by Susan King
He smiled, a slight, crooked lift of his lip, as if he welcomed the challenge. “Name it. Within my abilities, of course,” he added drolly.
His confident manner sparked her anger further. She grasped at the greatest challenge she could think of immediately. “Win a castle for me,” she blurted out. “Surely waging a war is within your considerable abilities.”
He stared at her. “Do what!”
“Win a castle for me,” she repeated. “One of my choosing.”
“Not much of a miracle, that. Any castle can be broken.”
“Do not break it,” she said earnestly. “Win it whole.”
“I see. And if I do?”
“Then I will try to do what you ask of me.”
“Try?” His voice was low and strong.
She shrugged. “It is all I can promise. Win Glas Eilean for me, and we will have a bargain.”
“Glas Eilean! I know the place,” he growled.
Too late she realized that his castle was not far from Glas Eilean. Perhaps he would even welcome the opportunity to claim such a valuable property for his own. She lifted her chin to cover her distress at the thought. “I hold the charter to it—but you must take it from the man who holds it, and then give it over to my half brother’s keeping.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek and his eyes glittered cold. “I will not lay seige to Glas Eilean,” he said flatly.
She had not expected that answer. “Why not?”
“My sister lives there. The man who holds it is Ranald MacSween. Her husband.”
She gaped at him as he dug his heels into his horse’s sides and rode ahead. If MacSween, the man who had defied Gavin’s men, was Diarmid’s brother-in-law, then perhaps Diarmid and Gavin were not friends after all, as she had assumed.
She groaned inwardly. She should not have been so hasty to devise a miracle for him to perform. She should not have come with him; perhaps her actions would now make worse trouble for Gavin in his attempts to win back Glas Eilean.
Diarmid rode far ahead of her again. She leaned forward, skirts flying, to catch up to him. “I did not know,” she said.
“There are some bargains I will not make,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“Then you understand my position. There are bargains I will not make either.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then we have no agreement.”
“None,” she said decisively.
He rode beside her without speaking. As her anger cooled, she slid a glance toward him. Sunlight glinted bronze through his brown hair, and the muted colors of his green and black plaid blended with the hills and moorland around them. She studied the smooth carving of his brow and nose, the clear gray of his black-lashed eyes, the proud lift of his strong jaw and the firm set of his mouth. Even the small muscle that tensed in his lean, whiskered cheek seemed determined.
No agreement. She was relieved, in a way. If he had promised to fulfill her impulsive demand, she would have been obligated to match his request. She glanced at him, curious and fascinated. Diarmid Campbell was a warrior, strikingly handsome, powerful in demeanor, intelligent and deeply secretive. He was a chieftain with obligations and duties to fulfill.
Yet he set all aside to fetch a healer for the sake of his niece. He would do anything—nearly anything—to help Brigit. She marveled at the depth of such compassion, such devotion, and wondered at its source.
“I think you would trade your own soul to save this child,” she murmured pensively. The words, private thoughts, were out before she could stop them.
His glance was lightning-fast and unsettling. “Is that your price?” he asked softly, ominously. “That fee I will pay. To whom shall I deliver my soul? Will you take it now, or in portions?”
She stared at him, struck by the intensity she had uncovered with her impulsive remark. Giving her no chance to reply, he leaned forward and urged his horse to a gallop.
CHAPTER SIX
They rode over rolling moorland and climbed steep, rocky slopes, pausing only once to sip clear water and eat the remaining oatcakes. White clouds sailed high before a bright sun as they climbed a long incline topped by oaks and alders. At the top, Michaelmas saw the jewel-like flash of a pool between the trees.
She followed Diarmid through the woodland, hoping for a quiet rest beside the peaceful pool that shone between the trees.
They dismounted beside the pool, which was divided nearly in two by a huge projecting rock. The water was surrounded by grassy inclines and thick trees. Nearby stood an ancient hazel, its branches covered not with tiny birds, as Michaelmas first thought, but with hundreds of fluttering, knotted rags.
Several people, men, women and children, were gathered at the far side of the pool. Some dipped their hands or feet in the water, others knelt to pray at the pool’s edge, while still others tied cloth strips—prayer tokens—to the hazel branches.
Diarmid walked toward the water’s edge, standing behind the shelter of the massive rock, out of sight of the others. He turned toward Michaelmas.
“This is Saint Fillan’s Well,” he said. “You mentioned pilgrimage places. This one was along our way. I thought you might like to see it.”
