by Susan King
He stopped both horses and leaned over to undo the rope and the heavy plaid. “There,” he said, tossing the long cloth behind her saddle, “you’re free. And now that I have your promise to come to Dunsheen, I trust you will ride beside me willingly.”
Michaelmas bit back her first answer, born of a little flare of anger. She had heard of Highland arrogance, but she had met few men from so far north as this one—and none as infuriating.
“I will go with you,” she said. “But that is the only promise I make.”
He gathered the reins and looked over at her. “You understand what is at risk here.”
She felt anger sear again. “And what is that?”
“Your chest of books,” he said easily, and launched forward.
CHAPTER FIVE
Diarmid sat back on his heels and watched Michael sleep. She lay curled in the plaid on a slope of old heather, sunk deep in the silvery stems as if they were a feather mattress. The green and black plaid swathed most of her, while a few locks of her hair streamed free, as bright and pale as the dawn sky above. He wanted to touch those silky strands again. After she had slipped off into an exhausted sleep, he had wrapped her in the plaid and had removed her linen wimple. He remembered the wondrous feel of her hair, like fresh spring air woven into silk.
He looked away, flexing his stiff, disfigured left hand thoughtfully, and used a stick to flip several oatcakes sizzling on an iron griddle. He had made the flat cakes from oats and salt that he carried with him when traveling, mixing them thoroughly with water so that they would be agreeably chewy. He had flinted a stone against the edge of his blade to spark a fire so the girl could eat a hot morning meal. And he had been careful not to burn the cakes.
He expected a noblewoman such as she was to turn up her elegant nose at them, but they were food, and filling, and all he could offer. At least he had not mixed fresh blood into them, drawn from the legs of the cattle that grazed nearby. He was certain she would not eat a cake of that sort.
A lark flew overhead, its trilling call echoing through the crisp dawn air. The girl stirred, gazing at Diarmid through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
“Good morning to you,” he said, and turned an oatcake.
Michael grunted softly, sucked in a breath and sat up. Her hair, gold spun with silver, hung limp in her eyes; when she shoved it back, it slid down again. She smiled faintly, glancing at him and away. Diarmid pinched back a smile. Half awake, her natural temperament unguarded, she had an innocence that was far more appealing and natural than the indignance she had showed him the previous day.
“I must have been tired last night,” she said, her voice thick and a little hoarse. She looked around, frowning. “I do not recall stopping here. Where are we?”
“Dunsheen is a full day’s ride to the west, two in poor weather. And I doubt you remember stopping,” he added. “You nearly fell off your horse in exhaustion before set of sun. I carried you here.”
She ran her fingers through her tousled hair, then stood, gathering the plaid around her. She seemed to hesitate. Diarmid understood what she needed.
“Over the hill will do,” he said, turning the cakes. “None there to see you but a few cattle, and no herder.” She nodded and walked up the hill to disappear over its rounded crest.
Diarmid removed the griddle from the fire and set it on a rock so that the cakes could cool. He went down the hill to the narrow stream at its base, and drank, filling a skin flask with fresh water before returning to the campfire.
Michael descended the slope, passing him wordlessly. He watched as she knelt by the stream, rinsed her face, and rose to her feet. The first rays of dawn gilded the top of her head like new gold, and glinted along the length of her hair as she deftly made two plaits and bound them over her ears. Then she wrapped the headdress over all, and Diarmid felt a sense of disappointment, as if a light had been extinguished.
Diarmid scratched his whiskered chin, aware that he too needed to wash, and more, needed a shave and clean clothing. He took one of the hot oatcakes and bit into it deeply. When Michael came near, he gestured toward the food with one hand, his mouth full.
She sat demurely, arranging her black skirts around her before choosing a cake. Nibbling at it with even white teeth, she chewed slowly. He wondered if the food was too coarse for her tastes, or too ill prepared.
Diarmid finished his cake quickly, and devoured a second in the time it took her to nibble through half of hers. He wiped his hands on his plaid and looked at her.
