Lady Miracle

by Susan King

  The guardsman was loathe to let her out alone, and offered to accompany her for the fresh air she claimed to need. But when she begged the guard to help her find the laird of Dunsheen, saying that his sister has sent her to look for him, the guard softened and opened the doorway in the portcullis.

  “If that sweet lady wants her brother, then you go fetch him,” he said kindly. “But hurry back, for MacSween would have my soul for this if he knew I let anyone out of here at night.”

  She smiled her thanks and fled into the shadows. As she ran along the perimeter of the outer wall, which soared immense and solid overhead, her instincts took her toward the cliffs.

  The seaward side of the castle was separated from the ragged cliff edge by a span of no more than a hundred feet, much less in places. The wind seemed far stronger here, whipping her cloak about her legs as she ran.

  Diarmid stood near the cliff edge, beyond the farthest corner of the castle. She called out his name.

  He spun, saw her, and ran back to grab her shoulders. “Michael,” he said hoarsely, “what in God’s name—? Go inside!”

  Breathless with running, she gripped his arms to steady herself against the pounding force of the wind. “I came to tell you that I saw a light far out in the sea from the window. I think it was a ship. Was that why you watched from my chamber?”

  He made a wordless exclamation and turned toward the cliff, keeping one hand on her shoulder. For a long moment he scanned the black horizon, and then nodded. “I can barely see it,” he said at last. “From the window, higher up, you would see it sooner.” He turned to her. “Thank you. Now go back inside.”

  She scowled, opened her mouth to protest, then spun and walked away. A moment later, he ran up behind her, grabbed her around the waist, and began to half-carry, half-drag her toward the cliff. When she cried out, he put a hand over her mouth. Reaching a cluster of boulders near the edge, he shoved her down behind them, then crouched beside her.

  “If you value your life or mine, keep quiet,” he hissed. “Ranald is walking toward the cliffs.”

  She nodded, wide-eyed, and leaned against the cold rock, her heart thumping ferociously. Diarmid drew his dirk, his body shielding hers as they knelt behind the boulder. He peered cautiously around the curve of the rock. Unable to turn, Michael looked up at the glittering sky and the wafer moon, and listened to the distant shush of the sea against the cliff, hundreds of feet below.

  Diarmid turned and put his finger to his lips, and ducked lower in the shadow of the boulder. He pulled up the folds of her hood, making it clear, without speaking, that her pale hair shone like a beacon. After a while, he shifted his position, seeming more relaxed.

  “He’s gone,” he whispered. “He came out of the castle just as you walked away, and stood near the cliff edge to watch out to sea. He held a blazing torch over his head and waved it three times, then twice. After that, he went back inside.”

  “He signalled the ship,” she said. Diarmid nodded. “What will he do now?”

  He shrugged. “I am not certain. He may go down to meet them.” Crouched, he began to move cautiously toward the edge of the cliff and lay prone, his hands and head extended over the cliff edge. The rim of the cliff rose in a slight incline, adding some security to his treacherous position. But Michael exclaimed in fear and scrambled after him on her hands and knees to grab his ankle.

  “Get back, are you foolish?” he said, shoving her gently.

  “No more than you,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Watching the ship. She is anchored out in deep water, and she’s sent a rowboat toward the cliff.” He turned to look again, his words partly vanished in the whistling wind.

  She crawled toward the edge slowly, scraping along cold stone and thick moss, hoping her courage was enough to match her powerful curiosity, for she desperately wanted to see what Diarmid saw down there. Grasping the raw crust of the cliff, she inched her head forward.

  The dizzying bird’s-eye view made her gasp. She scooted back quickly and clung to the rock beneath her, breathing hard.

  “Go back,” Diarmid whispered.

  “I cannot. Ranald will find me.”

  “Then go over to the rock and hide there.”

  “I think I am stuck.”

  “Stuck?” He swiveled his head to look at her.

  “I cannot seem to move my legs. Or any other part of me.”

  “Ah,” Diarmid said. “It is just the fear. Lay there until it passes.”

