by Karen Ranney
“Soon,” she said.
“With an easy conscience, I trust, now that you’ve treated me.”
She nodded, and then realized he couldn’t see her, as she was standing behind him. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you’ll see one of his electrical machines,” he said.
“I wish I’d thought to ask if he was bringing it.” She dipped the cloth into the water again. “Can I extract your promise to treat your injuries as I would?”
“You can always ask, but will you trust me to honor a promise?”
He was a stranger, a man she’d known for only a little while, yet she knew that if he gave his word, she could believe in it.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“But I cannot give it,” he said. For a moment, all she felt was disappointment. “I cannot reach areas of my back, Mary. Not as well as you.”
“Brendan can help you. Or Hester.”
“Will either of them be my confidant as you have?”
“If you wish them to be.”
“I didn’t mean to tell anyone what I’ve told you,” he admitted. “But you’d counseled me to do that, didn’t you?”
She smiled and moved in front of him.
“Will I sleep better for it?”
“I am surprised that you can sleep at all with the nightmares you must have,” she told him honestly.
There was that half smile again.
“Perhaps you’ll give me a potion to help me sleep after all.”
“Or perhaps you’ll find something else to do at night,” she suggested. “Read a calming book, sketch a drawing.”
His smile broadened, but he didn’t comment on her list. She felt her face warm, and moved around to his back again. She asked him to bend forward, and she inspected his scars. The Atavasi had evidently known where to inflict the greatest pain with the least damage. There were no marks near Hamish’s spine. Nor were there near any vital organs. But his torturers had left no large muscle untouched.
“You’ll miss Brendan,” he said unexpectedly.
It wasn’t a question as much as a statement.
“Brendan isn’t my patient,” she said, tracing the deepest of the scars on his back with gentle fingers. “So speaks Mary the healer. How does Mary the woman feel?”
“I cannot separate the various parts of myself, Hamish. The healer is the woman.”
She realized, however, what he was asking. She halted in her explorations and answered him. “I find Brendan to be a very pleasant companion. But he reminds me of a younger brother.” There, a confession that the healer shouldn’t have made, but the woman felt compelled to tell him.
“A sentiment that would irritate him, should he learn of it.”
“I have no intention of telling him,” she said calmly. “Do you?”
His silence incited her curiosity. What was he thinking? Where had he learned such restraint? Had it been during his imprisonment, or had he always been this way?
Once again, she submersed the cloth, wringing it nearly dry and cooling it slightly before placing it on his skin. She busied herself with the task of being a healer. Only when she moved in front of him did her composure come close to slipping again.
She placed the cloth on his chest, concentrating on her hands rather than looking into his eyes or seeing that charming half smile.
“Brendan does not smell of flowers, Mary. How can you ask that I trade him for your presence?”
He teased her, she knew. However, his banter had an edge to it. The prettiest rose also bears a hurtful thorn.
“What would your life be like if you’d not found healing to occupy you?”
She hesitated, her hands flat against his chest. Her gaze met his, and for a second, she thought she could see herself in his eyes. Did he merely think her a pretentious woman? Someone who dabbled in the hobby of treating illness to keep her days full?
“I’d have been content to live my life just as it was. A normal life, an ordinary one.”
“I think you would not have been content with that, Mary.”
“As you were not?”
“Perhaps,” he admitted.
“You’re an example of why I shouldn’t wish for too much adventure, Hamish.” She pressed gently against his chest, as if to emphasize the rendition carved into him by the Atavasi.
He looked surprised at her words, as if he’d expected her to take his barbs and not return one of her own.
They fell silent once again; the only sounds those of the slosh of the water in the basin and the slap of the cloth against his skin.
“Will you play shatranj with me again tonight?”
“I would probably be bored,” she said. “Especially if you allow me to win again.” She glanced up to find him smiling.
“You weren’t surprised,” he said.
“Not truly,” she admitted. “I’d hoped that you’d concede the game and allow me to treat you. I trusted in your gentlemanly impulses.”
“That was a mistake.”
She ignored that comment. “Your loss was very skillfully done. Someone who was not as good a player could not have managed it, I think. But then I might have won on my own.” She pulled out the neighboring chair and sat.
“Another error on your part, to believe yourself that skilled.”
Sitting back with the cloth wadded up in one hand, Mary stared at him in amusement. “You’re very arrogant.”
“I’m very good. While you have the capability to be a good player, you’re not yet a great one.”
“But I learned quickly. You have to admit that.”
He nodded, smiling.
“As far as improving, perhaps all I need is practice.”
“I’ll set up the board in my room. Shall we say after dinner?”
She really shouldn’t. They both knew that. “Yes,” she said. “Will you join us for dinner?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“You’ve seen me, and you still ask that question?”
“Brendan has seen you as well. But unless you’re going to take your shirt off for Micah and Hester, they wouldn’t have a comment on your appearance.”
True, his back and chest was a frightening scene. But his face wasn’t that badly scarred. The small marks would probably fade in time, being no more visible than a milkmaid’s pox.
He was far from ugly.
