the distance, her high goldfinch’s voice summoning, beckoning, and arranging. Her spouse sank down on his haunches beside me, and began to rub Jamie’s frozen feet in a businesslike way between large blunt-fingered hands, pausing occasionally to sip his whisky.
Turning back the blankets in bits, I surveyed the damage. He had been finely striped from nape to knees with something like a coachwhip, the weals crisscrossing neatly like hemstitching. The sheer orderliness of the damage, speaking as it did of a deliberation that reveled in each punishing stroke, made me feel sick with rage.
Something heavier, perhaps a cane, had been used with less restraint across his shoulders, cutting so deeply in spots that a gleam of bone showed over one shoulderblade. I pressed a thick pad of lint gently over the worst of the mess and went on with the examination.
The spot on his left side where the mallet had struck was an ugly contused swelling, a black and purple patch bigger than Sir Marcus’s hand. Broken ribs there for sure, but those too could wait. My attention was caught by the livid patches on neck and breast, where the skin was puckered, reddened and blistered. The edges of one such patch were charred, rimmed with white ash.
“What in hell did that?” Sir Marcus had completed his ministrations and was looking over my shoulder with deep interest.
“A hot poker.” The voice was weak and indistinct; it was a moment before I realized that it was Jamie who had spoken. He raised his head with an effort, showing the reason for his difficult speech; the lower lip was badly bitten on one side and puffed like a beesting.
With considerable presence of mind, Sir Marcus put a hand behind Jamie’s neck and pressed the beaker of whisky to his lips. Jamie winced as the spirit stung his torn mouth, but drained the beaker before laying his head down again. His eyes slanted up at me, slightly filmed with pain and whisky, but alight with amusement nonetheless. “Cows?” he asked, “Was it really cows, or was I dreaming?”
“Well, it was all I could manage in the time,” I said, beaming in my relief at seeing him alive and conscious. I placed a hand on his head, turning it to inspect a large bruise over the cheekbone. “You look bloody awful. How do you feel?” I asked, from force of long-held habit.
“Alive.” He struggled up onto one elbow to accept with a nod a second beaker of whisky from Sir Marcus.
“Do you think you should drink so much all at once?” I asked, trying to examine his pupils for signs of concussion. He foiled me by closing his eyes and tilting his head back.
“Yes,” he said, handing back the empty beaker to Sir Marcus, who bore it back in the direction of the decanter.
“Now, that’ll be enough for the present, Marcus.” Lady Annabelle, reappearing like the sun in the east, stopped her husband with a commanding chirp. “The lad needs hot strong tea, not more whisky.” The tea followed her processionally in a silver pot, borne by a maidservant whose air of natural superiority was unimpaired by the fact that she was still attired in her nightdress.
“Hot strong tea with plenty of sugar in it,” I amended.
“And perhaps a wee tot of whisky as well,” said Sir Marcus, neatly removing the lid of the teapot as it passed and adding a generous dollop from his decanter. Accepting the steaming cup gratefully, Jamie raised it in mute tribute to Sir Marcus before cautiously bringing the hot liquid to his mouth. His hand shook badly, and I wrapped my own around his fingers to guide the cup.
More servants were bringing in a portable camp bed, a mattress, more blankets, more bandages and hot water, and a large wooden chest containing the household’s medical supplies.
“I thought we had best work here before the fire,” Lady Annabelle explained in her charming bird-voice. “There’s more light, and it’s far the warmest place in the house.”
At her direction, two of the larger menservants each seized an end of the blanket under Jamie and transferred it smoothly, contents and all, to the camp bed, now set up before the fire, where another servant was industriously poking the night-banked coals and feeding the growing blaze. The maid who had brought in the tea was efficiently lighting the wax tapers in the branched candelabra on the sideboard. Despite her songbird appearance, the Lady Annabelle plainly had the soul of a master-sergeant.
“Yes, now that he’s awake, the sooner the better,” I said. “Have you a flat board about two feet long,” I asked, “a stout strap, and perhaps some small straight flat sticks, about so long?” I held my fingers apart, measuring a length of four inches or so. One of the servants disappeared into the shadows, flicking out of sight like a djinn to do my bidding.
The whole house seemed magical, perhaps because of the contrast between the howling cold outside and the luxurious warmth within, or maybe only because of the relief of seeing Jamie safe, after so many hours of fear and worry.
Heavy dark furniture gleamed with polish in the lamplight, silver shone on the sideboard, and a collection of delicate glass and china ornamented the mantelpiece, in bizarre contrast to the bloody, bedraggled figure before it.
No questions were asked. We were Sir Marcus’s guests, and Lady Annabelle behaved as though it were an everyday occurrence to have people come and bleed on the carpet at midnight. It occurred to me for the first time that such a visit might have happened before.
“Verra nasty,” said Sir Marcus, examining the smashed hand with an expertise born of the battlefield. “And wretched painful, too, I expect. Still, it’s no going to kill ye, is it?” He straightened up and addressed me in confidential tones.