  She moaned. “Then I will be here until Judgment Day.”

  He laughed, quick and soft, and touched her shoulder. Then he returned to his vigil while she lay on her stomach. When her anxiety had eased some, she opened her eyes. In another few moments she propped herself on her elbows, although she was hardly eager to look over the edge again. “What do you see?”

  Diarmid did not answer, but moved forward until his head and shoulders hung completely over the edge so that he looked straight downward. Michael gasped and grabbed hold of his thick plaid where it crossed his back.

  He turned his head to look at her, the wind whipping his hair fiercely. “Michael my girl,” he said, “that will hardly hold me. If I fall, you will fall with me. Let go.”

  She complied, although his precarious position made her anxious. “What do you see?” she asked, curiosity tormenting her.

  “Mm? Ranald is a busy man,” he said, distracted.

  ”Ach,” she ground out, knowing she would get no more detail than that from him. She crawled forward with excruciating slowness.

  “The sun will rise before you get here,” Diarmid observed.

  “I am trying,” she snapped. Nearer to the edge, she shifted closer to the warmth and security of his body. “I am looking now,” she announced, and opened her eyes a bit. Diarmid chuckled beside her, and rested his arm on her back, his hand on her shoulder, heavy and solid and blessedly safe.

  She sucked in a breath and forced herself to look. The wind whirled her hair into her eyes, and she inched her fingers forward to clear her sight.

  Torches, and boats. She blinked, and looked again, and gradually became accustomed to the crazy, stilted view, able to look as long as she felt the solid rock beneath her, and Diarmid beside her. She saw three small boats, and a few men holding flaming torches, rowing through the waters at the cliff base.

  “Look at that,” Diarmid murmured, his voice deep and reassuring at her ear. “The ship has sent out a small boat with a few men, and the other carrying barrels. Ranald meets them, see—he is in the other boat.”

  “But why? Who are those men?”

  “Smugglers, I imagine,” he murmured. “Englishmen with wheat, linen, wine, wax candles, iron—whatever goods Scots need imported. But the English king has forbidden his merchants to trade with Scots. This hardly looks legitimate to me.”

  She gasped. “Are those English goods?”

  “They must be. It seems that Ranald acquires some of his goods from English merchants willing to overlook their king’s mandate. Then he can charge exorbitant fees to Scottish merchants, claiming he got the goods from Irish ports and paid dearly for them. I would guess he’s making a nice coin here for himself.” He watched for a moment in silence. “I wonder what else he has arranged with England,” he mused.

  She glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. What the devil are they doing now?” He inched forward, and Michael looked too, feeling bolder with Diarmid’s hand safely on her shoulder. They watched as the three boats disappeared, one after the other, into a deep crevice in the rugged, seamed cliff face.

  “Where are they going?” she asked. “The sea cave entrance is the other way.”

  “Apparently there is another sea cave hidden in that crevice. A perfect spot for smuggled goods.”

  The swirling water below the cliff reflected an eerie glow from the torchlight within the crevice. “It must be a large cave,” Michael observed.

  Diarmid nodded. “I wou
ld like to look around in there.”

  She grabbed his arm in protest. “You cannot go down there! And we must get back in the castle before Ranald sees us,” she added hastily. She abhorred the thought of Diarmid going down to the sea cave while the other men were there. “Do you think the guard told Ranald we were out here? Will he know Ranald’s business tonight?”

  “I paid the man well to keep silent,” Diarmid said. “I doubt Ranald paid him. And MacSween is alone. Likely he wants few to know his business.” He shifted backward and rolled to his side to look at her. “I agree that you should get back to the castle. Will your legs work now, do you think?”

  She shimmied backward. “I think so.” She rose to her hands and knees, then to her feet. Diarmid stood and took her arm to run with her toward the castle. They followed the outer wall, moving against the force of the wind. Michael held on to her billowing cloak and tried to keep up with Diarmid’s long, easy strides. Within a few yards of the gate, he stopped.

