by Karen Ranney
“Are you reciting a recipe?” she asked, frowning up at him.
“I am devising one, rather. Something less miraculous and more suitable to witches, I confess.”
He really was the most annoying man.
“Nor am I a witch, Mr. MacRae. My treatments have nothing to do with snails or beaks or other questionable ingredients. Instead, I believe that washing my hands will do a great deal more to protect a patient than any potions I might give them or any ground up toad infusions.”
His half smile didn’t waver.
“I ask that my patients bathe often, that they adopt a simple diet, and that they take a bracing walk each day. I am here to help facilitate wellness, but the patient is the author of his own health.”
“So you don’t believe in bloodletting?”
“I do not,” she said firmly. “Nor does Mr. Marshall. The medicines I prescribe are simple and easily understood, with ingredients long held to be beneficial. I also believe in cold water, hot poultices, and herb teas.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and continued. “I know of at least nine hundred treatments for two hundred seventy-six named ailments. I would have to examine you first and use my powers of observation before I decide upon a course of treatment.”
“I wash often, Mrs. Gilly, and my diet for the last year or so has been painfully simple. I’ve walked the equivalent of the length of Scotland. Using your measurements, I am facilitating my own wellness.”
She tapped her foot on the floor, impatient at his recalcitrance. No one had ever before asked her to prove her skills. “I have at least seventy successful treatments to my credit, from pustule boils to cankerous throats. Would you like me to enumerate them?”
His smile broadened. “I think not.”
“Then what would convince you to let me treat you?”
“Why should I?”
She blinked at him, surprised by the question. “Why, to get better, of course.”
He surprised her by descending the stairs and returning to the fireplace. Watching her, he asked, “What would you give me for being unable to sleep?”
“Nothing,” she said, and could tell that her answer wasn’t what he’d expected. “Perhaps you don’t need as much sleep as other men. Matthew Marshall believes that a man can sleep too much, that it’s better to be abroad at night than to be captive to one’s pillow.”
“Most physicians would have prescribed a sleeping draught.”
“I don’t agree with most physicians,” she said, wondering if that admission would only strengthen his resolve not to let her treat him. “I only prescribe morphine for dangerous conditions,” she explained. “Or for those who are so sick that their condition will likely lead to death. I think your arm should be treated, Mr. MacRae. Otherwise, I doubt your injuries are that serious, however much you might wish them to be.”
He looked startled. “Why would you say that?”
She studied him for a moment, realizing that she’d already said too much. There was nothing left but the truth. If he repudiated her, then so be it.
“I think your sleeplessness, Mr. MacRae, comes about not because of your physical condition as much one of the mind. For that I would prescribe a long, thorough discussion with another human being. Someone with whom you could purge your soul. Perhaps your brother?”
She wanted to put her hand on his arm, pat his hand, initiate some physical link between them, but knew that he would pull away if she did so. There were times when that was the greatest help she could give another human being. That was why she sometimes brought a litter of kittens to her elderly, querulous patients. Before the visit was over, the patient was smiling, and like as not, Mary had found a home for one of the kittens.
This man, however, with his palpable aloofness, didn’t need a puppy or kitten. But he almost desperately needed the comfort of another human being, that much she knew from the look in his eyes. She could feel his aloneness as if it were the match of her own.
“The passions have a greater influence on health than most people know,” she said softly. “Where they hold sway, there’s little I or any other person versed in medicine can do.”
“You’re a poor practitioner,” he said, turning and speaking to the fire, “if you aren’t attempting to get me to swallow some pill or tonic. How will you make a living at your trade?”
“What would my reputation be if I dispensed pills and tonics with no hope of them working?”
“So you would have me talk to Brendan. What if he doesn’t wish to be the recipient of my conscience?”
“Then I will be.” The words escaped her before she censured them. But he said nothing to her admission, which emboldened her further. “Why couldn’t you sleep tonight?”
“I was thinking of you, Mary Gilly,” he said, turning to face her.
“Me?” One hand went to the base of her throat, as if to ease the sudden constriction of her breath.
“I wondered if you were a lonely widow. Are you?”
Other than asking about her health in a general, desultory way, or inquiring if the day was proving to be a good one for her, her patients never asked her personal questions. They never wanted to know what she thought or how she felt about an issue, and not once had anyone asked if she was lonely.
She clasped her hands together tightly and answered him honestly. “So much so that I want to weep with it, sometimes,” she admitted. Too much bluntness, perhaps, but it felt as if the night had stripped them both of the decorum normally present between strangers.
He said nothing, just studied her in the firelight. Once more she marveled at his appearance. He wasn’t at all attractive, not in the way that a handsome man was. He could have come from any culture or any place on earth and been instantly identified as a warrior, a leader of men. Yet here he was in an isolated tower, eschewing all that was human or companionable.
“And you, Hamish MacRae? Is it loneliness that keeps you awake?”
“No.” He took a few steps toward her. She didn’t move when he reached out to touch her, straightening her shawl around her shoulders. He let his hand rest there so that she could feel the warmth of his palm through the wool.
