“I’ll go,” spat the younger. Her blue eyes glared daggers at Geneva. “Know this. Keep your hands off my fiancé. Touch him, and I’ll kill you myself.” On that, she whirled and left.
Geneva shook her head and returned to her patients, forcing down her anger. Did she mean the laird? Was Magnus really betrothed to that shrew? She pitied him more for that than for his shattered hip.
* * *
Magnus heard his angel’s voice again. Who had his men brought in to tend him? Someone from the mainland. Her accent was all wrong for the Hebrides. Or was he still where he’d been before? Had he only dreamed the journey home and the battle that had greeted him on his return?
“Magnus?” This time he knew the voice.
“Rannulf?” His lips unglued before his eyelids did. A few seconds later he managed to blink, and the face of his uncle swam into view. “Home?”
“Aye.” Rannulf helped Magnus sit and held a cup of water to his lips. “You’re back on Torkholm. You’ll be up and around in no time.”
Magnus sipped at the cool liquid and sank back against the plump pillows behind his head. “Thank the gods. I thought it was over, when I realized I was away.”
“It was a close call. If it hadn’t been for Dr. MacKay and Mrs. Alice taking such good care of you, you wouldn’t have made it.” Emotion they’d never express in words roughened the burr in Rannulf’s always raspy voice. “We owe them, lad. Owe them dearly.”
“Aye. Send something.” Money wasn’t an issue. Magnus’s Norse ancestors had founded this island on plundered wealth, but subsequent generations had amassed a fortune through businesses and investments all over Britain. “Did we lose any men in that last attack?”
“Not one—just a few bumps and bruises. As to a thank-you gift, well, we won’t need to send anything.” Rannulf’s blue eyes twinkled. “They’re both here. Right now they’re treating some of the other men wounded by that last kraken—much to the annoyance of Catriona and Edda.”
“Bloody hell.” The mere idea of the affront taken by the island-bred herbalist and midwife made Magnus’s head ache. “Edda thinks we’ve gone too far by bringing gaslights and steam-powered pumps to the island. I’m surprised this doctor is still breathing.”
“Aye. It wasn’t pretty, but I’d lay my money on the lowlander this time. Dr. MacKay put Edda in her place in no uncertain terms. Sent her and Catriona marching straight back to their cottage.”
Magnus winced. “Quentin must have been thrilled.” His cousin had been one of Magnus’s closest friends since childhood, but he was moody at the best of times, and he didn’t take well to change. Most importantly, he was betrothed to Catriona.
“Quentin was out checking on crofters, but I imagine he’ll be a bit upset when he hears.” Rannulf had a gift for understatement.
“Obviously it’s a day for miracles. I look forward to meeting this doctor.” In truth, Magnus always looked forward to visitors, especially educated ones. It was nice to chat with people who saw the rest of the world. One could only get so much from days-old newspapers.
“Orders were to fetch them when you woke up. I’ll go get the doctor now, and the nurse. Mrs. Alice worked with Miss Nightingale during the war. You were in good hands, lad.”
Magnus hadn’t seen that particular light in the older man’s eyes in years. Not, in fact, since Rannulf’s wife had passed almost a decade earlier. Since the man was the closest thing Magnus had known to a father since he was ten, it meant a lot to see Rannulf smiling. “The nurse…is she pretty?”
“Aye, pretty as can be and a widow. A mite old for the likes of you, though.” Rannulf’s grin twisted, a sure sign of mischief. “I’ll go get them and you can see for yourself.”
What the devil was the old man up to—besides flirting with a pretty widow?
Two minutes later, Magnus gaped as Rannulf introduced Dr. Geneva MacKay. What the hell was a tall, striking young woman doing holding a stethoscope to Magnus’s bare chest? Her hair brushed his chin and the scents of violets and carbolic acid tickled his nose.
“I see you’ve improved greatly in just the last hour.” She straightened and smiled down at Magnus, her white teeth straight and even between plump, rosy lips. Her dark copper curls were pulled back into an unappealing knot at the back of her head, and her eyes, a warm hazel blend of greens and brown glinted with intelligence and humor.
