Page 14 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

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 na?ve 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.

“They used nails here, too?”

“Exquisitely,” he said. “The Atavasi are masters of torture.”

“Did they do any damage to your other arm, Hamish? Or your legs?” The question was posed with great calm. She was, after all, a healer. But she’d never before seen such acts of barbarism. The wounds were near joints, calculated to cause the most damage and pain.

“No,” he said, his voice as devoid of emotion as hers. “This was something new. I decided to leave before they made it impossible for me to do so.”

Holding his arm, she pressed delicately against one scar, to see if the muscle flexed in response.

“You must tell me,” she said, “if I cause you any discomfort.”

He only smiled again, as if her statement were foolish.

“Does your arm hurt?” she asked, when his muscles remained flaccid.

“From time to time. But nothing unbearable.”

“Twinges? Or a pulsating pain? In the cold? Or when there’s a chilled breeze?”

“At night, mostly. Did you know that you frown when asking all those questions? You’re very earnest, Mary Gilly. Very intent upon your work.” Glancing over at the table where she’d laid out her instruments, he picked up her extended tweezers. “What’s this used for?”

“For a variety of tasks. To lance a boil, peer down a swollen throat. I’ve even used it upon occasion to aid in childbirth.” He dropped it back on the table, and reached for another.

“Did your husband craft these for you? I’ve never seen such things made of silver.”

“The case was a present from Gordon for our tenth wedding anniversary. He wanted me to have the finest tools, so he created them himself. Some I’ve never used,” she admitted. “He got the idea for them from corresponding with some men in Edinburgh.”

“A doting husband.”

His tone didn’t sound complimentary, even though his words might have been.

Her palm stroked his arm, testing resiliency in the muscle. “Press against my hand,” she told him, but there was little resistance in his fingers.

“If you don’t use your arm soon, it will begin to wither,” she said, the calm tone of her voice hiding the worry she felt.

“How do you propose I do that?”

“Exercise,” she told him. “Even if your arm cannot move on its own, it will help to keep it limber.”

She laid his arm on her lap, reached over, and selected a vial. Smoothing the contents onto her palm, she massaged the ointment into his skin using long slow strokes.

“What’s in that?” he asked, looking down at her hands. “It feels both hot and cold.”

“Cloves, spices, and camphor, in a base of pork fat. Something to stimulate the blood.”

Again, that odd half smile.

“I wish I had Mr. Marshall’s electrical machine. I do not doubt that it would aid in regenerating the nerves in your arm.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Electrical machine?”

She smiled brightly at the cautious look on his face.

“I’m very interested in new advances. Mr. Marshall is a proponent of an electrical machine.

How it works, I’m not entirely certain. I’ve never seen one, although I’ve read everything he’s written about it.

It gives off a jolt of energy, not unlike lightning itself.

I think if we could find such an instrument, we might be able to effect some healing in your arm. ”

“Shall I extract a promise from you?”

“I won’t hurt you,” she assured him. “I understand there’s only a slight tingling when it’s administered.”

He laughed, the sound encouraging her smile. “I doubt you could do anything to me that I could feel. No, the promise I want is that you not hold out too much hope. I’ve grown used to my infirmity.”

“You don’t seem the type to pity yourself.”

He’d looked as if he would like to say something else but restrained himself.

A moment later, however, he evidently thought better of that notion and spoke.

“I don’t pity myself, Mrs. Gilly. But neither am I unrealistic.

I have two good legs and one good arm, and although I’m not pleased with that, I can accept it. ”

“How did you bear being tortured?” It wasn’t a question she’d meant to ask, especially so bluntly, but it had come tumbling free in the silence.

For the longest time, she thought he wouldn’t answer her, but he finally spoke.

“I am blessed with a hearty constitution,” he said wryly. “It enabled me to endure more than I thought.”

“Were you angry?”

He looked surprised at her question.

“I would have been,” she explained. “Anger would have been the only thing to keep me strong, I think.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, surprisingly. “I learned to distance myself from what was happening. I wasn’t angry until I escaped, and then I found it a difficult emotion to control. I needed my energy for survival, and most of it was spent in rage.”

“How did you escape?”

“Across the little desert north toward Aleppo and the Mediterranean. I was fortunate to find Brendan in Rhodes.”

That wasn’t what she meant, and she suspected he knew it well.

Their gazes met and held. Unexpectedly, he smiled at her. A charming man before he’d decided to be a hermit. How many women in how many seaports had thought the very same thing?