  “Wait,” he said, placing a hand on her arm. “If the guard knows why Ranald was out here tonight, he might be suspicious of us. We will need some good reason for being outside.”

  She looked up, worried. “What can we tell him?”

  He swept an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Let him think we had an assignation in the moonlight.” He bent his head and nuzzled her cheek. The scrape of his beard, the warmth of his breath, made her heart pound. “Do you think he is watching?” he murmured, as he drew her into step beside him.

  “I do not know,” she answered breathily, raising her head to his, putting her arm around his waist.

  The portcullis door swung slowly open.

  “Kiss me,” Diarmid whispered. He lowered his face to hers. In one swift motion, he took her mouth with his, and took her heart forever.

  As his mouth softened gently over hers, Michael gave herself into the kiss and felt her knees buckle beneath her. Diarmid held firmly into his arms, dipping his head, slanting his mouth like heaven over hers. Soon, too soon, he broke away and straightened.

  “Come with me,” he whispered.

  She would go with him anywhere, for any reason. Breathless, silent, hardly able to think, she moved alongside of him in the circle of his arm.

  The guard swung the door wide and gave Diarmid a knowing grin. “Fine evening for a stroll,” he said, and snickered.

  “Fine indeed,” Diarmid said. “My dear, watch your step,” he murmured, as Michael stumbled over the raised frame of the door.

  “That one is tired,” the guard said. “You had best get her to bed.” He laughed. “If she will let you, eh?”

  Michael opened her mouth to reply indignantly, but Diarmid silenced her with a quick kiss. “Come ahead,” he whispered. “Let him think what he likes.”

  He kissed her again to cover their retreat into the shadowed corridor that led to the great hall. Michael glanced back at the guard and saw him peer after them. Diarmid saw too, and caught her around the waist to draw her around the corner.

  There, he halted and touched his mouth to hers once more, deeply, soundly, rocking a thunderous surge of desire through her. She forgot the guard, the ruse, the need to move ahead, and felt only his glorious, capable mouth on hers. All that existed was the warmth of his lips, the brace of his arms, the solid press of his body. Their curves and angles met comfortably, easily, as if shaped for each other.

  Diarmid pulled back a little. “Jesu,” he breathed raggedly. He dipped his head again and took her mouth greedily, as if he could not take in enough of her, then traced his lips along her cheek. “Ah, Michael,” he whispered in her ear.

  Michael moaned softly and tilted back her head as a wave of pure joy bubbled through her. His lips, his hands began to sweep away the hurt he had dealt her earlier. She looped her arms around his neck and smiled as his lips caressed her cheek, her eyelids, and found her mouth again. The hunger, the poignance of his kiss showed her that he, too, was ensnared in the magic that had caught her. She wondered if either of them could stop.

  She did not want to stop, craving the feel of him, wanting more of the swirling waves of pleasure that surged through her. She would not think about whether they should pursue this. Reason would smother the wondrous joy that moved in her.

  He took her hand and drew her quickly toward the stairs, and she ran lightly up the turning steps ahead of him. They hurried along the corridor, their footsteps moving in quiet, quick harmony.

  Outside her door, he turned her and framed her face in his hands, then took her mouth again. The pretense that had begun outside had long since fallen away; she knew they were both caught now in the passion that stirred between them. She leaned back against the thick door and met his lips fervently, crushed against his chest, her arms high over his shoulders, fingers deep in his hair.

  He sighed out and laid his cheek to hers. “What are we doing?” he whispered. “I do not think—”

  “Do not think,” she whispered, sliding her fingers through the richness of his hair. “Do not think, do not speak. Love me if you will.”

  “Micheil,” he whispered, and swept his arms around her, nearly drawing her off her feet to kiss her again. She circled her arms around his neck, feeling an overwhelming hunger for the touch and taste of him, each kiss deepening, quickening, until her heart pounded like a drum.

  A scraping sound broke into the rhythm they made of breath and touch, and then repeated: footsteps. Michael pulled away, and Diarmid looked over her shoulder. She heard his breath, as ragged as her own, as they waited and listened.

