Lady Miracle (21 page)

He tilted his head as his lips opened over hers again and again, in a heated rhythm that plunged through her like fire, like honey, taking breath, taking thought. She could not get enough, ever, of this.

He traced his lips along her cheek, along the tender edge of her jaw towards her earlobe. Her legs wavered as if her bones melted inside. He leaned back against the wall and took her with him, settled across his lap, supported in his arms.

“Michael,” he murmured against her throat. His lips played across her throat, her jaw, her mouth. She did not speak, could not, finding the slanted corner of his mouth, kissing the quirk there, tasting the salty, wine flavor of his inner lip.

He returned the exploration as if he were starved, taking her lower lip between his, letting his tongue lick open the seal of her lips. He entered her mouth sweetly, a hot, gentle, exquisite feeling.

She knew that men and women could ignite passion like this between them; she had never experienced much of it herself, but she had read about its stages, its symptoms, its dangers. She knew the theories of the humors that drove the sensual urges in the body. But she had never felt their power gather and flow through her, turning her heartbeat to thunder, her flesh to liquid heat.

His hands warmed over her, soothing, sliding, his breath deepening. She spanned her hands over his chest and felt his thumping heart beneath her touch. His fingers traced the swell of her breasts, sensitive even beneath layers of silk and black wool. His hands swept down to her waist, up again, until his thumbs found the ready buds of her nipples. She arched into him, craving now, longing, taking his mouth hungrily with hers.

Then he made a muffled sound and broke away, holding her against his chest. “Michael, forgive me. I did not mean for this to happen.”

“Diarmid—” she said.

“Listen to me,” he murmured. “I am not much given to talk about my troubles. The tale is a heavy burden, I know. No one knows the whole of it but you.” He paused, his breath slowing, less urgent. “As for the rest—
ach
, you must think I had too much wine.” His lips pressed against her brow. “Dear girl, I have not.”

She wrapped her arms around him and waited for her own breath to slow, waited for the pulsing need in her lower body to calm. “I wanted to hear it,” she said. “Heartfelt wounds must be cleansed, or they will never heal. And as for the rest that passed between us—” she looked up at him. “I wanted that too.”

He sighed, long and deep. “We should forget this. I am wed, for all it is worth.” He paused, and in that silence, her heart shattered at his feet.

“I know,” she said. “I am sorry, Diarmid.”

“Listen to me,” he said urgently. “Anabel and I were given penance by the court. On pain of losing our souls to damnation, we vowed never to dishonor our marriage. It was the only way to win the separation. Michael, I cannot wed you. I can give you nothing. I do not want you to be my mistress.”

Michael began to say that she would not be a mistress to any man, but she only choked back an incoherent sob. She stood quickly, spinning to run down the steps. Diarmid strode after her, but she ran along the corridor to the door of her chamber. She yanked open the door and closed it behind her, before her heart could urge her to stop, to turn, to run back.

She leaned against the thick oak, her breath heaving, fighting sobs. Hearing his knock on the door, she held herself still. She felt the press of his weight against the oak, leaning against it just as she did.

”
Micheil
,” he murmured. “Forgive me for leading you into this.”

She held in a sob, waiting in silence. The thickness of the door separated them, linked them. She yearned to tell him he was forgiven, that she loved him, that she would be anything to him that he desired. Tears started in her eyes. She moved her hand to the latch.

But her fingers shook, and she stopped, swamped by fear, as if she stood at the edge of a precipice. Her heart felt newborn, needy, uncertain.

Thick oak held her apart from Diarmid, but she heard him there, mere inches away. Her heart thumped like a storm as longing and fear collided. A small, cautious inner voice told her that she was foolish to love him. She listened, and agreed.

But a deeper voice, softer, kinder, whispered that Diarmid was the source of all there was in her life, all there ever would be. Go to him, the voice urged; reach for him; find a way to be together. But she could not bring herself to move, though she might wither for lack of what she wanted.

After a few moments she felt his fist thud once, softly, against the door. And she heard him walk away.

She leaned against the door and wrapped her arms around herself. All this had come too late, as Diarmid had said. She would harden her heart against his appeal, for she knew he would do the same. She would not let herself love him.

