by Susan King
Sorcha began a tale of the selkies, the enchanted seals that roamed the seas and came ashore to wed human spouses. Michael began a soft, lilting melody on the harpstrings to complement Sorcha’s sweet voice. She could not help but glance often at Diarmid, almost hungrily, as if devouring his handsome appearance could satisfy her lonely heart.
He turned and looked at her again, his eyes piercing, almost demanding, as if his hunger excelled hers. She blushed and turned back to the harp. When Sorcha ended her story, Michael rang off the strings, letting the sound resonate.
Mungo watched Sorcha, his dark eyes deep with longing, his craggy face softened and vulnerable. “That is a beautiful story,” Mungo said. “I had not heard it before.”
“I would like Gilchrist to make a song of it,” Sorcha said. “Will you tell him the tale for me, and ask him to do that?”
“I will,” Mungo said. “Though I cannot tell it as you did.”
“You must come to Dunsheen yourself,” Diarmid said.
Sorcha began to answer, than looked up with a startled expression on her face. The door opened and Ranald stepped into the room, his cloak glistening with moisture. He pulled off his leather gloves as he came toward the hearth.
“What a cosy group,” he said, and turned to face them. “I am gone a few weeks, and I return to find my wife enthroned in bed like a queen, with her court around her.”
“Ranald!” Sorcha said. “I did not expect you home—”
“I see that,” he said. “There was no supper waiting for me. I have spent the past quarter hour harrying the cook for hot food. There was not even a fire in the hearth below stairs, for the cook said you have been taking your meals in your chamber. And not alone, I see. A man likes his home in order when he returns from the sea, with no unpleasant surprises.”
He strode across the room as he spoke. Sorcha smiled nervously. “We are all in here because I needed some rest before the babe comes,” she said. “They were keeping me amused.”
“You have few tasks as lady of Glas Eilean, and no children to chase after,” Ranald said. “You suffer from boredom. I do not like to think that you are too fragile to fulfill what God intends for every woman. I want to see you you up and about on the morrow, and no more talk of weakness. We need your hand in the managing of Glas Eilean.” He patted her hand. Sorcha looked away, her cheeks pale, and said nothing.
Mungo and Diarmid rose to their feet. “She requires rest,” Mungo said. “Leave her be.”
“You are a bold ghillie, man,” Ranald said with contempt. “I am the master of this place, and my wife’s well-being.”
“Master her no more in this matter,” Diarmid said. “You risk her life to ask her to supervise this household now.”
“She has been cossetted her entire life,” Ranald said as he removed his cloak. “Giorsal feels that childbearing is not an illness. Sorcha must toughen herself. She loses the babes because of a female tendency to hysteria. She can conquer that. Can you not, my dear?”
Michael stood abruptly, stepping toward Ranald. “I ordered your lady to take to her bed,” she said. “She should stay there for the rest of her confinement.”
Ranald looked down at her. “I wanted you to consult with her, but I thought you would speak some sense to her.”
“I want her counsel,” Sorcha said. “She can help me birth a healthy child, I know it.”
“She is right,” Diarmid snapped. “We cannot risk another child being born too soon.”
“Of course not,” Ranald said. He sighed. “But a woman physician cannot possibly know as much as a male physician, and therefore Lady Michael differs little from any good midwife. She is welcome here, but her meddling will have to stop.”
Michael opened her mouth to sputter an indignant reply, but Diarmid stepped beside her and laid a cautioning hand on her arm.
“As a surgeon myself, I strongly suggest that you take Michael’s advice in this,” he said.
Ranald scowled. “Very well. I am too weary to argue this with all of you. Sorcha, do what you will. I have other matters of importance just now. Dunsheen, why are you here? You do not normally grace my halls.”
“I am concerned for my sister’s welfare, just as you are,” Diarmid said in a clipped, cool voice.
Ranald grunted. “No other business brought you here?” He looked suspiciously at Michael. “Did you ask him to bring you here? Have you an issue you wish to pursue with me?” His threatening tone dared her to confront him.
