Free Warrior and the Wanderer by Elizabeth Holcombe Page B

stopped abruptly and focused on Ian. “Tell him. Ye rescued me. Tell him what ye saw.”
    He tipped back another swallow of wine and centered his gaze on her. “What’s it worth to you, Blaze?”
    “What?” she asked.
    Ian dropped the cup to the table. Bess and the priest jumped a little. He had the power to get the hell out of this nightmare. “My confession to Father Flannigan here—” he began. “What’s it worth to you?”
    “Father d’Auguste,” Bess corrected.
    “Whatever,” Ian continued. “I will tell him what I know so you can get your precious annulment, but I want something in return. I think I deserve that much. I’ve played along with this twisted Braveheart scenario long enough. I’ve been hit in the head with a rock, tied up naked, dragged behind a horse, stabbed and hit by a claymore, and slapped hard for doing nothing wrong. I’ve—”
    “What d’ye want?” Bess asked him.
    “A phone call.”
    She and Father d’Auguste stared at him as if he had grown a second nose. The priest looked positively stricken, paler than pale. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face. Slowly, he gripped the side of his neck. And with a thunderous bang, fell forward, his face landing in the remnants of meat juices on his pewter plate.
    Bess screamed as he slid to the floor.
    Ian leapt up, kicking his chair, more of a stool really, behind him. He raced around the table, and knelt beside the old priest who lay splayed on the floor, face up.
    Bess knelt on the other side of the large heap of woolen robes concern marring her lovely face. Ian rested his hand on the priest’s thick neck, slick with sweat, and still warm. If there was a pulse, he could not detect it under the rolls of flesh. He examined the priest’s face, a frozen mask of agony.
    He bent low over the gaping mouth detecting not a wisp of breath. The extent of his CPR training came from the back of a “Get One Hour Free” card to a Vegas call girl service.
    “Give me room!” he shouted to the growing crown of brown-robed monks who had seemingly come out of nowhere. They gathered in a circle around their fallen priest with monkly piety, their lips moving in silent prayer. Ian glared up at them. “If ye really wish to help him, move the hell back!”
    They quickly complied, some crossing themselves.
    Ian stabbed his fingers in between the priest’s parted lips, over the stained teeth, pressing the tongue down and out of the way. The soft flesh inside the priest’s mouth was slightly warm.
    “Ian!” Bess exclaimed. “What are ye doing to him?”
    He grabbed a fistful of her gown and yanked her down to the other side of the priest.
    “Look at me,” he said. “You breathe for him like this…!” He quickly mimicked mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
    “I…I…don’t know….” she stammered.
    He clenched his eyes closed. “Give me strength,” he mumbled.
    “Ian…I—”
    “Do what I just showed you!” he shouted. And lowering his tone, he said, “It may safe his life.”
    Bess slowly leaned over the lifeless priest and begin puffing air into him just like Ian had demonstrated.
    He then straddled the big man. The ridiculous kilt he agreed to wear hitched up on his thighs. The stitches in his side strained and made him see lightning flashes of pain. He blinked them away and took a deep breath.
    “Stop,” he told Bess.
    She sat upright, cheeks flushed from the exertion.
    Ian bore his full weight down on the priest’s still heart hidden beneath an abundance of flesh and wool, compressing his interlocked hands down, forcing his own pain at bay.
    “What are ye doing?” Bess cried. “Stop!”
    “When I stop, you begin again, three long puffs of air.”
    “Father d’Auguste is dead.”
    “Not if I can help it,” Ian grunted out.
    For the briefest instant trust surfaced in Bess’s emerald eyes. She blinked, and then did as Ian told her.
    Then it was his turn. He pushed down between the wool robes, and layers of flab. Over and over.