by Susan King
“What message do you wish me to take back to the king?” Mungo asked as they rode. “I assume he expects a report soon.”
Diarmid sighed deeply. “No message as yet, for there is nothing to say. And Campbell of Lochawe said the king plans to visit the western Isles soon. I can tell him what I have found in an audience with him. So far, what I have heard this week neither absolves nor condemns Ranald MacSween.”
“Perhaps he is only guilty of collecting a nice bit of coin for himself,” Mungo said. “He does not seem responsible for harm done to the western trade routes, and he is not known to traffic with English merchants. His only transgression seems to be his grasping hold on Glas Eilean, and his explanation is a rational one—he cannot turn that fortress over to a woman.”
Diarmid shrugged admittance. “True, Scotland needs a strong hand there, and an experienced Islesman would be best. Even Gavin Faulkener could not hold it as well as a western Highland laird could do. Glas Eilean sits at the gateway to the western Isles. The English blockade of our water routes has already begun to choke the western Highlands.”
“They know how dependent we are on foreign trade for basic foodstuffs, metals, cloth.” Mungo shook his head. “If they want to damage us even further, they might try a direct sea assault.”
“Glas Eilean is positioned to ward off an attack of that sort. MacSween is right. The king needs a strong man there.”
“Ranald MacSween sits on that nest like a cat who has eaten the fledglings and dares any bird to attack him,” Mungo said. “He knows his power. He manages to flourish when others suffer from high prices and scarcity of goods. Do you think he has treasonous connections with the English?”
“It is not impossible, but my brother Arthur is canny, and has his own English contacts. If Ranald had any such dealings, Arthur would have indicated it to me.”
“Lochawe said that a few Scottish ships have been bold enough and fast enough to break through the English blockade,” Mungo said. “Scottish pirates have recently raided English ports as far south as Holyhead and Anglesey, stealing grain shipments that later turned up in Argyll.” He slid Diarmid a sideways glance. “I confess that I had an odd thought about that report.”
“I did too,” Diarmid said. “Arthur had command of my birlinns during the months that I was gone. If he had extra time on his hands, he might have found an interesting way to fill it.”
“Arthur is like you—he can coax speed and stealth from any birlinn,” Mungo said. “He may well be one of the pirates that the English complain about. And if so, he should watch himself carefully. From what we heard, the English are looking for him.”
“I do not fret about him. He will play the dull merchant in Ayr well enough. Tomorrow, Mungo, I mean to sail to Glas Eilean,” Diarmid added briskly. “Ranald mentioned the high quality of the goods he exported from Ireland. I’d like to see what he has stored away there. He should be detained in Ayr for another week or two. And I want to see Sorcha.”
“Then I will go with you,” Mungo said. “I would like to see her too, if she does not mind a visit from a coarse man like myself.” He glanced grimly at Diarmid. “Will you ask Lady Michael to sail with us?”
“She may not want to come,” he replied curtly. In truth, he did not think, after their last encounter, she even consent to stand in the same room with him, much less go somewhere with him. “She has a right to bear a strong grudge against Ranald MacSween,” Mungo said reasonably. “But your sister needs her expert knowledge. Surely you can convince her to go.”
“I have asked her already. She gave me no firm answer.”
“She might, if you were charming enough. It worked in Perth.” Mungo tried to look innocent.
Diarmid cast him a sour glance. “I have no plans to steal her off my own isle and toss her in a boat.”
Mungo chuckled and said nothing, riding ahead. Diarmid rode more slowly, pensive. He had tried for days to keep Michael out of his thoughts. But she hovered at the back of his mind, walked through his dreams, whispered to him as he woke and went to sleep. He saw her in clouds, in fog, in sunshine, in moonlight.
Ach, he thought with mild disgust. He was as smitten as any youth with a first love. But he was no youth, and the purity of first love had bypassed him. Life was far more complicated than in Gilchrist’s harping songs.
But she haunted him, excited him, enchanted him, as if she were truly magic. He had bared his deepest hurts to her, and she had eased the awful burden of guilt he carried, dissolved hidden shadows in his heart. What had stirred to life between them was fragile and beautiful, and he had shattered it irrevocably.
He had ridden out early the next day with Mungo, but the leagues he covered did not lessen the bond that linked him to her. Undeniably, he felt an aching, powerful physical lust, wanting to hold her, to delve into her warmth until pleasure satiated them both. But he felt a greater need that he did not understand. He needed her in the deepness of his soul, and it frightened him.
He did not want her for his mistress. He had said it too bluntly. What he had meant was that he did not want to dishonor her. Michael was precious to him. Had matters been otherwise, he would have made her his wife.
But the ecclesiastical court’s decree made that impossible. The bishop’s grant of separation in bed and board had carried with it a harsh condition, a penitential vow of chastity for both he and Anabel, as if their failed marriage had been a sin.
He felt as if his heart had torn in the last few days. He loved Michael, but he had brought harm, somehow, to those he had loved. Now his finest hope for happiness had slipped from his grasp, and he had no right to rescue it.
When he returned, he would give her the physician’s fee he had promised and send her home to her brother. She had done all that she could for Brigit; she claimed there were no miracles in her. He did not believe that, but he would try to accept it.
