Lady Miracle

by Susan King

  Sensing his driving hunger and his need, and feeling the urge of her own desire, she shifted her hand beneath the wool and took the warm, rigid length of him fully, languidly. He was velvet over steel in her fingers. His breath grew ragged against her mouth, and she moaned softly, arching against him, letting the sway of her body show him that she wanted him fully, desperately.

  He took her mouth fervently, sliding his hands over her hips, slipping the warmed silk higher, higher. She breathed out and pushed her hips against him as a sweet demand pulsed through her, a plea of body and soul.

  He felt it too, she knew; he pressed toward her, his body achingly hard against hers. She felt the heavy rhythm of his heart pound through her. He took her hips and lifted her, the motion pushing silk and wool aside. She gasped out as she felt his warm flesh against her, and she circled her legs around him.

  Her body undulated, craving a deeper joy. His kiss immersed her in him, his hands caressed her, but that was not enough, not now: she had to follow the thunderous tide that flowed between them. She surged toward him on a pleading, fluid cry.

  His low answering groan was anguished, soul-deep. She softened, opened for him, and he slipped inside, and thrust. Utter pleasure rushed through her like poured joy, and she pressed forward, circling her arms tenderly around him.

  He gasped, as if he struggled against the will of ecstasy. His rhythm quickened within her, and she felt the exquisite ripple of his surrender. She kissed him, swayed with him, nurtured his need and her own with every motion of her body.

  He sighed out, a long mist of relief and something more, a drift of sadness. Silently, he set her gently on her feet, slipping her chemise down to cover her legs. She held onto his muscular arms, her legs trembling so much that she could not stand on her own, and looked up at him.

  ”Ach Dhia,” he murmured. Cupping her cheek in one hand, he gazed at her, his eyes glittering deep in the low light. He drew a long breath, and another, and sighed out. “Michael, I am sorry—“

  She touched a finger to his lips. “Hush,” she said. “Hush. Neither of us could help it.”

  His thumb caressed her cheek. The touch sent shivers through her, a delicious echo of what had swept through her like a thunderstorm only moments before. “I have wanted to bed you, and I have held myself back,” he said. “But I cannot resist the feel of you. I am lost when you are near, a drowning man.” He paused, closed his eyes, shook his head.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “Do not regret this. I do not.”

  “I do,” he said huskily. “I had no right.”

  “I gave you the right,” she murmured.

  “It never should have happened,” he said, leaning a hand on the wall, looking down at her. “I swear to you it will not happen again. I swear it.” He moved back. Cold air swept in to chill her skin.

  She looked away as the pain of his words plummeted through her. He was wed. They had both forgotten that. Passion could not be allowed to burgeon and burst between them. He meant to smother it.

  “I understand,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze.

  “You felt lust. It is over. I am sorry.” She moved away, shoving past him.

  He took her arm and turned her, wrapped her in his embrace, made a husky sound in his throat. She flattened her trembling hands on his chest. The emotions that rolled and swelled between them seemed to pull her toward him, then cast her away again. She longed for a mooring rope, and had none.

  “Michael mine,” he whispered. “I do not know what is happening between us.”

  “Desire,” she whispered. “And more.”

  “Much more.” He huffed out a low, perplexed laugh. “And the rest—the rest scares me.”

  “I am not frightened,” she said. “Deep water, boats, heights—those frighten me. But these feelings do not.” She drew a breath, hid her face in his shirt. “I love you, Diarmid Campbell.” She blurted the words breathlessly, dreading, hoping.

  He was silent for so long that she felt him slip away from her again on another inconstant surge of the tide. “Too many things prevent this between us,” he finally said.

  “Your wife.” She could hardly say the word, felt a surge of angry resentment for a woman she had never met, a force with a name, holding Diarmid trapped.

  He slipped a hand along her cheek, tipping her chin upward. “You are precious to me,” he said. “I cannot dishonor you. I cannot ask you to love me. Can you understand that?”

  She nodded, looked away, her throat tightening.

