by Susan King
“Harsh, to punish you for her sin,” Michael said.
He shrugged. “I wanted punishment of some kind, I think.” He drew a long breath. “But she is gone, has been gone for a year. Even my mourning time was over before I learned I was widowed. And I do mourn her. She was not evil. She gave a great deal to me at first. But betrayal, my future stolen from me, no wife, no heirs—that I found unforgivable. Not so now.”
“You feel some peace, then.”
“So much,” he whispered, tucking his chin on her head. “So much, my wife.” She smiled, silent and content in his arms.
His scarred left hand lay on the plaid over her, and she lifted it and kissed it, touching her lips to the old wounds. She heard him draw in his breath, felt his fingers squeeze hers. Through the quiet, she heard the faint cry of Sorcha’s little daughter. She stirred, but Diarmid held her back. “When my sister needs you, she will send someone for you,” he said. She relaxed against him and listened to the crying until it stopped abruptly. “Angelica nurses now, I suspect,” she said.
“Likely so,” he said, holding her tightly. “Michael, when she was born, and when you fought to revive her—I felt as frightened as you, I think. I loved you so much in those moments, watching your strength, your caring.”
“I did not save her, Diarmid. I nearly lost her.”
He kissed her brow. “You kept her alive, helped her gain strength. That was as beautiful to witness as what came after.”
“Her mother’s love saved that child and brought her back,” she said. “Did you feel it there, filling the room?”
He nodded. “When I came back to the birth chamber with Mungo, Sorcha told me something.” His voice was husky and low. “She said that when I opened a window to let the little soul out, an angel must have flown in and brought the miracle.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “Sorcha’s name for the babe is more than fitting. We can never understand fully what happened. I do not think we are meant to know. Heaven granted your prayers, Diarmid Campbell.” She glanced up at him. “Although the miracle you got was not the one you asked for.”
“I have been a fool,” he whispered against her cheek, his voice thrumming in her ear. “Forgive me.”
She smiled ruefully. “When you came to find me in Perth, you loved Brigit so much that you could not see beyond what she needed most. But you were given another miracle—”
“I know,” he said, tucking the plaid around her.
She smiled. “I mean you were given one of divine making, not yours, or mine.”
“And a fine one it was,” he said lightly. “But that is not all of my foolishness.”
She turned her head to look at him, puzzled. “What then?”
“I have not been honest with you,” he said somberly.
Frowning, she watched him. “How so?”
“I should not have waited so long to tell you this,” he said. “I love you, Micheil. So much.”
She turned then, tears roused once again in her eyes. He took her fully into his arms and kissed her. Sliding her arms around him, Michael felt the first touch of the newborn sunlight as it came through the window.
Later, more loving sated her, mind and body, and revived her. While Diarmid slept, Michael dressed and went down to the kitchen. There she chatted with the cook about Sorcha’s child, and ate oats cooked in broth and onions. A little while later, she carried two bowls of porridge up the stairs. In Sorcha’s room, she found the new mother asleep with her daughter tucked protectively in her arms.
Mungo slouched in a high-backed chair watching them. He started when Michael entered the room, and sat upright. Michael smiled at him and gave him one of the bowls with a wooden spoon, setting the other down. He grinned sheepishly at her.
“I should not be here, I know,” he admitted. “This is a woman’s duty, to watch over the newborn and the mother, but Giorsal said she was too exhausted to stay longer, and went to find a corner to nap. I did not want to disturb you and Diarmid last night—” he stopped. Michael blushed. “I just wanted to guard them while they slept. She refused to let Angelica lie in the cradle alone. I wanted to be certain they were both safe.”
Michael smiled. “She would not mind you being here. I was tired, too. I am sorry—I should have come back to help sooner.”
Mungo stirred the porridge, swallowed some, stirred again. ”Ach, well,” he said. “You had an important matter elsewhere, I think.” She saw him smile as he took another mouthful.
Her cheeks grew hotter. “We—we are wed now,” she said softly, knowing Diarmid would not mind if she told Mungo first. “We said the vows ourselves.” She smiled shyly.
