by Susan King
“Storms? It is so peaceful here,” she said.
“If you stay long enough, you will learn why it is called Loch Sìan,” Diarmid said, watching the vessel approach. “In fact, we may have a storm very soon,” he murmured.
“On such a clear day, I doubt—”
“I do not mean the weather,” he answered abruptly. He stepped forward, waiting while the long galley drew closer. She thought he frowned as he looked at the two men standing together in the bow of the galley.
She watched his strong profile, his hair whipped back by the wind off the loch, his jaw outthrust as if he dared a storm to overtake him. Suddenly Michaelmas wanted to stay long enough to learn more about this place—and long enough to find out more about the powerful, enigmatic laird who held this castle on the loch of storms.
She seen many ships, though few as elegantly shaped as Diarmid’s birlinn. Large but not heavy in its design, its graceful, powerful lines curved and swept upward like ocean waves in a design similar to the old Viking longships that she had seen in paintings and stone carvings. She knew that the Islesmen favored the old northern design over the heavier, larger European ships used elsewhere, but she had never seen one this close at hand.
As the boat glided in beside the rocky ledge, she studied in fascination the carved, painted detailing along the rim of the hull and the upthrust prow and stern ends, capped with swirled dragons’ heads. The oarsmen shipped the oars upright in the boat, and one man tossed out a long rope. Diarmid caught it and looped it around a jagged boulder. Michaelmas heard the splash of an anchor.
Diarmid stepped closer, but the deep, still water made her uneasy, and she stayed back. Two men stepped out of the boat and down a board carved with footholds, leaping onto the quay. One was clearly a Highlander by his plaid, green and black like Diarmid’s; the other wore a dark surcoat and cloak. He hung back while the Highlander greeted Diarmid with a quick embrace.
“Arthur, welcome!” Diarmid clapped him on the shoulder. They talked, laughing quietly.
Michaelmas immediately noticed the resemblance between them. Arthur’s hair was auburn and his eyes were dark, and he was as tall and broad-shouldered as Diarmid and Gilchrist. His features were amicable, even plain, without Gilchrist’s perfection or the noble strength in Diarmid’s face. But the tilted smile of the Dunsheen Campbells emerged in full dazzle whenever Arthur smiled.
The other man appeared a little older, shorter than the Campbells but wide and muscular. Clothed in an English manner in a surcoat of slate-colored wool, belted low, beneath a hooded black cloak, he wore leather gloves and well-made leather boots.
“Raonull,” Diarmid said. “Greetings.” Michaelmas heard a wary note in his voice, and saw the fists he hid at his sides.
“Dunsheen.” The man nodded curtly and shoved back his hood, revealing thick brown hair cropped short and a neatly trimmed brown beard. “We have matters to discuss.” He spoke in a courtly form of English, his tone polite, yet with a note of coldness. “We have just returned from Ireland with a new load of exported goods, which we have deposited at my own castle.”
“We will talk about the distribution of the goods, then. You are welcome to have supper with us,” Diarmid said in Gaelic. “How does Sorcha?”
“Well enough,” Ranald answered in English. Michaelmas glanced quickly from one man to the other, intrigued by their stubborn battle of languages.
Diarmid turned. “Lady Micheil, this is my brother, Arthur Campbell,” he said, gesturing to the Highlander beside him.
She smiled again. Arthur gave her a lopsided grin and a half bow, and then turned to take long strides toward the open portcullis of the castle. Michaelmas heard Angus’s loud, exuberant shout from inside the bailey yard.
“And this is my brother-in-law, Ranald MacSween,” Diarmid said. “The captain of Glas Eilean,” he added.
She stepped backward, stunned. Diarmid reached for her arm, as if to prevent her from stumbling. She pulled away.
“Ranald MacSween. I know your name and your reputation.” She spoke coolly in precise Gaelic, aware that she declared her animosity, as had Diarmid, by the choice of language.
“Lady Micheil.” MacSween switched easily to Gaelic then, and inclined his head courteously. “You have heard of me through the laird of Dunsheen?”
“Through my brother,” she said. “Sir Gavin Faulkener.”