Part of Magnus that had no business stirring at all stood to attention. He sat up against the pillows, draping his forearms over his lap to hide his reaction. “You’re the quack?” This had to be a poor joke—perhaps Rodney or Catherine had put Rannulf up to it. His cousins had been trying to convince Magnus to marry for years.
“I am, in fact. The card-carrying quack. There’s a photographic copy of my license in my bag, in case you’d care to check.” She spoke quickly, with the refined accents of the upper class as she peeled a bandage from his shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the first patient to require proof. Now let me see your hip. I had to reset the bone after they carried you in here.”
“I most certainly will not.” He clutched the covers more tightly, not about to let a woman, younger than he from the looks of her, see his naked backside under these circumstances. “Rannulf can check it.”
“Who do you think reset the bone six hours ago?” She glanced toward Rannulf and the nurse, who was perhaps in her forties, and trying a bit too obviously not to look at Magnus’s uncle. “I think our chaperones there will be sufficient to protect your virtue. Now move.”
“I think they’re the ones who need chaperones.” He looked away as she peeled back the blanket. Her fingers were cool when she prodded the area above his hipbone. “Ow!”
“It’s knitting remarkably quickly, but it hasn’t finished yet. At the rate you’re healing, I’d say you can probably get out of bed sometime tomorrow, and be back on your feet fully the day after.”
“I’ve always been a fast healer,” he muttered into his pillow, trying not to panic. How much had she noticed? How much would her silence cost him?
“Relax.” She laid one hand, not as smooth and soft as her voice, against his bare shoulder. “I’ll keep your secret, Lord Findlay. You’ve nothing to worry about from me or Alice.”
“She’s got magick of her own,” Rannulf rumbled. “Can’t you feel it, son?”
Like called to like. Magnus’s magick was simply what he was, not something he practiced but he did have a kind of knack for sensing other powers around him. Edda, the old healer and her daughter Cat both had a bit. Now that he concentrated, he could sense some in the doctor.
“A natural healer? Convenient for a physician, I’d think.” Again, his words were muffled by the pillow beneath his face.
“A bit, and yes, it helps. It’s mainly heightened senses and reflexes that run in my family,” she said. “Even that isn’t something we talk about either. I’d appreciate your silence in return for my own.”
He owed her that and more. “Aye.” He yelped again when she prodded another wound.
“Healing nicely, but don’t overdo it. Even with the magick, it’ll take some time until you’re at full strength again.” She stepped back from the bed and spoke to one of the others. “I’ve other patients waiting below. Send someone for me if he takes a bad turn during the night. If not, I’ll check back first thing tomorrow morning.”
Magnus’s stomach rumbled. “Can you send someone up with some food? I could eat an entire cow, it seems.”
Rannulf, the traitor, looked to the lass.
She nodded. “If his stomach will keep it down, by all means, feed him. Start small and light, to make sure.”
“Sensible, for a quack.” Not that Magnus had much of any experience with mainland doctors. He nodded to her as her hand hovered over the doorknob. “Thank you, Dr. MacKay. I’m told I owe you my life, and I’m inclined to believe it.”
An odd expression flitted across her fair face. “I’m only doing my job, my lord. Now, try to get some sleep.”
As weak as he was, Magnus knew he’d sleep as soon as he’d eaten and taken care of other needs—ones becoming more and more urgent. “Goodnight, Doctor. Nurse.” Hopefully they’d leave before he embarrassed himself.
Rannulf ushered the women out and handed Magnus a bedpan. “Sorry, lad. No walking to the loo for you tonight.” He dealt with it afterward with no more embarrassment than when he’d changed Magnus’s nappies. “I’ll send someone up with a meal.”
Magnus suffered through being fed with a spoon by one of the maids. He managed to get a bowl of soup and a piece of warm bread into his belly before nodding off. He couldn’t remember ever being this weak—either from his injuries themselves, or more likely, being away from Torkholm.
It really was a miracle he’d survived.
Aye, and that miracle had red hair and an acerbic tongue. In his dreams a bit later, she also had a pair of wings—and a pitchfork. When he woke, sweating and aroused, Magnus blamed the residual laudanum.