“I think people would notice you, Hamish, but not because you’re scarred.”
One of his eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. She felt an unaccustomed blush suffuse her face. She was not used to complimenting a man on his appearance.
“Do I not frighten you, Mary?”
Her gaze flew to his. “Of course not,” she said quickly. That first moment she met him half shrouded in darkness, he’d been only a subject of fascination, not revulsion. Even now, with his chest and his back revealed, she could only think one startling thought. He was too much a man for them to kill him.
If he didn’t feel rage toward his captors, she did.
He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingers. Mary turned her head, and before she realized what she was doing, held his hand against her face. Worse, she compounded the error of the moment by keeping his hand there long after she should have pulled away.
She should have told him that it was a gesture Gordon had often made, and that she’d been caught up in a moment of memory. But the truth was that she’d not remembered her husband at all. In fact, she would be hard-pressed to remember his face at this moment.
When his fingers moved slightly and touched her lips, she should have pulled away completely and stood, moving to the other side of the room. But in actuality, she wanted him to touch her. It had been so very long since she’d felt tenderness or the slow, heavy pounding of her heart that preceded desire.
Slowly, propriety returning to her in droplets, she stood and skirted the table. Handing him a dry cloth, she watched as he wiped his chest in deliberate strokes. When his skin
was dry, she picked up his shirt. The stitches were finely sewn, and she wanted to ask him who’d made this for him. Was it a mother, a sister, a sweetheart?
“Have you ever married?” she asked as she handed the garment to him. There, a normal enough question between almost strangers. A healer and her patient might pass the time learning of each other.
“Never,” he said abruptly, the words sounding bitten off.
“Did you never wish to?”
“There never seemed to be the time. Nor did I find the right woman. The sea became my wife, mistress, and sweetheart.”
“A watery companion, Hamish,” she said, and was rewarded for her teasing with his smile. “You should give some thought to marriage. My married patients live longer and have more contented lives than those who remain single.”
“Do you counsel your women patients as well as men?”
“Women rarely need advice about marriage,” she said calmly. “They know that the natural order of things is to be joined in life.”
“Not all of us are willing to settle for the type of marriage you had, Mary.”
Startled, she stared at him.
“What type of marriage do you think I had?”
He shrugged and donned his shirt.
“I shared a great friendship with my husband. And loved him as well.”
He looked dubious.
She wiped down her instruments, placed them back in the case, and returned the vials to their positions. One was missing, and she ran her fingers over the hole its absence created. She’d used most of the mixture in the nightly tonic she’d given Gordon and had misplaced the container soon after. Perhaps she’d not yet replaced it as a way to remind her of her own failings, a warning to be humble in the face of disease.
“What would you have in your marriage, if not companionship and friendship, Hamish?”
“Passion. Adoration.”
She blinked at him several times. “Passion is fleeting, and adoration is best reserved for God.”
“Then you’ve never truly seen a happy marriage, only one that’s a pale shadow.”
He stood and smiled down at her.
For her peace of mind, she should limit her acquaintance with Hamish. This fascination she felt about his adventures and tribulations would gradually pass, as would her curiosity. Or if it didn’t, she could satisfy it by asking questions of Brendan. But she shouldn’t be in Hamish’s company any more than was necessary. He made her forget that he was a patient, and she a healer.
“Will you join me tonight?” He hesitated on the stairs, and she looked up at him. Now was the time to offer him an excuse, to be wise and proper.
“Yes,” she said, knowing that it was the worst possible answer.
Chapter 9
H is tray was brought by Brendan, who didn’t badger him to appear at dinner. Brendan understood, more than most people. Still, he didn’t know everything, and if Hamish had his way, he never would. There were some secrets meant only for dark nights filled with howling winds, or for nightmares.
Hamish closed the shutters against the night, before lighting a small fire in the brazier set against one wall. He pushed the cannon to the side of the circular chamber before moving the table out into the center, arranging the two chairs, and lighting a succession of candles. Setting up the board, Hamish wondered if she would appear after all, or simply, and wisely, stay away.
He placed his right hand flat on his chest. Beneath his shirt was a design he knew only too well. He’d watched as they’d cut into him, refusing to flinch or show any outward expression. Mary, however, had not looked away. Not once, and he’d been watching her eyes carefully. She’d appeared interested rather than repulsed, fascinated rather than horror-struck.
The design didn’t stop at the waist, but traveled around his buttocks and down his thighs. Even the soles of his feet had been the target of their knives and needles.
A unique method of torture, and one that was perfect in its execution. He could almost admire the venal architect of his pain. He’d never known who it was, had not been able to separate one person from the crowd of captors to blame more than the other. Even in this, they’d been clever. He wasn’t able to simply hate one man but was forced to hate a group, a task he’d found more difficult than he’d anticipated.
Each needle was tipped with a painful mixture, each inch of the design tattooed on his body represented thousands of tiny pinpricks. As he was passed from village to village, they’d all had their turn, marking him as if he were no more important than a parcel to be stamped. He’d realized, early on, that the entire process was designed to dehumanize. In that, they’d succeeded. For months, he’d simply existed, a creature who knew he was alive, was hungry, felt pain.
