Lady Miracle

by Susan King

  “Will you spoil beauty with such a thought?” She shifted her arm but could not free herself from his polite grip.

  “Ah, a woman of ideals. My father raised me to be practical. He taught me strictly and without mercy, and I learned well. What we gain for ourselves is the true pleasure in life.”

  “If we gain love from others, and family—”

  He laughed curtly. “My father gained land for himself by supporting the English against the losing cause of the Scots. He gained sons of his wives and mistresses. He would think me a fool, my lady, to admire the view without thinking about the gold. He would think me a fool to father no sons, and a bigger fool to hold no fortress of my own.”

  She frowned. “You wish to speak to me about Glas Eilean.”

  “When I saw you standing out here, I knew this was a good opportunity to talk with you. We have much to discuss.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “How does my wife?”

  “She is asleep at the moment,” she said. “Bedrest has earned another two weeks for her babe. Every day that the child stays in her womb invests in a healthy birth.”

  Ranald nodded briskly. “I may have been wrong about you, Lady Michael,” he said. “I thought you no more than a midwife, and I have little confidence in them after so many babes lost. But perhaps you have the ability to ensure that Sorcha delivers me a healthy son.”

  “Or a daughter,” she said irritably. “I will do my best. I can give her medicines and see that she rests. The rest depends on God’s will, not my abilities.”

  Ranald sucked in a breath and folded his arms. “None of my children have survived because of her weaknesses.”

  “Sorcha is not to blame,” she retorted. “The health of this child depends on the well-being of its mother and the good will of heaven. We must treat Sorcha gently, with great care, and we must pray for her and the child. The herbs I have given her and the bedrest will gain time, but I do not know how long before Sorcha delivers. It may be days, or it may be full months.”

  “Do what you must,” he said. “Get me a child.”

  She frowned as she stared at the molten brightness of sea and sky. “And if the child dies?” she asked softly.

  He shifted his grip on her arm, but did not let go. “I have had no sons of Sorcha Campbell, despite years of marriage. If she survives this birth, I will set her aside.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You mean to divorce her?”

  He shrugged. “She may die this time. And I fear that my request for a divorce will be rejected by the ecclesiastical court in Glasgow. No matter. I can still set one wife aside and take another. Do not look so shocked, lady,” he added, glancing at her. “This is done among Highland lairds more often than you know. The Church grants divorces too rarely. So most Highland lairds do not bother—they set the first one aside and choose another, and acknowledge their bastards as their rightful born heirs. Your own champion cast aside his wife a few years back when she displeased him, although he took the slow route through the Church to do it.”

  She refused to look at him, though she sensed his smirking expression. “I know something of it,” she said stiffly.

  “Ah, but do you know all of it?” he said, leaning close. She could feel his breath on her cheek, could smell wine and meat from a past meal. “Do you know what he did, and why?”

  She shook her head. “I do not want to hear it.”

  “But you should,” he murmured, crowding her. She shifted away, but he kept his hand around her upper arm. The cliff edge seemed far more threatening and closer than before. She stepped backward, but Ranald pulled her toward him.

  “Anabel was my cousin,” he said. He laid an arm around her shoulders. “A beautiful girl, with dark eyes and dark russet hair, and breasts and hips so full and well-shaped as to drive any man wild who looked at her. Anabel wanted Diarmid Campbell, and got him,” he went on, pulling Michael close. “She took him to her bed when he was troubled by his brother’s death, soothed him there with her body.”

  The words stung deep, far deeper than Ranald knew. “I do not need to hear this—”

  “She made him believe she carried his child—she may have, and lost it, I do not know for sure.” He shrugged. “He wed her. He was besotted.”

  Michael pulled back. “I must go in now and see to Sorcha.”

  “Sorcha will keep,” Ranald said, yanking her firmly back with an arm over her shoulders. “She has that besotted Highlander at her door like a faithful dog. Listen now, and I will tell you what Diarmid Campbell did to his wife. So that you will not be tempted to wed him yourself.”

  “I could not, even if I wanted,” she said. “He and Anabel are still wed.”

