Page 9 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

M ary woke feeling rested, grateful that Betty had delayed waking her. An instant later, she blinked open her eyes and stared at the ceiling, realizing that she wasn’t home in Inverness but in the tower room at Castle Gloom.

Something had awakened her, and she glanced at the archers’ slits in surprise, realizing that the sun was shining brightly in the sky. Dawn had come and gone, and she was still lying in bed like a slug.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, clamping her hand over her mouth as she yawned.

Standing, she attended to her morning chores, and then dressed as quickly as she was able in a serviceable dress of brown linen and a scarf of beige at her throat.

She untied her braid, brushed her hair quickly before arranging it in a tight bun at the back of her head and topping it with a ruffled white cap.

After straightening the sheets and the coverlet on the cot, she retrieved her case and opened it, spreading it wide on the bed. First, she donned her apron, and then tucked into the pocket the various medicines she thought she might need.

Going down the stairs was as difficult as the ascent. She couldn’t imagine doing this day in and day out for the rest of her stay at Castle Gloom.

Even before leaving Inverness, she’d decided that she’d be gone only a week.

Otherwise, she’d miss the meeting with Mr. Marshall that had been arranged weeks before.

The famed author and minister had actually wished to meet with her and discuss treatments, an honor especially since there were so many demands on his time.

It had taken a day to travel here, and the return would take the same amount of time.

Therefore, she had five days in which to treat Hamish, and already one had passed.

However, from what she’d witnessed the night before, the man was less in need of her medical skills than of an understanding ear.

But his arm was worrisome. What could have caused such lameness?

Her mind was on various conditions that might have done so and actually eased her discomfort on the stairs.

The day felt unseasonably warm, the breeze flowing through the iron gate smelling of the sea. The birds in the nearby trees were all singing together in a riotous greeting to the morning, so loudly that she had to raise her voice to be heard when she greeted Brendan.

“Good morning,” she said, nodding to him and Micah. The two men were sawing another log. No doubt more firewood at Hester’s behest. There was a stack of wood propped up against the outer wall, and a newly felled tree just inside the land gate.

Brendan had taken off his shirt, and his torso gleamed in the morning sun. From the expanse of tanned shoulders and back, he’d evidently done this often.

“Is your brother planning on remaining here all winter?” she asked, dipping the bucket into the well.

“Why didn’t you ask him yourself last night, Angel?”

She felt her face warm, and wondered at her reaction. She was no miss, no maiden to be reduced to blushes. Why, then, was she acting the innocent?

“You heard us?”

“Sound carries in the tower.”

“Then you’ll know I’m no closer to treating him than I was yesterday.”

“Does that mean you’re giving up?”

“Of course not,” she said in a clipped voice. “You’ve hired me to treat your brother and treat him I will.”

“Even if he doesn’t wish it?”

“An ill patient is like quarrelsome child. A parent does not ask the child what he wishes to do. A wise and loving parent simply tells him.”

“So you’re going to be his mother?” Brendan grinned at her.

She nodded, deliberately not responding to his goad.

Nor would it do any good to explain the whole of her treatment plan.

Most people didn’t understand that medicine was a guessing game.

The more experience she had, the more Mary understood that each patient was unique.

The treatment that worked with one might not work with another.

Matthew Marshall had understood that. In his book The Primitive Physick , he’d explained that good treatments were based on empiricism—experience, and not theory.

“I’m going to treat him,” she said firmly. “Even if he does not wish it.”

She took the bucket of water to the kitchen, intent on heating it in order to finish her morning toilette.

Matthew Marshall subscribed to basic treatments, one of them being the axiom that cleanliness was vital.

Mary had discovered that she had fewer infections once she’d begun washing her hands in hot water before visiting a patient.

She’d taken other precautions as well, such as dusting her hands with boric powder and wearing a mask when treating noxious wounds.

Hester was smiling, looking as pleased as a child with a new ball.

Around her, the kitchen lay spotless. The floor had been scrubbed, as well as the walls.

The packing crates had been removed, and every new bowl, plate, and cup had been washed and hung in the built-in cupboard.