“I have heard of it,” she said, looking around. “Saint Fillan’s is a sacred pool, well-known. I understand that the king himself comes here to pray for health and guidance.”
“He does,” Diarmid said. “King Robert has a skin condition with symptoms of weakness which recur without warning. Some say the attacks are God’s punishment for the burden of his sins.”
Michaelmas looked up at him in surprise. “Dear Lord. I did not know. He comes here in hopes of healing himself?”
He nodded. “But that has not happened. The disease always returns.” He kicked at the pebbles that lined the shore. “Robert Bruce has worked miracles enough for Scotland and deserves one for himself.”
She did not answer, sensing an odd mood in him, harsh and bitter. Bending, she scooped water into her hands, letting it trickle back to its source like a cascade of liquid diamonds. She thought of her friend Jean, so ill and so ready to find her peace in heaven, and wanted to say a prayer on her behalf.
“They say the water of a healing pool must be silvered,” she said, and put a hand to her belt; then she remembered that her small silken coin pouch was still in the wooden chest at Saint Leonard’s with her other things.
She heard a small splash, and saw Diarmid toss a silver coin into the pool. “Let there be no obstacle to healing,” he said, his tone dry.
“Thank you.” She cupped her hands and dipped them again, closing her eyes to murmur a prayer for Jean, an old Gaelic chant that she had learned as a child. As the water poured through her hands, she repeated the verses three times. Then she straightened and dried her hands on her cloak.
Diarmid picked up a few pebbles and sticks and began to toss them into the glittering sunlit water. Michaelmas looked across the pool, where the other people chatted and prayed; a few settled down to eat a meal.
“I hear miraculous healings sometimes happen in holy places such as this one,” she said.
“Pilgrims come to such places because they believe the water has been blessed by a saint, or by divine power.” He tossed a twig into the water. “They silver the water with their hard-earned coin, and think that God is watching over them. But the 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 who
le. “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. “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 kiss by a healing well,” he murmured. His hand tightened on her shoulder, drawing her closer. “Such a kiss, I hear, brings peace and joy to those who need them.” He lowered his head. “Surely we both need that.” He cupped her cheek.
He heart thumped fiercely as she gazed at him. She felt as if she lost the thread of coherent thought, aware only of the press of his hand, the deep thrum of his voice in her ear, the shape of his lips so close to hers.
Aware, then, of his mouth, warm and pliant and wondrous as it brushed hers and lifted away. She took in a little gasp with the marvelous shock that struck through her. Her thundering heart seemed to fill her chest.
“For luck and a blessing,” he murmured.
“For that,” she agreed breathlessly, yearning to feel his mouth on hers again. She tipped her head up, lips parted, feeling a simple, strong, sudden desire.
/> He lowered his hand, and she looked away, blushing. “Come ahead, we’ve far to ride this day,” he said. She nodded and turned, as he did. Bending down, she took a moment to tear two narrow strips of cloth from the inside hem of her silk chemise. She walked toward the little hazel tree and tied the rags onto branches, where they fluttered among a rainbow display of hundreds of pilgrim tokens.
“A prayer for yourself?” he asked, behind her.
“For your Brigit,” she answered. And for us both, she thought as she walked away.
Hours later, while a vivid sunset bled orange and red into the indigo sky, they reached a narrow pass between a soaring, rugged mountain and a gleaming loch. The wind brought piercing cold, and Michaelmas gathered her cloak closer around her.
Diarmid, his plaid pulled over his head against the chill, rode ahead of her in silence. Wind whistled around them as they left the dramatic vista of the pass. After a while, he turned. “Dunsheen is several miles yet, toward the sea. Can you ride that far, or do you wish to stop?”
Her bones ached with weariness, but she lifted her head. “I can ride,” she said, and urged her horse ahead of his.
Sometime later, she glimpsed the dark gleam of another loch, heard the rhythmic rush of water, and caught the faint scent of the sea. She had used her last reserves of strength to ride this far, stubbornly resisting the fatigue that threatened to crumple her from the saddle. Now, she felt a new surge of energy when she saw a castle jut upward as if it surged, black and whole, from the loch itself. Another glance revealed that the castle and its surrounding wall rested on a long, low isle.
They rode to the pebbled shore, where Diarmid dismounted and held his arms up to assist her. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her down easily. But as she stood, her knees buckled beneath her. She gripped his shoulders, and Diarmid caught her around the waist.
“Ho, girl,” he murmured. “You must be tired. Stand here for a moment.” He leaned her against his chest, his breath stirring her hair.
