A.N.: After some nasty reviews from a particular reader who shall remain nameless, because you know exactly who you are, I have come back to this story.

There have been several comments that Lillian has no flaws. I hope I have enough skill to bring across the fact that Lillian is an insanely-good compartmentaliser, trained from a young age to lock away her emotions to get work done, put others first, to survive… And that she has PTSD, is grieving the only stable thing in her life, her grandfather, and she believes she is suffering a psychotic break.

A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal

09

He did not notice it at first. As she had since the first time they met, she showed a sense of grace that was almost transcendent. He'd never met a woman like her, admired her unflinching strength in that cottar, surrounded by men who would more than happily have taken a turn with her had Dougal been more obliging. Whenever he glimpsed her, she maintained a posture more rigid than the best of Redcoat soldiers, had her chin raised, her facial expression smooth, approachable but guarded; it was her eyes that gave her away. Always slightly large, and alert.

She rarely turned her back to a chamber, and he often saw her eyes flicker over anyone approaching for their weapons, assessing, her body only relaxing whenever they had passed her by. A serving-girl made her jump if they caught her unawares; sometimes she would stare unseeingly at the bench during mealtimes, pale-cheeked, shadows smudged under her eyes.

The lass looked…haunted. Scared. Only, she hid it too well; Mrs Fitz worried their new physic had already taken ill herself. There was talk of Davey Beaton's ghost… It was also widely spoken of that the Laird was taking measures to secure Mistress Egan as the new physician. She wanted protection, which no-one could blame her for, an English widow alone in the Highlands. The Mackenzie had apparently consulted his lawyer, Ned Gowan, who had been at Leoch since Callum's father was laird.

Sometimes he thought the lass looked…forlorn, especially at mealtimes when the castle gathered. Everyone knew she was an Englishwoman, and he suspected only Dougal's glower and Mrs Fitz's admiration of her stopped the men telling tales about the lady. It was accepted as fact that Mistress Egan was a travelling healer. This morning already she had been asked to tend to one of the stable-lads, setting an ankle the same way she had Jamie's shoulder. But after the lad had hobbled off on a crutch Auld Alick kept about for working on the horses he trained, her eyes had darted around the courtyard, white-faced, looking anxious and unsettled. He'd seen the look before – on young lads fresh from their first strumush. The wild-eyed look of hunted deer. Skittish, alarmed, knowing with some instinct they were soon to be dead. At mealtimes, she sat alone, most people wary of her foreignness, aware that she was a stranger. She had to be feeling lonely, even surrounded by people in this great castle. He often felt the same way, and preferred the unconquerable wild of the mountains.

"D'ye ken Callum will keep her on?" Jamie murmured, glancing along the great table to where Mistress Egan's vivid hair glimmered in the bright early-morning winter light streaming through the windows high above.

"The Laird will do as he sees fit for his people," Murtagh shrugged, focusing on his stew. Callum Mackenzie was playing a very patient game, taking his time to consult with his lawyer about engaging Mistress Egan into his employment. Waiting, watching, perhaps, to see how she would react to the uncertainty. But the lass was a clever one, wily as the fox she shared her colouring with. She was quietly assessing her surroundings, her situation, waiting for some indication of her next move. "He'd be a fool to let her go, with such gifts as she has… And Callum Mackenzie is no fool."

"Aye," Jamie said softly, finishing his stew and glancing down the table again. A serving-girl approached Mistress Egan from the other side of the table, one of the same girls who had startled her only yesterday. Mistress Egan glanced up, her eyes alert, her face open – though stern and unyielding, Mistress Egan was approachable and, above all, kind. She had not made friends, having been at Leoch only a few days, but word was spreading that Mistress Egan would tend to anyone who needed her help, as best she was able. He'd seen her set an ankle in the courtyard, apply healing salve to a burn in Mrs Fitz's kitchen, but as yet Ned Gowan had not approached her with a contract and Mrs Fitz still treated Mistress Egan as a guest of the Laird's.

Mistress Egan finished the last spoonful of her stew and climbed off the bench to follow the serving-girl out of the great hall. Jamie caught his eye, pulled a face, and they spoke of other things in a low hum, ignored by everyone else, until Jamie had to get back to the stables.

As quiet as Murtagh was, he had a knack for picking up things. Pieces of information, listening to entire conversations without being observed, and he listened. The hum of gossip about the castle had been stirred to a fever-pitch by the arrival of Jamie and Mistress Egan. One half the population of the castle sighed over pretty Jamie; the men lusted after Mistress Egan despite her Englishness. They did well to give the castle something new to talk about; they would be the subject of talk for months.

One of the other serving-girls told Murtagh that Mistress Egan was to be shown Davey Beaton's surgery today.

