THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

Duncan’s inflamed skin. As she worked, she fervently wished her husband would open his eyes or, at the very least, groan. When he didn’t do either, panic ate at her limited composure and her hands began to shake. Were her efforts too little, too late?
    She wasn’t a doctor; she had no antibiotics, no IV fluids, no way of even knowing what his temperature was.
    As her eyes began to tear-up yet again, Rachael arrived with fresh hot water. Beth again plunged her hands into the scalding heat. She would do all she could with her limited knowledge—-all garnered from the Discovery Channel and friends, and then place her trust—Duncan’s life—in God’s hands.
    With the wound clean, Beth agonized over whether or not she should stitch it closed. From her limited experience rushing kitchen staff to emergency rooms, she knew stitches had to be placed within twelve hours. According to those surrounding her, Duncan’s wound was weeks—not hours—old. Hearing loud murmurs, she looked up and found the doorway filled with anxious faces.
    Think, Beth, think. Hadn’t the doctors told Linda they couldn’t close her son’s wound after operating on his ruptured appendix? Yes. They had to pack the wound with saline-soaked gauze and let it heal on its own, from the bottom up. Linda said the method left a dreadful scar, but the boy lived. “Rachael, I need salt.”
    Beth had no idea what proportion of salt to water would be best to make a saline solution, but decided too little might be better for healing than too much.
    “Salt, madam ?’
    “Aye, salt, and make those people go away.” As soon as she finished tending his wound, she’d need privacy to sponge Duncan down with cold water, to reduce his fever. That’s what Tammy did every time her baby developed a high fever thanks to innumerable ear infections. Of course, she also gave the baby Tylenol and antibiotics...
    ~#~
     
    Watching the quiet rise and fall of Duncan’s chest, Beth’s breathing synchronized with his. With each intake of air her hope rose, with each fall of his chest she worried it might be his last. He hadn’t regained consciousness, hadn’t moved a voluntary muscle once during her long vigil. Her beautiful ghost, now flesh and blood, bulging muscles and broad brow, was trying his damnedest to die on her. And it hurt. Hurt so, she thought she, too, might die.
    It made no sense. He didn’t care for her. Thought her insane. And still she thought him more man than she had ever imagined existing. He had only to speak, roll those delicious r’s, and her knees turned to jelly.
    To make matters more untenable, unlike their time on the parapet when he was ghost and she a badly shaken woman, when he’d been compassionate and funny, now he only railed at her. She suspected, given the clan’s worried faces and tears, he was compassionate by nature. Just not with her.
    Rachael tapped her shoulder, startling her.
    “ Madame , please go to sleep. I will watch the MacDougall.”
    Beth straightened, wiping welled tears with the heels of her hands. “Thank you, Rachael, but no. I’ll stay.” She laid a tentative hand on Duncan’s forehead and her fear re-ignited. His fever was raging again.
    She took a deep breath. She didn’t understand how the fates had brought her back in time, but suspected it was because Duncan had died too soon. She wasn’t about to let him make the same mistake twice. “I need more cold water.”
    Rachael clucked. “Ye also need take meat, if not sleep.”
    “No...nay.” Food was the last thing she needed with her stomach still in knots and the close room still reeking of infection. “Just bring the water.”
    No sooner had Rachael left, than Angus returned. “How fares my lord?” He placed a hand on Duncan’s brow.
    “It’s still too soon to know.”
    “He willna die.”
    “I hope not, but that’s in God’s hands.”
    Angus resumed his station, one he’d held since their ordeal began. Leaning against the wall with one leg cocked and his arms crossed, he looked like a petulant teen on a street corner. “Why care thee?”
    Why, indeed, did she care about a man who’d only shouted at her since she’d arrived? “He’s my husband.”
    “Ye love him not.” Angus’s scowl deepened. “Ye have yet to tup, so should he die, ye’ll not inherit.”
    “Tup?”
    “Ye have yet to consummate yer vows.”
    How in hell did Angus know this? Only she, plain-as-pudding Pudding, could be married three—-no, four