Free Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) by Marie Ferrarella Page B

down.
    Beth washed the blood from Duncan’s shoulder. She turned toward Jacob. “I’ll take that whisky now.”
    Jacob looked at her sheepishly. “I couldn’t find the whisky, but I brought some rum—“
    It was the alcohol that was important, not the type. “That’ll do. Give it here.” She extended one hand, the other pressing against the wound to keep the blood from flowing.
    Jacob placed the bottle in her grasp, then stood watching, curious to see what she would do with it. Tommy’s eyes grew wide as he watched her pour a liberal amount over the wound she’d just been probing.
    Taken by surprise, Duncan started. He caught a shout of pain before it could emerge from his throat, strangling the sound. His eyes reddened and filled with it.
    “The devil take you, woman,” he yelped. “What are you doing, pouring spirits over me like some pig about to be roasted?”
    Beth set the bottle down on the nightstand. “Very possibly saving your arm.”
    Suddenly very weary, Beth brushed the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. She sank back for a moment, gathering to her what was left of her strength. The worst, she hoped, was over.
    She looked up at Hank and Jacob. They were far more manageable than either the old man or Duncan. “I need to bandage his shoulder now. Take the rest of his shirt off, please.”
    Jacob and Hank were swift to follow her instructions.
    “She said the shirt, not my skin,” Duncan hissed be tween his teeth.
    His arm hurt worse now than it had before. The room began to swirl before his eyes and he blinked hard to steady it once more. He saw Beth tearing something white into strips. A sheet. She was tearing a sheet.
    “I would prefer your petticoats next to me again,” Duncan murmured. Damn, he was drifting, he thought.
    “I imagine you would.”
    As gently as she could she bound his wound again. Blood insisted on seeping through each layer. She wound the bandages she’d made as best she could. “There, is that too tight?”
    She raised her eyes to his. But his eyes had slid closed once more.
    Just as well, she thought; he needs his rest. She dusted her hands one against the other as she looked at him. His was a strong body. It should mend.
    “Well, I’ve done what I can. The rest is in God’s hands.” She glanced at Samuel. “I doubt if He would want to see him so soon.” She fervently hoped not. Not on her account, at least.
    “More than likely,” Samuel laughed, trying to shake off the grip that fear had upon him, “it would be the other place.” He gestured toward the basin, its water now darkened with Duncan’s blood. “Tommy, take that back to your mother.”
    Hank raised his eyes until his thick black brows formed a single dark line across his forehead. “Are you done with that, mistress?” His hand hovered over his knife on the night stand.
    “Yes, thank you.” She sighed wearily as she said it and offered the weapon back to him.
    Hank cleaned the blade against the back of his trousers and then sheathed it once again. He saw Beth watching him. He shrugged shoulders that moved un comfortably in a shirt that had always been too small.
    “I’ll wash it later,” he mumbled.
    “A very good idea,” she agreed, knowing that despite his words, he would forget.
    Beth rose from the bed, but as she turned, Duncan caught her wrist. Surprised, she stared at the link be tween them. She would have taken an oath that he was unconscious but a moment ago.
    Duncan had circled her wrist weakly with his fingers. “Stay,” he murmured.
    The next moment his eyes had slipped closed once more, as if he had no more strength to keep them open, as if the last of it had gone into his words. Beth could have easily slipped her hand from his. There was nothing to make her remain.
    Nothing but his petition.
    She sat down again.
    Samuel looked down at her in surprise. Why hadn’t she taken her hand from Duncan’s? The man was clearly as weak as a newborn lamb. He