“You and I have little to discuss,” Michael snapped.
“And what of your champion?” Ranald asked, gesturing at Diarmid. “Is he here to undermine my walls?”
“If you were not kin to me, your walls would come down fast enough,” Diarmid growled. He nodded to his sister and strode toward the door, yanking it open without a backward glance. Mungo walked out behind him.
“Ranald, what is this about?” Sorcha asked.
“I am too tired to explain. I am going to my bed. Good night.” He moved toward the door.
“Ranald, Lady Michael has your bed.”
He spun. “I occupy that room.”
Sorcha flushed. “You were not home. I thought it would be an acceptable arrangement.”
“It is not acceptable to me.”
“But it is inhospitable to ask a lady to change her guest bed. You have a bed here if you wish it,” Sorcha said, her cheeks pink. “Or you can sleep in the great hall on pallets beside Diarmid and Mungo and their rowing crew.”
Ranald swore under his breath. “Excuse your physician from my bedchamber, lady,” he growled. “I want my rest.” He began to unbuckle his belt.
“As your wife’s physician, I insist that she be undisturbed,” Michael said pointedly. Sorcha looked relieved.
Ranald shot her a narrow glance. “You have disrupted much in my home and my life, Lady Michael,” he said. “Consider your advice heard. Now leave my chamber.”
Late that night, Michael awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep to blink at the dark curtains that surrounded her bed. She tried to determine what had stirred her from sleep, but could not, and could not summon sleep again.
She sat up, remembering that when she had gone to bed, the peatfire in the hearth had filled the chamber with a deep orange glow. Now all was dark. The bedcurtains were closed, although she had left them open. Leaning forward, she parted the heavy woolen cloth carefully and peered out.
Diarmid stood between the stone benches, silhouetted against the moonlight that poured in from the open window. Hands on his hips, shoulders wide, he truly looked like the king of the daoine sìth, as in Brigit’s imagination.
Her breath quickened, and she wondered vaguely if she were dreaming. Shifting on the bed, sliding her feet to the floor, she knew she was awake when she felt cool, matted rushes beneath her toes. She moved toward him like a slight shadow in silk and firelight. He glanced at her, and looked out the window again.
“Go back to bed,” he said.
Diarmid,” she whispered, coming nearer. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting,” he said. “Just waiting. Go back to sleep. I did not mean to disturb you.” He kept his back turned to her, and spoke over his shoulder. “Go on, now,” he said sternly. “You should not be awake, and I should not be here. Sorcha would have my head on a pike for this impropriety.”
“I decide what is proper for me. I not a maiden.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“I know that,” he snapped. “Go on, now.”
“But why are you here? Are you troubled with insomnia? Did you eat too much of the spiced meat at supper? Let me make you a hot drink with herbs to cool your blood and settle your stomach.”
“Always the physician. And if you stand there longer, my blood will need cooling,” he muttered.
She was uncertain if he meant she roused his passion or provoked his temper. She wanted the former, but expected he meant the latter. “Tell me what is wrong. Do you long for a view of the sea at night? I
will not go back to bed,” she said firmly, when he raised his hand to point.
He sighed, gazing out the traceried window, leaning a hand on the stone frame. A cool breeze blew back the linen of his shirt, ruffled through his hair, and made Michael shiver as she waited. “At least cover yourself better than that if you mean to stand there,” he said.
She turned and grabbed her black cloak, swirling its folds over her dark blue silk chemise. Diarmid shifted aside in the small space to allow her to stand in front of him.
They stood silently, her shoulder brushing his chest as they shared the view. The dark sea gleamed beneath a velvet swath of night sky, pierced by sparkling stars and a white moon. Taking in the magnificence, listening to the steady rhythm of Diarmid’s breath just behind her, she felt a sense of peace. Finally she tipped her head to look up at him.
“Night air is good for insomnia, and this soothing view will help cure it as well,” she murmured. “It must be crowded and noisy in the great hall where you have been sleeping. Did you come here to get away from that?” A cool wind whistled past, and she shivered slightly.