  “Listen to me. I mean this. I will never ask you to humble yourself for me. You are too fine, too good.” He shifted her away from him. “This will not happen again. I promise you.”

  She stood there, cold and shivering in silk and skin, and watched him with all of her soul bared and vulnerable in her eyes. The hurt in his logical words cut so deep that she could not speak.

  “Dawn will be here soon,” he said gently. “You need to rest. And I have a task yet to be done.” He turned and grabbed the door latch. “I intend to inspect Ranald’s new shipment of goods.” He opened the door.

  A step, a breath. “Diarmid—”

  He stopped, his back to her, waited.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “That will not change.”

  He nodded, then walked away.

  She dreamed of Ibrahim, who wore his gray and red physician’s robe and strolled with her through a dark forest. They discussed the anatomy of the heart and the hand, herbal treatments for coughs and muscles, the influences of the planets. She held his hand and kissed his leathery cheek as she had done in life, and she treasured his friendship and his advice.

  At the edge of the forest, he embraced her, and said that he could not go farther. She turned and saw the edge of a cliff just at her feet. Ibrahim told her that she would be safe, that she had always been safe, and he pushed her—and when she thought she would fall, she soared.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ”Ach Dhia,” Mungo said in astonishment. “It’s like a cathedral here.” He tipped his head back to look high overhead. “A cathedral full of smuggled goods—and water.”

  Diarmid glanced up and then used the oars he held to angle the narrow boat deeper into the crevice hidden in the cliff. “High as a cathedral, but the walls are dark and coated with slime. It almost looks as if we are in the belly of a dragon.”

  “Ugh,” Mungo agreed, nodding as he held a blazing torch high. “It does have an ominous feel to it.”

  Diarmid propelled the boat along the channel of water that passed between glistening, soaring walls of dark rock. Overhead, the spine of the vault swayed and twisted into shadows, extending far back into the cliff. Dark stains on the rock showed how high the tide reached; above that level, hollows in the undulating wall surface provided niches for the barrels crowded there.

  Everywhere, sounds echoed eerily: the creak and swoosh of the oars, the whisper of the sea as it swirled into the cave, the drip of water falling from crannies in the rock, the hushed sound of their voices.

  Diarmid and Mungo had quietly taken a small boat from inside the sea entrance to Glas Eilean while the guardsmen had been engaged at the top of the staircase in a game of dice-tossing. Rowing now, deep into the cave, Diarmid was not concerned with how they would get back into the castle. He only looked around, as Mungo did, in amazement.

  “This cavern looks even larger than the other one,” Diarmid remarked. “I wonder how far back it goes.” Torchlight flickered over dark stone as the boat slipped quietly through the water. Bit by bit, the enormous cavity of rock was revealed.

  “Jesu! Look there!” Mungo said.

  Diarmid turned abruptly to glance over his shoulder. “I wondered what else Ranald kept in this place.”

  Two long birlinns, moored on sturdy ropes looped around massive iron rings in the rock, floated side by side in the huge, shadowed interior. Diarmid maneuvered the small boat toward a ledge along the wall, and he and Mungo jumped out and walked cautiously along the
slippery rock shelf. Water sloshed over the toes of their boots as they peered into the first galley.

  Mungo counted under his breath. “Oarholes for forty men,” he announced. “Look at her design—long and low in the water, swift and quick to steer. She is a warship, not a ship designed for trade. Those boxes and barrels likely hold provisions for at least sixty men, rather than crates of trading goods.”

  Diarmid nodded agreement, walking along the ledge to assess the birlinn’s features. “Her pine deck is highly polished, never yet used—and this fine hull is English oak, I think. The design is Norwegian. Ranald must have had them both built on the Isle of Lewis.” He frowned as he ran his hand along the rim of the hull. “The pitch on the planking is still fresh, and the paint on the trim is new.” He gestured toward the raised prow, where elaborate carving was highlighted in red and yellow paint, then looked at the other galley. “Twenty-six oarholes over there, and just as new as this larger one. These boats are not intended to carry hides and wool sacks over to Ireland.”

