Lady Miracle

by Susan King

  ”Micheil. Here, at the window.” The voice was deep and soft, the words Gaelic.

  She jumped, deeply startled. Spinning, she saw a large shadow at the open window.

  Diarmid Campbell, his head and broad shoulders framed by the simple arched window, looked at her in the moonlight.

  “Michael,” he whispered. “Come here.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered. She went to the window and swung the shutter wide. Her window faced the back of the hospital enclosure, on a ground level, so that Diarmid had no difficulty looking inside. She scowled at him.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he answered, with the same calm manner he had displayed in the courtyard. Then, too, he had made an outrageous statement as if it was ordinary.

  She gaped at him. “In the middle of the night?”

  “Go to the door,” he murmured, and was gone. She leaned forward to peer through the window, and saw him disappear around the corner of the building.

  She ran to the door and waited, hands pressed against the wood, her heart thumping. Within moments she heard a soft knock. She unlatched the door and opened it a crack.

  “Let me in,” Diarmid said.

  “Be gone,” she hissed. “You are mad!”

  ”Ach, I will not harm you. I need to speak with you.”

  “Speak through the door. Or go back to the window.”

  “Will you have everyone listen, then?” he asked. “The monks are on their way back from chapel.”

  Sighing in exasperation, sensing his sincerity and recalling that he was a friend of her brother, she let him enter the room. His wide shoulders and wider stance seemed to fill the small cell as she shut the door behind him.

  Aware that she was clad only in the silk chemise, she folded her arms over her breasts and watched him uncertainly, suddenly afraid, wishing she had not let him in so quickly. But impulse and a tendency to trust too easily had always been flaws in her character.

  He moved toward her. She stepped back. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come with me.”

  She nearly laughed, not in mirth but in frustration at his bold stubbornness. “I have already refused you. And I have decided to leave here as soon as my brother can fetch me home. I will be going to Kilglassie, not the western Highlands.”

  “I can offer you an escort.”

  She lifted her brows, intrigued. She had not thought of that. If she could leave with him, she would be home in a matter of days. “If you mean that, wait until I send word to Gavin and let him know where I am going, and with whom.”

  “I mean to leave now.”

  “In the middle of the night like a thief?”

  “Just in a hurry to be home,” he answered. He kept his hands fisted on his plaid-draped hips, his wide-spaced legs knotted with muscle in the dim light. He reached past her, grabbed her black gown, and tossed it to her. “Get dressed. I have decided to take you out of here.”

  She clasped the woolen garment to her chest. “Take yourself out of here—ach!” She glanced toward the door and saw the other Highlander peering around the edge. She glared at him. He blinked at her and at Diarmid, who growled low, and then the man closed the door hastily. “Both of you be gone from here!”

  “I heard what the prioress and priest said to you today,” he began. He tipped his head to look down at her. “There is trouble here for you. They do not care about your welfare.”

  “And you do?”

  “I do,” he said firmly. “And I offer you a chance to do as much healing as you like. Go on, get dressed.” He gestured.

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “I will not go with you.”

  He folded his arms, and let his glance travel slowly down her body and up to her face. “Will you not? Your brother would be glad to know I took you out of a situation where people mean you harm. You are not safe here.”

  “I am hardly safer with a lunatic Highland man!”

  “Well,” he drawled, “if you wish a hearing and the threat of excommunication, then certainly stay.”

  He could not know the effect those words had on her. She felt an immediate urge to run out of here with him. But she only shot him a cool, silent glare and yanked the heavy gown hastily over her head, thrusting her arms through the sleeves. He handed her the surcoat and she pulled that on too, and turned to find the golden brooch and pin it to her shoulder. Then she picked up her wimple and began to fold it over her hair.

  ”Tcha,” he said, a soft reproval. “Do not cover your hair. Like moonlight, it is.”

  She paused, startled by his surprisingly gentle words, then hastily draped and pinned the wimple and veil over her loose hair, then settled a band of braided black silk over the crown of her head before she faced him. “And what makes you think that I would leave with you?” she asked, determined not to give in so easily—although she was sorely tempted to agree soon.