She would not.

A soft, low-lying veil of mist covered the moors as Diarmid and Angus rode side by side on their return to Dunsheen. Several days of traveling had taken them from one Campbell castle to another, from the castle of the clan chief, Campbell of Lochawe, to the keeps belonging to Diarmid’s cousins Neill Campbell and Donald MacArthur, and to the hall of his own younger brother Colin Campbell of Glen Bevis. He and Mungo had been shown generous Highland hospitality and had taken part in long, complex discussions that had often continued deep into the night.

The concerns of his fellow Highlanders over the political and economic situations and matters of trade had occupied Diarmid’s thoughts for days. As they rode home, he and Mungo had tried to sort through what they had learned about Ranald MacSween’s loyalties and activities. None of the Campbell kin suspected MacSween of treason, and none knew of subversive political moves on his part. Few, though, had expressed any praise for the man beyond his shrewd merchanting abilities. MacSween was clearly disliked, though no one seemed to hate him or consider him dangerous or evil in nature. He was merely a self-server. Any distrust of him centered there.

“What message do you wish me to take back to the king?” Mungo asked as they rode. “I assume he expects a report soon.”

Diarmid sighed deeply. “No message as yet, for there is nothing to say. And Campbell of Lochawe said the king plans to visit the western Isles soon. I can tell him what I have found in an audience with him. So far, what I have heard this week neither absolves nor condemns Ranald MacSween.”

“Perhaps he is only guilty of collecting a nice bit of coin for himself,” Mungo said. “He does not seem responsible for harm done to the western trade routes, and he is not known to traffic with English merchants. His only transgression seems to be his grasping hold on Glas Eilean, and his explanation is a rational one—he cannot turn that fortress over to a woman.”

Diarmid shrugged admittance. “True, Scotland needs a strong hand there, and an experienced Islesman would be best. Even Gavin Faulkener could not hold it as well as a western Highland laird could do. Glas Eilean sits at the gateway to the western Isles. The English blockade of our water routes has already begun to choke the western Highlands.”

“They know how dependent we are on foreign trade for basic foodstuffs, metals, cloth.” Mungo shook his head. “If they want to damage us even further, they might try a direct sea assault.”

“Glas Eilean is positioned to ward off an attack of that sort. MacSween is right. The king needs a strong man there.”

“Ranald MacSween sits on that nest like a cat who has eaten the fledglings and dares any bird to attack him,” Mungo said. “He knows his power. He manages to flourish when others suffer from high prices and scarcity of goods. Do you think he has treasonous connections with the English?”

“It is not impossible, but my brother Arthur is canny, and has his own English contacts. If Ranald had any such dealings, Arthur would have indicated it to me.”

“Lochawe said that a few Scottish ships have been bold enough and fast enough to break through the English blockade,” Mungo said. “Scottish pirates have recently raided English ports as far south as Holyhead and Anglesey, stealing grain shipments that later turned up in Argyll.” He slid Diarmid a sideways glance. “I confess that I had an odd thought about that report.”

“I did too,” Diarmid said. “Arthur had command of my birlinns during the months that I was gone. If he had extra time on his hands, he might have found an interesting way to fill it.”

“Arthur is like you—he can coax speed and stealth from any birlinn,” Mungo said. “He may well be one of the pirates that the English complain about. And if so, he should watch himself carefully. From what we heard, the English are looking for him.”

“I do not fret about him. He will play the dull merchant in Ayr well enough. Tomorrow, Mungo, I mean to sail to Glas Eilean,” Diarmid added briskly. “Ranald mentioned the high quality of the goods he exported from Ireland. I’d like to see what he has stored away there. He should be detained in Ayr for another week or two. And I want to see Sorcha.”

“Then I will go with you,” Mungo said. “I would like to see her too, if she does not mind a visit from a coarse man like myself.” He glanced grimly at Diarmid. “Will you ask Lady Michael to sail with us?”

“She may not want to come,” he replied curtly. In truth, he did not think, after their last encounter, she even consent to stand in the same room with him, much less go somewhere with him. “She has a right to bear a strong grudge against Ranald MacSween,” Mungo said reasonably. “But your sister needs her expert knowledge. Surely you can convince her to go.”

