by Susan King
Tears pricked her eyes. “Why do you think you can have but one miracle? There are endless miracles, Diarmid. Endless.”
He stroked his thumb thoughtfully over her palm. “Are there?” he whispered.
She leaned her brow against his arm. He sat silently. “I hope so,” she said.
He smiled a little, touching her hand, turning it in his as if her fingers fascinated him. She felt something bloom and open inside of her, watching him, and could not hold back the words. “I love you, Diarmid of Dunsheen,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, nothing will ever change that.”
“I know.” He pressed her hand gently in his. “I know.”
She waited, longing, hoping, to hear the words from him. But he said nothing. She felt his resistance like a sharp tug of sadness. She pulled her hand away and rose to her feet.
Diarmid stood. “I do not know when I will be back. Send word to me through Mungo when Sorcha is safely delivered.”
“Farewell, then,” she murmured, looking down.
He tilted her chin upward and tapped the widow’s wimple that covered it. “Keep my sister safe.” His gaze was even, filled with a soft, gray light. “Keep yourself safe.”
She nodded, closing her eyes over tears. He turned away abruptly, and left.
“Warships? I am not surprised,” Arthur said.
Diarmid nodded and thanked Iona as she set supper in front of them, bowls of porridge cooked with mutton and onions. After she had refilled their ale cups and stepped away, Arthur took a sip and looked across the table at Diarmid.
“Several months ago, Ranald visited shipmakers on the Isle of Lewis. He said he had commissioned two new trading vessels from them, but was hoping to get the funds to pay for them.”
“He apparently got the coin from somewhere,” Diarmid said, as he picked up a spoon to stir his porridge. “The two galleys hidden in that cave are well-built and quite new. And stocked with English weaponry, as if ready to carry a hundred men skilled at the longbow.” He tasted the food, then glanced at Arthur. “You have seen no hint that he might be allied with the English?”
Arthur stirred his meal, sending up a drift of steam. “I have suspected it, but I was not certain. In Belfast, I know he met with two Englishmen at an inn a few times.”
“In itself, that is not unusual. Merchants from several ports trade in Ireland.”
“True. But Ranald was quite secretive about the meetings, refusing to share any trading information he had learned. I decided to watch him more carefully. I had no proof of my suspicions until I studied the accounting rolls in detail and compared them with what is stored at Glas Eilean. The list does not agree with the stored items, nor do its numbers make sense when examined closely. I had no chance to tell you this before, but I hoped you would catch the discrepancy on the lists.”
“Then you have seen the English goods at Glas Eilean,” Diarmid said. “Were you aware of the second cave?”
“Those cliffs are full of cracks and crevices, most no deeper than a few feet. I had no idea that large cave was there until you told me. It must be well hidden. As for the stored goods, Ranald did not acquire all of those himself. I obtained some of that wheat and flax from Anglesey a month or so ago. NOt quite legally, I confess.” He grinned sheepishly.
“Ah.” Diarmid smiled. “Mungo and I wondered if you were among the Scottish pirates who have upset the English.”
“They are displeased,” Arthur agreed, pinching salt over his porridge from a dish on the table. “In fact, I would lose my head in a moment if they found me. But the Gabriel is as swift and sweet a vessel as I have ever sailed. We took the Grace out, too. Only ten oars, but she glides through the water like a stone over ice.” He grinned.
“I leave you in charge of Dunsheen, and you take to piracy,” Diarmid said wryly, shaking his head. He looked up as Gilchrist approached the table on his crutch and sat down beside Arthur.
“Well, at least we did not lead the English home after us,” Gilchrist said, reaching for one of the oatcakes stacked on a plate beside the salt bowl and a dish of fresh butter.
“We?” Diarmid looked at him. “You know about this too?”
“Gilchrist is the best archer on board ship that I have ever see,” Arthur said. “He was with me on every voyage.”
Diarmid blinked in astonishment, looking from one grinning brother to the other. “There is something going on here that I do not know about.”
“Our brother may be lame now, but you know what a fine warrior he was before his injury,” Arthur said. “He has those skills yet, in spite of a crooked leg.”
