by Karen Ranney
She glanced up at him, her fingers still resting on a pawn. “Yes, I do. He was so much a part of my life that it would be unusual if I didn’t.”
“Tell me about him.”
She sat back and considered her words. Her fingertips rested on the edge of the table and she examined them.
“My husband was a goldsmith. An artisan of some renown. He was talented, but a good businessman as well. He cared about his customers, and our neighbors. Is that what you want to know?”
“Not really,” he said. His voice was abrasive but not his tone. “When did you marry?”
“When I was seventeen.”
“Brendan said he was much older than you.”
She frowned at him, but her irritation was reserved for Brendan.
“It’s true he was an older man, a friend of my parents. My father ran a tavern, and Gordon came often, especially in the winter months. He was a sociable man, for all that he’d never married.”
“So, he saw you and decided you should be his new wife, is that it? Was there no one to stay him from marrying a girl so young when he was so old?”
“It was considered a very good marriage for me,” she corrected him. “A very prosperous union. Gordon was not only a wealthy man, he was a good one. After my father died, he kept the tavern open to provide income for my mother. When she became ill only weeks later, he took her into our home and was always unfailingly kind and polite to her. Any woman would have felt grateful to have him as a husband.”
“Did you nurse your mother?”
She studied him in the candlelight. “Yes,” she said finally. “I did.”
“And your husband as well?”
“Yes.”
“Do you never grow tired of the aged or the infirm?”
What an odd question. His gaze was steady, and she couldn’t discern his thoughts. Had he learned the ability to hide himself in plain sight in India?
“I find great satisfaction in making someone well.”
He nodded as if content with her answer.
“Is that why you became a healer?”
Again, he surprised her. “Yes,” she said.
“Did your husband make you laugh?”
Now, that was hardly a question he should be asking her. Because it irritated her, she embellished the truth a bit. “He had a wicked sense of humor and could imitate almost anyone who came into our shop. He collected anecdotes the way a child would accumulate pebbles in his pocket.” She looked into the fire, thinking that it was better to remember the early years than the difficult times. “So, yes, he made me laugh.”
“How did he die?”
“He had a sickness in his stomach. Probably a tumor.”
Silence hung between them as thick as the shadows in the corners.
“You have no children, do you?”
She shook her head. “Are you a father, Mr. MacRae?”
“To the best of my knowledge, I’m not. Didn’t you wish to have children?”
“Isn’t that question presumptuous on your part?”
“Perhaps it is. But no more so than your determination to have me be your patient.”
She nodded, unwillingly conceding that point.
“Why are you? Are there no patients in Inverness craving your talents? Or are you here because of Brendan? He holds you in great esteem.”
Was his voice a little frosty, or did she simply imagine it?
“He’s concerned about you,” she said.
“Enough to spend a fortune to hire a healer to come to an isolated castle for the purpose of badgering me.”
“It wasn’t greed that brought me here,” she said, amused. “The money he gave me will go to the free clinic for the poor.”
“Then what brought you here?” he asked sardonically.
She didn’t tell him that she was beginning to yearn for adventure. But what she did say was perhaps as revealing. “Perhaps the idea of traveling so far outside Inverness was too tempting.”
“Have you never left the city before?”
She moved a piece on the board before glancing at him.
“You mustn’t sound so contemptuous, Mr. MacRae. Not all of us can be ship captains from birth.”
“Did Brendan tell you that?” It was his turn to be amused.
“Most of the journey was spent with him telling me of your family, how they left Scotland many years ago, how your father, despite his dislike of the sea, began a thriving trading company. You have twenty-two ships now in the MacRae fleet, I believe, and each of the brothers has had his turn at being a captain.”
“You have an impressive memory.”
“It was an exceedingly boring journey.”
“What did Brendan tell you about me?”
Had he heard their earlier conversations? “Enough to make me think you need me more than you say.”
“As you can see, I’m not the wreck that my brother no doubt portrayed me to be.”
“But you can’t move your left arm, and I suspect that you’re not healing as well as you would like me to believe. A few times now, your right hand has brushed across your chest. Is there a wound there that bothers you?”
He stared at her. “It’s disconcerting to be defined by my symptoms.”
“How am I to judge you otherwise? We’ve spent most of our time in conversation with your questioning me.”
He nodded once, a concession she accepted.
“Would you consider it a loss, if I don’t allow you to treat me? Some celestial battle between good and evil, with a black mark on your side of the score sheet if you fail?”
“Do you think that life is measured so easily? I don’t. But I will worry about you, and that’s a nuisance.”
He smiled fully then, the first time he had truly done so.
“So in order to prevent your worry, I should simply acquiesce and allow you to do what you will? So that I’m not a nuisance, that is.”
“I would appreciate it,” she said, propping her chin on her hands. “There are so many other people who need my thoughts more than you.”
“But if you don’t treat me, I’ll be at the forefront of them?”
She didn’t tell him that she was very much afraid he would be there whether or not she tried to heal him. He was an immensely fascinating man.
