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stand on his own feet.
    “I will help ye, though ye dinna deserve it.” She frowned at him. “Toss yer weapons beyond yer reach, for I have learned to be cautious.” She stood and stepped back from the gate.
    He could hardly blame her. He paused for a moment, considering his limited options. He was not sure why she had returned only with herself, not an armed contingent of angry Highlanders, and could only assume that for whatever reason, she had not told anyone of his capture. He did not believe for a moment that she would be here alone if his presence was known. But why had she not revealed him?
    Whatever her reason, she might be the only reason he was still alive. He needed her. Besides which, a sword would do him little good trapped between the gates. They could simply use him for target practice. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it aside, though further down the corridor, not through the gate. He took the golden knife and did the same.
    Gwyn crept closer. “Now put yer foot through the gate, and I’ll look at it.”
    Once again Jack paused. She could either be wanting to help or wanting to cut his foot clean off. He shoved his boot through the hole in the gate. His foot hurt so much, cutting it off might be a relief.
    She edged closer to him, never taking her eyes off him. She took hold of the boot and shook her head. “The boot needs to come off.”
    He knew it. He nodded. It was going to hurt, and he gritted his teeth together to prevent him from doing something unmanly, like crying out. She tugged on the boot, and he felt like she was tearing his foot in two. Another tug and the boot came off, along with a wave of nausea and blinking lights. He held on to the grate and willed himself not to lose consciousness from the pain.
    He looked at his foot, which was a mistake. It was covered in blood and gore.
    “Sorry to pain ye,” said Gwyn in a soft voice. It was comfort, and he held on to the words like a lifeline. “I’m going to need some supplies.”
    He nodded and leaned his head back against the stone wall, closing his eyes. He listened to the swish of her skirts as she left. His foot may be lost. She was probably going now for a bone saw.
    ***
    Gwyn ran back to her quarters where she slept with the other Campbell maidens and pulled some supplies out of a trunk. Why she should be helping this knight, she could not say. Practice maybe. Or perhaps the disturbing thought that if she did not help him soon, he would be in danger of losing his foot. And a man that handsome should not be maimed, even if it was his own fault.
    She slipped across the dark courtyard back into the storeroom. Sir John was slumped against the wall next to the gate, a pool of blood growing on the ground beneath his foot. She approached cautiously, but he did not appear able to put up much of a fight. She sat on the ground next to him, the iron gate between them.
    “Whiskey?” She held out a bottle.
    He opened his eyes and shook his head. “Need to keep my wits if I have any left to keep.”
    “It is yer own stupid fault for stepping on one o’ yer own caltrops.” She chastised him to prevent herself from blurting out her concern about his foot. It truly looked bad. The spike had punctured his leather boot and gouged the ball of his foot.
    “I can only agree with you.” He winced as she poured water over the wound to clean it and better inspect the deep puncture.
    “Why were ye out there, all alone?” asked Gwyn, to get his mind off of what she was doing.
    “Thought it made sense at the time, but now I blame my uncles.”
    “Then they be no friend o’ yers.”
    “I know it—ow! What in blazes?!” Lockton tried to pull his foot back inside the gate, but Gwyn held on to his ankle as she poured straight whiskey over the wound.
    “Isabelle believes cleansing a wound with Scots whiskey helps it to heal without festering.”
    “Much obliged to her, I’m sure,” said the knight in a shaky voice through gritted teeth.
    “So