by Susan King
“What happened to her?” he asked in a low, flat tone.
“Ranald MacSween said that he told you, but I can tell you what I know. Sister Anabel took ill after she went for a walk on the beach in the rain. Her fever worsened, and went to her lungs, and she died within a few days. She went to God in peace, I think. She called your name before she died, asking your forgiveness. I assured her that you had already granted it.”
Diarmid tightened his jaw against the guilt and remorse that rushed through him. “When did Ranald learn of her death?”
“He came while she was ill—he often visited her—and he was with her when she died. He told us that you were away with the king’s troops, but promised to send you a message. You did not come or send word, but I understand. Grief takes many forms. We have appreciated the foodstuffs and goods you sent in spite of knowing she was gone.”
He nodded. He sent supplies twice each year to the convent as payment for his wife’s keep; unaware of her death, he had ordered the goods sent as usual. “The shipments will continue, Mother Prioress, as my donation,” he said quietly.
“Thank you. You and your wife were estranged, I know,” the prioress said. “Perhaps you can find your peace with her now.” She walked away.
He stared down at the stone, hardly seeing its graceful engravings. Anabel was gone, had been gone this whole past year. The shock of the news still reverberated through his body. He needed long moments just to allow his mind and his heart to comprehend it, to accept it.
She was dead, and with her had fallen the final barrier to his own happiness and freedom. Her bitterness and anger over his attempt to divorce her had endured, even though she had been the one who had betrayed the marriage. But he felt no relief, took no joy in her death.
She had changed, had asked for his forgiveness. He was thankful that the prioress had assured her of it. He owed Anabel that much; he had loved her once, although the bond was born of lust and blind need, rather than devotion and compassion.
Now he understood the true nature of love. Michael had taught him. He drew in a breath, looked at the flat gray horizon without seeing the approaching storm, lost in his thoughts. Michael, Sorcha, Brigit, Mungo, Gilchrist, Iona—all had shown him the generous, unrestricted nature of love. He had not realized it until now.
He glanced down at the cross that marked both a woman’s passing and the fading of his own painful past. Drawing a deep breath, he felt the burden lift at last.
But he knew that he would not be entirely free until he resolved one last matter. Ranald knew of Anabel’s death, and had not told him. He frowned; MacSween had been with her when she had died, and he had paid for the stone. Yet why had he kept the news from her own husband?
He stared at the Latin inscription. Anabel...beloved.
The answer hit him like a blow. The inscription had not been the requisite phrase of the absent husband. Ranald had ordered that inscription because he had loved her himself.
Diarmid knew then that Ranald had been the lover who had left Anabel’s bed warm to the touch when Diarmid had arrived home unannounced one night four years ago. Ranald had been staying at Dunsheen that night. Later, when Diarmid had asked Anabel to leave his household, when he had listened to the opinions of his family and friends and had gone to the ecclesiastical court to undo the marriage, she had fled to her cousin at Glas Eilean.
Diarmid had often suspected that Ranald was more than mere cousin to Anabel, but he had dismissed it as abhorrent. Now that he was sure of it, he felt a keen pain deep inside, not only for himself, but for Sorcha, who had also been betrayed.
But why would Ranald withhold the news of Anabel’s death? His brother-in-law never hesitated to threaten revenge when he had been wronged, and Diarmid was sure that Ranald harbored a great deal of anger toward him for the loss of Anabel.
Ranald often acted in his own interest, in personal as well as business matters. What benefit could he gain from keeping silent about Anabel’s death? How would it serve him for Diarmid to believe Anabel was still his separated wife? He shoved back his hair in frustration.
Looking up, he scanned the silver-gray sky with its burden of clouds, watched the heavy swells of the sea, studied the blurred outlines of distant islands. Glancing west toward Jura and Glas Eilean, he suddenly knew the answer.