“I would be happy to have loneliness as an excuse, Mary Gilly. But it isn’t the reason why I can’t sleep at night. Or, when I do, why nightmares threaten.”
“If you tell me your confidences, Mr. MacRae,” she said gently, “they would remain between the two of us. I would never reveal anything to anyone else.”
“I’m not ready to divulge my soul any more than I am my wounds.”
He bowed slightly and headed for the staircase.
As she watched him climb the steps, exhilaration filled her. She sometimes experienced that sensation when a treatment resulted in a patient’s marked improvement. However, she’d never felt this way when embarking upon a case. She suspected it had little to do with medicine and a great deal to do with Hamish MacRae.
Chapter 5
M ary woke feeling rested, grateful that Betty had delayed waking her. An instant later, she blinked open her eyes and stared at the ceiling, realizing that she wasn’t home in Inverness but in the tower room at Castle Gloom.
Something had awakened her, and she glanced at the archers’ slits in surprise, realizing that the sun was shining brightly in the sky. Dawn had come and gone, and she was still lying in bed like a slug.
She sat up on the edge of the bed, clamping her hand over her mouth as she yawned. Standing, she attended to her morning chores, and then dressed as quickly as she was able in a serviceable dress of brown linen and a scarf of beige at her throat. She untied her braid, brushed her hair quickly before arranging it in a tight bun at the back of her head and topping it with a ruffled white cap.
After straightening the sheets and the coverlet on the cot, she retrieved her case and opened it, spreading it wide on the bed. First, she donned her apron, and then tucked into the pocket the various medicines she thought she might need.
Going down the stairs was as difficult as the ascent. She couldn’t imagine doing this day in and day out for the rest of her stay at Castle Gloom.
Even before leaving Inverness, she’d decided that she’d be gone only a week. Otherwise, she’d miss the meeting with Mr. Marshall that had been arranged weeks before. The famed author and minister had actually wished to meet with her and discuss treatments, an honor especially since there were so many demands on his time. It had taken a day to travel here, and the return would take the same amount of time. Therefore, she had five days in which to treat Hamish, and already one had passed.
However, from what she’d witnessed the night before, the man was less in need of her medical skills than of an understanding ear. But his arm was worrisome. What could have caused such lameness? Her mind was on various conditions that might have done so and actually eased her discomfort on the stairs.
The day felt unseasonably warm, the breeze flowing through the iron gate smelling of the sea. The birds in the nearby trees were all singing together in a riotous greeting to the morning, so loudly that she had to raise her voice to be heard when she greeted Brendan.
“Good morning,” she said, nodding to him and Micah. The two men were sawing another log. No doubt more firewood at Hester’s behest. There was a stack of wood propped up against the outer wall, and a newly felled tree just inside the land gate.
Brendan had taken off his shirt, and his torso gleamed in the morning sun. From the expanse of tanned shoulders and back, he’d evidently done this often.
“Is your brother planning on remaining here all winter?” she asked, dipping the bucket into the well.
“Why didn’t you ask him yourself last night, Angel?”
She felt her face warm, and wondered at her reaction. She was no miss, no maiden to be reduced to blushes. Why, then, was she acting the innocent?
“You heard us?”
“Sound carries in the tower.”
“Then you’ll know I’m no closer to treating him than I was yesterday.”
“Does that mean you’re giving up?”
“Of course not,” she said in a clipped voice. “You’ve hired me to treat your brother and treat him I will.”
“Even if he doesn’t wish it?”
“An ill patient is like quarrelsome child. A parent does not ask the child what he wishes to do. A wise and loving parent simply tells him.”
“So you’re going to be his mother?” Brendan grinned at her.
She nodded, deliberately not responding to his goad. Nor would it do any good to explain the whole of her treatment plan. Most people didn’t understand that medicine was a guessing game. The more experience she had, the more Mary understood that each patient was unique. The treatment that worked with one might not work with another.
Matthew Marshall had understood that. In his book The Primitive Physick, he’d explained that good treatments were based on empiricism—experience, and not theory.
“I’m going to treat him,” she said firmly. “Even if he does not wish it.”
She took the bucket of water to the kitchen, intent on heating it in order to finish her morning toilette. Matthew Marshall subscribed to basic treatments, one of them being the axiom that cleanliness was vital. Mary had discovered that she had fewer infections once she’d begun washing her hands in hot water before visiting a patient. She’d taken other precautions as well, such as dusting her hands with boric powder and wearing a mask when treating noxious wounds.
Hester was smiling, looking as pleased as a child with a new ball. Around her, the kitchen lay spotless. The floor had been scrubbed, as well as the walls. The packing crates had been removed, and every new bowl, plate, and cup had been washed and hung in the built-in cupboard. A wonderful smelling stew was cooking over the fire, and something equally as delicious was cooling on the end of the long table.
“You’ve been busy this morning,” Mary said, looking around at the changes.
