The clan cheers and responds by shouting back the MacGregor motto. I’m going to save him. No matter what it takes. Even if I it means I have to do it alone.
ChapterSeven
As the clan cheers,Agnes and her closest cronies glare. If looks could kill, I’d be in trouble, but they don’t matter, for now at least. The majority of the assembled are cheering. Rob shakes his head as he puts his arm around my shoulders.
“You’ve made a fine mess for us now,” he says.
“Did I have a choice? I’m going to save Duncan, no matter what it takes.”
“Aye,” he says, but as he does he turns pale and his knees wobble, but he manages to stay upright.
“Come, your hurt.”
“Ach, it’s only a scratch or two.”
“Right,” I say and roll my eyes. “This isn’t the time for being macho, I’m going to need you.”
He grimaces and puts most of his weight on me as I lead him towards the cavern. We’re almost there when a new commotion breaks out behind us. I glance back and see a fight has broken out in the middle area I just left. I can’t tell who it is but there are two people rolling on the ground. The crowd is still split into two groups on either side. As they move closer to the fighters it looks for all the world like they’re about to rumble, like something out ofWest Side Story.
“Oh no,” I say.
“You’ll not stop them, lass. Sometimes the only way to resolve a thing is with a good bit of scrapping.”
“They’re going to hurt each other.”
“Aye,” he agrees. “But not too badly. We’re all kin after all.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Aye,” he laughs. “Welcome to the Highlands.”
Reluctantly I turn away from the fighting and continue to the cave. Rob limps, wavers, then puts more of his weight on me. As we walk through the opening the cool, damp air of the cavern is a welcome relief. I help him over to the worktable and get him up on it.
“I’ll be fine, lass,” he says, refusing to lie on his back when I try to push him down. “A bit of bruising, that’s all. Fix me up quick. We need to be about rescuing Duncan and the others.”
“You’re far from fine,” I say. “Take your shirt off.”
A rakish grin spreads across his face and he makes a show of pulling his shirt over his head. It’s almost a good show but when he has it halfway up his chest he grunts in pain and his arms tremble.
“Ach,” he groans and drops the shirt, shaking his head.
“See?”
“I do not see nothing,” he argues. “Bit sore. That’s all.”
He’s putting on a front and we both know it. I saw the nasty, black bruises that cover his torso when he lifted his shirt. Instead of arguing further I step in and grab the hem of his shirt, then pull it up. He tries to lift his arms so I can take it off but only manages to get them halfway up. It’s a struggle but I work his arms free without causing him too much pain.
“Oh, Rob,” I say, looking at the extent of his wounds.
“Tis nothing,” he murmurs.
His chest is covered with dark purple splotches that shade to black. Each bruise is long and narrow, obviously caused by a pipe or maybe the flat side of a blade. There is swelling along his left side where blood is pooling. His breathing hitches on each inhale, and listening close I suspect there is blood in his lungs.
A quick triage assessment and I’m sure he has multiple broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung, and probably a lot more damage. I move around the table and inspect his back. It’s lacerated, crisscrossed with open wounds that lay across each other. Probably caused by a whip.
“I need to cleanse the wounds,” I say, figuring out the best approach to treating him.
“Do what you must,” he says. “But make it quick. I need to go.”