Lady Miracle (7 page)

“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.”

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.

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.