He shouldn’t be sitting there with her. The firelight accentuated the darkness of her eyes and the subtle sheen of auburn in her hair. There were tiny marks at the corners of her eyes as if she laughed often. But she was young, for all her protestations of wisdom.
Tonight, she smelled of bread and ale, scents that nonetheless managed to accentuate her voluptuousness. Her lips fascinated him, so much so that one part of his mind sat back in bemused wonder, almost ridicule, and watched the mature Hamish act as if he were a lovelorn youth.
Her top lip did not have an indentation, but curved almost like an inverted bottom lip. The effect was curiously pouty, as if she begged for a kiss with every word that began with an “h.” He began to watch for it, or for her to say “you.”
The Angel of Inverness was an earthbound spirit.
Her mouth wasn’t the only feature to attract his attention. Her eyes, soft and brown, were worthy enough in their own right. They were deeply colored, encircled in black, giving them definition and depth. Perhaps that’s why they appeared so much darker than his. But then, he had not seen himself in a great many months.
Perhaps he should be thankful for that omission.
She had a way of clasping her hands tightly together, thumbs aligned in military precision. She tapped them against each other in an oddly rhythmic way, or placed one over the other. He wanted to reach across the table and still her hands, but he was so entranced with the movement, and the fact that it betrayed her nervousness, that he did nothing, simply watched her.
Sometimes, she took a deep breath, and the gauzy scarf at her neck lifted by several inches. Such an effect did not hide the fulsomeness of her bodice.
What
would she say if he told her that the only treatment he wished was her mouth on his? He wouldn’t say it, of course. It was better to wish her gone, however much he might want her. Women like Mary Gilly remained fascinating long beyond their time. He didn’t want any additional memories. His were blackened by his nightmares and tinted with regret.
They played in silence for several more minutes, he content to simply study her. The firelight’s glow was diffused only a little by the scattering of candles. She was equally as lovely in daylight, another youthful thought from a man who’d long since put his adolescence behind him.
Perhaps that’s why they called her Angel. She didn’t offer potions and possets, only a curious kind of forgetfulness. Last night had been the same. For a few minutes he’d forgotten who he was and what he’d done, even finding some measure of rest after leaving her. Perhaps tonight he wouldn’t have nightmares, only dreams of a brown-haired woman with warm eyes and a winsome smile who urged him to sleep.
She fascinated him, and that was an even more naïve musing. Last night, she’d startled him with her forthrightness and her candor. This morning, she’d amused him as well. Now, he was too taken with her appearance to wonder at her wit and intelligence.
He moved his piece, then sat back and surveyed her, his gaze once again focusing on her mouth.
She smiled, and he thought that he should warn her that even humor would not save her. The only thing protecting her from his more libidinous impulses was his legacy from the Atavasi. If he revealed himself to her, she’d no doubt run screaming from the tower, choosing the shadows and the night rather than remaining in his presence.
Otherwise, he would have amused himself by slowly removing that scarf from around her neck, letting the fabric gently abrade her throat. Then, he’d unfasten the bodice of her dress until it revealed what it now attempted to so cunningly conceal.
He would lift up her skirts gently, slowly, delicately. She’d raise her arms until he pulled her clothing over her head. There she would stand in shift, stays, and stockings, nearly unveiled for his eyes.
“I’ve beaten you,” she said, her voice abruptly dragging him from his thoughts. She stared at the board in wonder.
“Indeed you have.”
Her eyes met his. In that instant, he knew that she’d not been fooled after all. However, she didn’t call him on it, or otherwise refuse her win. A wise woman.
“Do you go to any lengths to treat your patients?”
She looked surprised at the question. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Since you’ve won,” he said, “I’m at your mercy.” The impulse to let her win had been a foolish one. Either way, she’d be gone from this place with more speed then she’d planned.
A pity, truly; they might have found some comfort in each other. If she didn’t run in horror from him, perhaps he’d give in to his baser impulses after all. Another reason to wish her gone, a last protective impulse that would shield her from the man he’d become, empty and shell-like, lacking heart and possessing only a shriveled soul.
“Would you like to begin tonight?”
“It’s rather late,” she said. “Perhaps in the morning? Unless you’re in pain?”
He shook his head, thinking that he’d be given a respite, then, a few hours of grace before she went back to Inverness with the tale of a hideous hermit crouching in his castle. How strange that he wanted her gone at the same time he wanted the actual moment of her departure to be delayed.
Was she possessed of the intellectual genius of a physician, the wisdom of an old crone, the nurturing spirit of a mother? He could do with all of them, or simply her understanding, a gentle hand on his arm, an unspoken acceptance.
What a fool he was.
“Is there anyone in Inverness you do not charm?”
She looked amused, her warm brown eyes dancing with humor.
“I do not charm a great many people,” she said. “My husband’s apprentice, for one. Charles is forever impatient with me, telling me that I shouldn’t give so much money to the clinic, or spend so much time among the poor. I think he believes that poverty is contagious.”
“Do you pay any attention to his words? Or do you simply ignore him?”