Something flickered in his eyes and was instantly gone. “Ah, Lady Michaelmas of Kilglassie! I am honored to meet you at last.” He looked at Diarmid. “Is her brother here too?”
Diarmid shook his head. “The lady is a guest at Dunsheen. She is here on my invitation, to tend to my niece’s condition.”
Ranald MacSween raised his eyebrows. “I did not realize that Faulkener’s sister was a healer. Interesting.” He smiled, thin and flat. “My lady, may I say that I have endeavored to keep the castle of Glas Eilean in your good name.”
“You keep it, sir,” she said, “in your own name.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “I mean only to protect your property, my lady.”
“You killed my brother’s sergeant!” she burst out.
“A regrettable incident,” MacSween murmured. “However, not uncommon in situations of war.”
“Perhaps you should explain the incident to the lady.” Diarmid’s voice cut through the air like sharp steel.
MacSween shrugged. “Faulkener’s men attacked our seaward entrance. We defended ourselves.” He shook his head as if she were an erring child. “You should not trouble yourself with such matters, my lady.”
“Such matters,” she said, “trouble me greatly.”
He inclined his head, unperturbed, watching her with deep, unreadable brown eyes. “May I inquire if your brother has found a husband for you yet?”
“I have no husband or betrothed,” she said. “I will choose none.”
“Is it so?” He took her hand, bowing over it as if she were a queen. “Be assured that I will hold Glas Eilean faithfully for King Robert and for you, my lady, as long as you like.” His mustache and warm lips brushed over the back of her hand. A repulsive shiver ran through her. She pulled her hand away, suddenly glad for Diarmid’s strong, warm presence beside her.
“If you hold Glas Eilean for me, then I ask that you give it over to my control,” she said impulsively.
“Micheil—” Diarmid murmured, and placed a warning hand on her elbow. She shook it off and stared boldly at MacSween, her heart pounding.
Ranald dismissed her with a scant glance and looked at Diarmid. “What nonsense is this she speaks? Have you tried to influence her?”
“Not at all. The lady knows her mind,” Diarmid said calmly.
MacSween turned to Michaelmas with a thin smile. “Glas Eilean has remained safe in my hands for many years. In order to hold it against English and Scots both, for many would desire to possess that castle, you would have to marry. You are wise to accept no offer, my lady. A rough Highlander or a backwards Islesman as a husband might prove poor judgment indeed.”
“Watch yourself, MacSween,” Diarmid growled. Michaelmas felt a sharp rise in the searing tension between the two men. “The Lady Michael is my guest. She appreciates courtesy.”
“I am the soul of courtesy. Your sister will attest to that,” MacSween said in a smooth voice.
“Will she?” Diarmid asked coldly.
MacSween turned to Michaelmas. “As a woman—and a lovely one, my lady—you cannot possibly understand what it is you ask of me. Glas Eilean is a sentinel in the Isles. Its seaward position helps protect western Scotland.”
His placating manner ignited her temper. “I know that,” she snapped. “And my brother has the right to oversee my castle.”
“Gavin Faulkener cannot wave me away as if I were a sergeant done with the night watch. King Robert appointed me to that post several years ago. Your name on that charter means little unless you wed a man approved by the king, a man forceful enough to hold that place.” He
inclined his head. “I advise you to tend to your healing simples and leave these concerns to capable men.” He stepped past her and walked toward the castle.
Michaelmas scowled and started after him.
Diarmid grabbed her arm. “Let him go,” he said.
She yanked away from his grip. “Glas Eilean should have been given over to Gavin last month, in peace and good spirit!”
He stepped close, his gray gaze piercing. “Then let your brother and the king solve the problem.”
“They are engaged in a war in the border area. I wanted you to solve the problem.” She knew she sounded petulant.
“I will not take Glas Eilean for you,” he said flatly.
Her brother’s men had fought and one had died at the gates of Glas Eilean, and she did not want more tragedy. “But you can negotiate with MacSween, for you are kin by marriage. You can avert much trouble for Gavin, for his men, for Robert Bruce.”
He stared unblinking at the water.