But first, he had one last favor to ask of her.
Michael sighed as she bent over the parchment page, a quill pen in her fingers. She sat at the long table in the hall, working on Brigit’s natal horoscope. At the other side of the room, Gilchrist played a soft melody for Brigit and Eva, who listened dreamily, sleepy after a large midday meal.
Michael listened too, while she studied the design on the page. After combing through the mathematical figures in the Liber Astronomicus and another of Ibrahim’s volumes on astrology, and using a volvex, a spinning chart of astronomical information, she had prepared Brigit’s chart. Drawing a neat square and dividing it into wedged segments, she had labeled each section carefully with the information she had found, and then drew lines to link the planetary relationships that became obvious.
Now she sat back, frowning as she studied the chart. Her calculations had produced a puzzling natal design. Saturn in the house of health was afflicted by Mercury, and the sun negatively aspected to Mars. Pisces was strongly represented throughout, as was Capricorn, increasing the chance of weakness in the feet and knees. The chart showed a strong link with water, not surprising to her, but Michael also saw the influence of Venus in the second house, indicating the importance of touch and the hands for Brigit.
Touch. She drew in a breath, and worked on. An intriguing aspect indicated that through hands, health might improve. And she thought—hoped—that the positive aspects showed that the worst health problems were temporary in nature, and confined to early in life.
She sighed, growing frustrated as the subtler details of the work eluded her. The child’s natal horoscope was more complex than she had usually seen. Ibrahim would have understood the message in its entirety, but he was not here to help her.
She flexed her stiff, ink-stained fingers, and glanced at the children, so absorbed in Gilchrist’s quet music. Then she turned back to the Liber Astronomicus, wondering if she had overlooked some aspect that would make all of this more clear.
She was not as adept at interpreting charts as she wanted to be. Had Ibrahim lived, he would have taught her mor
e about the arts of astrology and medicine. Fate had not allowed her enough time to learn all that she could from him.
But if he had lived, she would never have discovered the compelling magic that Diarmid had showed her. The thought of him made her melt inside again, a shivering, excited sensation that had happened often in the past several days. That was followed, as always, by a sharp sense of loss.
She sighed and lay the quill down, rubbing her brow, unable to get Diarmid out of her mind. At first she had been relieved that he had gone away, but at night she yearned for his arms to surround her, longed to feel again the wondrous vibrance he had brought to life inside of her.
But she would shutter her desires. The laird of Dunsheen did not want the burden of her foolish heart at his feet. She would leave Dunsheen Castle. She had treated Brigit, and Lilias and Iona could continue without her supervision. She would ask Angus to send a runner to Kilglassie. Gavin was not there, but someone would come to escort her home.
Leaving Brigit and the others would hurt almost as much as leaving the laird himself. But she steeled herself against the regret and her inner protests, and returned to the chart.
When the shadows deepened, Gilchrist put away his harp and Angus came to carry Brigit up to her room. Michael continued to work in the empty hall by candlelight, vaguely aware that the dogs barked outside in the yard, and voices called.
Then she heard steady footsteps crossing the chamber and looked up, startled. Diarmid came toward her, his hair wind-tousled, his green and black plaid dark in the fading light, his gaze silver and vivid as it met hers.
She stood, dropping the page that she held. When he was an arm’s length away, he halted, eyeing her steadily.
“Lady, greetings,” he said, his voice quiet and formal.
She nodded tremulously. “Dunsheen. I have been doing the horoscope,” she rushed on, anxious to talk about something, anything, to keep him with her, to focus his attention somewhere else than on her eyes. She showed him the chart she had drawn. “Saturn is poorly aspected to Mercury, and there is a strong predominance of Pisces and Capricorn, but there is a positive influence of Venus and the moon.”
He frowned. “And what does all that mean, if anything?”
“I think she will be fine, although not for a long while yet. According to the natal design, the best method of treatment is—” she stopped, blushing suddenly, hotly.
He folded his arms over his chest. “Is what?”
“Touch,” she said in a small voice, glancing away.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he huffed out a low breath. “Lady,” he said, “I have been thinking. You will need to gather your things for travel. You may not agree, but I—”
“I understand,” she said quickly. She lifted her chin. He wanted her to leave Dunsheen; he must have decided, as she had, that it was best. “I will go,” she said, firming her voice. “I will to leave some instructions for Brigit’s care—”
”Tcha,” he said, a sound of exasperation. “I want you to come with me.”
She blinked. “With you?”
“I mean to sail to Glas Eilean in the morning.” He frowned at her. “I know you do not want to go there, but I want you to meet my sister Sorcha.”
“You want me to come with you?” She realized that she sounded like a dim-wit. “To Glas Eilean?”
He nodded. “Tomorrow at dawn.”
Her heart beat rapidly. He asked her to go to the lair of her enemy, her brother’s enemy. But he wanted her to go with him. She caught her breath, and then remembered that he would sail there in his birlinn. Fear rose within her, and she bit her lip, hesitating.
“I need you there,” he said. “Sorcha needs you. I assure you that you will be safe. The voyage is not a long one,” he murmured.