A wonderful smelling stew was cooking over the fire, and something equally as delicious was cooling on the end of the long table.

“You’ve been busy this morning,” Mary said, looking around at the changes.

Hester nodded. “The place calls for a little loving touch. Plus I found a kitchen garden just outside,” she said.

“Overgrown, it was, but there’s still rosemary and thyme and mint.

” She placed a plate holding a slice of meat pie from dinner last night on a tray.

Beside it was an earthenware jug of ale, and a mug.

Hefting the tray in both hands, Hester headed toward the door.

“Is that tray for Hamish?” Mary asked before the other woman could leave the kitchen.

Hester’s look was amused, as if the thought of waiting on either Brendan or her husband was humorous.

“I’ll take it,” Mary said.

“Brendan was going to deliver it. Not me.”

“Maybe he’d welcome me if I come with food,” Mary said.

“Is he proving to be stubborn?” Hester asked, surrendering the tray. “Men are, on the whole. Especially when they’re feeling poorly.”

She wasn’t entirely certain it was his health that had Hamish MacRae acting so obstinate.

Mary crossed the courtyard, nodding at Brendan, who took one look at the tray in her hands and began smiling. She frowned at him but it did no good; he was still wearing that silly grin as if he anticipated the confrontation to come.

After last night, perhaps she should have been wiser.

Hamish had, after all, left no doubt as to his feelings about her presence.

His unvoiced vulnerabilities touched her, a fact that would no doubt horrify him if he knew.

It was why, she suspected, he wanted her gone from Castle Gloom.

A man like Hamish MacRae would deplore any weakness in his character, even that of simply being human.

She climbed the first flight of stairs in the tower feeling as if her heart were booming in her throat. Taking a deep breath, Mary forced herself to calm. All she needed to do was to keep close to the wall and not look down, that was all. It seemed a simple enough task.

Another flight, and she passed the room where Brendan had slept the night before. It was darker here, as if night lingered atop the tower. She made the mistake of glancing down for just a moment. A wave of dizziness swept through her. Instantly, her feet felt sweaty and her stomach weightless.

She hated this weakness. Gordon had once said that she was not meant for parapets or bridges. She’d laughed with him, but now her fear of heights was no laughing matter. It was getting in the way of treating a patient, and that would never do at all.

Finally, after taking the last few steps on feet that felt remarkably weak, she made it to the top landing. Determinedly, she knocked on the banded oak door with one hand while she balanced the tray with the other. She waited for a response, but it didn’t come.

“I need assistance, Mr. MacRae,” she said a moment later. “The tray is heavy, and there is no place to put it down.”

“I don’t require that you serve me, Mrs. Gilly. Place it on the floor, if you will.”

“I thank you for your suggestion, sir,” she said crisply. “But it would be better if I could place it on the table, instead. Surely you have one within that lair of yours.”

“It’s a sanctuary at the moment, Mrs. Gilly. Not a lair.”

His comment brought a smile to her lips. He was a stubborn man, but she was even more obstinate.

“Mr. MacRae, there is nothing you have that I have not seen before at least a hundred times. Unless, perhaps, you have lied to your brother and me all along. Perhaps you’re not human at all. Are you a dragon? Are there scales below your shirt, or a tail hidden in your trousers?”

She leaned against the door frame, balancing the tray.

“If that’s the case, then I confess I would be surprised, perhaps even alarmed.

Scratch against the door with your claw, or allow the tip of your tail to appear beneath the door.

Or perhaps grunt in the way dragons roar or belch a little fire.

If I’m convinced that you’re not truly human, I’ll put the tray down this second, disappear from this tower room, and never come back. ”

The door opened so quickly that she was startled. The sun was behind him, and for a second that was all she saw, just the bright glare and not his expression or his features.

“I do not want a healer. I do not want anyone in my chamber. I do not want you, especially, Mrs. Gilly.”

It shouldn’t have hurt. He was simply angry with her, that was all. She thought she might have made some inroads last night, but evidently, he was still obdurate. Despite the moments of oddly pleasing conversation between them, they were strangers. She would be wise to remember that.