* * *
Sun glinted through mullioned glass windows, waking Geneva from a sound sleep. The guest chamber she’d been allotted at Torkholm Castle was luxurious and a glance at the clock showed she’d slept longer than she usually did. Yesterday had, to say the least, been an eventful day. She stood and stretched, before washing up in the adjacent bath. Even her grandparents hadn’t fitted out their castle—in the family since the Middle Ages—with private bath chambers for each guestroom, but here, a maid had assured her, such conveniences were the norm, as was a private ice-box and warming plate. Instead of having to ring for a maid, who would carry up a heavy, laden tray, she could fix her own tea and add fresh, cool milk right in her room. The laird was apparently a staunch advocate of modernization. She’d never seen someplace as remote and yet as advanced as this castle.
A knock sounded on the connecting door as Geneva began to braid her hair in preparation for twisting it into its usual knot. Her thick, wavy mop was too unruly for any other style—at least one that could be considered even remotely professional.
“Come in,” she called, around the hairpins stuck between her lips.
Alice entered, looking as cheery and refreshed as Geneva felt. A rosy flush tinted her cheeks. “I’ve already spoken to Rannulf. The laird is up and about, already down in the great hall, talking to some of the villagers.”
Geneva pulled the pins from between her lips and dropped them on the dressing table. “That idiot. I said he could get out of bed today, not tramp up and down flights of stairs.”
Alice took the dish of hairpins—not including the ones from Geneva’s mouth—and brushed Geneva’s hands aside to pin up the heavy braid. “He seems fully recovered to me. I know you’re familiar with magick, but I’ve never seen the like before.”
It was a luxury to have someone help with her hair, so Geneva closed her eyes and enjoyed it. When she visited her family, there were ladies’ maids for such things, but in Edinburgh, her only staff was Elspeth in the surgery and a daily housekeeper. “I’ll chase him back to bed, never fear. Before we leave, I want to check on a few of our other patients, if you don’t mind. I didn’t like the look of Ian MacRae’s arm, did you? Hopefully, it won’t go to gangrene.”
“I’m in no rush to get home, and I agree about Mr. MacRae. There’s also the lad with the broken leg—perhaps we could stop by his cottage.” Alice added one last pin and patted Geneva’s hair. “There, you’re done. I wish I had your curls. Mine is so straight even curling tongs don’t work.”
“While I’ve been envying your silky smooth locks.” Geneva’s newfound friendship with Alice was an unexpected benefit to this trip. It still astounded her that the woman had once considered marrying Geneva’s father. “Rannulf seems to like the way you look, at any rate. Are you thinking of seeing him again after we leave?”
Alice shrugged. “I doubt it. He lives here, after all, and it’s quite a trip. If he stopped to call sometime when he’s on Mull, however, I wouldn’t turn him from my door.”
“Or your bed?”
Alice’s face pinkened again. “Perhaps not. I’ve been widowed a long time.”
Geneva put her arm around the other woman’s waist. “Good for you. Now make sure he’s invited to visit, before we leave today.”
Chapter Four
They chose to bypass the lift and walk down the marble stairs to the great hall, where breakfast was served. Perhaps ten people sat in groups of two or three at the long trestle tables, with Magnus and Rannulf at the head of the U-shaped arrangement. Geneva marched to the laird, who sat in state, a plate piled high with eggs and kippers and steak in front of him. As she approached, he stopped gesturing and stood, pulling out the chair beside his. Geneva sank into it, nodding at the maid who hurried up with fresh coffee.
“You look like a medieval warlord surveying his domain.” Geneva shook her head. He seemed healthy enough, although dark shadows still rimmed his eyes. “You’re supposed to be upstairs today, recuperating.”
“I needed my people to see me,” he said in a tone so low, only she could hear it. “They had to know I was recovered.”
“You aren’t recovered yet. If I looked at your wounds, I’d find that not all of them are healed. Am I right?”
He tipped his head. “Perhaps.”
“And your hip is aching, is it not?”
“Aye.” He glowered. “But I’m hale enough to dine with my family and friends.”