“If you do not care for oatcakes, I am sorry,” he said. “I had only that. A simple meal, quick and easy to carry.”
She swallowed. “The cake is good,” she said. “And I am glad you did not use blood in the mix.”
He lifted a brow. “You know that trick?”
She nodded as she broke off a small piece. “I am from Galloway. The people there are more Highland than Lowland. I have probably eaten as many oatcakes as you have.” She popped the bit into her mouth and chewed.
He tilted his head slightly. “I would have thought you were accustomed to fine-milled white bread, roast swan, and new ale every morning. And rosewater to wash your fingers, and linen napkins for your mouth.”
She wrinkled her nose, and swallowed again. “Oats and water will do fine, thank you,” she said. “Finely milled bread lacks grit to aid digestion. Roast swan is greasy and can cause gout and stomach-ache when eaten too often, and new ale every morning can ruin the liver. And Highland water is excellent for hand washing as well as drinking.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “I nearly forgot. You are indeed a physician.”
“I am,” she said. “And the best guarantee of health is a careful diet. If everyone were careful how they ate, there would be far less work for physicians. You should avoid cattle blood in your oats, Dunsheen. Animals can carry bad humors in their blood, just as humans can.”
“I will try to remember that,” he murmured. “So they taught rules of diet in this Italian school you attended? What else?”
“Anatomy, diseases, mathematics, astronomy, philosophy—” she stopped, and shrugged. “But you know as much about those subjects as I do, I suppose.”
He raised a brow in mild surprise. “Do I?”
“You are a trained surgeon.”
He glanced away. “I am not a book-taught medicus. Besides, I do no surgery now.”
She frowned. “But I saw you work. You were well-trained. You have a gift for—”
“Some gifts do not last,” he said curtly, and rose to his feet. “Come. We have far to ride today.” He held out his left hand to help her up.
His outstretched fingers trembled, and the scars on his wrist and thumb were shiny in the dawn light. In that moment, he realized that he had unwittingly revealed to her why he did no more surgery. Pride alone kept his fingers extended.
She laid her slim fingers gently on his palm and looked up at him, her blue gaze quiet, searching, sympathetic, but without pity. He pulled her to her feet and let go, turning away. Silent and thoughtful, Michael brushed bits of heather from her skirt and gathered the remaining oatcakes.
Diarmid kicked at the small camp fire with more force than necessary to extinguish it, as if a few blows could destroy old hurts, old memories. Then he walked away through the silvery heather stems to ready the grazing horses for travel.
After hours of consistent bouncing on the stiff leather saddle, her bottom felt numb. Michaelmas shifted uncomfortably and decided that the broad warrior’s saddle beneath her was unsuited to a side position. Just now she would like nothing better than to walk the rest of the way to Dunsheen. She was unused to long hours on a horse.
She shifted her hips again, and thought longingly of the comfortable saddle she had owned in Italy, of carved wood covered with padded, tooled leather, hung with bells and ribbons and trimmed in silver. That and a graceful Arabian horse had been given to her by an Italian duke whom Ibrahim had treated.
But
all of that was gone, sold with the rest of their things, part of her past. She had come back to Scotland to begin a new life among the people and in the land that she loved best. Then she sighed, thinking what a poor beginning she had made in Scotland. She had planned to be a licensed physician by now, with a few rooms in the town, ready to build a flourishing practice for women and children especially.
Now she had no idea in what direction her life would turn. She looked at Diarmid, who rode just ahead of her, cutting a path through the deep autumn grasses that covered the moors. He would determine, at least for a while, her future.
He galloped ahead, moving easily, as if he shared sinew and bone with his black horse, both of them agile, muscled, lean and dark. With a broadsword thrusting out of the leather sheath at his back, his wild mass of dark hair, and his body clothed in the thick folds of the green and black plaid, he was the image of savagery, a man sprung from the race of legendary wild men said to exist in unexplored parts of the world.
