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."
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.