  Ranald laughed harshly. The sun had slipped below the far edge of the sea, and the golden hue faded rapidly. A bitter chill seeped into the air beneath the star-sparkled sky.

  “I will tell you the truth, which even your champion does not know,” he said. “Anabel and I had been lovers for years. I saw no reason to end that. Her new husband was gone for long periods of time with the king’s forces. So we met, here or at Dunsheen. One day he came back sooner than we thought, arriving at night. I slipped out of the room quickly, but it was obvious to him that a man had been in her bed.”

  “And so he tried to divorce her,” she finished quickly, anxious to get away, troubled and shocked by what he had revealed. “He cannot be blamed for doing so.”

  “He refused to touch her again, and banished her from his house. She came to me here, upset and in need. Diarmid suspected me, I think, but he has never been sure. He sent a few of his guards away—she told him she had more than one lover, to protect me. Anabel was a loyal woman, in her way.”

  Michael said nothing, watching the vivid gold sunset, wishing she did not have to hear this. And yet part of her listened, fascinated.

  “The court granted them a separation in bed and board,” he answered. “For her sin of adultery, they ordered Anabel exiled to a convent on an isle not far from here. And they took a vow of chastity, so that neither would ever take a lover.” He slid his hand up and down her arm slowly. “A shame, is it not? Perhaps he told you something of that?”

  She lifted her chin and said nothing.

  “For Anabel, I can tell you she did not keep that vow for long. We became lovers again. Diarmid visited her on that isle at first, but I visited her there more often. Until last year.” She looked at him, curious despite her repulsion for the tale and for the man who told it. “What happened?”

  “She died,” Ranald said bluntly.

  Michael turned to stare at him. “Anabel is dead?” she asked, incredulous. “But Diarmid—”

  “He does not know,” Ranald said. He scowled, and his mouth was pinched tight, as if the topic were hard for him to speak about. “She took ill and could not be cured. The convent’s prioress asked me to tell him. I have not, as yet.”

  “A year! She has been gone a year and you have said nothing to him?” she demanded. “How can you be so cruel? Diarmid thinks he is not free—he thinks—” she stopped, unwilling to let Ranald know that she had any deep feelings for Diarmid.

  “I have very good reason for this,” he said. “If Dunsheen knew that he was a widower, he would look for a wife. A man wants a son and land, after all. But I knew he would speak to his friend, Gavin Faulkener, who has been eager to find a husband for you. I did not want that to happen, my lady,” he murmured, drawing her close.

  She kept herself rigid in her anger. Yet she was hopeful too, and ashamed to be relieved by Anabel’s death. “Why would you care if he offered for me? I do not understand—” Then the truth became clear. “Of course. Glas Eilean.”

  “Glas Eilean,” he agreed smoothly. “Which brings me to why I came out here to talk to you. I have decided to set Sorcha aside and take you to wife. You need a strong husband, after all, to hold this place for you.”

  “Marry you? That will never happen!” She shoved away from him. Ranald lunged and grabbed her arms.
He dragged her the few feet toward the edge of the cliff and held her there, while the wind battered at her and she twisted in fright. She glanced at his dark gaze, fixed on her face; she had never before seen the wild glint that lurked there now.

  “You could go off this cliff now, and plunge into the sea,” he said. He shook her vehemently. Fear, helplessness, and anger swirled within her. She gripped his arms, her hands trembling.

  “Please—stop—” she gasped.

  He smiled, rubbing her arm with his hand, holding her fiercely with the other. “If Glas Eilean’s owner died, I could petition the king and gain the charter,” Ranald said. “King Robert thinks me his loyal liegeman. But I do not want to kill you.” He looked down at her, his expression softening. “And you do not want to die.”

  “Why are you doing this?” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Does your wife know about your cruel nature?”

  He smiled thinly. “She does not know my innermost thoughts. But she fears me now, I think, where she never used to. Sorcha thinks me a heartless man, but she believes that the love of a family will soften me to a pudding. But then she has a simple heart herself.”