Bending down, he knelt by Anabel’s grave, whispered a prayer, touched a finger to his lips and then to the center of the cross. “Let there be peace between us, Anabel,” he murmured. Turning, he strode toward the beach and the birlinn that waited there. He had to stop Ranald. If his suspicions were correct, both his sister and Michael were in great danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cold seawater pressed around her legs as Michael stood on the ledge, holding the little seal as if it were a child. The pup struggled against her and slipped out of her arms to dive into the water. Raising its slick head through the splash, it looked quizzically at her.
“I am not coming in there with you,” she said firmly, and turned to make her way carefully toward a higher ledge. The water nearly swamped the entrance, making the narrow crevice opening even smaller, washing over the rough ledges there, but not yet reaching the barrels and wooden boxes stored above the water stains on the walls. She grabbed on to jutting handles of stone as she made her way toward the back of the cave, where a more accessible ledge leaned out over the water.
Stepping across the rough stone, she gained a foothold on the projection and sat, curling her legs underneath. The seal skimmed through the water beneath her, its bleating voice and playful splashes echoing around the walls of the huge cave. Michael looked down at it and pointed toward the entrance.
“Go home, little one,” she said. “Your mother will be looking for you.”
The seal barked insistently, as if trying to communicate its thoughts. Michael pointed toward the cave entrance again, and turned her back, expecting it to swim off toward its own kind. A moment later, she looked down and saw the little seal struggling to climb up toward her.
”Ach,” she said reproachfully, “you are too small to climb up here. You will fall and hurt yourself again. Come on, then.” She stepped down, scooped the pup out of the water, nearly overbalancing herself, and climbed back up to the shelf. The pup waddled behind her.
“So here we are, and what shall we do?” she asked. The seal cocked its head and blinked at her, its black eyes huge in its little, speckled face. “Mungo will surely come soon to fetch us,” Michael murmured, gazing toward the empty entrance. She could not imagine what delayed him so long.
She looked back into the shadowed recesses of the cave, and saw the dark bulks of the two huge birlinns that floated silently there, moored to the wall. If the water rose much higher than this, she would have to climb, even swim part of the way, toward the birlinns and find shelter inside one of the warships.
She dreaded the thought of slipping into the cold, dark water, which surged higher as she watched. Dark swells rushed inside the cave with increasing force and noise. Michael flattened herself against the slimy rock wall and gathered the little pup under her arm for warmth and comfort, trying to stay calm as the water encroached relentlessly toward the ledge.
If a small boat had been available, she might have tried to row back to the sea entrance of the castle by herself, despite her fear. She had been in enough boats lately to be able to do that much. Remembering her voyage to Glas Eilean, and Diarmid’s kindness while she had been ill, she realized that while had helped her to conquer the symptoms, he did not know the real reason for her fear.
She hugged the little seal close and hovered on the ledge, trying not to watch the dark green depths of the water, trying not to hear the incessant echo of the waves as they swept inside. But the fear that she resisted finally won a hold over her.
Her hands began to shake, and soon her entire body shivered uncontrollably. The seal nosed at her, but she hardly noticed as she stared down at the deathly green gleam of the water. Her breaths be
came labored and tight as she fought the terror.
The seal barked, but Michael did not look up, her gaze transfixed on the water. She knew too well what it felt like to sink into such dark, cloying depths, lungs filled with the last bit of precious air that remained in the world. Her hands had been bound with rope, and her feet tied—
She cried out as the memories swamped her, choked her, drove her back against the wall, down to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and cried out again, desperately. Panic flooded her deeply and completely.
Somewhere inside, she knew she must calm herself, but could not take her hands from her face or shift her stiffened body from its cramped, frightened posture. The seal jumped and bleated, snuffling at her legs, and she could not comfort it.
Out of the rushing, whispering rhythms of the seawater, she heard a voice call her name, again and again. The seal bumped at her and barked, and she finally looked up, her glance dazed by fear and shadows, peering through deepening green-tinged light to see a dark form floating toward her through the brimming, gleaming water.
