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Chapter One
"Tell me about my patient," Mary Gilly said. "When we were boys, I called him Hammer," Brendan said, glancing over at her and then away as if afraid to witness her response to his words.
"Hammer?" Mary asked. "A rather fearsome name."
Brendan smiled, an appealing expression she'd thought when she'd first viewed it. Now, however, she was well aware that the man was actively attempting to charm her.
"As a boy he had a head as hard as iron. He used to butt me in the stomach whenever he didn't like what I had to say, which was most of the time. I started calling him Hammer then."
"I'm more interested in him as a man," she said.
"I no longer call him Hammer, of course. It would be foolish to call a man over thirty by his boyhood name. Yet I've been known to do something daft now and then." He glanced at her again, and Mary couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking that bringing her here was one of those foolish acts.
She was having the same doubts.
He was the brother of Alisdair MacRae of Gilmuir, a long-time customer of her husband's. Had it not been for the fact that she'd known Alisdair and his wife, Iseabal, a number of years, she wouldn't have considered leaving Inverness with Brendan. Now, however, she doubted the wisdom of that decision.
Mary stared straight ahead, deliberately concentrating on the mane between her horse's ears. She and her long-suffering mare were both feeling the effects of this journey. They'd been pelted by rains all day. At first, the roads were not only passable, but very good. In the afternoon, however, they'd turned off the main thoroughfare and were now following a meandering course beside the loch. This path was rutted and muddy, their pace slow to allow the full wagon behind them to catch up from time to time.
"Don't be surprised by his appearance, Angel."
She glanced at him, irritated. "Please, do not call me by that name."
"It's what everyone in Inverness calls you." There was that charming smile again.
"Not everyone," she countered.
"Enough."
"Just because people repeat something doesn't mean it's right or proper." She looked at him, willing him to understand. "I do not want you to think that I'm capable of miracles. I can't guarantee to help your brother," she said, compelled to offer him the truth. "His injuries may be too far advanced for my limited skills."
"He may be too far for anyone's," Brendan said glumly.
"It's been nearly a month since you've last seen him?" Another question trembled on her lips. Finally, she forced herself to speak it. "Are you certain he's still alive?"
"Of course he is." But his lips thinned, and his expression made her wonder if he were as optimistic as he sounded.
The farther west they traveled, the more barren and desolate the landscape became. To their left was the loch and beyond, the sea. On the right were stark mountains even now dusted with snow. The lowering skies tinted everything somber and gray, the color of sadness.
She smoothed her hand over the medicine case on the saddle in front of her. The case was a talisman of sorts, and her stroking a habit. The leather was worn smooth where her fingers had caressed it beneath the handle so many times before when she was nervous or simply waiting.
Patience was a requirement in healing, she'd discovered. She must wait for a patient to improve, for a medicine to work, for a fever to break. Sometimes, the outlook was good. At other times, it was not, and Death swooped in, black garbed and cackling, to steal the ill from her grasp.
"You mustn't be surprised at his appearance," Brendan said. It was the second time he'd made the comment, as if he were afraid she'd exclaim aloud or recoil in aversion upon meeting her new patient.
Otherwise, he'd been remarkably reticent about his brother's injuries. She, in her pride and foolishness, had been in a rush to be of assistance, not asking all the questions she should have prior to leaving Inverness.
"I've seen many grievous things, Brendan," she assured him quietly.
"India changed him. He's not as he was."
"People who've always been healthy often react with anger to sudden illness. They don't expect their bodies to betray them."
"He's not angry," he said and then looked away, as if uncertain whether to continue. "Perhaps resigned," he added after a moment. "He seems to simply accept whatever happens to him, almost as if he's ready for the worst. It's not like Hamish."
"It could be a symptom of his illness," she told him, familiar with such behavior in her patients. "Even the healthiest man will have the doldrums if he's been laid low."
He nodded but said nothing further.
Her hands were chilled beneath her leather gloves, and Mary felt as though she had never been warm or dry. The wind whistled out of the north, flattening the horse's mane. A gust traveled beneath her voluminous red cloak, lingering at her ankles. She held herself tight, elbows pressed against her sides, chin erect.
"We'll be there shortly," Mary said. It was not a question, rather a hope voiced in a statement. Brendan, however, did not dispute it, remaining silent.
He reminded her, oddly, of her late husband's apprentice, Charles. Brendan was a more attractive man, with an open countenance and a face that encouraged an answering smile. His hazel eyes were earnest; his brown hair had a habit of falling over his brow boyishly ...
To Love a Scottish Lord. Copyright © by Karen Ranney. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
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