They looked to Vitale, and though he rolled his eyes, he told them, "Untie the ropes and go take care of poor Iambe." Facing her, he said, "If you're insisting it must be upstairs, we can attempt it. Besides, do we really care if we drop him?"

So by dint of strategizing, straining, and yes, using the children she'd pleaded with to return, they managed to get him to the nearest guest bedroom and transferred onto the bed. Though she was exhausted, with her palm jammed into her lower back like a washerwoman closing the day, she knew she still had to tend to him.

While Vitale shooed the curious children from the room, Annalía assessed her patient, noting the broken wrist and the possibility of a couple of broken ribs. She removed her riding gloves, then ran her hands through his thick, damp hair past his temple and along the side of his head. She discovered a nasty knot, and the same inspection on the other side revealed a second head injury. His eyes were so swollen she doubted he could open them when awake. To cap it all, ragged cuts covered his skin, no doubt inflicted by the river bottom.

"Vitale, I need some shears. And some bandages. Bring two big wooden spoons and some hot water as well."

He exhaled as though very put out. "Forthwith." He added something in a mumble. Even his mumble could convey a heavy Gallic sarcasm.

When he returned with all the supplies, she scarcely noticed him. "Thank you," she murmured.

He said nothing, just bowed, turned on his heel, and abandoned her.

"Fine! Go," she called. "I have no need of you anyway…."

And then she was alone. With the big, terrifying Scot.

She really should be having tea right now.