As he was sitting there eating enough food for a regiment, she could hardly argue. His blond hair was shining and clean for the first time since she’d met him, and again, he made her think of a Viking from legend. Of course the Hebrides had a strong Norse influence historically. There was no doubt Magnus was descended from Scandinavian stock.
She helped herself to some eggs and ham from the heated platters on the table, and thanked the maid who brought the tea. An automated toast rack caught her attention and she smiled. “Wherever did you find that? My grandfather would love one. My sister, however, would insist on disassembling it to see how it works, putting it back together with added functions.”
“My cousin Rodney sent it from New York. My friends and family know I appreciate innovation. Since I cannot leave Torkholm to see the world, they do their best to bring the world to me.” Magnus gave her a smile that melted her to her toes. “You’ve an interesting family of your own, it seems. One sister studies medicine, and the other is a tinkerer. Any others? A general, perhaps? An aunt who’s a blacksmith?”
She began to bristle, but caught the twinkle of humor in his eyes. “No, I’ve only the one sister—and she’s an engineer and inventor, recently finished at Lovelace College. No aunts at all that I know of, nor cousins either. I do have a friend who’s a rather famous photographer—Amélie, Lady Lake.” The Canadian-born artist had married a scion of the Order a few years back, and her unconventional profession had made her a quick favorite among the wives and daughters of other Knights.
“Ah, I have a copy of her book. Brilliant work, particularly her landscapes. I’m sure the portraits of the Royal children were more lucrative, though.”
“Having the Queen in her corner made it much easier for her to continue working after her marriage without risking social ruin.” Being the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Trowbridge, head of the Order, hadn’t hurt either. A future duchess could be allowed certain eccentricities.
“Tell me, how does a lass who’s friends with a marchioness end up a Highland doctor? Shouldn’t you be in London, enjoying the social whirl and finding a husband?” His smile let her know he was teasing, so she resisted the urge to slug him as she would have her brother.
Instead she swallowed a mouthful of ham and shrugged. “I love what I do, and my parents were good enough to allow me to study medicine and support my decision. My practice is in Edinburgh, but Alice is a…friend of my family and she asked me to come.”
“She’s the one who pulled me off the beach?”
“Her servant did, but she’
s the one who stabilized you until I arrived to set the bones.” A short while later, Quentin joined them, along with Alice and Rannulf. Talk turned to the kraken and Geneva looked at the laird. “You seem to be an educated man, Lord Findlay. Why do you think these sea creatures are suddenly behaving so oddly?”
“He knows why.” Quentin scowled. “He just refuses to admit it.”
“Really?” Geneva studied their faces, Quentin’s drawn into a sullen sneer, while Magnus’s went taut, his full lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw locked. “What could possibly be the cause?”
“’Tis the magick,” Quentin said. “They’ve told you more than they should, you may as well hear the rest. The power of Torkholm is angry that the laird has given it no heir.”
Goodness. Geneva sat back in her chair. Given what she’d already seen his native magick do, wreaking havoc didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility, but something didn’t ring true. “Why would the magick risk the life of the one person it’s supposed to protect?”
“Aye, that’s what I said.” Magnus stood and poured himself more coffee from the heated urn on a sideboard. Despite his protests, his movements were strained. His hip was hurting. “I know my duty, Quentin, but ’tis a little difficult to meet potential brides when I cannot leave my island.”
Wasn’t he marrying the shrew? Interesting. She filed that away for future consideration.
“Marrying a mainlander worked so well the first time, laird, that you’d care to repeat it?”
“Well, perhaps I won’t marry at all.” Magnus shrugged. “I have an heir, if it comes down to it. You.”
Quentin turned an alarming shade of purple. “And I told you, the magick isn’t in me. I’d know if it was. You need to marry, and you need to marry an islander. Soon.”
“Enough!” Magnus’s roar silenced every voice in the vast hall, and all eyes turned toward the head table.
“’Tis none of your concern, Quentin. Haven’t you work to be doing? All of you?” He stared pointedly around the room. “Finish your breakfast and be about your business. Doctor, if you’d come with me, please? I’ve something I want to ask you about.”
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