The Lowland Scots called the people of the northern hills savages and Wild Scots. Looking at Diarmid Campbell, she understood why. But she also knew that there was another side to the wild Highlander, and the contrast intrigued her. He was an intelligent, educated man and a capable surgeon.
She frowned, glimpsing his left hand where he held the leather reins lightly. The scars she had seen were the remnants of an old injury. Without closer examination she could not be sure, but the damage appeared to inhibit his finger agility.
Likely a battle injury, she thought, and pressed her lips together in sympathy. Sad and ironic that he had suffered such a wound. He likely had the strength to grip a sword or a tool, but he might lack the finer skills needed for delicate surgical work.
As she watched him, he suddenly turned and looked directly at her. His gray gaze was so intense, even at a distance, that she lowered her eyes as if to protect her thoughts. Then he turned and galloped onward. The ease and speed with which he rode made her long to move with the same freedom.
As a child in the hills of Galloway, she had known such freedom while playing with her closest friends, all lads, and her younger half-brothers. With them, she had ridden astride, climbed trees and castle walls, had sworn mighty oaths, and had fought mock battles with wooden swords. But her years in Italy as the wife of a prominent man had changed her in countless ways. She had lost her spontaneous nature, always conscious of the proper behavior for a lady and a professional medicus.
But this brief journey alongside Diarmid Campbell had affected her unexpectedly. The scent of autumn grasses, of heather and pine and clear water, the sweep of the crisp Highland air against her skin, had stirred wonderful memories of the simple happiness she had known as a child.
Watching Diarmid ride ahead, she decided to reclaim at least one of her Scottish ways or be left behind. Yanking her skirts above her knees, she swung her right leg over the saddle and found the opposite stirrup with her foot. Balanced lightly on the horse’s back, she leaned forward and rode into the wind.
She caught up to Diarmid in moments, her black cloak whipping out and the skirts of her surcoat and gown fluttering over her bare thighs. The veil and wimple sagged and she snatched them off, feeling her braids tumble down. The chilly breeze stung her cheeks. As she neared Diarmid and reined in the horse, she laughed aloud, thrilled by those few wild, abandoned moments.
Diarmid turned and slowed, watching her as she approached. His gaze traveled down her body to her legs, encased in black woolen hose gartered above her knees, and then up, taking in her face and pale, untidy hair. He tilted his head leisurely.
“You know how to ride properly after all, I see,” he said.
She sobered in an instant, pulling her skirts down to cover her legs and shoving back her hair. “I rode straddle as a child,” she answered, glancing away from his compelling gaze toward the steep, rugged hills and the misted blue mountains far beyond them. “How far is Dunsheen from here?”
“At the foot of that tallest mountain,” he answered, pointing at a distant peak. “We’ll arrive after set of sun. I assume you would rather ride in the dark than spend another night in the hills.” He urged his horse forward in a steady canter. Michaelmas pressed her knees into her own mount, keeping pace.
As they rode, she watched the pale ring of clouds that covered the highest mountaintop, and wondered what waited beneath those slopes. She wondered, too, who else lived at Dunsheen with Diarmid and the little injured girl. And she wondered if Diarmid Campbell’s wife knew that he had gone to fetch a healer.
“Does your family know that you mean to bring another healer to Dunsheen?” she asked.
“My family?”
“Your wife, your kin.”
He watched the pathway. “They do not know that I went to Perth to fetch you. I have been in the Lowlands with the king’s troops for nearly three months. But my kin will not be surprised that I have hired another healer.”
“You have not hired me,” she said. “I come willingly.”
He laughed, short and curt. “Is that what you call it? As I remember, you accused me of abduction—several times.”
“Well, you did neglect to ask for my services,” she pointed out. “You ordered me to come with you, and then took me out of the hospital like a sack of meal, without courtesy.”
“You were in trouble,” he said firmly, “and I saw the need to remove you. I was not going to bother with bowing and waiting on your will. That may do in Italy or France, but in the Highlands we deal directly with matters.” He slid her a glance. “And do not forget that I sent Mungo back for your things when you demanded it without much courtesy. Nor did I burn your breakfast,” he added. “All that is courtesy enough, I think.”