  Mungo nodded. “Ranald would want wider, deeper galleys for trading. Warboats for certain. But what does he have in mind?”

  “I do not know,” Diarmid said slowly. “But I would wager that he has not pledged them in service to Robert Bruce. Perhaps the goods on board will tell us more.” He stepped into the larger birlinn; her sides rolled gently with the movement. He walked to the middle of the deck, where the mast jutted up from the mastfish, a sail tightly furled over the spar.

  He crouched down beside two long wooden chests near the mastfish, and used his dirk to open the latch on one of them.

  Although what he found was not unexpected, he swore under his breath. Grasping one of the long, unstrung yew bows stacked inside, he held it up to show Mungo.

  “I would guess there are at least a hundred of these stacked in these chests,” he said, kicking that chest and the identical one beside it.

  “And the barrels?” Mungo asked.

  Diarmid pried one open. “Arrows. English arrows, by their feathering. Thousands, by the count of these barrels.”

  “Those longbows would not be Scottish make, would they?” Mungo did not sound hopeful.

  “Not a chance,” Diarmid said. “We are handy with a short hunting bow, but few HIghlanders have the knack of the longbow.” He dropped the bow back into the chest and slammed the lid closed. Then he checked some of the other barrels and crates, finding an iron cooking kettle, wooden bowls, dried meats, kegs of wine, sacks of oats, and several small casks of oil; almond, he judged, by the pleasant smell that emanated from the wood.

  He said little as he and Mungo climbed back into the small boat and rowed back toward the cave entrance. As the boat left the cave mouth, Mungo doused the torch in the water.

  “Ranald has made some kind of a traitorous arrangement with the English,” Diarmid said finally.

  Mungo grunted. “One that has little to do with linen and wheat. Glas Eilean is in a position to protect the Inner Hebrides and the western Highlands from an attack by English.”

  “True. That is the crux of the matter. If English sail stealthily by night and come here, they could slip through Scottish waters without being seen.”

  “And if they bring men and archers enough to man two warships at Glas Eilean,” Mungo finished, “they will get past the Campbells and MacDonalds situated along the coast. They will be deep in Scottish waters and ready to attack.”

  “Exactly,” Diarmid said bitterly. He pulled on the oars while his thoughts tumbled rapidly through the various possibilities. “Ranald will have made his fortune from this arrangement—if he can get his money from the English.”

  “He makes a great case of being Bruce’s loyal supporter,” Mungo said. “Could we be mistaken?”

  “The MacSweens have a history of siding with the English,” Diarmid said. “His father and his brothers before him pledged to the first Edward when he tried to take Scotland. I have never fully trusted Ranald’s claim that he supports King Robert. I certainly will not trust that he keeps birlinns stocked with English longbows and English arrows for use by Scotland’s king.”

  “What will you do?” Mungo asked quietly.

  “I will do what King Robert asked me to do months ago,” Diarmid said grimly. “I will expose a traitor.”

  “Now you have something to report to the king. I will stay here with Sorcha, if I may.”

  “Thank you,” Diarmid said. “I do not want to leave her alone here in the company of a man who plans war on his king. I will ask Michael to stay with her as well.”

  “I will look after both of them.”

  Diarmid nodded. He could hardly think about Michael without feeling a painful twist deep in his heart. Silently, he rowed back toward the main sea entrance and slipped the prow through the shadowed water toward the staircase that rose out of the water straight into the castle itself.

  One guard paced along the upper platform. Mungo picked up the extinguished torch and flung it into the water several yards ahead. As the guard descended the steps to investigate, Diarmid docked the rowboat in deep shadow. Then he and Mungo raced up the stairs. Just as the guard turned back, they spun and came down the steps as if they were on their way out.

  “Greetings, man,” Mungo said. “We’ve come down to inspect the hull of Dunsheen’s birlinn. I told him I suspected a leak, and the man just could not sleep for the thought of it.”

