A warm hand curled around my ankle and rested there. “How do you feel?” I murmured. I did want to know, but was having trouble opening my eyes to look. “I’ll do. Hand me the wee jar, Sassenach.” The hand left my ankle and rose up to my lap, where I was holding the small jar of alcohol and sutures. “I’ll do it.” “You’ll do what?” I opened my eyes and stared at him. “Stitch your own chest back together?” “I thought that might wake ye up.” He dropped his arm. “Help me get up, a nighean. I’m stiff as parritch on the third day and I dinna want ye crouchin’ on the floor to stitch me. Besides, I
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