The immediate sensation was of meagre light and general uncleanliness. The incongruity of dust covering everything made Lillian suspect that Mrs Fitz had never had much to do with the surgery of Davey Beaton. It was a large, stone chamber with higher ceilings and curved arches, small diamond-paned windows and a huge fireplace. One wall was dominated by a handsome cabinet full of cubby-holes and tiny drawers, bell-jars glinting through the dust on the countertop, with cupboards beneath. There was a good-sized oak table covered in jars, fat candles, clay pots and bottles, a large pestle and mortar, copper weighing-scales and a fat leather-bound book. There was a high-backed, engraved chair with an upholstered seat, a kettle dangling over the grate and a heavy-looking apothecary's chest. In the far corner, a cot had been set up behind a curtain.

There were odours. Quite a few of the bottles held liquids of a suspect colour, and she dreaded the investigation into the contents of the jars and other pots and drawers. In all likelihood she would have to empty most of the contents of the room out and start fresh. But it was winter; at least Mrs Fitz had bundles of essential herbs in the kitchens. She had missed the mushroom season.

It wasn't so large the room couldn't be cosy, it was just alien. Poorly organised, unclean and lacking warmth. A man's domain.

"Why has it been left to gather dust?" she asked.

"Tae prevent the fever spreading," the Laird said gruffly. Lillian frowned around, going to the windows. She had to fight them, but they did open, and gusts of clear, sharp air burst in, bringing with it the noise of the courtyards, the chatter, the whacking of sticks as boys played sword-fighting, the flirting of Mrs Fitz's maids with stable-lads. "You know the uses of these things?" The Laird indicated the jars and pots on the table.

"I'll soon find out," Lillian said, swatting cobwebs away with her fingertips, dusting them against her skirt. The windows needed washing, the hearth needed a good sweep, everything needed a clean. All thoughts of yellow dusters and furniture polish, a vacuum, antibacterial soap, fled from her mind, and she sighed. "The place needs a good scrubbing before I let any patients in here. It's filthy; they'll die of inflammation… And this…" She wrinkled her nose at the cot tucked behind a dusty curtain. Filthy, greasy sheets, the rank scent of rotted straw.

"My lawyer is working on a contract," the Laird said, in that quiet, gruff voice of his. "You will speak to Mrs Fitzgibbons about anything you find lacking in the surgery."

"Thank you," Lillian smiled shyly at him.

"I shall leave you now," the Laird said, and Lillian nodded, watching him make his painful way to the stairs. She sighed, when he was out of sight up the spiral stairs, and glanced around the room. The surgery. Hers, now. For who knew how long – as long as she could keep it. And she was determined to. Castle Leoch was as good a place as any, and a great deal better than most. Securing a paid position where she could utilise her training, protection from Black Jack and anyone else who might take advantage of her being alone and friendless…

This surgery was hers, now. The Laird of Leoch had his lawyer drawing up a contract of employment, which meant protection. She had to keep up her end of the bargain.

She stood alone in the room, the first time she had been left alone except to sleep, in days. She wasn't stupid; she knew someone, most likely Dougal Mackenzie, had set his men to watching her. She was a trained soldier; she knew a tail when she saw one. She had most likely bored Rupert and Angus to tears the last few days.

It had been almost a week, by her calculation. Two days and nights travelling by horseback from Craigh na dun; she had lost a good day to sleep afterwards; and she had wandered the castle for three days, after meeting the Laird of Leoch. A week. And she hadn't woken up. Not in a B&B regretting too much whisky, or in a hospital-gown from a long coma… She wasn't waking up. Was this real? Or a coping-mechanism of a fractured mind?

Whatever it was, she knew she wouldn't survive this without putting in an effort. If this was a figment of her imagination, at least she had created a scenario in which she could be useful, challenging herself. Applying Twenty-First Century knowledge and training to Eighteenth Century life. Oh yes, a challenge.

She was used to the bustle of working in a team. Other CMTs, nurses, doctors, surgeons, a well-oiled machine tending to everything from the most mundane of sprained fingers and tonsillitis to the most atrocious life-altering injuries, stitching a person literally back together. She knew she was an outsider here, but the isolation was wearing on her – odd, as she had been living in self-imposed solitude for weeks now, hiking through the Scottish countryside. But it was different. Everyone at Leoch knew each other. They were a family – a clan. There were so many family ties and ancient connections. And she was the odd one out.

Still, she had saved Willie's life and stitched Jamie up, and that alone had already earned her a reputation. No-one hesitated to approach her about medical matters, even if they didn't linger to chat, unnerved by her English accent and her knowledge. An educated woman was a rarity. If she was one of a handful of women in the surrounding countryside who could read, she would be very surprised.