  “Ranald,” he whispered, and opened the door, shoving Michael inside and slipping in after her just as Ranald’s boots sounded on the upper steps.

  Diarmid held the door open a crack, watching. Michael remained silent, resting her hand on his wide back, feeling the strong thud of his heart. She closed her eyes and leaned her head briefly against him.

  After a few moments, he closed the door and turned to her in the dark. “He has gone into Sorcha’s bedchamber,” he whispered.

  She breathed out a sigh of relief and looked up. The faint glow of the peat fire made an amber and black silhouette of his head and shoulders as he stood watching her. She tilted her head slightly, her heart thumping with tension, with passion.

  Diarmid placed his hands on the wall, to either side of her head, and leaned forward until his brow touched hers. She waited for his kiss, tipped up to receive it, but he only watched her.

  “God, I want you,” he whispered. “You do not know how much. It burns inside of me.”

  Her heart soared. “Diarmid,” she murmured, and touched her mouth to his. He groaned, faint and low, and took her mouth, then drew back, forehead to hers, his gaze steady.

  “I want to carry you over to that bed”—he breathed deep, full, fast—“and do what I will with you.”

  She sighed out in ecstasy at the images those few words painted in her mind, and she arched back her head, closed her eyes. The nearness of his mouth, his breath hot on her sensitive lips, dissolved what remained of her ability to stand upright. She circled her arms around his neck for support and found his lips, nuzzled them, pleaded silently.

  “—But we cannot—“ he murmured against her lips.

  “We can,” she breathed into his mouth, hardly knowing what she said, hardly caring. She tilted her head to deepen the kiss.

  With a low groan, he delved, his tongue licking the seam of her lips, slipping inside. She gave a wordless, joyful cry, and tightened her arms around him. His hands fell gently to her waist, pulling her against him, pressing her hips to the hardened core of his body.

  With nimble fingers, he undid the loop at the neck of her cloak and shoved it aside, dropping it to the floor. He slipped his hand over her silk-covered breasts, drawing a quivering gasp from her as she pebbled instantly beneath his palm. His fingers stroked one straining tip as he touched his mouth to her throat. Then he lowered his head until his breath blew hot and fervent through
the silk.

  Gasping softly, she arched, her shoulders pressed against the stone wall, her back curved, her hips pushing instinctively against him. She felt his mouth open hot and sweet over her nipple, and a heavy ache began deep inside of her. Her body writhed against his in a silent, eloquent motion of longing.

  He nuzzled aside her chemise and took the raised nub of her breast in his lips, wetting the pearl, suckling there. Groaning at the exquisite shock of the contact, she raked her fingers through his hair, fingered the whorl of his ear, ran her hands along his shoulders. Her fingertips explored his textures, the warmth of his skin, the rasp of his beard, the rough silk of his hair.

  Wanting the contact of her skin to his, she slid her hand inside the loose neck of his shirt. His chest was warm, solid, its muscular smoothness softened with hair. She found the flat nub of his nipple, and heard him catch his breath sharply; she slid lower, her fingers grazing over the hard, wide cage of his ribs and tight, rippled muscle.

  Her heart pounded, her breath deepened as he lifted his head to kiss her again, as he shifted her arms over his neck and drove his hips against hers. She had never felt urges like this, with a craving passion that swept thought, breath, time away and replaced them with a torrent of pulsing sensation.

  Feeling his hands graze over her waist and hips, she arched against him as he nourished the surging need inside of her. When his hand traced over her abdomen and his fingers feathered over the mound hidden beneath the silk, she made a little sound of desperate need and moved silently, eloquently.

  He touched her deeply through the silk and she moaned into the warm cave of his mouth; he stroked, silk pulling, and she twisted against him, her hands shoving at his plaid, sliding beneath to find the tight muscle of his hips.

  His groan now slipped into her mouth, and he drew the silk high, shifting his hand. His fingertips found her, caressed her, raising liquid fire in her. The heat and the dance of his fingers melted her, and she quivered and dissolved in his supporting arms.