Something in his voice melted her resistance. “I will do it,” she said in a rush, and felt as if she stepped off a cliff.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The world careened, and Michael clung to its last remaining edge with clawed hands. She grasped the side of the birlinn and groaned hoarsely, but the sound was lost beneath the roar and crash of waves and wind.
Another swell surged beneath the boat, and she lunged forward without grace or dignity to lose what little was left in her stomach. A spray of cold, salty water cleansed her face and doused her hair yet again. The chilled shock quieted her heaving, empty stomach for a while. Hands shaking, hair hanging in her eyes like rank seaweed, she leaned her arms along the rim of the birlinn and stared, exhausted, at the lurching sea.
Hearing repeated shouts, she carefully shifted her glance to look around. Long and narrow and fluid in design, her oak planking gleaming wet in the sunlight, the Gabriel rose and fell over the waves as she sped forward. Twenty-six oars were manned by the burly tenants and kin of the Dunsheen Campbells. They sat upon wooden chests and pulled steadily at the long oars outthrust from holes cut in the boat’s sides. Their wide, rhythmic sweeps and the billowing sail overhead drove the vessel forward.
The calls Michael heard came from a man who also beat a drum to help the oarsmen pull in unison. Overhead, the square sail bellied and strained against the rope lines that anchored it, and the boat rocked sideways. At Diarmid’s shout, a few of the oarsmen left their posts to bring the sail down, rolling it and tying it to the spar with stout rope. Michael had no idea why they chose oar over sail at this point, but thought they meant to avoid winds strong enough to blow them off course.
Diarmid stood in the bow of the boat, his stance wide and balanced, his hair winging out in the stiff breeze. Behind him, the curved spine of the wooden prow, its end curled in a spiral, thrust toward the bright blue sky. Diarmid spoke with Mungo, who stood beside him, and then walked away, stepping carefully among coils of rope and stacked wooden barrels. Michael watched him come toward her.
She turned away, curling her legs beneath her. Perched on a barrel in the stern of the boat, she clung to the rising, falling edge tightly, as she had for two hours already.
Diarmid had walked back to speak with her a few times during the voyage, but she had directed such wicked little glances at him that he had left without much comment. She knew that he stood behind her again, but she did not look up at him.
In truth, she wished that she could sink through the bottom of the boat and disappear. Her illness mortified her. Although her constitution was generally strong, she had a sensitive stomach, especially in boats. Her genuine apprehension near water stemmed, in part, from bouts of ocean sickness that she could not cure. As a physician, she thought she should exhibit perfect health. But in this, she was defeated.
“Michael,” he said. “Are you any better?”
She folded her hands along the rim of the hull. “I am fine,” she said. “Go away.”
“Fine?” He sat on a stack of rope. “I doubt that.”
“I am,” she said stubbornly. “This is just the way I sail. It will pass. Go away.”
“So this is why you dislike water and boats,” he mused.
“In part,” she mumbled, pressing her hand against her mouth.
“It is enough. Can I help?”
She shook her head and nearly fell off the barrel when a wave rolled underneath the birlinn. Diarmid grabbed her and steadied her.
“The winds are high today,” he commented. “I feel a little ill myself, when sailing is like this.”
She sent him a sour glare and shoved her hair out of her eyes. Lank and wet, it slipped down again. She was too exhausted to sweep it back once more. “Go away,” she snarled.
”Ach, girl,” he murmured gently. He kept his hand on her back, the only spot of warmth she felt in this open, cold, wet place. “Come in toward midship. You may feel steadier there.”
“I like it here,” she muttered. She was sure to hate it anywhere on board the reeling, swaying craft. And she refused to display her weakness in the wide, flat middle area, where nearly thirty men could stare at her.
“Michael, let me help.”
She answered with a groan as the world went green and uncertain again, and thrust her head over the side of the ship.
Diarmid held her shoulders until she had finished. She sat back and he swept her hair out of her eyes, a soothing motion that did little to dispel her misery, her irritation, or her embarrassment.
“Go away,” she muttered.
”Ach,” he said, “I have nothing else to do but sit here.”
“Sit somewhere else. I need to be alone.”
“Do you?” he asked, combing his fingers through her hair. Shivers, pleasant and relaxing, rushed through her. Exhausted, she allowed herself to lean against him slightly. He provided a haven of stability in a reeling world.
“Sit where you will sit, then,” she said irritably; she wanted him to stay with her, but would not admit it. But she sighed a little when his hands began to knead the tension in her shoulders.
“Were you ill like this on the voyage from Italy?” he asked.
She nodded. “Both times, going there and coming back, though years separated the trips. The ship was a large one, French, with wooden castles at either end and a deep hold for trade goods.”
“I have sailed on larger ships,” he said. “My stomach bothered me quite a bit on those.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You?”
He nodded. “I have been ocean sick many times, though I have learned ways to relieve it. This helps somewhat.” He reached into a fold of his plaid and pulled out a small, withered bit of yellow flesh, like an old slice of apple. “Ginger,” he said. “I tried to give it to you before, but you nearly took my head off with your snarl. Here, suck on it.”
She grimaced. “I could not,” she said.