  He slid her a glance without comment, then crossed the small room in two long steps and lifted her hooded black cloak from a wooden peg on the wall. He returned and dropped it over her shoulders, and stood so close that she felt his warmth in the dark, heard his quiet breath.

  “How will you get word to your half brother if you stay?” he asked, keeping a hand on her shoulder as if to escort her out of here momentarily.

  She stared up at him. “You bring word to Gavin. You know where he is. I will wait here.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I will not leave in the night like a criminal.”

  “So would you stay here and be accused like one?” She blinked up at him, disconcerted by the truth in his words, and uncertain how to answer. “Michael.” His fingers pressed her shoulder. Her heart thumped at the vivid contact of his warm fingers. “Listen to me. This is a hospital and a house of charity. But the people here suspect you already. If they discover what you can do—” He drew a breath. “Come with me.”

  She watched him, held there by his light, gentle touch. He stood over her like a tall, broad, commanding shadow. Moonlight cascaded over his shoulders and glinted through his tangled dark hair. He seemed somehow unreal, a handsome, magical warrior conjured from moonlight and wishes to save her.

  “Michael,” he murmured. “Come with me.”

  The moment held like a spell. She did not answer, but looked away, breaking the lure of his touch and gaze. She feared he was right, yet fleeing with this wild Highlander was foolish. Sending for Gavin was the sensible course.

  “I will stay,” she said finally. “Be gone.”

  Diarmid sighed, half turning. Then he swore under his breath and spun, scooping her up and over his shoulder like a sack of beans. She gasped out as air was knocked from her lungs. As she regained her breath, he stepped to the door, kicked it open and strode outside. She gathered a scream and let it burst forth.

  Just as she uttered the cry, the bell for lauds began to ring. She pummeled at Diarmid’s back as he carried her through the moonlit yard and around the corner of the building toward the low wall that surrounded the hospital enclosure. There he set her on her feet.

  Before she could scream again, the other man grabbed her from behind and clapped a large hand over her mouth. “Hush now, Mistress Physician, if you will,” he whispered. “We do not mean to harm you.”

  She struggled while he held her, and looked wildly past him to see Diarmid Campbell throw a length of thick wool over her head. Swathed in darkness, she grunted in surprise as Diarmid grabbed her up again and threw her over his shoulder.

  She arched and kicked ineffectually at him. The arm around her legs fit like an iron band, and the hand that steadied her lower back was just as strong. Trussed upside down like a side of beef, struggling against the plaid cutting off fresh air, her efforts soon exhausted her.

  A series of bumps and shifts told her that Diarmid had climbed the low stone wall and was striding down the slope away from the hospital. She struggled again, and screamed.

  “Hush,
girl,” he said. “Hush.”

  She did not. She began to utter full-bodied curses in Arabic culled from Ibrahim’s servantman, whose oaths and condemnations, uttered to vendors, had taught her a great deal. She was surprised at her own vehemence.

  “I do not understand what you say, girl,” Diarmid said, sounding amused, “but I can feel the sting of it.”

  “I said you have the breath of a camel and the heart of a snake,” she hissed.

  ”Tcha,” he said, and strode on. She thought he laughed.

  “I told you she makes me quake,” his friend said.

  Diarmid began to lope, an easy running stride that pushed his shoulder into her midsection and forced the breath rhythmically out of her.

  Within moments she felt herself lifted onto a saddle and seated sideways, her knee resting on the saddle pommel. The horse shifted beneath her as Diarmid secured her to the saddle with ties around her waist. Nearby, another horse shuffled and snorted as Diarmid mounted into the saddle.

  When the other man yanked away part of the plaid, she gasped in fresh, cold air. Her horse stepped forward, led by the second man, who held the reins and walked ahead.

  Twisting to look over her shoulder, she saw that they had descended the long slope and now crossed the valley. The eerie brilliance of the moonlit sky revealed the glittering river and steep hillsides that soared to each side.