Lillian had to maintain that standard, of saving lives. At the very least, in leaving no-one in any doubt she had done her utmost to prevent deaths. She didn't want to be accused of anything but trying to help people.

She sighed, glancing around the surgery, and set to work. She had conversations with Granddad, in her head, as she combed through the clay pots and jars and bottles, appalled and sometimes nauseated by the contents – mouse-blood, ground human skull, maggots, sheep dung, live woodlice, urine – setting aside the suspect jars in a wicker basket to be emptied and cleaned.

"You can make yourself useful," she told Angus, dumping the basket full of bottles and jars in his arms. "Carry these to the kitchens." And, because she gave him no room to argue, Angus hefted the basket in his arms as she carried another armful of bottles and led the way to the kitchen. Mrs Fitzgibbons directed her to some scullery-maids, who were tasked with emptying out and cleaning out the jars and bottles, returning them to Lillian in the surgery after they had been boiled.

When she explained the surgery must be kept as clean as possible, Mrs Fitz offered Lillian two other maids to do bulk of the cleaning, personally overseeing their efforts. The greasy sheets were stripped, new hay was used to stuff the mattress of the cot, the flagstone floor was swept and mopped and sprinkled with dried lavender to deter bugs, and every surface and every crevice was scrubbed with hot, soapy water. Clean windows let in the wintry sunlight, and a fire crackling in the grate chased away the chill.

It took days, and in between the cleaning, she had occasional patients to treat. She had spent time going through each of the jars and bottles for things she actually could use; there were a couple of dozen of those, dusted and arranged neatly on the scrubbed table that was now spotlessly clean. With the cot, there was an ancient and once-elaborate folding screen, a tin bath, a heavy, carved chair and a small stool: Once all was scrubbed and dried, Lillian arranged the room sensibly.

The surgery was unrecognisable as the haunt of Beaton's ghost, once Lillian took up residence. Everything gleamed with cleanliness, the room was pleasantly warm, they could hear the hustle and bustle of the courtyard and occasionally the birds, and it smelled faintly of herbs and lavender and wood-smoke.

Mrs Fitz seemed to approve.

When she came to Lillian with a jagged cut from a dull blade, Lillian sat her down in the heavy chair in front of the open window for light, cleaned the wound, gave her a couple of tiny stitches, and told her, "Have the knives sharpened, Mrs Fitz. It seems that it should be the other way around, but dull blades are far more dangerous than sharp ones… And I don't want you doing any cooking, or cleaning, not until I see the wound has sealed itself properly."

"'Tis wondrous tae see the surgery so tidy," Mrs Fitz told her, looking quite comfortable, even delighted, as Lillian worked on her. Her eyes lingered on the embroidery Lillian had been working on, as a break from poring over her old books, and the contents of Mr Beaton's log-book. "And the lads were right; ye do seem to know what you're doing."

"More than Mr Beaton, at any rate," Lillian said coolly, eyeing the crumbling pages of his unkempt patients' log. "Here, let me bandage your finger… How is Willie? I've not heard any news about him."

"Ach, his mother frets," Mrs Fitz told her, smiling fondly. "'Tis a miracle Willie returned to Leoch, she'll no' let him out of her sight, but the lad is getting stronger, Rupert tells me."

"That's good. I would pay him a visit to check how he is healing, only I'm not sure I have permission to leave the castle."

"To see your patients, aye, ye can visit the village," Mrs Fitz chided. "Take one o' the lads with ye as protection." Protection. Mrs Fitz believed that. Lillian knew it was more likely protection for the people of Leoch, and the villagers.

"Perhaps I'll take Angus; he's been falling asleep quite a lot recently; the exercise will do him some good," Lillian smirked to herself, as Mrs Fitz chuckled.

"Aye, put the lads to work, or they'll only get themselves into mischief," Mrs Fitz smirked, her face creasing. "They are still boys at heart."

"And…Mr McTavish? How is he healing?" Mrs Fitz gave her a blank look. Lillian chose to ignore it, expanding, "Uh…Jamie, with the red hair? He hurt his shoulder."

"Ach, young Jamie," Mrs Fitz nodded. "Stubborn as a bull, that one. You'd best see for yourself how he's healing."

"I do need to check his mobility," Lillian said. With the abuse to his shoulder after dislocating it, Lillian would be surprised if Jamie wasn't aching. She remembered what he'd said, that if he hadn't moved then, he'd never have moved again at all… Stubborn man, she thought. Scotsman.

The next morning, Mrs Fitz had provided a basket of food and fresh bandages, and Lillian followed her directions to the corral.

A.N.: I realise I haven't updated this story since March 2016. That's four years… Ugh! Insane how one person can ruin something for you. I had this chapter already prepared, mostly, but I'm not sure when I'll next update.