“You deal like a warrior—but I am not one of your soldiers to command.”
He smiled. “They say that physicians are warriors against pestilence and injury and death.”
“That may be, but we are accustomed to respect.”
“Come to Dunsheen and look to my niece, Lady Michael.” He smiled, lopsided and charming. “If you will.”
Michaelmas could not help but laugh. Then she realized what he had said. “Your niece?”
“Brigit is my brother Fionn’s daughter. I am her guardian now.”
She remembered his brother from the battlefield near Kilglassie. “He is dead, then?”
Diarmid nodded curtly.
“I am sorry,” she murmured in sympathy. “I thought you spoke of your own child.”
“I no longer have a wife. And we had no children.”
“I understand,” she said. “I was widowed last year.”
“I am not a widower,” he said. She glanced at him, puzzled. But the rigid set of his head and back discouraged her from asking more. He rode beside her through the cool morning light, strong, silent, and increasingly mysterious.
As she glanced at him, she saw a muscle pump along his jaw and a faint blush touch his cheekbones. She had met his prideful, arrogant side; now she glimpsed again that vulnerable man she had seen before, the one who carried a bitter sadness. He kept his sorrows and secrets to himself and drove forward on some hidden, relentless quest to find a cure for an ailing child. Wanting to know more, she could not ask; wanting to help, for that was irrevocably part of her nature, she had only one recourse. “I will examine Fionn’s daughter for you, since you ask it of me.” She hoped her willingness would bring back the lighter mood of a few moments earlier.
But he only nodded brusquely. “I need more of you.” Simple words, firmly spoken.
She shook her head. “Only that, Dunsheen.”
Diarmid stepped his horse closer to hers and reached out to pull on her reins, slowing both horses. He leaned toward her until she angled her head to look at him. “Promise me what I ask, and you will have whatever you desire in return,” he said fervently.
She stared into the silvery depths of his eyes. A tiny shiver slipped down her back, thrill as much as dread. “Whatever you desir
e, Lady Michael,” he repeated softly.
She looked away. “I will not bargain with you.”
“I will pay you well.”
“I do not need coin.” She pulled at the reins, but he controlled her horse for the moment.
“What, then?” he asked. “Land? Cattle? What is it a woman wants?” He frowned. “Marriage? Your brother wants you wed again. Would a husband meet your price?”
She gasped indignantly, although her heart surged. She wondered if he meant himself, but his earlier remark about a wife was cryptic and confusing. She dismissed the thought—she would never take a husband as stubborn and demanding as this man.
He took her wrist in his hand, his fingers hard and warm. “I do not beg favors,” he said. “But by God, girl, I am perilously close to it with you. And I will not think kindly of either of us if I come to that.” He drew a long breath. “I know you can heal Brigit. I want you to do it.”
She shook her head. “Take the child on a pilgrimage to a holy place if you are determined to petition God for a miracle. I am no saint.”
He turned her hand in his and stroked his thumb over her palm. Shivers ran through her, utterly pleasurable, deeply stirring. “Saint or none, you have angel hands,” he said. “The loan of those is all I seek from you. You may ask what you want in return.”
“I do not market miracles.” She jerked her hand away.
He let her go without comment, and urged his horse to walk beside hers. He did not glance at her, although she looked at him repeatedly. Finally she could bear the silence no longer.
“I would like to help your niece,” she said. “But I cannot do what you want.”
“You can,” he said evenly, looking ahead.
She wanted, in that moment, to resist whatever he asked of her out of sheer stubbornness. But he asked the impossible. She had learned to suppress her gift until it hardly stirred within her anymore. Quite simply, she could not do what Diarmid asked.
“Miracles cannot be ordered,” she said.
“You can do this,” he said, unperturbed.
She could not tell him the truth, and she could not convince him. The man was made of stone. She blew out an exasperated breath and slid a dark look at him. “Perhaps I should ask a miracle of you,” she snapped in frustration.