  “This is hateful, sinful. You are a civilized man, an educated man. You know these plans are wrong.”

  “My schemes will get me what I want. I commit no sin. I arrange things as I want them to be. Do you know how humiliating it is to be keeper of this castle, when a mere woman owns it? Can you imagine my shame, to have no sons and a weakling wife?”

  She arched away, but he would not let her go. “You have no right to do any of this.”

  “Rights? I have many, for I have been wronged. Sorcha has not done her duty as a wife. The king has not rewarded me properly for the service I have given him. Glas Eilean should be mine. And Diarmid Campbell took the woman I wanted most, and divorced her. His actions led to her death. I seek my rights, and I will seek revenge for what is owed to me.”

  “No one meant you harm!”

  He gripped her so hard that her arms felt bruised. “I have the power here,” he said simply. Then he pushed her sideways over the raw crust of the cliff, still grasping her arm, so that her head and shoulders leaned into open air. Terrified, she clung to his arm for safety.

  “I can hurl you from this cliff and have the castle through your death.” He yanked her toward him and held her. Breathing hard, she rested her head unwillingly against him, just for a moment. “Do you want that fate, or this? Marry me, Michaelmas. It will be simple enough to arrange. You need a husband. I need a wife who can give me a son.” He dragged her hips to his, grinding himself against her. “I want a son.”

  She cried out in repulsion and pushed away. “Let me go!”

  “I offer you a simple choice.”

  “Diarmid will never let you do this. He will take Sorcha from you! He will see that you pay for these evil plans!”

  “Diarmid Campbell of Dunsheen,” Ranald said precisely, “has been investigating my private matters. I will not tolerate that from any man. What has he told you of his activities here at Glas Eilean?”

  “Nothing,” she said flatly.

  “I have made an arrangement that is delicate in nature, and requires precise timing. I suspect he has discovered part of it, but he will not live to destroy what I have carefully planned. And he will not live to wed you himself.”

  “He has no interest in me,” she said.

  “I have watched him look at you. The man is smitten. He must not take you to wife. Has he taken you to his bed? Has he?” He shook her, but she did not answer. “When will he come back here for you?” he asked.

  “I do not know.”

  He released her suddenly. Surprised to be freed so quickly, she stumbled backward, away from the cliff, away from him.

  “Diarmid Campbell will be back for you soon, I feel it,” he said. “And I will be waiting for him.”

  Afraid to reply, she stepped back on trembling legs. Ranald made no move to stop her. He shrugged. “Go back to the castle,” he said. “I know you will not dare to speak of this to anyone. And you will not leave this island.”

  She felt anger overtake her fear. “You do not know what I will do!” She quaked inside, but the bold declaration felt good.

  “You will keep your mouth closed,” he said. “Your caring nature will not allow you to put Sorcha and the child at risk. You fear for Dunsheen’s life, and so you will keep silent. You know he would come after me, and then I would have him. I know your weakness, lady,” he sneered. “It is your caring heart. I do not share your kindness. I will win what I want. You will see how caring destroys a person, in the end.”

  She turned and broke into a run. Ranald’s words haunted her, made her ill. Quickly, half stumbling, she ran into the castle and up the stairs to her chamber, where she threw herself, sobbing, to the bed.

  During the following week, Michael kept Ranald’s threats to herself, just as he had smugly predicted. If she had spoken of his vile plans to Sorcha or Mungo, or had sent word to Diarmid, she knew she risked bringing harm to those she had come to love.

  Ranald said no word to her about their encounter, either nodding politely to her or watching her with a flat stare whenever she saw him in Sorcha’s chamber or in the passageways.

  But the strain and danger of his presence disrupted her sleep, broke into her waking thoughts, and took her appetite.

  She stayed near Mungo as much as possible, finding his humor and steadfastness calming. She made certain that Mungo guarded Sorcha’s room at night, and slept better herself knowing that he lay rolled in his plaid in the corridor. Ranald no longer slept in his wife’s bedchamber, having taken a small mural room on another level of the castle.