Hester nodded. “The place calls for a little loving touch. Plus I found a kitchen garden just outside,” she said. “Overgrown, it was, but there’s still rosemary and thyme and mint.” She placed a plate holding a slice of meat pie from dinner last night on a tray. Beside it was an earthenware jug of ale, and a mug.
Hefting the tray in both hands, Hester headed toward the door.
“Is that tray for Hamish?” Mary asked before the other woman could leave the kitchen.
Hester’s look was amused, as if the thought of waiting on either Brendan or her husband was humorous.
“I’ll take it,” Mary said.
“Brendan was going to deliver it. Not me.”
“Maybe he’d welcome me if I come with food,” Mary said.
“Is he proving to be stubborn?” Hester asked, surrendering the tray. “Men are, on the whole. Especially when they’re feeling poorly.”
She wasn’t entirely certain it was his health that had Hamish MacRae acting so obstinate.
Mary crossed the courtyard, nodding at Brendan, who took one look at the tray in her hands and began smiling. She frowned at him but it did no good; he was still wearing that silly grin as if he anticipated the confrontation to come.
After last night, perhaps she should have been wiser. Hamish had, after all, left no doubt as to his feelings about her presence. His unvoiced vulnerabilities touched her, a fact that would no doubt horrify him if he knew. It was why, she suspected, he wanted her gone from Castle Gloom. A man like Hamish MacRae would deplore any weakness in his character, even that of simply being human.
She climbed the first flight of stairs in the tower feeling as if her heart were booming in her throat. Taking a deep breath, Mary forced herself to calm. All she needed to do was to keep close to the wall and not look down, that was all. It seemed a simple enough task.
Another flight, and she passed the room where Brendan had slept the night before. It was darker here, as if night lingered atop the tower. She made the mistake of glancing down for just a moment. A wave of dizziness swept through her. Instantly, her feet felt sweaty and her stomach weightless.
She hated this weakness. Gordon had once said that she was not meant for parapets or bridges. She’d laughed with him, but now her fear of heights was no laughing matter. It was getting in the way of treating a patient, and that would never do at all.
Finally, after taking the last few steps on feet that felt remarkably weak, she made it to the top landing. Determinedly, she knocked on the banded oak door with one hand while she balanced the tray with the other. She waited for a response, but it didn’t come.
“I need assistance, Mr. MacRae,” she said a moment later. “The tray is heavy, and there is no place to put it down.”
“I don’t require that you serve me, Mrs. Gilly. Place it on the floor, if you will.”
“I thank you for your suggestion, sir,” she said crisply. “But it would be better if I could place it on the table, instead. Surely you have one within that lair of yours.”
“It’s a sanctuary at the moment, Mrs. Gilly. Not a lair.”
His comment brought a smile to her lips. He was a stubborn man, but she was even more obstinate.
“Mr. MacRae, there is nothing you have that I have not seen before at least a hundred times. Unless, perhaps, you have lied to your brother and me all along. Perhaps you’re not human at all. Are you a dragon? Are there scales below your shirt, or a tail hidden in your trousers?”
She leaned against the door frame, balancing the tray.
“If that’s the case, then I confess I would be surprised, perhaps even alarmed. Scratch against the door with your claw, or allow the tip of your tail to appear beneath the door. Or perhaps grunt in the way dragons roar or belch a little fire. If I’m convinced that you’re not truly human, I’ll put the tray down this second, disappear from this tower room, and never come back.”
The door opened so quickly that she was startled. The sun was behind him, and for a second that was all she saw, just the bright gla
re and not his expression or his features.
“I do not want a healer. I do not want anyone in my chamber. I do not want you, especially, Mrs. Gilly.”
It shouldn’t have hurt. He was simply angry with her, that was all. She thought she might have made some inroads last night, but evidently, he was still obdurate. Despite the moments of oddly pleasing conversation between them, they were strangers. She would be wise to remember that.
She stayed where she was, extending the tray toward him. Instead of taking it, he motioned to a table beside the door. While she waited, he picked up a square board with several small, oddly shaped figurines resting on it. Once the table was cleared, she placed the tray atop it, and then turned to leave.
Without a word, she walked back to the head of the steps, wishing that he would go back into his room and close the door behind him. Instead, he stood and watched her.
“Forgive me. I was rude,” he said slowly.
She glanced over at him. A moment passed before she spoke. “Yes, you were. But you’ve not accomplished what you intended, you know. I may not have convinced you now, but I’ll keep trying.”
He stepped out of the sunlight and over the threshold of his room. Now there was no doubt of his expression. He was decidedly irritated.
“Why?”
His hair was askew, as if he had threaded his fingers through it, but his clothing was immaculate. His white shirt was loose, and topped with a carefully tied stock. His dark breeches were tucked into boots that were, even here in this deserted castle, highly polished. He might have retreated from civilization, but he had not yet become uncivilized.
“Because I must,” she said simply, not expecting him to understand.
“You’ll not be done with me until I’m your patient, will you?” he asked, a decided asperity to his tone.
“I’m afraid not.” She smiled at him, but he didn’t look mollified. Instead, he looked as if he might say something intentionally rude.
She decided to deflect his attention, instead.