“You once swore to do whatever I asked in exchange for a miracle,” she reminded him.
“Not this,” he growled. A lean muscle thumped in his cheek.
She felt as if she pushed against a solid, invisible boulder. Diarmid seemed set in stone and would not give way. Neither would she. Folding her arms, she lifted her chin.
“That is my bargain,” she said. “My price.”
“Is it so?” The steely glint of the loch was mirrored in his steadfast eyes. “Then we will have no miracles between us.” He turned and walked away.
Michaelmas stood motionless, listening to his steps crunch over stone. His words echoed in her mind, lonely, final, disappointing.
No miracles. Thin, cold waves licked at the rocks beneath her feet, a gray chill that sucked her spirit. No miracles. A feeling of loss, of sorrow, swept through her.
Diarmid’s grim statement had cracked the fragile new bond that had begun to form between them—a bond that she had no right, perhaps no wisdom, to desire, for he was wed, and she would be at Dunsheen for only a short while.
She drew long, steadying breaths and wondered what she would do now. She had asked him to win back her castle; he would not. He had asked her to perform a miracle; she could not.
No miracles between us.
She watched the gleaming silver skin of the water and regretted her impulsive words to Diarmid. Just days ago, she had fought against coming here. Now the thought of leaving Dunsheen Castle distressed her greatly. She wanted to help Brigit, wanted to see her strong enough to walk; she believed that it was possible with the right treatment.
And she wanted to learn more about the laird of Dunsheen, who held his secrets so close. She wanted to see that tilted smile again, hear his laughter. Feel his touch, his kiss. She sighed. None of that was for her.
Perhaps she would do best to leave this castle now and never think of the Dunsheen Campbells again. But she could not do it. She wanted to stay for Brigit’s sake now.
After a while she turned and headed up the gentle grassy slope that led to the castle gate.
“That child should be put in a religious house,” Ranald said in Gaelic. He gestured toward Brigit, holding a silver wine cup in his hand. “When will you make her an oblate?”
The web of music spun by Gilchrist’s harp strings faded. Diarmid glanced at Ranald and then at Brigit, who sat securely in Michael’s lap near the hearth. The dogs lay beside them resting. Supper had been eaten and cleaned up an hour ago, and Lilias, Iona, and Eva sat with sewing tasks while they listened to Gilchrist’s harp music. Mungo’s young sons, Donald and Fingal, lay on the floor playing a game of draughts.
Diarmid turned a cool gaze on his brother-in-law. “I refuse to make a gift of Brigit to the Church,” he answered quietly. “That is simply abandonment.”
“The custom provides a solution for deformed children.”
“She is not deformed,” Arthur said sharply, from his seat beside Diarmid.
Ranald waved a hand impatiently. “She is hardly normal, and is no longer an infant. Put her away and be done with it. Let the nuns tend to her.”
The harpstrings sounded again, bolder this time as Gilchrist began a quick rhythm. “I will tend to her as I see fit,” Diarmid said firmly, keeping his voice low.
“I offer sound advice. Think of her lands,” Ranald said. “She has inherited her father’s castle in Argyll. A waste. That fine fortress should be in strong hands.”
“It is,” Diarmid said. “Our brother Colin holds Glenbevis for her until she marries.”
“She is not marriageable,” Ranald insisted. “I am only trying to help. You cannot want another cripple to look after.”
Diarmid sucked in a breath against the urge to grab Ranald MacSween by the embroidered neck of his elegant English surcoat. Arthur sent Diarmid a dark glance that showed a similar frustration, but he too stayed silent.
Fisting a hand on the table to show Ranald its subtle threat, Diarmid was determined to master his resentment for Sorcha’s sake, and the king’s plans. “What do you imply?” he asked.
“No disrespect,” Ranald said smoothly. “The Dunsheen Campbells have had ill fortune among their kin. The early deaths of your father and Fionn, then your mother, the troubles of Sorcha, Gilchrist, Brigit—” he shrugged. “Sorcha would fare better if she were of heartier stock.”
Diarmid started forward. “Say no more!” he exploded.
