Elspeth obeyed, gulping for air. A little color returned to her face. "I'm sorry, sir."

The crisis past, he said soothingly, "You're doing fine. I've seen strong men drop like felled timber after a single incision. Don't look again. All you have to do is hold that quill in Kenyon's arm."

"I will, sir," Elspeth promised.

Feeling faint herself, Catherine closed her eyes, not wanting to watch as the narrow end of the quill was inserted into her artery. A good thing she was lying down. After securing the quill, Ian loosened the ligatures and tourniquet. He gave a murmur of satisfaction. His hands stayed on her arm, holding the crude apparatus in place.

She opened her eyes a slit and saw that the translucent quill had turned to dark crimson. Her blood was flowing into Michael. Now, when it was too late, she questioned the arrogance of demanding a procedure that might kill him. She had no right-yet what else could she do? As a nurse, she recognized approaching death, and it had been in Michael's face.

Curiosity overcoming her queasiness, Elspeth asked, "How can you tell how much blood has been transferred, Dr. Kinlock?"

"I can't, any more than I can tell how much the donor can spare," he said harshly. "Catherine, how do you feel?"

She licked her dry lips. "Fine."

"Let me know the moment you start to feel dizzy or unwell."

Coldness crept through her body. She was acutely aware of the beating of her heart, the pumping that forced her blood into his veins, and with it, her love. Live, Michael, live.

"Catherine?" Ian's voice seemed very remote.

"I'm all right." Surely she was a long, long way from the blood depletion that Michael had suffered. "Continue."

Numbness was spreading up her arm and into her body. She opened her eyes again and saw Ian frowning. He touched the ligature, as if preparing to stop the transfusion.

She summoned every shred of her will to make her voice strong. "Don't stop too soon, Ian. There's no point in doing this if he's not going to get enough blood to make a difference."

Reassured, the surgeon held his peace.

Her mind began wandering. She thought of the first time she had seen Michael. He had been attractive, certainly, but many men were. When had he become special, his life as dear to her as her own? She could no longer remember.

"Catherine, how are you feeling?"

She tried to answer, but couldn't. There was no sensation in her cold lips.

Swearing again, Ian tied off the vessels and ended the transfusion. As he sutured her arm, he muttered about pigheaded females with less sense than God gave the average flea. She would have smiled, but it was too much effort.

"Miss McLeod, get a pot of tea," the surgeon ordered. "A large one, and a goodly amount of sugar."

The soft sound of footsteps, then the closing of the door. Catherine felt movement beside her, and realized it was from Michael. She moistened her lips, then whispered, "Is he better?"

Ian finished his bandaging, then laid his hand over hers. It seemed feverishly warm on her cold flesh. "His pulse and breathing are stronger, and there's a little color in his face."

"Will… will he survive?"

"I don't know, but his chances have improved." Ian squeezed her hand, then released it. "If Kenyon does live, he'll owe it to you. I hope he's worth the risk you took."

"He's worth it." Catherine gave a faint smile. "Confess, Ian. You're glad to have had an excuse to try a new procedure."

Amusement in his voice, he said, "I must admit that it's been interesting. I'll be curious to see the results."

Catherine let her eyes drift shut. She had done what she could. The result was in God's hands.

It was dark when she woke. Disoriented, she raised her hand and felt a sharp stab of pain inside her elbow. The events of the afternoon rushed back to her. The transfusion had left her near collapse. Ian had poured several cups of hot, sweet tea down her, then carried her to bed. After giving orders for her to rest at least until the next day, he had left Elspeth in charge and gone back to the hospital tent.

Catherine sat up cautiously and swung her legs to the floor. If she exercised care, she should be able to walk. She rose and pulled on a robe, needing the warmth, then went out.

Charles and Anne's room was across the hall from hers, so she peered in. A lamp showed Ferris sleeping on a pallet beside the bed. Charles was breathing easily and his color was good. It grieved her to see the stump of his left arm, but the loss was not one that would destroy his life. He would manage. In the morning she must ask Elspeth if a letter had been sent to Anne, who was surely half out of her mind with worry.