  Diarmid rode beside her, his profile clean and strong in the moonglow. She glared at him.

  “I am not merchant’s goods to be stolen away!” she snapped.

  His glance was sharp. “And I am no thief.”

  “No thief, but a lunatic!”

  The man who walked chuckled. ”Ach, that’s the physician’s word on you, Dunsheen,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve told him the same myself, I have, Mistress Physician.”

  “And you are no better, for helping him,” she said pointedly.

  He looked hurt, tugged at the reins and walked on.

  ”Ach, go light on Mungo,” Diarmid said. “He only did what I asked.”

  “You asked him to help steal me away like a sack of meal?”

  “Well, some of it was his idea,” he admitted.

  “Is he your brother?” she asked, watching Mungo’s long back and strong legs as he loped ahead of her horse, reins in hand.

  “A cousin, and a good friend.”

  “And a gille-ruith whenever he needs one,” Mungo added.

  She glanced at Diarmid. “Your runner? Are you a chieftain of the Campbells, to have your own ghillie?”

  “A laird in Clan Diarmid, which some call Clan Campbell,” he explained. “Mungo’s MacArthur kin have long been ghillies for the lairds of Dunsheen. He carries messages for me, and accompanies me when I travel.”

  “Then this is his horse I ride,” she said.

  “No matter, Mistress,” Mungo called back to her. “I can run the way to Dunsheen, and be no worse for it.”

  “How far is that?” she asked Diarmid.

  “The width of Scotland and north. Loch Sheen lies along the western coast near the Firth of Lorne.”

  “But such a journey could take days,” she said. She knew the area only because Gavin had once drawn a map to show her the location of Glas Eilean, which lay off the Isle of Isla in the lower Hebrides, near islands held mostly by MacDonalds and Campbells.

  “Mungo and I travel quickly,” Diarmid said. “I hope you are a sturdy rider.”

  Alarmed by the prospect of traveling across the Highlands with them, she glanced over her shoulder. The dark silhouette of the hospital on the hill was fading. Her sojourn there, as frustrating as it had been, was finished—and her future was wholly uncertain with the Highlanders.

  “I want you to take me to Kilglassie in Galloway,” she said, trying to sound firm. “My brother will reward you well.”

  Diarmid hardly blinked an eye. “I did not collect you to trade you for gold. You’ll come with me to Dunsheen. That is my price for rescuing you.”

  “Rescuing—but I was not in danger!”

  “You were and did not know it,” he answered smoothly.

  She fought rising panic, the result of fatigue and her mounting apprehension. “But I cannot go with you to Dunsheen.”

  He glanced at her. “Have you another commitment?”

  “You do not have my consent to do this!”

  “You have been rescued or escorted, whichever you prefer, not stolen. I mean to hire your services. What is the current fee charged by physicians in Perth? A few shillings for a visit, or a retainer of several pounds a year?”

  She blinked at him. “Fee?”

  “Fee,” Diarmid said.

  Mungo looked back. “I heard that King Robert pays an Edinburgh apothecary seven pounds a year to tend to him,” he said. “That is a high fee, but Dunsheen Castle has plenty of work for a physician.” He turned away.

  “Seven pounds Scots a year then,” Diarmid said, sounding satisfied. “Do you want it all in one sum, or in portions?”

  “Seven pounds a year!” she exclaimed.

  “Not enough? Eight, then, for whatever part of a year you stay in order to complete the task,” Diarmid said. “That is very generous of me. It should take you only a few moments, after all.”

  She thought he teased her, but she could not tell, for he kept his eyes on the dark moonlit path ahead. She glanced from one man to the other. “Mungo, what do you mean by saying that there is plenty of work for a physician? Is there a hospital near Dunsheen?”

  “One might think so,” Mungo drawled.

  ”Ach,” Diarmid growled, and sent Mungo a sour glance before looking at Michaelmas. “I have one healing task for you,” he said. “More, if you want. And I will pay whatever you ask.”