Mungo grinned again. “What a night we have had here, eh? A birth and a wedding. And those vows were none too soon,” he teased. She blinked, feeling her whole face go fiery. “Yesterday morning, Diarmid told me about Anabel’s death,” Mungo went on somberly. “I wondered then how long it would take before he wed you. He has been anxious for it, I think.”
She lifted a brow. “Before now?” she asked.
He nodded. “When he came back yesterday, he told me that he had gone to the convent to ask Anabel to finally release him from the marriage. She could have taken holy orders, but had refused to do it. He meant to beg her if he had to. Did you know that he wanted to wed you years back?” He glanced at her with a little smile, then scraped up porridge with his spoon.
“I know,” she said. The awareness of Diarmid’s love for her glowed inside of her, a constant sense of safety and wonder.
Then the baby whimpered and awoke, and Sorcha opened her eyes and smiled down at her. Michael shooed Mungo gently from the room, reminding him that certain tasks were best left to women.
“Three nights,” Michael murmured as she stood beside Diarmid. “For three nights you have lingered beside this window, watching the sea. Will you not come to bed this night, at least?”
He put his arm out to draw her close. “I have had plenty of rest these last few days,” he said, kissing the top of her head. She turned her head, taking in a drift of the lavender herb bath which they shared earlier; she smiled at the memory. “That is, when we have not been occupied with other matters,” he added. She laughed softly and slid her arms around his waist.
“What makes you so certain that an English ship will come?” she asked quietly, knowing why he watched so often by this window.
“Ranald would not keep those birlinns hidden in the sea cave for long without using them,” he answered. “They are stocked with weapons and ready to be manned. And from what I heard from the Campbell chief, King Robert plans to sail toward the Isles soon. And I would wager that the English will not be far behind. I suspect Ranald means to help them intercept Bruce’s peaceful progress through the Isles.”
“But Ranald is not here,” she protested. “Would he not be here if he knew the English were coming?”
“If I am correct, Ranald will return in time to meet an English ship, and that ship will be carrying extra English sailors to man the warships he has hidden away,” Diarmid said. “But in fairness to my sister’s husband, I could be wrong.”
A feeling of cold dread slid through Michael as she listened. She frowned, remembering those awful moments on the cliff when Ranald had made his vile threats. The joy of the last few days had allowed her to forget that danger, but now she could not erase the images, the words, from her thoughts. She had said nothing to Diarmid out of fear of Ranald’s reprisal. But now she knew that her silence could create even more danger for Diarmid.
“You are not wrong in your suspicions,” she began. “When Ranald was here last, he—he told me that he meant to cast Sorcha aside. He said that he intended to wed me when she was gone.”
“The bastard means to gain Glas Eilean for himself,” he growled. “I feared this, but thought he would not dare.”
“He wants sons as well, to hold it forever. He is certain that Sorcha cannot give him a son. He thinks that I will.”
Diarmid h
ugged her close. “Did he touch you? I will kill him,” he muttered.
She shook her head vehemently. “I am fine. But now that you are my husband, you hold Glas Eilean according to king’s law. Ranald will want revenge for that. He told me that he means to kill you—he said that he did not want you to know of Anabel’s death because he feared you would try to wed the widowed owner of Glas Eilean.”
“He thinks that I share his wretched goals,” Diarmid said. “He has always suspected me of conspiring to take this castle from him. As I took Anabel from him,” he added thoughtfully. Michael looked at him, wondering what he meant. “Ranald has a wicked heart, Diarmid. Be careful.” She clenched the fabric of his shirt anxiously. “Keep away from him. Please. Go back to Dunsheen before he comes back.”
Diarmid tightened his arm around her. “You and Sorcha are the ones who should leave,” he said grimly.
“Sorcha is not able to travel yet, and the babe is far too fragile to be exposed to winds and cold. Diarmid, I am frightened. Ranald will return soon, and he will surely try to destroy you. Leave, I beg you.”
He shook his head slowly. “King Robert and Gavin assigned me to watch Ranald and determine if he was involved in any sort of treason. The king’s life and the safety of the Isles could depend on what happens here at Glas Eilean. And I expect my brothers to arrive with my own birlinn soon. I must stay here.”