“I have asked her already. She gave me no firm answer.”

“She might, if you were charming enough. It worked in Perth.” Mungo tried to look innocent.

Diarmid cast him a sour glance. “I have no plans to steal her off my own isle and toss her in a boat.”

Mungo chuckled and said nothing, riding ahead. Diarmid rode more slowly, pensive. He had tried for days to keep Michael out of his thoughts. But she hovered at the back of his mind, walked through his dreams, whispered to him as he woke and went to sleep. He saw her in clouds, in fog, in sunshine, in moonlight.

Ach
, he thought with mild disgust. He was as smitten as any youth with a first love. But he was no youth, and the purity of first love had bypassed him. Life was far more complicated than in Gilchrist’s harping songs.

But she haunted him, excited him, enchanted him, as if she were truly magic. He had bared his deepest hurts to her, and she had eased the awful burden of guilt he carried, dissolved hidden shadows in his heart. What had stirred to life between them was fragile and beautiful, and he had shattered it irrevocably.

He had ridden out early the next day with Mungo, but the leagues he covered did not lessen the bond that linked him to her. Undeniably, he felt an aching, powerful physical lust, wanting to hold her, to delve into her warmth until pleasure satiated them both. But he felt a greater need that he did not understand. He needed her in the deepness of his soul, and it frightened him.

He did not want her for his mistress. He had said it too bluntly. What he had meant was that he did not want to dishonor her. Michael was precious to him. Had matters been otherwise, he would have made her his wife.

But the ecclesiastical court’s decree made that impossible. The bishop’s grant of separation in bed and board had carried with it a harsh condition, a penitential vow of chastity for both he and Anabel, as if their failed marriage had been a sin.

He felt as if his heart had torn in the last few days. He loved Michael, but he had brought harm, somehow, to those he had loved. Now his finest hope for happiness had slipped from his grasp, and he had no right to rescue it.

When he returned, he would give her the physician’s fee he had promised and send her home to her brother. She had done all that she could for Brigit; she claimed there were no miracles in her. He did not believe that, but he would try to accept it.

But first, he had one last favor to ask of her.

Michael sighed as she bent over the parchment page, a quill pen in her fingers. She sat at the long table in the hall, working on Brigit’s natal horoscope. At the other side of the room, Gilchrist played a soft melody for Brigit and Eva, who listened dreamily, sleepy after a large midday meal.

Michael listened too, while she studied the design on the page. After combing through the mathematical figures in the
Liber Astronomicus
and another of Ibrahim’s volumes on astrology, and using a volvex, a spinning chart of astronomical information, she had prepared Brigit’s chart. Drawing a neat square and dividing it into wedged segments, she had labeled each section carefully with the information she had found, and then drew lines to link the planetary relationships that became obvious.

Now she sat back, frowning as she studied the chart. Her calculations had produced a puzzling natal design. Saturn in the house of health was afflicted by Mercury, and the sun negatively aspected to Mars. Pisces was strongly represented throughout, as was Capricorn, increasing the chance of weakness in the feet and knees. The chart showed a strong link with water, not surprising to her, but Michael also saw the influence of Venus in the second house, indicating the importance of touch and the hands for Brigit.

Touch. She drew in a breath, and worked on. An intriguing aspect indicated that through hands, health might improve. And she thought—hoped—that the positive aspects showed that the worst health problems were temporary in nature, and confined to early in life.

She sighed, growing frustrated as the subtler details of the work eluded her. The child’s natal horoscope was more complex than she had usually seen. Ibrahim would have understood the message in its entirety, but he was not here to help her.

She flexed her stiff, ink-stained fingers, and glanced at the children, so absorbed in Gilchrist’s quet music. Then she turned back to the
Liber Astronomicus
, wondering if she had overlooked some aspect that would make all of this more clear.

She was not as adept at interpreting charts as she wanted to be. Had Ibrahim lived, he would have taught her more about the arts of astrology and medicine. Fate had not allowed her enough time to learn all that she could from him.