“I came here to wait.”
“For what?” she asked, puzzled. “For the dawn?”
He shook his head. “I want to see what Ranald sees from this window.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Ranald?”
“When Mungo and I went down to the hall again this evening, the cook mentioned that Ranald was eager to have his supper and get to his bed. He normally sleeps in this chamber, but she said he was greatly displeased to find he had guests.”
“He was annoyed with Sorcha when he found out that I had this room,” Michael said. “He was adamant about being here, but Sorcha was quite firm about it. But a man must be forgiven for wanting his own bed after a long voyage.”
“A man that tired will sleep anywhere and not have a temper fit like a child. He wanted to be here for other reasons. If I am right, we will see why from this window.”
Michael looked out, wrapping her arms around herself. “I see only the sea, the stars, the moonlight. I doubt he is an admirer of those.”
Diarmid rested his hand on her shoulder, warmth sliding through her. His fingers touched her hair briefly, sending lingering tremors through her.
“Moonlight,” he whispered, his voice close at her ear.
“Moonlight? Ranald?” She looked up at him.
Diarmid chuckled softly. The sound stirred her somehow. She allowed herself to lean slightly against him, as she had on the deck of the birlinn.
“Michael,” he said gently. “Go back to bed.”
“I want to know why you are here.” And I am glad of it, she thought.
“If I had known you would wake up, I would not have come into your room,” he said, and put his hands on her shoulders to steer her away. “Go on, now.”
She jerked suddenly, spinning. “I am not a child, to be ordered about by you,” she burst out. “Clearly your visit here has nothing to do with me, since you only want me gone. I know that you do not want me—” she faltered, blushing. “I know you do not want me here, but—”
Diarmid smacked the flat of his hand against the window jamb, and blew out a heavy breath. “Not want you?” he asked. “Not want you? My girl, you are all I think about.”
Her heart surged at the words. “Diarmid—”
“All I think about, and all I try not to think about. Now go to bed. If you stand there longer, I will not be able to do what I came here to do this night.”
She stepped closer. “And what is that?”
“Not this,” he growled, and took her into his arms.
With a small gasp, she melted into his embrace, tilting her head back, welcoming his lips over hers. His kiss was a demand, a plea, a gift. His hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers slid into her hair, his mouth slanted over hers. She slipped her hands around his neck, pressing close to him.
His hands slipped down to span her waist, stroke her hips. Restless, warm, compelling, his touch delved beneath her cloak to shift the silk over her body, sending shivers through her. She arched into him in silent acceptance and delight, lifting on her toes to lean her hips into his. He growled low into her opening mouth and spread his hands over her hips, pressing her against him until she felt the strength of his desire through the layers of his plaid.
She moaned low and soft into his mouth and ran her hands over his chest, where his heart beat stirred her fingertips. He parted the seam of her lips with his tongue, so gently that she thought she would melt, her lower body tingling as a deeper desire sparked within her. She gasped for the utter, wicked joy of the sensation and touched the tip of her tongue to his, soft, wet, curious, wanting more.
Diarmid groaned deep in his throat and pulled back. Cool air filled the space between them. Only his strong hands held her upright, for her legs had gone weak.
“Enough,” he said hoarsely. His breath came ragged in his throat, and he set her firmly away from him, turning back to the window. “I did not mean for that to happen.”
She stepped beside him, placed her hand on his arm. “It has happened before, and each time it seems stronger. So strong that it hurts, somehow.”
He watched the dark sea. “I know. Soon I will not be able to set you away from me.”
“Must you?” She leaned her forehead against his arm, her breathing rapid. She felt a kind of wildness in her heart when he was near, when he touched her, an urge so powerful that it pulled inside her very soul.
”Ach, Micheil,” he whispered, and touched her hair gently. She loved the feel of his fingers slipping along its length, loved the sound of her name on his lips. “Go back to your bed and forget this. Forget me. This is not meant to be.”
