Page 32 of Niven Meets His Waterloo (Highland Whisky Kings #3)
N iven appreciated riding behind Ash, although a horse hadn’t been a necessity in Glengeárr and a dirty kilt wasn’t the best thing to be wearing. However, was further than he anticipated and he wouldn’t have made it on foot.
His spirits lifted when he espied a stately weeping willow tree outside the wall surrounding the farm-turned-field hospital. “Dinna weep for me, lass,” he whispered as he slid from the horse’s back. “’Tis yer brother needs yer prayers now.”
Ash hesitated when they reached the main entrance. “I’m afraid,” he admitted.
Niven took his arm. “Aye. ’Tis understandable. But Rowan needs ye to be the leader now.”
A scene of utter chaos greeted them inside. Hundreds of wounded men lay on pallets that occupied every inch of the available floor space. Niven couldn’t identify the gut-churning smell. Some of the wounded moaned, others cried out in pain. Most lay eerily motionless. Harried physicians moved from pallet to pallet. No one questioned or even noticed Ash and Niven’s presence.
Ash shook his head. “How on earth will we find him?”
Niven waylaid a young soldier tending a patient. “Officers?” he demanded.
The lad fiddled with the bandage swathing his head and one eye and peered up at them. “Yonder, in the farmhouse.”
Sickened by the human suffering that he could do nothing to relieve, Niven led Ash through the maze of pallets.
Conditions in the farmhouse seemed a little less dire. The wounded at least lay on cots. The smell wasn’t as bad and fewer of the wounded cried out in pain. The urge to be cynical about stiff upper lip was tempting but inappropriate. The fact that many of these blighted souls were upper class Englishmen was of no consequence.
Niven startled when Ash suddenly gripped his arm. “There he is,” he croaked.
“Rowan,” Ash rasped, hoping he could hold on to the meager contents of his belly. His larger than life, bossy brother lay helpless, his left leg—or what was left of it—wrapped in blood-stained dressings. His normally immaculate hair was tangled with sweat, his face drained of color.
When Rowan’s eyes remained closed, Ash feared he’d already died. That calamitous possibility would make Ash the heir to the dukedom, a burden he’d never wanted nor aspired to. Bile surged up his throat. “Rowan,” he whispered again, praying for some sign of life. “We’ve sent Napoleon packing.”
“He’s asleep,” Niven said softly.
“I’m not asleep,” came the rasped reply.
The urge to shout out his relief seized Ash, but doing so wouldn’t be appropriate in this horrendous place. And Rowan obviously wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Rowan slowly raised his hand. “Is that Niven King?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“Aye, Lord Rowan,” Niven replied, taking the proffered hand in his own.
“Thank God you’re alive. I beg your forgiveness.”
“’Tis Willow’s forgiveness ye must seek,” Niven replied.
Rowan opened rheumy eyes. “You tell her. I won’t live to see her again.”
“Nonsense,” Ash insisted, his heart in knots as he took hold of his brother’s other hand.
Long minutes passed as Ash tried to force warmth into the cold hand he gripped.
“You’ll make a fine duke,” Rowan muttered before closing his eyes.
Ash wasn’t sure how he managed not to retch until he reached the outside.
Niven was exhausted, but if he followed Ash and left Rowan alone, the heir to the dukedom would probably let death win the battle. Niven didn’t want to be the one to tell Willow her brother had died. “Listen to me, Rowan Halstead,” he said. “Ye’ll survive this and I’ll make sure ye get home safely. I want to see the anger on yer face when I wed yer sister.”
“No, Niven,” he sobbed. “They cut off my leg.”
“But ye’re lucky to be alive. There’s thousands o’ men on both sides who canna say that.”
“I’ll be a cripple.”
Niven increased his grip. “And do ye think ye’ll be the only man goin’ home wi’ one leg? Yer family is wealthy and will do everything possible to help ye adjust. Ye must stop feeling sorry for yerself and think o’ the future.”
Niven feared his trembling legs might buckle in the long silence that followed. Then Rowan opened his eyes and said, “You and Willow are a good match. I was too opinionated to see it.”
Feeling more optimistic, Niven added, “And Daisy is waiting for ye.”
Rowan clenched his jaw and withdrew his hand. “No. She must find someone else. A man who isn’t crippled.”
Had Niven King not stayed with him, Rowan might have simply given up. However, the stubborn Scot seemed determined to raise his spirits. It was ironic. The one man who had every right to hate him was the one keeping him alive, kindling a faint hope he might survive this catastrophe.
The surgeon had told him the laudanum would muddle his thoughts, but he understood clearly the reason for Thorne’s absence. And poor Ash, suddenly thrust into a role he wasn’t suited for.
But what was the Highlander’s motivation? He drifted into sleep thinking that perhaps Niven King was a brave and honorable man who was more than worthy of his sister.