He stared out through the open window at the dark, empty horizon. “And I have some private matters to discuss with MacSween. He will not disgrace my sister, or threaten my wife and live.”
Michael frowned. Diarmid’s grim tone and hard grip on her shoulder alerted her to the depth of his anger. He would seek his own revenge. “Ranald seems want to hurt you through the women in your life,” she said. “Why?”
“I had not thought of it, but it seems that he does. It may all go back to Anabel,” he mused. “I think he might have wed her himself, years past, if they had not been within consanguinity.”
“Diarmid, please leave here. Ranald does not trust you. He will blame you for all if any of his plans go wrong.”
“Then the blame will be wisely placed. Let him think what he likes, let him try what he likes,” he said flatly. “I mean to await these ships and to await him. And believe me, dear girl, Ranald will never see his plans come to be.”
“Is that a storm brewing?” Michael asked, glancing through the glass window in Sorcha’s bedchamber at the steel-colored sea. Gray daylight streamed into the room, and heavy winds rocked the shutters. “Those clouds are large and dark, and the waves are getting high.”
“The sea is high, and the clouds are fast and heavy,” Sorcha admitted from her reclining position on the bed. “A gale might blow toward us from the west. But such storms can take days to reach us.”
Michael nodded and strummed the harp propped against her shoulder, endeavoring to play a soothing tune. The weather increased the anxious sense that had disturbed her all morning. Her fears had begun last night, while she and Diarmid had spoken of Ranald. Now she could not lose the heavy sense of an approaching threat.
Early that morning, Sorcha had mentioned that Ranald must surely have completed his business in Ireland by now, and would return home soon. Michael could not keep her gaze from straying nervously to the window again and again.
Sorcha begin to sing the poetic verses that Gilchrist had written for the melody Michael now played. She watched Sorcha gaze at her infant daughter while she sang. Diarmid’s sister had donned a blue woolen gown and rested on the bed against pillows, with Angelica bundled in her arms. Her coppery hair was wound in braids framing her face, and covered by a simple linen veil. Her gray eyes sparkled with happiness. Michael smiled as she played, determined to hide from Sorcha the uneasiness that crawled inside of her.
Diarmid and Mungo had gone out early that day in Diarmid’s birlinn, taking the twenty-six oarsmen from Dunsheen who had, Mungo reported, been complaining about their days of inactivity. Diarmid told Michael that he meant to sail on a circuit around the islands, watching for the approach of any ships.
But in his absence, Michael felt uncertain, as if she stood on the deck of a careening ship. Bonded closely to Diarmid now, she could not bear to be separated from him for long.
Giorsal had been with them earlier to bathe the child, then drink a good portion of morning ale. She had announced that she had sat the night with mother and child and deserved to rest during the day. Michael felt little comfort in the woman’s presence, but once Giorsal had gone, Michael’s fears increased. She and Sorcha were alone.
Ranald’s guards filled the ground level of the castle, but none of them came to the upper level. The few servants and the cook stayed in the kitchen and lower rooms. Although the cook’s young son had brought a breakfast tray for Sorcha, he had scampered away quickly.
Michael continued to play as Sorcha sang and then cooed to her babe. Angelica was wide awake, her dark blue eyes bright and keen as she looked up at her mother. Sorcha and Michael laughed with delight, spoke in wondering tones about her tiny, perfect face, her soft pale hair, her strong cry. Michael managed to forget some of her unease as they talked.
When she stood and set the harp aside, she heard heavy footsteps. Startled, she looked toward the door as it swept open.
Ranald crossed the threshold, hardly glancing at her as he strode toward the bed. Michael’s heart pounded in her chest, and she stepped back.
“Where is my daughter?” he demanded. “My cousin Giorsal greeted me in the great hall as I came in from the sea entrance. Let me see the child!” He looked down at his wife and child, unsmiling.
“She is healthy and strong,” Sorcha said, peeling back the wrappings to display the child’s face. “I have named her Angelica, for that is how she came to us—through the angels.”
Ranald reached forward with a finger to touch the child’s cheek. “You can give a daughter any name you like,” he said.