  “I told you I cannot—”

  “And I will take you wherever you wish to go when it is done. Is it agreed?”

  “But what you want of me cannot be done.”

  “I told him the same,” Mungo said helpfully. “We’ve all told him to accept that the child is lame for life, but Dunsheen is a stubborn man and will listen to no one.”

  “Mungo, shut your mouth, my friend, and let me talk to the woman myself.” Diarmid looked at Michaelmas. “What is it you want in return?”

  She gaped at him. “Want? You have taken me away against my will, in the dark of the night, with no one the wiser, and with nothing but the clothes I wear.”

  “Then you must want for something,” he said reasonably.

  She shifted her shoulders, still trapped beneath the folds of the plaid. “My freedom.”

  He tipped his head politely. “You are not a prisoner. You are an employed physician.”

  She sighed. Each step the horses took brought her closer to the unknown. She lacked even a fresh gown. If Diarmid Campbell truly meant to take her to his home to act as a physician there, then, without her chest of belongings, she also lacked the practical means to use her skills.

  “My books and my instruments are at Saint Leonard’s. I need them,” she said, and lifted her chin high. “You took me out of there, and so you can go back to fetch what I left behind.’”

  “You will not need charts and tools,” Diarmid said.

  “I need them,” she insisted, “and you must get them for me. I can hardly go back myself, for as you have pointed out, there may be danger there.” She hoped that he would turn and ride back; she thought she could persuade Mungo to let her go.

  ”Ach, she speaks like a ban-righ, a queen.” Mungo tipped his head in admiration.

  Diarmid looked intently at Michaelmas. “Is it part of your fee that these things be fetched?”

  She watched him warily, certain that she had little chance of gaining her freedom. But if she agreed to tend to his child, she would need the information contained in her books and notes. And Ibrahim’s volumes had great value to her, both personally and in terms of her profession; if her possessions remained at the hospital, the town physicians would take them for themselves
.

  Besides, she had no choice. The books were irreplaceable. “Indeed, it is part of my fee.”

  He nodded and turned. “Mungo.”

  Mungo sighed. “I know, I know. Women must have their things,” he said, sounding resigned. “Where are these books that you cannot do without, Mistress Michael the Physician?”

  “In my cell,” she said. “There are books, instruments and clothing in a large wooden chest.”

  “All that?” Mungo looked doubtfully at Diarmid.

  “Go to the castle near Perth, on the north side of the Tay,” Diarmid said, reaching up to unfasten the silver brooch at his shoulder. “The Scots hold it. Show this to the laird there. He is a friend, and will know the cairngorm brooch of the laird of Dunsheen. Tell him that you require a horse to ride and a sturdy packhorse, and he will see that you get them.”

  “And how am I to get a great chest out of the women’s sleeping quarters without being seen?”

  “You will manage the task somehow, I have no doubt. Farewell to you, man.” Diarmid held up his hand.

  Mungo muttered something under his breath and handed Diarmid the reins to guide Michaelmas’s horse. “Farewell to you both. Give my greetings to my children, Dunsheen.”

  “I will.”

  “My thanks, Mungo,” Michaelmas said. “I will remember this favor of you.” The man nodded, then launched into a smooth, long running stride as he struck out across the valley.

  Diarmid held the reins of Michaelmas’s horse loosely in his left hand, and rode slightly ahead of her beneath the high white moon. The soft thuds of the horses’ footfalls and the sweep of the wind filled the silence as they crossed the valley.

  Michaelmas watched Diarmid he rode, his back long and agile as he rocked with the motion of his horse, his dark hair blowing free. He seemed content to ignore her as she followed behind him, and that irritated her unreasonably.

  She shifted stiffly to maintain her balance, still bound to the saddle pommel by a rope around her waist. Her arms were snug at her sides and her right leg ached from keeping her seat on the horse. “Diarmid of Dunsheen,” she called. “You did say that I was not a prisoner.”