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said.
    “And they are ... ?”
    “Our servants,” she said simply, looking back to Paddy.
    Servants, Julian thought. She didn’t say darkees, Negroes, or slaves. Servants. It was definitely a Yank household. He should know. Florida was a sadly split state. The third to secede from the Union, she was still peopled by many who were loyal to the old government. His father was one; his brother was another. They had many Negroes working at Cimarron, his family’s plantation outside Tampa. But they weren’t slaves; they too were servants. Free men and women, paid for their labor. His father had always been adamantly antislavery. Julian didn’t believe in the institution of slavery himself—it didn’t seem possible that a human being, with a soul, could belong to another—but he was also aware that an entire economy was based upon slave labor. Of course, the matter of economy didn’t make the institution of slavery right, but suddenly freeing men and women to starve didn’t seem the right answer either.
    “Sir!” Liam said, returning, setting Julian’s surgical bag on the bedside table.
    “Thank you,” he murmured, opening his bag, then turning to tend to the washing of Paddy’s wound.
    But Rhiannon was busy already. “Soldier,” she told Liam, “take his shoes and hose. I’ll tend to the cleaning.”
    Liam did as told, and with the younger girl at her side, Rhiannon began cleaning the wound. Julian hadn’t managed to get the bullet as yet; he hadn’t dared withdraw the Minié ball without first being certain he wouldn’t start a hemorrhage. Better to leave it than cause Paddy to bleed to death as they escaped.
    But now ...
    He turned with his forceps to see that she had bathed the wound and doused it liberally with the contents of a bottle of whiskey. He stared at her, arching a brow. “Keeps infections at bay,” she said.
    “I know,” he murmured wryly.
    She was staring at his medical bag, seeing how devoid it was of critical supplies.
    But he had sutures—made of horse hair these days but very serviceable nonetheless. And his bullet extractors were fine—a gift from his father when he had graduated from medical school. He found his best position and carefully felt the wound with his fingers, seeking the blood vessels to assure himself that removing the bullet wouldn’t cause greater harm. He found where the bullet lay.
    She was at his side, soaking up blood the moment it obscured his field of vision.
    He found the bullet. Within a matter of minutes he had it removed, thankfully without damaging any major blood vessels. Paddy was a fierce old coot of an Irishman—he’d not want to lose a leg.
    Julian threaded his surgical needle, noting while he did so that she was using her whiskey to cleanse the wound once again. He set to his task of sewing torn flesh. As he did so, Paddy began to come to, swearing and moaning, even those sounds accented by his native land. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, Colonel, but it hurts like all that’s blessed—”
    “Sip some of this,” Rhiannon said, bringing the whiskey bottle around to Paddy’s head. “It won’t hurt so bad.”
    “Ah, but you’re an angel, lass, a true angel,” Paddy said. He gulped down the whiskey, staring at her. “Not that I know who in the world ye are ... Lord! Colonel!” he shrieked, swigging hard from the bottle once again. “Will I lose me leg, Colonel?” Paddy demanded.
    “No, I don’t think so,” Julian said.
    “Bless you.”
    “But I can make no guarantees,” he warned quietly. Wounds like this were never good. When infection set in, it was usually lose the limb or lose the life.
    And sometimes it was both.
    “Bless you, but it hurts ...” Paddy said.
    “Drink more,” Rhiannon said, watching Paddy. She was almost smiling, and with the softness touching her features, she was even more stunning. “Later, I’ve laudanum—”
    “Laudanum?” Julian said, staring at her. It was a supply he was sadly lacking.
    “I grow