She shook her head. “I cannot forget this.”
He sighed. “Go on, now.” He shifted her away from him gently. “I do not want you here.”
His words stabbed like a betrayal. Michael stepped back suddenly. She had been wrong. Wrong. He did not feel the same overwhelming love for her that she felt for him.
Likely he felt only lust and did not wish to shame her. He had succumbed to his bodily urges and now meant to control them. She had stood beside him wearing only silk and skin, had kissed him fervently. He was no saint to resist that. But he did not want her as she wanted him. She felt foolish. “I am sorry—” she spun away.
He grabbed her arm. “Michael, I do not mean to hurt you.”
“Then let go,” she said flatly. “For you do hurt me. Your grip is too tight.”
He complied, and she walked away, shoving open the curtains of her bed, climbing in, pulling them shut as the iron rings rattled over her head. She yanked off her cloak and burrowed under the covers, pulling them over her head to muffle the sound of the sobs that she could not hold back.
His heart felt as if she pulled it from his chest when she walked away from him. Diarmid sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, turning, hoping that the cool, salted, breeze would blow some sense into his head, for he surely had none of his own.
He had not wanted to hurt her, but he had, and he did not know how to repair the damage. There was no muscle tear to seal with silk thread, no bone to mend, no bruise to salve and bandage. He could not even adequately repair a flesh wound, let alone a deep gash to the soul rendered by his own words.
He felt a fierce, frustrated ache himself, spanning soul and body both. Making fists, he squeezed so tightly that his left hand began its customary, flawed tremble. He pounded it against the wall and swore under his breath. He had been a fool to come into this room. Knowing he took a chance, he had tried not to wake her. After watching her sleep peacefully, he had closed the curtains of her bed and had gone to the window to open the shutters.
Now he leaned a shoulder against the windowframe and watched the dark sparkle of sea and sky. The window provided a wide vantage point. On a clear day, the green slopes of Ireland were visible to the west, while to the north and east rose the craggy peaks of the
Isles and the mountains of the mainland. To the south, the wide sea leading up from England or Ireland. A ship could be seen from here from miles away, even on a moonlit night, if a signal flare was lit.
Diarmid suspected that Ranald had taken this room for the view it offered rather than out of respect for his wife’s condition. He was certain that Ranald watched for approaching ships from here.
A ship was out there tonight. He felt in his bones, sensed it in Ranald’s return and his anxious temper. Diarmid had to discover Ranald’s intent.
But all he wanted to do was tear open the curtains of that bed and pull her into his arms, devour her sweetness with his mouth, his hands, take her, hold her, keep her safe.
Abruptly, he turned and left the room, striding quickly through the corridor, down the turning stairs, past the men snoring in the great hall. With a quick nod to the guardsmen at the gate and the gift of a silver coin, he went through the narrow door in the portcullis and stepped outside.
The silence deepened until Michael could bear it no longer. She slid out from under the covers and yanked aside the bed curtain. He was gone.
She slipped from the bed and went to the window to close the shutters. Instead, she looked out over the dark infinity of sea and sky, feeling deeply sad. Gradually she became aware that one of the stars that winked in the night was sparkling gold and growing larger.
And then she realized that it was a lantern. A ship approached Glas Eilean.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Surely that solitary ship was the reason Diarmid had been watching out her window, Michael thought. Whatever the reason, it had to be important to him. But now he was gone, and might not have seen the light out on the sea. She had to tell him.
Her cheeks blazed at the thought of speaking with him so soon after his hurtful words to her. Regardless of her feelings, she must find him. She yanked her boots onto her bare feet, grabbed up her cloak from the foot of her bed, and left the room.
She dashed down the turning stairs quickly and silently, and peeked into the great hall, where over the men slept, snoring and tossing, on pallets spread out near the hearth. She saw at a glance that Diarmid was not among them. She would have recognized the set of his shoulders, his thick hair, the length of his legs. Wondering if he had taken his vigil outside, she went to the gate.
