The Recalcitrant Wife

Chapter 3: A Healing Touch

Disclaimer: D. Gabaldon owns all rights to Outlander                                         Banner by LOS

. . . . .

Murtagh returned promptly, leading the horse-drawn dray, and urging a young man—obviously a soldier for the other side, by the color of his uniform—with the enticement of a loaded pistol prodding him in the back.

"I'm so sorry," I told him, "but I need your aid in getting my husband on this wagon."

He bowed, politely. "At your service, ma'am, although I do object to the method of securing my presence here."

The man stumbled forward as Murtagh shoved him, saying, "Ye'd do the same, I expect, if it was one o' yer own. Now get movin', we've nay time to waste, yappin' our gums."

Jamie moaned as his cousin and the redcoat eased him onto the bed of the cart. After he was situated there, I glanced at Murtagh, who had a murderous look in his eye. He wouldn't, would he?

My eyes widened in shock, aghast at the prospect. "You don't mean to kill him, do you? The war is finished; he's no longer your enemy. My god, Murtagh, he's just a boy."

He cocked his weapon, and the soldier turned pale as a sheet. "Aye, a boy in a red coat, and that makes him verra dangerous. I canna have the wean shoutin' the alarm. They'd be on us like ants on a hill o' sweets."

Putting my hand on his, I said, "Surely there has to be some other way."

"Och ... ye're too soft, Lass." He thumped him on the back of the head with the butt of his gun, and the boy dropped to the grass like a sack of grain, senseless.

"Thank you."

Murtagh made one of those disgruntled Scotch noises, and I hopped aboard the wagon myself, cradling Jamie's head in my lap.

. . . . .

We were on the road for an hour or so, when Jamie began to stir. He had twitched and moaned for the last several miles, but I was afraid he would be thoroughly roused in the following minutes. My medicinal bag was within arm's length, and I pulled it to me, reaching inside for the bottle of laudanum. The cart wasn't entirely steady due to the ruts in the bloody highway, and I'd be damned if I let a drop of the precious liquid spill onto the wooden bed of the wagon. There were only a few drams left, and I at least needed some opiate to dull the pain as I sutured the edges of the wound together.

"Murtagh!" I yelled, over the jingling of the harnesses, and clatter of the hooves. "Can you curb the horses for a bit? I need to give Jamie some painkiller, and the constant jerking of this crate is going to splatter the medicine everywhere."

He peered over his shoulder; the ever-present scowl on his face. "Aye, but dinna take yer time, we need to be at the hideaway soon, else his wound will start to fester."

The dray pulled to the side of the road, and came to a halt. I uncorked the vial, and with one hand behind his neck, lifted Jamie's head. He whimpered, and his head rolled from side to side, a grimace taking up his face.

"Jamie, you have to drink this. It'll help with the pain."

I pressed the lip of the bottle to his mouth, and he sputtered, but finally swallowed some. I hoped there was enough left for the grueling procedure ahead. "How much farther?" I asked.

"Just a few more miles, I expect."

"How do you know the place won't be swarming with redcoats?"