“Michael!” Diarmid called from within the small boat he rowed. “Michael!” The boat knocked against the side of the ledge and he climbed out, moving quickly toward her, sloshing through water that swirled around his bare legs. “What is it? Did something frighten you? Come here.” His hands found her in the dimness; warm, strong, safe hands. He pulled to her feet. She sobbed out, a piteous cry, and went into his arms.
“Hush, love, I am here,” he crooned, wrapping her in his embrace, resting his cheek on top of her head. “What is it? You are not in danger here. When I arrived back at Glas Eilean this morning, Mungo came in and said that you were here, waiting for him. I told him I would fetch you myself. What happened?”
She tightened her arms around him, sobbing out the wretched burden of her fear. “The water—” she choked out, and hid her face in the thick folds of his plaid.
“Ah, love,” he murmured, sounding sympathetic, sounding regretful. “You are safe, my love. You are safe.” He rocked her in his arms. “I am here now. I will not leave you.”
She clung to him, hearing, as if in a daze, the loving warmth in his words. The rock seemed to spin out from under her and right itself again. He loved her. She felt it, knew it. The feeling gave her enormous strength to fight the turmoil inside of her.
“Let me help you into the boat,” he said.
She resisted when he wanted her to step off the ledge. She wanted only the shelter and assurance of his arms, wrapped around her like a benediction. She sighed against his chest. “Stay here with me,” she whispered, clinging to him. “Just hold me. Please.”
He made a gruff noise in his throat and tucked her against his heart, covering her head with his hand, sliding his fingers over the tousled skein of her thick braid. “I will hold you as long as you want,” he murmured.
Michael closed her eyes in gratitude and dipped her head under the niche formed by his jaw and throat. His whiskered chin was warm, his pulse vibrant. She knew that he would hold her into infinity if she needed that.
“Michael,” he whispered. “Something more than ocean sickness causes this uneasiness with water. What is it?”
She tried to summon the words, although the memories assaulted her, crowded her like squawling demons in a painting of hell. Her fingers clutched Diarmid’s arm.
“It was in Italy.” She spoke barely above a whisper. “The second year that I attended lectures at the university at Bologna, I was assigned to assist in a small monastery hospital, a fair distance from Bologna. Many medical students went there for a few weeks at a time.”
His hands rested easily, snugly, at her waist. “Of course. When I studied with Brother Colum, I worked in the infirmary at the monastery.”
She nodded. “I saw many people suffering there. Some days I could hardly stand to hear the cries for help, or see the pain on their faces.” She paused. “One woman was coughing blood and was very ill. I sat with her often, and one day touched her chest and back, and felt the healing power come. She felt it too, and later said she saw lights around me in the night. She seemed to recover rapidly.”
“Go on,” Diarmid said gently.
“I sat with her a few times, and each time the gift came through my hands, as it had when I was a child. I did not fear using my ability then. I had often done so at home.” She looked at him. “Gavin has the gift—someday I will tell you the tale.”
“I want to hear it,” he said. “What happened then?”
“Ibrahim visited the hospital regularly. He saw me sitting with the woman one night, and later asked me what I had done. He was kind, respectful when I explained it to him, but he told me to be careful. The woman recovered from an abcess of the lungs in three days, with greater health than she had ever had before.”
“That is astonishing. Why did Ibrahim caution you?”
“He knew that she was the archbishop’s mother. She spoke to her son about what I did, and he brought charges against me, even though his mother had been healed. An inquiry was called, and they found me guilty of magic and sorcery.” She paused.
“Jesu,” he murmured, pulling her close.
She swallowed heavily and went on. “They—they—shut me in a storage room of the monastery for days.” Darkness, chill, the sounds of mice, the taste of sour milk and stale bread brought by the monks—the memories assailed her. She fisted her hands and gained control after a moment. “Then they tied me hand and foot, took me in a boat, and tossed me into the river,” she said flatly. “If I rose to the surface, I would be proved innocent.”