  The guard grunted in disinterest, and Diarmid and Mungo strolled past him to walk along the narrow ledge that led to the Gabriel, moored along the wall. A few minutes later, after looking over the boat and muttering between them, they returned, yawning, and went up the steps.

  Hearing a soft knock, Michael went to the door of Sorcha’s bedchamber, opened it, and caught her breath in surprise. “Diarmid!” she exclaimed, stepping back.

  He murmured a greeting as he entered, and looked toward the bed. “Sorcha is asleep?” he asked softly. Michael nodded, her heart thumping hard. “Then do not wake her. Tell her I came to say farewell.”

  “Farewell?” She barely whispered the word.

  He nodded, and crossed the room toward the window niche. Michael watched him, biting absently at her lower lip. All morning, the joy and devastation she had felt last night had been in her thoughts. Now that he stood but an arm’s length away from her, she felt hope stir faintly. Hesitant, uncertain, she moved slowly toward him.

  The small alcove was fitted with a single stone bench, similar to the windowseat in her own bedchamber, but the view overlooked the longest part of the island. Through the partly open shutter, green hills and pale beaches stretched down toward the sea, an expanse of crumpled indigo silk beneath a cloudy sky.

  “Did Sorcha sleep well last night?” he asked, looking out through the milky glass above the shutters.

  “Hardly at all,” Michael answered. “She said that Ranald was in and out all night, disturbing her. She had a few labor pangs, but they quieted after a while. She was very tired, so I gave her an herbal potion to help her rest.”

  Diarmid sat on the bench, resting his arms on his knees, hands dangling down. He glanced outside. Michael studied his lean, sculpted profile. A muscle beat in his cheek, his jaw was tight, his eyes were fatigued. She sensed, too, an infinite air of sadness that seemed to match her own.

  “Thank you for helping Sorcha,” he said quietly. “I am returning to Dunsheen within the hour. Will you stay with her until I return? Mungo will be here to protect you both.”

  “Protect?” She sat beside him, leaning forward, careful not to touch him; she was not certain of his response if she did. “What is wrong? Does this have to do with the smuggled goods in the cave? Did you go down there after—after—” she stopped, and felt herself blush.

  Looking away, he nodded. “Ranald keeps more than smuggled goods in that cave. He has two new warships there. I suspect he has agreed to help England invade the Isles.”

  “But—but that is treason! He holds Glas Eilean for the king!�
�� she said in a low, urgent tone.

  He nodded. “Once you asked me to take this place for you,” he said. “Once you asked a miracle of me, as I did of you.”

  “That is over between us,” she murmured.

  He glanced at her, a flash of cloudy gray. “Is it?”

  She twisted her hands in her lap, kept her gaze averted, thought her heart beat fiercely. “What I asked of you then was a selfish demand. Now I know why you refused to take Glas Eilean.”

  “What is it you understand about me?” he asked softly.

  “You feared for Sorcha. I see that now.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “When she is safely delivered, I want you and Sorcha out of here. Then I mean to take this place from Ranald.”

  She looked up and touched his sleeve impulsively, and drew back. “Please, do not do this. Let my brother—”

  “I will take it from him, just as you asked. I cannot tolerate the thought of him here any longer, after what I know of him now.” He laughed, a harsh little huff. “According to our bargain, you will owe me a miracle if I do. Well enough. Taking Glas Eilean may require one.”

  His bitterness disturbed her; she felt responsible for it. “Do you leave to warn the king?”

  He nodded. “And to gather men and ships.”

  “How long will that take?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “A few weeks.”

  “Sorcha may deliver tomorrow, or not for ten weeks yet. She must be protected from any upset.”

  “I will see to it.” She sat silently beside him, sensing the hard determination in him. After a moment, he reached over and took her hand in both of his, turning it. The warmth and strength in his fingers sent a shiver of yearning through her.

  “If there were one miracle I could have of you,” he said softly, “just one, I would ask you to make one for Sorcha.”

  She curled her fingers in his, listening. “I would ask you to touch her and erase all her pain, past and future. But I know that it is an unfair burden to place on you.”