Lady Miracle by Susan King Page A

priests drag nets through the pools when no one is about, and buy fine robes for their backs and golden candlesticks for their altars. Any miracles are surely accidental.”
    His skepticism surprised her; he had demanded a miracle from her readily enough. “Have you brought your niece here?”
    “Here, and other places too,” he said. “My sister insisted on it.” He flung a stone into the water. “I have paid for healing, prayed for it, and watched my sister beg God for it. She has her own troubles, and no healing has come to her either. And Brigit does no better.”
    Here she recognized the source of his bitterness; he loved these people deeply and wanted them whole. “But you have faith enough in my healing ability,” she pointed out.
    He huffed a small, hard laugh. “Faith is a precious substance, lady. I use it sparingly.” He glanced at her. “I put no faith in a place like this, but I know you can heal Brigit. I have seen what you can do with my own eyes. That kind of miracle I will believe in, not something promoted by coin hungry priests.”
    “Perhaps you could bring Brigit to another more sacred place. So many swear by—”
    His downward glance, a flash of gray like a storm cloud, silenced her. “Do you think to convince me? I have dipped my hand in this water often enough, bringing the child to holy wells,” he said. “But neither of us have been healed.” He looked down at his scarred hand.
    She extended her hand to him. “May I see?”
    He hesitated, then agreed. She took his fingers, his skin warm and dry, and turned them. The base of his thumb and the wrist were heavily scarred from burns as well as deep cuts. The scarring ran up the length of his thumb, but she found that and all of his fingers strong and flexible when she tested them.
    Her physician’s curiosity instantly caught, she turned his hand to study the wide, striated scars, and ran her fingertips lightly over the grooves. She felt the steady, strong pulse at the tender spot just below the wrist bone. As she smoothed her touch gently over his skin, she heard Diarmid suck in his breath sharply.
    “Your touch is gentle,” he murmured. “So warm.”
    She tugged and folded each finger, feeling tightness in the tendons. “These wounds healed long ago, but they must have caused you a great deal of pain, and still ache in rain and cold, I would think,” she said. She touched the deepest scar over the wrist. “This would have been nearly fatal if the bleeding was not checked quickly. A sword wound, I would say, stitched and cauterized. But the surgeon was not as skilled as yourself.”
    “A good analysis,” he murmured. “Go on.”
    She glanced up at him. “What happened, Diarmid?”
    He shrugged. “A battle wound, as you say.”
    She frowned, but was not surprised that he refused to tell her more; he seemed to hold secrets close. She resumed her examination, manipulating his thumb and fingers. “There is some muscular weakness here, though not as could be. Is your grip impaired?”
    “At times,” he said quietly. He rounded his fingers over her arm and squeezed; the iron-like pressure nearly took her breath. Then a tremble began in his two shortest fingers, and he let go abruptly. “As you can see.”
    She took his hand again and looked at it. Despite the scars, his long, supple fingers and wide palm were a beautiful blend of grace and power. Warmth radiated where their hands met, as if a cushion of protection existed near him. She felt wholly safe with him, and suddenly imagined those warm, strong hands skimming over her body. A shiver slipped through her and blossomed in her lower abdomen.
    Heat seeping into her cheeks, she cleared her throat. “There is a surgeon in France who has successfully cut into muscles and tendons of the hand and foot to repair similar injuries. But the technique is very difficult. I do not know how to do it, although my husband understood it.”
    “My hand will never be healed,” he said.