Lady Miracle by Susan King Page B

“I have accepted that.”
    “It is healed,” she protested. “The body heals such wounds as best it can, and then learns to compensate. You have more strength in that hand than many who have whole, undamaged fingers.” She held his hand as she might have held a child’s, smoothing it gently, wanting somehow to comfort him; she felt his vulnerability strongly. He curled his fingers over hers, his skin a deeper contrast, his warm touch utterly compelling.
    “Michael,” he whispered. “Do you remember what you did the day I first saw you?”
    She nodded hesitantly, her hand trembling in his. She had meant to comfort him, but his heated, firm touch created the safety of spirit that she had often longed for. The realization nearly took her breath.
    She looked up then. His gray gaze, shining like rain, penetrated hers, and she could not look away.
    “There was no ancient legend, no silvering needed, no feast day or fasting necessary,” he said. “You touched a man’s wound, and saved his life.” His words, soft and low, blended with the gentle sounds of wind and water. “So simple, so perfect. I never forgot that day.”
    “I remember it differently,” she said. “You repaired that leg wound, Diarmid. Not I.”
    He shook his head. “Angus MacArthur would have died because I could not stop the bleeding. But you knelt beside him like an angel”—he touched a drift of pale hair that slipped down beside her cheek—“and slowed the blood loss. All I did was close the wound. Afterward—I never saw a man heal more quickly than he did. And you healed my own cuts with a touch of your finger.”
    Beneath his eyebrow, she saw the thin scar that marked the deep cut. She remembered touching it on a misty morning, surrounded by the dreadful moans of dying and wounded men, with the dark scent of blood on her hands.
    She pressed her fingertip to the spot again. He closed his eyes briefly, his lashes black against his cheeks, then opened them, a flash of dark silver.
    “You are not the only one who witnessed healing that day,” she said. “I watched a gifted, capable surgeon, a compassionate young man.”
    “Much has changed since then.”
    “What a strange bond we share,” she mused. “Neither of us uses our healing gifts fully.”
    “Ah, girl,” he said, softly, sadly, “you can use your gift, if you will only let it happen.”
    She looked down, reminded of Jean’s words to her. Let heaven guide you. Spontaneous tears sprang into her eyes. “Healing no longer comes to me as it did when I was a child.” She hesitated, swamped by a keen sense of loss; the gift itself, mourned.
    He touched the side of her face, a gentle sensation that whirled through her body like fire and wind, taking her breath, sweeping away her ability to think. “Do this for me, Micheil. ”
    Her heart thumped. Another touch, another look, and she would promise him whatever he asked. The feeling frightened her. She stayed still, gazing up at him, each breath spinning out the moment.
    “Micheil,” he whispered, his palm warm against her cheek, his fingers slipping through her hair. She loved the short name he had given her, the name he said so kindly, so intimately. She loved the feel of his hand on her face. She closed her eyes briefly. “Please, I beg of you—” he began.
    “Do not,” she whispered. He was too proud, too strong, to beg. She could not bear to hear that from him. Under his steadfast silver gaze, she felt as if she would agree to do whatever he asked.
    “Let me think,” she said, looking away. “I cannot think when you look at me like that.” She rubbed the gold brooch at her shoulder nervously.
    “What is that?” he asked.
    “Something that Gavin gave me as a child,” she answered. “I wear it always. I like to think it brings me luck.”
    “Do you need luck?” he asked softly.
    “Everyone does,” she answered, looking up at him. “You do.”
    A smile quirked his mouth. “They say that it is luck to