“You make it sound as if I’m headstrong and spoiled,” she said. “I simply want my life to mean something. Most people do, and they find a certain satisfaction in caring for their families. I have none. What else should I do with my time? I have no other skills.”
“There are women in my family who would tell you that they have no talent,” he said, “but they can create marvels in stone or weave beautiful cloth. My sister-in-law Riona can make the desert bloom, I think. What is it about a woman that makes her so modest?”
Her laughter bubbled free. She sat back and regarded him with humor. “Perhaps it is the MacRae men,” she said. “Any woman might appear self-effacing next to such an arrogant group.”
“I don’t think we’re arrogant,” he said discomfited by her words.
“A person’s flaw is sometimes like the back of his neck. Impossible for him to see.”
He sat back and regarded her. “So arrogance rarely recognizes itself?” He wasn’t entirely certain that he agreed with her, especially in view of the fact that he’d let her win the game and the wager.
Standing, he bowed slightly to her. “Then I’ll see you in the morning. Here?”
She nodded.
He left her then, grateful to her in a paradoxical way for irritating him. It meant that for tonight she was safe from him, and that his dreams, when they came, would not include her.
Chapter 7
M ary pressed her hand against her midriff in order to still her rapid breathing. It would never do for a patient to know how anxious she was. Oh, Mary, do not lie to yourself. Or to God, who must surely hear you.
Because there were no windows, she propped open the door and allowed sunlight to illuminate the first floor of the tower.
The morning was cool, but the sky was still fair, the weather suited more to summer than autumn. She stood in the doorway, looking toward the sea gate. Birds, wings outspread, coasted on the air currents and then dipped toward the ocean waves.
Suddenly, she heard a sound on the stairs, and he was there.
It wasn’t treating him that made her blood race. It was the sight of him standing tall and large at the bottom of the stairs. Or perhaps his half smile, or even the expressionless look in his eyes that made her wonder at his thoughts.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, determined to be professional.
He only nodded in return, distant and almost wary, as if they’d never met.
Entering the room again, she busied herself opening her medicine case and arranging her implements on the tray. A quick glance told her that he had changed his shirt again.
“You shave every morning, don’t you?” she asked, and then wondered if that was too personal a question. Silly, Mary, you’ve talked to your patients of much more intimate subjects. But none of her other male patients had ever towered above her, or seemed so much like a lord of this castle that she was almost intimidated.
“I do,” he said, and it seemed as if his voice reverberated up the stairs and down again, echoing onto itself.
“Does it pain you?”
“Because of the scars?” he asked, rubbing his hand across his face.
She nodded.
“No.”
“What did they use to burn you?”
“I wasn’t burned,” he said. His fingers settled on a few of the marks. “They’re scars from copper nails.”
She dropped one of the vials, and stared as it bounced on the stone floor. Grateful that it hadn’t broken, she retrieved it, inspecting the frosted glass for damage. Each of twelve containers fit into one side of her chest, her implements and a drawer to hold her aprons and other commonly replaced items on the other.
“They pounded nails into your body?” she asked, wiping off the vial and placing it on
the table. She tied a fresh cloth around her hair, busying herself to hide the fact that her hands were trembling.
He nodded and came to stand beside her, inspecting her medical case with great care.
“Why?” she asked faintly.
He smiled slightly, and it was almost an expression of pity that she might be so naïve as to ask that question.
“Because they wanted to see how well I screamed,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it were a commonplace thing he discussed.
“Did you?” There, she could match his casual tone.
He looked directly at her. “I discovered that I could scream very well. Like a songbird to heaven.”
Such revelations were painful, Mary discovered. Not only for him, but for her, having to listen to them, to witness his clear, direct gaze. Her hand replaced his on his face, her fingers resting lightly against the marks on his skin. In that instant she was there with him in that faraway place, feeling the pain he must have endured as the nails were driven into his jaw.
Abruptly, she dropped her hand, turned, and withdrew a cloth from her case, setting it beside the bowl she’d brought from the kitchen. Going to the fire, she withdrew a small iron kettle and poured the steaming water into the bowl.
“Are you going to bathe me?” he asked, smiling.
“I’m going to treat your arm,” she answered. She pulled out the chair and stood beside it, waiting for him to be seated. He did so, finally, that enigmatic smile of his appearing again.
“How long has it been since you were able to use your arm?”
“Since I was captured,” he said simply.
“I want to see it,” she said. “I want to know if we can get it to work again.”
“We?”
“A healer is only part of the process, Hamish. The patient must wish to get well.”
He looked amused, but didn’t comment. She knew, from conversations with Brendan, that he’d objected not only to her presence but also to that of an Arab physician summoned when he was first rescued. It was as if he didn’t wish to recover completely from his ordeal. Or simply didn’t think it important.
Picking up his left arm, she cradled it between her hands. Slowly, she rolled up the cuff of his shirt. Even though he couldn’t use his arm, the muscle had not yet begun to waste away, and the skin was tanned and firm. Those were good signs. Not so the scars illuminated by the sun. She traced their path from his wrist to his elbow to his upper arm.