Ranald colored instantly, his jaw tightening. “Sorcha has lost one weak babe after another. There is no fault with the breeding tool, but with the ground it plows. She had best bear me a healthy living son this next time.”
“Or what?” Diarmid asked icily. Ranald said nothing, which Diarmid thought wise.
“Sorcha has risked her life six times to bear your babes,” Arthur said. “When you speak of her in the hearing of her brothers, you had best praise her.”
Diarmid remained silent with effort, but his fisted hand and steely glance added support to his brother’s remark.
Ranald shifted uneasily and cleared his throat. “Perhaps Lady Michael should attend Sorcha. She must know something of midwifery. She is a herb-healer.”
“She is a physician trained in Italy,” Diarmid said.
Ranald looked surprised. “Indeed? Then she knows something of women’s maladies.”
“I doubt she will visit Glas Eilean as long as you are captain there,” Arthur said.
“What a shame. I fear Sorcha will be brought to a sorrowful bed again soon.” He shrugged as if it were out of his hands entirely. “She would do well to consult a physician in this. She fears that she is incapable of bearing lusty children.”
Diarmid sucked in air, striving to control his temper. As long as Sorcha could endure her anguish, then he would tolerate this arrogant man. His sister had once begged it of her brothers, reminding them that kin, including marriage kin, were respected and valued above all else in Highland custom.
“Lady Michael can tend to Sorcha here,” Arthur suggested.
“I cannot allow Sorcha to travel,” Ranald said. “The risk is too great.”
“Our sister has hardly left Glas Eilean in the several years that she has been your wife,” Arthur said. “You keep her like a prisoner.”
“If she were not so weak, she would have every freedom,” Ranald murmured. “But she chooses to stay isolated.”
Diarmid rubbed a hand in slow frustration over his jaw, and looked sideways at Arthur, whose lean face was grim in the low light, looking as stormy as Diarmid felt himself.
No matter how angry they were, Diarmid thought, he and Arthur and the rest of their Dunsheen kin must bide time and show tolerance to Ranald. There was cause even beyond Sorcha’s well-being now. But Diarmid was determined to see Ranald pay when the time was ripe for it. For now, he considered Sorcha’s needs above all else.
“How long until Sorcha reaches her term?” he asked Ranald.
“If she reaches it? Three months, I think.”
Diarmid nodded.
He too wanted Michael to see Sorcha, but he thought she might refuse. Nevertheless, he would ask her as nicely as he could. By now he knew that bargains and commands would not work with her. “I will speak to Lady Michael,” he said, and sighed heavily.
He glanced at her. Michael watched him from her seat by the hearth, and looked away. Surely she had heard some of their conversation. No doubt she concluded that he would not help her regain Glas Eilean because Ranald MacSween was kin to him. She did not know the rest.
A moment later the harp fell silent. Diarmid looked over to see Gilchrist rise to his feet and swing the wooden crutch under his arm. He murmured to the women and came toward the table.
Their youngest brother had never disguised his dislike of Ranald, rarely speaking to him at all. In fact, Gilchrist said little in general, keeping his thoughts to himself. Diarmid had noticed long ago that the depth and quality of Gilchrist’s mind and emotions emerged only through the beautiful music and lyrics he composed.
He looked at Diarmid and turned his back to Ranald. “I will bid you good night,” he said quietly to his brothers.
“We’ll hear more of your songs on the morrow, I hope,” Arthur said. Gilchrist nodded and swung away.
“So fortunate that Gillecriosd Bacach can play the harp,” Ranald commented. “Nice skills, harping and storytelling.”
Lame Gilchrist, Ranald had called him. Diarmid swore silently and half rose, tempted to take Ranald by the throat at last, kinship be damned.
Arthur kicked Diarmid in the shin. “Skills suited to Gilchrist’s brilliance,” Arthur said. “He is a fine bard for Dunsheen. We are fortunate in him. The king himself has praised his work.”
The remarks gave Diarmid a moment to cool his temper. He lifted a ceramic jug to pour out more claret for himself. His brother had averted a disaster; a brawl, however satisfying, would create greater problems. He sipped the claret, determined to resist Ranald’s manipulative baiting of his temper.