Gilchrist spread butter on the oatcake. “I can still shoot a bow as well as I once did. My lack of balance on land does not seem to inhibit me on the deck of a birlinn. I guess I am used to swaying when I move,” he added. “Arthur found me practicing in secret. Rather than pity me, he took me along on his next run into English waters.”
Diarmid scratched at his chin, considering this new revelation. “And so you and Arthur both have been harrying English ports,” he commented.
“When the moon was full and the winds were right, we did,” Arthur said. “Our birlinns are far faster than the heavier English ships. We could slip back into Scottish waters within hours, and hug the coast in the dark. The English were never able to learn who raided their ports.” He sipped his ale. “Lilias and Iona appreciated the candles and the linen cloth we brought back with us. Did you not, girl?” he asked pleasantly as she came toward them again.
Iona placed a bowl of porridge in front of Gilchrist, then nodded, blushing. As she bent over Gilchrist’s arm, he looked up at her, his handsome cheeks stained as pink as hers, his brown-eyed gaze vulnerable and adoring for an instant. He looked down quickly, and did not see Diarmid frown as he watched.
“That I did,” Iona said. “And Angus often says that the Dunsheen Campbells are fair traders where English are concerned. They get a good price for English goods—nothing at all.” She smiled. “Will you have more ale, Gilchrist?”
“I will,” he said quietly, and leaned back so that she could pour more easily. He helped her to steady the heavy jug by placing his long, graceful hands over hers.
Diarmid watched his youngest brother and Iona, and did not mistake what he saw in their quick, shy glances. Iona turned away, her cheeks more vivid, and Gilchrist took a long sip of ale and spoke to Arthur. Diarmid said nothing, his thoughts whirling.
He had seen similar glances shared between Mungo and Sorcha. And the yearning that Diarmid felt for Michael must surely show in his own eyes when he looked at her, he thought. Even when he tried to suppress his hunger for her, his love, he knew he barely hid it from her. He sighed and swirled his ale cup pensively, silent while his brothers talked.
If Gilchrist and Iona loved each other as he thought they did, he hoped that they would find the courage to acknowledge it. Mungo and Sorcha had never admitted their feelings openly as far as he knew, but love must have blossomed between them years ago. Despite time gone past, and marriages for each, their feelings still endured.
Diarmid sighed, knowing that he had acted on his own fascination for a gentle, gifted young girl years ago, he would have had happiness all these years. Instead, he had found misery in a lustful, impulsive, ill-chosen marriage.
He did not want Gilchrist and Iona to suffer and lose as he had, as Mungo and Sorcha had. Perhaps the blessing of the laird of Dunsheen would encourage Gilchrist to act. He would say something to Gilchrist at the first opportunity he found, and suggest that it was time the harper settled and took a wife. Michael would approve his plan, he was sure; imagining her delight in this scheme, he looked forward to telling her.
Then he frowned, draining the last of the ale. He would never be able to share an easy moment with her, talking and laughing and making plans together. That was a fantasy, and not for him in reality. He must be content with knowing that she truly loved him, despite his flaws. Her sincere expression of love awed him. Rare, elu
sive, that glimpse of love would have to be enough.
But it was not. Over the last few days, he had taken bittersweet joy in the memory of her face, her whispered words, her alluring body. He did not want to be here at Dunsheen, listening to his brothers discuss trade and traitors; he wanted to be with Michael, keeping her safe, making her his. But that would not happen unless he could release himself from the past.
He loved her, but he had held back the words. Now he realized that admitting his feelings for her would honor the love she offered him, not cause dishonor. She deserved to know that he loved her desperately, completely. Her love was generous, filling his heart like warm sunlight breaking through rainclouds. He owed her the same gift.
He felt unworthy of the devotion and loyalty she offered him. Even though he had refused her, hurt her, she was still willing to love him. Now, away from her, he realized how much he craved her, like a starving man. She was the nourishment his parched, hungry soul needed.
Somehow the chains that bound him, kept him from her, must be broken. He had to free himself of the burden of his meaningless marriage and claim Michael, claim his future. But in order to achieve that, he would have to plead with Anabel.