  Sorcha had a particularly uncomfortable night that kept Michael on her feet until after midnight. She slept late the next morning from sheer exhaustion, and awoke to the raucous cries of gulls. Washing and dressing quickly in a fresh gown and surcoat of black serge, she pulled on her shoes, meaning to go to Sorcha’s bedchamber as she did every morning.

  But as she fixed a braided band of silk ribbons over a white veil to cover her braided hair, she heard a knock on her door. She opened it to admit Sorcha, barefoot and clothed in a shapeless white woolen tunic, her face swollen with tears. “Michael,” she said, falling into her arms. “You did not come. I waited for you all morning—”

  “I overslept. What is wrong?” Michael put an arm around Sorcha’s thick waist and walked her toward the rumpled bed, urging her to sit down. “Has your labor started?”

  Sorcha shook her head. “Ranald came to me this morning. He said he had to sail to Ireland for a few days.”

  Michael tilted her head, puzzled. “And so the tears? Are you sad to see your husband leave again, when you have had so much difficulty and draw nearer your term?”

  Sorcha bit her lip. Her pale skin was blotched from crying, her coppery hair hung lank over her shoulders, and her lips and eyelids were puffed from tears as well as pregnancy. “He told me that I must deliver him a healthy son or he will set me aside.”

  Michael stopped deathly still. “What else did he say?” she asked softly.

  Sorcha wiped her hand over her eyes. “He will find another wife. Someone who can give him sons.” She caught back a sob.

  “Lie down,” Michael said sternly, and helped her, pulling the covers up and plumping the pillows.

  “I knew that marriage to him would never bring me real happiness,” Sorcha said. “But I hoped to be content with him. My father wanted this match, not I. The elder MacSween had English favor and Ranald was loyal to King Robert. A position of security for me, my father thought. And Ranald wanted an alliance with the Campbell clan. He was charming, courteous—” She drew a shaking breath. “My father was dying. I wed Ranald even though he was not the man I loved.” She looked away.

  “I know he is not,” Michael said softly, taking her hand.

  “Ranald has changed. He was ambitious, intelligent, always courteous. N
ow he has become cruel and cold.”

  A cold blast of anger filled Michael. She knew Ranald’s true nature, and hated him thoroughly in that moment for upsetting Sorcha at such a fragile time. But she reminded herself that her concern was Sorcha; she resolved to calm her patient and keep silent about the rest for now.

  She took Sorcha’s hand. “Perhaps Ranald suffers the strain of your latest confinement in his own way,” she said tactfully. “You must not let his fit of conceit disturb you. There will be time enough to think on this later. Rest and be calm, and I am sure you can deliver a strong babe. Remember that is what is most important here.”

  Sorcha nodded, sniffling. “He wants to wed you,” she said.

  Michael started. “He said that?”

  Sorcha shook her head. “I suspect he thinks it. I have failed him, and Glas Eilean is your property by charter. He might mean to set me aside and take you to wife.”

  “He could never do that,” Michael insisted firmly.

  “If Diarmid were not wed to Anabel, he would offer for your hand,” Sorcha said. “I have seen the longing in his eyes.”

  Michael stood abruptly. “I will wed neither of them. When your babe is born, I will go home to Kilglassie. If Ranald persists in this, Diarmid will take you and your child to Dunsheen with him. Do not fret, Sorcha. Please.”

  Sorcha nodded, her lower lip trembling. Michael turned away and paced toward the window, determined to give Sorcha no clue to her own fright. She would do whatever necessary to protect Sorcha and Diarmid from Ranald’s anger. She was the only one who knew that his threats were real.

  She sighed. The world teetered on a framework of ifs—if Sorcha delivered a healthy son, if Michael returned to Kilglassie and gave Glas Eilean’s charter to the king, if she never saw Diarmid Campbell again—she had no assurance that all would be well. But she wanted safety for these people, and she would sacrifice anything to ensure it. Even if she had to leave them. She turned toward the window and covered her mouth to block a sob. Her heart was irrevocably lost to these Dunsheen Campbells and their laird. Leaving them was unthinkable—and imperative.