In answer, Diarmid wrapped his arms around her, silent, and rocked her gently.
Having uttered the words so bluntly, Michael struggled against tears. She heard the rush of the seawater and moaned, pressing her head against Diarmid to block out the sound.
“Where was Ibrahim during this time?” Diarmid asked gently.
She fisted and unfisted a handful of the plaid that covered his chest. “He had been in Bologna, but he rode into the village the day they took me to the river. He sent his Saracen valet into the water after me, and the man pulled me up. I was choking, nearly drowned.” She stopped again, her world tipping dizzily. But Diarmid’s strong arms held her up, and his hard body was the rock she leaned on in the midst of the storm.
“Michael,” he murmured. “I knew none of this.”
She looked up, blinded by tears. “I never even told Gavin. But I cannot forget how—how I came so near to drowning.”
“You are safe now. Always.” The balm of his presence dissolved the terror trapped inside of her. Parts of it vanished like fog in sunlight.
“IBrahim told the crowd that I had risen to the surface. Many believed him, but some were angry. In the confusion, he took me away.”
“I owe Ibrahim a debt,” Diarmid said.
“He told the court that he had cured the woman with rare Arabic medicines,” she said. “He told them that I had only comforted her with a soothing touch, and should never have been accused. He swore that I had no unearthly healing power.”
“Then he lied for your sake. He loved you very much.”
She smiled ruefully. “He was never a strongly religious man, so a lie to the ecclesiastical court meant little to him. And he did love me, in his way,” she added softly.
“I envy him,” Diarmid whispered.
She closed her eyes on an inward sigh, and hugged him around his waist. “Ibrahim was intrigued by my healing ability,” she said slowly. “He thought that I was a good student and he liked a curious mind, someone who challenged him. He taught me a great deal, brought me into his household, protected me. He made certain that I became a physician.” She looked down, flattening her hand on his chest. “He needed a hostess and a companion, and wanted an apprentice in his last years. I agreed to marry him.” “Did you love him?” Diarmid asked.
“I was grateful to him. I was frightened, and I wanted to become a physician very much. He
was a kind man, the best friend I had.”
“Sometimes friendship is enough.”
“It was not enough for me.” The warmth between enveloped them, a comfort so profound that Michael wanted to stay here with him forever. She closed her eyes and sighed softly, sadly.
“You needed something more from him,” he said gently.
She shrugged, half nodding in a flush of embarrassment. “He nearly eighty when we wed,” she said. “He felt that a man and wife should have a loving relationship. We did, I think, at first.” She paused. “But he had a heart illness, and kept his symptoms from me, and hid the medicines he prescribed for himself. I did not learn until too late.”
Diarmid stroked her hair lightly, saying nothing.
“I know that my marriage was not ideal,” she said. “But we were content with our medical discussions, our books, our patients. Ibrahim asked me never to use the healing gift again. He feared that I might have more trouble.”
“Perhaps I was wrong to ask you to use it again.”
She shook her head, tucked against him. “I mourned it. I thought it was gone forever. After a while, I was busy with my medical practice and my husband’s failing health.” She looked up at him. “When I met you in Perth, the healing power was all you wanted of me. You made me find it again.”
Diarmid tipped her chin up with a crooked finger, his gaze searching hers. “If you had no healing touch, no skill at all, I would want you.” He lowered his head.
Her head spun as his lips brushed over hers in a soft, exquisite kiss. Her knees seemed to melt and turn to butter as his mouth searched hers. Only his hands kept her from falling as the sweet, lingering kiss continued.
A hunger rose in her that no kiss, no words of love, would satisfy. She tightened her arms around him, pressed herself to him, but felt him resist suddenly, and pull back.
Diarmid looked down. The little seal, which had wandered away, now flapped against his feet, splashing in the shallow water on the ledge. “Your friend is anxious to be gone from here,” Diarmid said wryly. “He is wise. It is cold here, and dark, and the tide is rising higher.”