He sighed and rubbed his thumb and finger over his eyes, feeling as if a rock had settled in his gut. He sensed a deep flaw in his plan—it felt hopeless, all wrong—yet he was desperate to pursue it.
“Diarmid? Did you hear? They say the king will sail north and spend the new year with MacDonald of the Isles,” Arthur said, cutting into Diarmid’s distracted thoughts. “I heard it reported in Ayr. Robert Bruce knows the value of the western Isles to Scotland, and he intends to visit the MacDonald lords of the Isles and the Campbell chief as well. He could sail as early as next week, since it is late November now.”
“So if you mean to send him a message, brother, you will not find him in the Lowlands where you left him,” Gilchrist said. “You will have to find him at sea, or wait until he comes into the Isles.”
Diarmid looked up, his attention caught. “Did Ranald hear this news of the king as well?”
“He did,” Arthur said, frowning in concern.
Diarmid sighed heavily. “Then we have little time left. Ranald has hidden those birlinns away for a purpose.”
“Does he mean to stop the king’s progress into the Isles?” Gilchrist asked.
“I think he intends to aid the English in halting Robert Bruce’s progress forever,” Diarmid said.
“What should we do?” Gilchrist asked.
Diarmid’s thoughts raced through the possibilities. “Arthur, take Gilchrist and Angus, and gather tenants and knights and arms enough to man the White Heather as a warship. I am sure the king will want her in his service now. I will send out a runner to carry a message to the king or to Gavin Faulkener, if either of them can be found on land. And I will ride to Campbell of Lochawe and discuss this with him. Bruce trusts him well.”
“And then? Do we sail on Glas Eilean?” Arthur asked.
“I will go there first, and make certain that Sorcha is safe.” And Michael, he thought fervently. “And I will do whatever I must to prevent Ranald from taking this course.”
“In the name of peace and kinship?” Arthur asked.
“Not likely,” Diarmid growled. He turned to his youngest brother. “Gilchrist, I think you know a few war marches on that harp of yours. I would suggest you practice them.”
Later, Diarmid climbed the turning stairs toward his bedchamber and paused to look out the arrowslit window. The setting sun turned the sky to gold and poured amber light through the stone frame. He watched, and thought of Michael, and wondered suddenly if she, too, stopped by a window in Glas Eilean to look out at the sunset. That fleeting thought warmed him, as if she stood beside him.
He climbed the stair toward the bedchambers and stopped at Brigit’s door to peer inside. Since his return, he had found little chance to spend time with her. But he had already noticed she seemed to be doing exceptionally well on Michael’s regimen, and he knew that Iona had taken over Brigit’s care in a very competent manner. He must remember to thank her for it.
Tomorrow, before he left to speak with Campbell of Lochawe, he would do the muscle work with Brigit himself. He wanted to test how much strength she had gained. He had been pleased to see that Iona fixed to Brigit’s legs the wooden and cloth braces that he and Angus had made. The child had walked stiffly around the great hall with the aid of Padraig and Columba, who flanked her calmly and protectively wherever she went.
Brigit stirred and lifted her head to look at him. “Uncle Diarmid?” she asked. “Can you sit with me?”
“Why are you still awake?” he asked gently, coming toward the bed. “Are you in pain?”
“Iona rubbed my legs tonight, just as Lady Michael showed her, and she gave me the potion in honey that Lady Michael wants me to take each night. But I am not sleepy.” She hugged her cloth doll under her chin. “Michael cannot sleep either.”
“She is at Glas Eilean,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I think she might be ready to go to sleep soon.”
“I meant my doll,” Brigit said. “She cannot sleep. She misses Lady Michael. I do, too.”
“Do you?” He reached out to rub her feet gently as he spoke. When he picked up her left foot, he noticed a greater tension in its angle, a definite sign that Brigit’s muscles were growing stronger. “I miss her too,” he said softly.
“Then go back and get her,” she said reasonably. “She belongs at home with us. We love her.”
“You and your doll?” he asked, amused.
