“Don’t be a fool.” She pressed gingerly on his leg.
“Madam,” he growled, “if you would kindly cease your ministrations until we are finished with—" Phoebe pressed harder. “By God,” he cursed.
“Hush, or you'll have no business to attend to at all.” She looked at his men. “How is that, of the four of you, he is the one shot?”
“It was the sniper.” One of the men pointed at the bridge.
She gave a disgusted snort, then eyed Kiernan critically. “Hurts like the devil, I imagine.”
He scowled. “A mere flesh wound. See to that fool threatening us," he ordered, and two of his men slinked off into the darkness as he returned his attention to sifting the powder into the muzzle of his weapon.
“From the looks of that fabric, you’ve lost a fair amount of blood.” Phoebe touched his damp forehead. “You're flushed.” She rose and turned from the men, slipped off a cotton petticoat, then turned back and thrust the petticoat into Donald’s grasp. “Tear this into one long bandage.”
“I suppose you'll insist on a new petticoat,” Kiernan said as the sound of fabric ripping filled the quiet air. A large portion of the powder he had been trying to force into the barrel of his revolver missed its intended mark and ended up in a heap on his lap. “Damnation,” he cursed.
Phoebe snatched the weapon from him.
“What the devil—give me that, woman.”
She dodged his swipe for the weapon. “Why wasn't I able to get my hands on this belt pistol when I needed it?”
“What’s that you say?” Kiernan made another grab for the pistol.
“Be patient,” she ordered. Phoebe pointed the barrel upward and pulled back the hammer to the half cock position. Another rip of her petticoat rent the air. “Give me the powder.” Instead of waiting for him to comply, she grabbed the horn from his hand. She measured powder into the chamber. “Keep pressure on that wound,” she told Kiernan. “I don’t like the way it's bleeding. Where is Mather? He would have kept you out of trouble.”
Kiernan shifted the tartan back onto the wound and pressed gently. “I gave him leave to visit family before I saw you this morning—and he didn’t succeed in keeping me out of trouble the night I met you. Who taught you to load a pistol?” He retrieved a ball from the pouch lying beside him and offered it to her.
“I told you, my uncle is an amateur collector.”
Phoebe took the ball and placed it on the face of the cylinder. Using the loading lever, she depressed the ball into the cylinder, watching as a small ring of lead was shaved off the ball in the process.
“Excellent.” She reached for more powder and began loading another chamber.
A moment later a shot rang out from across the river.
“I pray that was a MacGregor weapon.” Phoebe pressed the last ball into the chamber and gave the weapon a final examination. Satisfied, she handed it back to Kiernan, then turned to Donald. “Finished ripping that petticoat, I see.”
“Aye.” He handed the mass of fabric to her.
Phoebe set the bandage on Kiernan’s lap, then reached beneath her apron and retrieved the sgian dubh from her pocket.
“What the devil?" he muttered.
“Where is the closest doctor?” she asked as she unwound the tartan from his leg.
“Edinburgh is three hours away,” Donald answered.
Phoebe tossed aside the tartan. “Nothing closer?” She grabbed Kiernan’s breeches at the right thigh, and positioned the dagger over the cloth.
“Phoebe,” he said, “I don't care for the way you are holding that knife."
She stuck the point of the dagger into his pants.
“Phoebe!” He twitched.
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Lie still, and I won't cut you." She slit the fabric to his knee, then scooted down and finished cutting the pant leg. “Has anyone got any liquor?”
Both men shook their heads.
"Use the powder," Kiernan said.
“That'll do.” She set the dagger on the ground and grabbed the horn. Kiernan had shut his eyes. “What of English soil, Donald?” She sprinkled the powder on the wound.
“What?” he asked.
“A doctor,” she said. “Where is the nearest doctor in England?”
“There is a respectable village an hour away,” he answered.
“Come here,” Phoebe ordered.
Donald knelt beside her.
“Hold his leg up as I wrap the bandage.”
He did as instructed and she reached beneath Kiernan’s leg and handed the bandage from one hand to the other, keeping the fabric taut with each pass.
“Phoebe,” Kiernan said, his voice sleepy, “be gentle, lass.”
She paused, concerned that she had applied too much pressure to the wound.
“I'm wounded, not dead,” he said.
Phoebe frowned, then noticed the bulge in his pants a couple of inches from her hand. “By heavens, shall I have Donald finish the job?”
“No,” Kiernan’s voice held a trace of amusement. “I shouldn't enjoy it half as much.”
She continued wrapping his leg. "Zachariah has an employer who it seems has an interest in you."