“I am sorry that I did not give you a son,” Sorcha murmured. “I hoped you would be pleased with her health.”
“I am pleased enough to have a better outcome this time,” Ranald said gruffly. With Sorcha’s coaxing, he tentatively lifted the small bundle in his hands, with such gentleness that Michael felt a sense of surprise. She had been afraid of this man, as if he were some demon; now she saw only a man, humbled by the sight of his newborn child. Ranald was silent for a long moment, studying his daughter’s face. Then he looked down at Sorcha.
“You are well?” he asked.
“Very well,” she replied, smiling.
“Giorsal told me the child nearly died, and that some sort of miracle occurred here,” Ranald said. “What did she mean?”
“We owe our daughter’s life to Michael,” Sorcha said. “Without her skill, Angelica would not have survived.”
“Her life is owed to the grace of angels, as Sorcha said,” Michael insisted.
“Either way, I thank you for your help,” Ranald said. “Much has happened in my absence.”
“There is something else, too,” Sorcha said. “Diarmid was here earlier—he and Mungo are out on the sea today. Ranald, he said that Anabel died a while ago—did you know that?”
Ranald gave the child back to Sorcha, and slid a glance at Michael. “I did not know,” he said precisely. “How sad.”
Michael narrowed her eyes and watched him warily. She nearly spoke, knowing his bold lie, but Sorcha’s tremulous smile kept her silent. But Sorcha’s hands, fluttering nervously over the babe’s swaddling, revealed Sorcha’s own trepidation.
“Now that he is a widower, Diarmid took Michael to wife,” Sorcha continued. “They said their own vows, and now are wed by grace of God and their own wishes. Though we will call in a priest as soon as we can, both to oversee their vows again and to baptize the child once more.” She looked up at her husband, then glanced quickly at Michael. Her grim gaze somehow communicated, as effectively as words, that she had told Ranald about the marriage to deflect his a
nger and blame to herself, and away from Michael and Diarmid.
Ranald grew pale, his mouth a grim line. “Married?” His voice was even and far too smooth. Michael’s heart slammed with dread. “Married?” he asked again.
Michael felt a cold frisson of fear whirl through her, as if danger radiated from Ranald suddenly. He turned to look at her with narrowed, darkened eyes. The stormy anger in his gaze made her gasp silently.
He looked down at Sorcha, hands fisted on his hips. “What greetings I get when I come home. First a daughter—by God, if you were to bear a healthy infant, it should have been a son! And then this news—do you realize what this means? Michaelmas holds the charter to Glas Eilean! It reverts to her husband’s possession!”
“Surely the king will grant you property for your loyalty in holding Glas Eilean,” Sorcha protested.
Ranald seemed not to hear her. “Diarmid Campbell covets whatever I hold! He will not have Glas Eilean!” he snarled. The child startled in her mother’s arms and began to cry, loud and reedy. Ranald scowled and spun on his heel to stomp toward the door. “He will regret his actions against me! You say he is out on the ocean? My birlinn can go out again, no matter how weary my oarsmen claim to be!” He yanked open the door.
With a frightened glance in Sorcha’s direction, Michael ran after him. “Ranald!” she cried. “Ranald!”
He whirled as she approached. “I will gain my revenge!”
“You must not do this,” she said. “Diarmid has done nothing malicious to you.”
“He wed you,” he snarled, and took a long step toward her. She faltered, backing away as she saw the fierce expression in his dark eyes. As he advanced, she retreated, until her heel struck the wall behind her.
“Our marriage is no threat to you,” she said. “Diarmid never thought to harm you when he said vows with me.”
“He must have planned all along to wed you and take this castle from me. You have been used.” Ranald came closer, until Michael pressed her back against the cold stone wall. “Just as he took Anabel from me!” He hovered over her, his eyes wild, truly frightening. “I have long owed Diarmid revenge for that—and now he has done this! I swear to you, he will not have Glas Eilean!” He took her by the shoulders in a hard grip. “I would not give it up to Gavin Faulkener, and by God I will not let Diarmid Campbell take it by right of marriage. If he had a thousand men at my gates I would not give up this place! Do you understand?” He shook her violently. “Do you?”
