Lady Miracle by Susan King

Then she picked up her wimple and began to fold it over her hair.
    ” Tcha, ” he said, a soft reproval. “Do not cover your hair. Like moonlight, it is.”
    She paused, startled by his surprisingly gentle words, then hastily draped and pinned the wimple and veil over her loose hair, then settled a band of braided black silk over the crown of her head before she faced him. “And what makes you think that I would leave with you?” she asked, determined not to give in so easily—although she was sorely tempted to agree soon.
    He slid her a glance without comment, then crossed the small room in two long steps and lifted her hooded black cloak from a wooden peg on the wall. He returned and dropped it over her shoulders, and stood so close that she felt his warmth in the dark, heard his quiet breath.
    “How will you get word to your half brother if you stay?” he asked, keeping a hand on her shoulder as if to escort her out of here momentarily.
    She stared up at him. “You bring word to Gavin. You know where he is. I will wait here.”
    “Come with me.”
    “I will not leave in the night like a criminal.”
    “So would you stay here and be accused like one?” She blinked up at him, disconcerted by the truth in his words, and uncertain how to answer. “Michael.” His fingers pressed her shoulder. Her heart thumped at the vivid contact of his warm fingers. “Listen to me. This is a hospital and a house of charity. But the people here suspect you already. If they discover what you can do—” He drew a breath. “Come with me.”
    She watched him, held there by his light, gentle touch. He stood over her like a tall, broad, commanding shadow. Moonlight cascaded over his shoulders and glinted through his tangled dark hair. He seemed somehow unreal, a handsome, magical warrior conjured from moonlight and wishes to save her.
    “Michael,” he murmured. “Come with me.”
    The moment held like a spell. She did not answer, but looked away, breaking the lure of his touch and gaze. She feared he was right, yet fleeing with this wild Highlander was foolish. Sending for Gavin was the sensible course.
    “I will stay,” she said finally. “Be gone.”
    Diarmid sighed, half turning. Then he swore under his breath and spun, scooping her up and over his shoulder like a sack of beans. She gasped out as air was knocked from her lungs. As she regained her breath, he stepped to the door, kicked it open and strode outside. She gathered a scream and let it burst forth.
    Just as she uttered the cry, the bell for lauds began to ring. She pummeled at Diarmid’s back as he carried her through the moonlit yard and around the corner of the building toward the low wall that surrounded the hospital enclosure. There he set her on her feet.
    Before she could scream again, the other man grabbed her from behind and clapped a large hand over her mouth. “Hush now, Mistress Physician, if you will,” he whispered. “We do not mean to harm you.”
    She struggled while he held her, and looked wildly past him to see Diarmid Campbell throw a length of thick wool over her head. Swathed in darkness, she grunted in surprise as Diarmid grabbed her up again and threw her over his shoulder.
    She arched and kicked ineffectually at him. The arm around her legs fit like an iron band, and the hand that steadied her lower back was just as strong. Trussed upside down like a side of beef, struggling against the plaid cutting off fresh air, her efforts soon exhausted her.
    A series of bumps and shifts told her that Diarmid had climbed the low stone wall and was striding down the slope away from the hospital. She struggled again, and screamed.
    “Hush, girl,” he said. “Hush.”
    She did not. She began to utter full-bodied curses in Arabic culled from Ibrahim’s servantman, whose oaths and condemnations, uttered to vendors, had taught her a great deal. She was surprised at her own vehemence.
    “I do not understand what you say, girl,” Diarmid said,