“You and me,” she said. Her luminous gaze was oddly wise. “Ah,” he said. “So you think to know my feelings, do you?”
She gave him an elfin smile. “Are we not magic folk? And Lady Michael is like us.”
He sighed. “Brigit, milis, we are not magic—”
“We are,” she insisted. “I can feel the magic working when Lady Michael touches my legs.”
He stared at her. “You what?”
“I feel the magic,” she said simply. “My leg tingles and gets hot when she rubs it, like it is coming alive. You promised me magic, remember? Is this a charm that will make my leg strong again?”
“I did ask her for magic,” he said thoughtfully. “Brigit, when Iona or someone else rubs your legs, do you feel the same?”
She shook her head. “Not like when Lady Michael puts her hands on me. Her hands get so hot. I dreamed once that she put her hands on me and told me that I would walk. But she said it would take a long time. She said we would see little miracles, bit by bit.”
He stared at her. “She said that to you in a dream?”
She nodded. “Little miracles, bit by bit, and I would walk. I do not know what she meant. But dreams can be silly.”
Diarmid smiled, running a hand through his hair. Then he laughed. “Not so silly. Perhaps we should bring her back here again, and soon.”
She nodded, smiling. “She is magic, like you and I. She belongs here with us.”
“She does.” He kneaded her tiny toes between his fingers for a moment, smiling half to himself. Then he lifted her little foot and kissed it soundly. “I will bring her back.”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” he said.
“Then we can have as many miracles as we like,” she said with satisfaction. She gave her doll a smacking kiss and settled against the pillow.
“We can, angel,” he murmured. He kissed her head, tucked her under the blankets, and turned toward the door.
The simple wisdom of a child had shown him what he wanted most. He wanted Michael with him, no matter how high and strong the barriers were between them. She was capable of miracles, and he owed her one in return: he would find a way for them to be together.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Michael stood near the cliff and faced the sun as it sank toward the sea. She had come outside after glimpsing the bright, beautiful sunset sky through a window, un
able to resist the lure of the view. She inhaled the fresh, salted air, and lifted her head to the breeze, glad of a little time to herself.
Sorcha slept now, following another difficult afternoon filled with irregular, troublesome labor pangs. Michael had finally coaxed her to sleep with a back rub and an infusion of calming herbs. Then she had asked Mungo to sit outside Sorcha’s doorway in case she awoke while Michael was gone.
The sun drifted slowly toward the horizon, washing the sky in golden light, spreading its gleam over the sea. She walked toward the edge of the cliff, cautious of the danger below her feet, but feeling no real fear. Her memories of being here with Diarmid gave her a firm sense of safety, as if he helped her to find the courage to stand alone on the cliff.
She watched in fascination as sky and sea turned to molten gold, a shining expanse broken only by the black silhouettes of small islands. Diarmid and Dunsheen Castle were out there somewhere beneath that magnificent sky, she thought. She wanted to be with him, away from the strange tension at Glas Eilean that centered around Ranald MacSween. She imagined, briefly, lying safely in Diarmid’s arms, although she had tried to accept that such joy might never come to be. She wondered if he watched the sunset as she did. The thought warmed her, and she hugged her arms around herself as she stood there.
“'Tis cold out here,” a voice said abruptly, startling her. She spun, cloak whipping around her legs, to see Ranald walking toward her. “What are you doing out here, Lady Michaelmas?” He spoke in precise, clipped English, as he so often did, though he had been born to the Gaelic as she had.
“The sunset is brilliant tonight,” she replied in English. “I only came to watch.”
He stood beside her, the wind blowing the hem of his cloak, stirring his smooth brown hair. “This is a dangerous place to stand,” he said. “You could fall over the edge and we would not know of it until too late.”
His odd tone sent a frisson of fear down her spine. She turned away, intending to walk back toward the castle, but he took her arm. “Hold for a moment, my lady,” he said. “Stand here and watch the sky with me. 'Tis truly beautiful.” He turned her as he spoke, and kept a hand on her arm. “Only in the Isles can one see these golden sunsets. Think how priceless that sky would be if it could be measured in coin.”
