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.
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.
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