She turned her attention to his battered body. He was bare from the waist up, except for the stained bandage around his ribs. His torso was a mass of bruises and abrasions. Long-healed scars were overlaid by new wounds, and there was an enormous purple-blue bruise where the musket ball had rammed the kaleidoscope into the muscles of his abdomen.

She had seen many men's bodies in the course of her nursing work, but never had she felt such tenderness. She skimmed her fingers over Michael's collarbone, thinking that it was criminal that a beautiful, healthy body had been so abused. Once more, she damned Napoleon Bonaparte and his insatiable ambition.

Then she set her emotions aside and began the laborious process of cleaning the wounds. She was picking bits of scorched cloth from the hole in his arm when the surgeon joined her.

Ian looked like a wrinkled, unshaven beggar, but his blue eyes were alert. "An emergency?"

She nodded. "Colonel Kenyon is a particular friend. He was billeted here. We found him on the battlefield last night."

Ian moved to the bed and studied the patient. "Why weren't his injuries dressed in Waterloo?"

"We took him there, but Dr. Hume said that… that there was no point. Other men needed him more." The words had fallen on her heart like a death knell. "I decided to bring him here in the hopes that you would treat him."

"I see why Hume decided not to waste the time-the fellow is more dead than alive. Still, since he's a friend of yours…" Ian began an examination. "Hmm, I worked on him somewhere in the Peninsula-I recognize the wounds. Grapeshot, very messy. I'm surprised he survived. Get my instruments. I left them drying in the kitchen after washing them last night."

Kinlock's insistence on cleanliness when possible produced much teasing from other surgeons. He had always smiled and said his Scottish mother had been a demon for washing, and surely it did no harm. Perhaps because Catherine was a housewife, clean instruments made perfect sense to her. She suspected that they were one reason why Ian's patients did so well.

By the time Catherine had retrieved the instruments from the kitchen, Ian had finished the examination and removed the rest of Michael's clothing. He began to clean and dress the wounds with the combination of strength and dexterity essential to a good surgeon. Catherine handed him what he needed and took away what he didn't. The lengthy process made her thankful Michael was unconscious.

Even so, when Ian was probing for the ball buried in his thigh, Michael made a hoarse sound and tried feebly to pull away. Catherine caught his knee and hip to immobilize the limb. Embarrassingly aware of his nakedness, she averted her gaze. No matter how much she tried, she could not make herself think of him as an ordinary patient. "Is his reaction a good sign?"

"Perhaps," the surgeon said noncommittally. There was a dull scrape as his forceps closed around the lead ball. He tugged the ball free with painstaking care and dropped it in the basin Catherine held. Then he took a different kind of forceps and began removing fragments from the gaping wound. "Your friend was lucky again. The ball missed the major blood vessels and only chipped the thigh bone without causing serious damage. Half an inch either way and he would have died on the field."

With such luck, surely Michael was not intended to die. Yet all the humor and vivid intelligence were gone from his face, leaving an austere mask. Her eyes ached with unshed tears.

Ian finished and pulled blankets over Michael's chilled body. Fearing the answer, Catherine said, "What are his chances?"

"Damned poor," Ian said bluntly. "The wounds are survivable, even though it looks like half the French army used him for target practice, but he's bled out." He shook his head with regret. "I've never seen a man so deep in shock recover."

Catherine pressed her fist to her mouth. She would not cry. She wouldn't. Ian had only said what she already knew. It was not wounds that would kill Michael, nor infection, for he would not live long enough for that. Loss of blood would be the cause. She stared at his still body, her mind racing desperately through all of the medical theories she had ever heard.

Kinlock was cleaning his instruments when the idea struck her. "Ian, didn't you tell me once that occasionally blood has been transferred from one person to another?"

"Aye, and from animals to humans, but only experimentally. It's a chancy business at best."

"You said that sometimes the procedure helped."

"Seemed to help," he corrected. "Perhaps the patients that survived would have lived anyhow."

"And the ones who died might have died." She ran nervous fingers through her hair. "Would blood transfusion help Michael?"

"Good God," Ian said, horrified. "Do you want to kill the poor devil?"