Then she made her way to the other end of the house, one hand on the wall for balance. Michael's room was also lamplit, though there was no one with him. Perhaps Elspeth had felt there was nothing she could do for someone so ill, or perhaps she was simply too tired. She had worked like a Trojan for days.

Michael turned restlessly. His breathing was strong; if anything, too strong. Unsteadily she crossed the room and put her hand on his brow. It was heated and he was sweating. She supposed some fever was inevitable, but it still disturbed her.

His eyes flickered open, but there was no awareness in them. Hoping to rouse him, she said, "Michael? Colonel Kenyon?"

He began to move spasmodically, trying to get up. "I'm coming," he muttered hoarsely. "Steady on, now. Steady on…"

His action brought him alarmingly close to the edge of the mattress. Fearing he might fall and break open his wounds, she caught his shoulders and pressed him back to the bed.

"No, Michael, you must rest," she said soothingly. "You're safe now. You're going to heal and be as good as new."

Though he was too weak to break away, he continued to struggle mindlessly. Frustrated by her weakness, she climbed onto the bed and drew him into her arms, cradling his head against her breasts. Her embrace calmed him a little, but not enough. He reminded her of Amy as a feverish infant. The thought gave her an idea. She began to croon a lullaby. "Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night…"

She stroked his head as she sang every lullaby she knew. His rough breathing slowed, but when she stopped, he became agitated again. She sang old songs she had learned as a child. "Greensleeves" and "Scarborough Fair," "The Trees They Grow So High," and, rather shyly because it was a love song, "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." Anything with a gentle tune.

She included some of the lovely ballads she had learned from Irish soldiers on the Peninsula. One was the haunting "Minstrel Boy." Without thinking, she started, "The minstrel boy to war has gone./ In the ranks of death you'll find him/His father's sword he has girded on/ and his wild harp slung behind him…" She stopped, throat tight, unable to bear the images of war, then started a wordless rendition of "A Londonderry Air."

She sang until her voice was hoarse and she was so tired she could barely open her mouth. Gradually Michael's restlessness stilled and he fell into what seemed like natural sleep.

She knew she should leave, but it was hard to be concerned with propriety when Michael's life still hung in the balance. Besides, she doubted if she could walk as far as her room.

With a sigh, she settled into the pillows. His unshaven chin prickled her breasts pleasantly through the thin muslin of her nightgown. His hair was damp, but he was no longer perspiring and his temperature seemed near normal. God willing, the crisis had passed.

He would heal, and soon he would be gone. She would have the satisfaction of knowing that somewhere in the world he was healthy and happy, but never again would they be so close.

Daring because he could not hear, she whispered, "I love you, Michael. I always will." Then she kissed him on the forehead, as she had done with Charles. Surely no one could condemn such a kiss too harshly.

Weary to the soul, she drifted into sleep.

Chapter 14

Having carried Catherine's face into the darkness, Michael was unsurprised to see her when he returned to consciousness. His first hazy thought was that the vision above him was an angel disguised as Catherine to make him feel welcome in heaven.

Yet surely heaven was not his most likely destination. He frowned, trying to understand. He was drifting in a sea of pain, so hell seemed more likely. Purgatory at the very least.

Catherine's soft voice said, "Michael?"

She sounded so real that he involuntarily reached out to her. The abstract sea of pain became shockingly personal, racking every inch of his body and darkening the veils that shrouded his mind. He gave a shuddering gasp.

She laid a cool hand on his brow and studied his face. Her eyes were shadowed and her hair was tied back carelessly. She was still the loveliest woman he'd ever seen, but if he were in the afterlife, he would surely remember her as she had looked the night of the Richmonds' ball. Amazingly, he must be alive, though not for long, considering the wounds he had received.

He tried to speak and managed a hoarse, "Catherine."

"Finally you're awake." She gave him a shining smile. "Can you swallow some of this beef broth? You need nourishment."

He gave a faint nod. It seemed like a waste of time to feed a dying man, but perhaps moisture would make speech easier.

She sat on the edge of the bed and raised his shoulders a little, supporting him as she spooned broth between his lips. Even that small motion produced an explosion of new pain. In a world of agony, her yielding body was the only balm. Softness and the scent of roses, and a haunting dream of music.