He moved to his bed, rearranged the crimson and gold coverlet atop it. The fabric was a reminder of an earlier time, a better memory than most. A crowded market, an aged vendor, a beautiful length of silk he’d purchased, sent to Brendan’s ship for transport back to Nova Scotia. His brother had kept it safe, along with a few other trinkets, never realizing that they would become remnants of a former life.
Could a man be born again? Could he live two lifetimes? Hamish felt as if he’d done it, becoming a different man from the one he’d been reared to be. Certain physical traits were the same, such as the color of his eyes and hair. But his voice was different, a rasp when he spoke too long. A result of screaming for months. He was as tall, but his slenderness was a result of months of near starvation.
The greatest changes were not so easily seen. He no longer possessed the easy optimism of his youth. Nor did he accept that tomorrow was guaranteed. Time itself had become precious to him. His thoughts dwelled not on adventure or the next voyage as much as on his beliefs and what he might expect from himself.
Just like the tattoos on his body, his thoughts had been slowly reshaped, forming a pattern he was still trying to unravel.
He wondered if Mary would come. He needed the company of someone who didn’t know him as he had been, someone who could accept him as he was now. His family and friends didn’t understand that the changes he’d undergone had been to far more than his appearance. He was, simply put, not the same man.
The sound of her shoes on the steps ended the waiting. She was here. Glancing behind him to ensure that all was in readiness, Hamish opened the door.
She’d changed her dress. This one, in the same modest lines, was dark blue. Instead of a kerchief adorning her bodice, however, only a brooch of gold and silver rested at her neck.
“Did your husband design that?” he asked, reaching out to touch the intricate design of silver thistles.
She nodded, smiling lightly.
Do you wear it to remind yourself that you’re a proper widow? A question he decided not to ask. There were some answers he didn’t want to hear.
Mary wasn’t wearing her kersch. The headdress had been left behind with the kerchief. She was less modest now, the Widow Gilly, but infinitely more approachable. What would she do if he reached out and took down her bun, uncoiling the braid and spreading her hair over her shoulders? Would she murmur a soft complaint or bat his hands away with a censorious look?
She remained on the threshold, and he waited patiently for her to come inside. She tilted her head, surveying him wordlessly, and then entered with as much caution as a virgin sacrifice. He let the door swing shut of its own volition, only flattening his hand against it when the latch clicked.
The brazier gave off enough heat to render the room comfortable now that the window and the archers’ slits had been closed against the wind. He took the candle from her, setting it on a small, curved shelf.
“What is that?” she asked, pointing to a brass statue mounted on a heavy pediment of bronze.
“Shiva.”
She looked shocked. “Why would you keep such a thing?”
“Why not?” He fingered the bronze ring that surrounded the figure shown in a stylized dance. “Lord Shiva is the lord of me
rcy and compassion, representing the supreme reality that dissolves and recreates the universe. He’s the third deity in the Hindu triad of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, and considered the most fearsome of the Hindu gods.”
He heard his own voice, almost a monotone. He wouldn’t tell her that it seemed strangely right to have the replica of the god there; its presence was a solid reminder of battles Hamish had won. There were times, especially in the deep darkness of night, when he needed to recall something good about himself.
“Why is he dancing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Shiva’s foot was raised, arched to mimic the same angle as his knee. His hands were likewise as bent as if he were in the midst of a dancing to a tune only he could hear.
He smiled. “Because he represents the source of all movement in the universe.”
“So if he does a jig in India, a wave crashes on the shore in Scotland?”
He chuckled at the derisive expression on her face. She evidently didn’t think much of the Hindu god. “Perhaps.”
“I would think you’d want to forget all about India.”
He sent her an amused look. “Just because a bee stings you, Mary, is no reason to hate all living things.”
She studied him intently. “How can you excuse them?”
“Not easily,” he said. “Or even well. If I’m ever going to forget that time, then I must dispense with my hatred.”
“Can you?”
“I’ve had to work at it, for more hours than I care to admit.”
“I admire you for that. But I don’t think I could.”
He didn’t respond. What could he say to her? His own sins outweighed what the Atavasi had done to him.
“It’s a very cozy place,” she said, looking around his room. She deliberately didn’t look toward his bed, however. He’d taken a cot and adjusted it for his height, adding a little more width for comfort. What he really wanted was a creation of pillows and soft silk sheets, piled high with furs and surrounded by bed curtains of intricately woven wool. But his cot would have to do.
She stared at him with those soft brown eyes of hers, blinking slowly at him as if she could not quite understand where she was or why. This is a dream, Mary Gilly, he wanted to say. Anything might happen in this place, in the candlelight, with the sound of the blustery winds just outside the window. What do you require of me? She might say anything, she with her fingers pressing lightly against her throat as if to measure the pounding of her own blood. Did her heart beat rapidly in her chest? Her breathing was quick, her gaze fluttering from his trunk, to the window, to the table.