"What are his chances if nothing is done?"

Ian sighed and looked at the man on the bed. "Almost nil."

"Might more blood be the difference between life and death?"

"It's possible," he admitted reluctantly.

"Then let's do it. You know how, don't you?"

"I've seen it done, which isn't quite the same thing." Ian scowled. "The patient died in the case I saw."

"But sometimes patients survive. Please, Ian," Catherine said softly, "give Michael a chance."

"The Hippocratic oath says doctors should first do no harm," he protested. "Besides, where would we get a donor? Most people would rather face Napoleon's cavalry than a surgeon's knife."

"I'll be the donor."

Shocked, he said, "I can't allow you to do that, Catherine."

Frayed by fatigue and anxiety, she exploded, "I'm so tired of men saying 'Oh, Catherine, you can't do that.' I'm a healthy, strapping wench, and I can certainly spare some blood."

"That's the first time I've ever seen you lose your temper." He surveyed her with a faint smile. "I don't usually think of you as a strapping wench, but I suppose there's no reason why you shouldn't give your blood. There's little danger for the donor."

"So you'll do the transfusion?"

"He's a tenacious man, or he would never have survived this long." Ian lifted Michael's wrist, frowning as he felt for the pulse. There was a long pause before he said decisively, "In for a penny, in for a pound. Very well, we'll try. A transfusion might just give him the extra strength he needs."

She felt almost dizzy with relief. "What do you need?"

"A couple of clean quill pens, one a little larger than the other, and an assistant. You'll be in no position to help."

Catherine went to enlist Elspeth, leaving the cook to sit with Charles. Thank God the girl had stayed; her own maid would have shrieking hysterics if asked to do such work.

Kinlock's preparation didn't take long. He trimmed the goose quills and ran a wire through them to ensure that they were clear. Then he fitted the large end of one into the large end of the other and sealed the joint with sticking plaster.

When he was satisfied, he said, "Catherine, lie next to the colonel, facing the other direction. I'm going to make the incisions inside the elbows."

Catherine pulled Michael's bare arm from under the blanket and rolled up her right sleeve. Then she lay down on top of the covers, feeling a nervous twinge at the intimacy of sharing a bed with Michael even under such bizarre circumstances. Ian laid down towels to absorb spilled blood, then made adjustments until he was satisfied with the positions of their arms.

She tried to relax, but it was difficult when she was acutely aware of Michael's nearness. His life seemed like a frail spark that could be extinguished with a single puff of breath. Yet in spite of the odds, he still lived. She clung to that fact.

"It's a simple process, really," Ian said conversationally as he lifted a lancet. "I'll expose a vein in his arm and an artery in yours and tie ligatures around the vessels to control the flow of blood. Then I'll insert one end of the quill apparatus into the colonel's vein, tie it in place, and do the same to your artery. After that, it's only a matter of loosening tourniquets and ligatures so the blood can flow."

Catherine laughed shakily. "You make it sound easy."

"In a way, it is. The hardest part will be finding and opening one of his veins when they're almost collapsed. Close your eyes, now. You don't want to see this."

She obeyed, following what was happening by sound. Ian's muttering confirmed the difficulty of finding Michael's vein and sliding in the quill. Success was signaled when he said, "Hold the quill in place, Miss McLeod."

Then he laid a hand on her arm. "Ready, Catherine? It's not too late to change your mind."

If Michael died when she could have done something to help, she would never forgive herself. "Cut away, Ian."

The razor-edged blade sliced into her arm. It hurt, of course. It hurt a lot. When Ian tied off her artery in two places with waxed thread, she bit her lip to prevent herself from whimpering. She stopped when she noticed a metallic taste in her mouth, thinking a little hysterically that it wouldn't do to waste blood that might be of use to Michael.

The lancet cut again, more deeply. Ian swore and there was a strangled moan from Elspeth. Catherine opened her eyes to see blood spraying from her arm and Elspeth weaving, her face ashen.

Ian barked, "Damn it, lassie, you don't have my permission to faint! You're a Scot, you can do this." Swiftly he stopped the splattering blood. "Close your eyes and breathe deeply."