Lady Miracle (26 page)

Diarmid smacked the flat of his hand against the window jamb, and blew out a heavy breath. “Not want you?” he asked. “Not want you? My girl, you are all I think about.”

Her heart surged at the words. “Diarmid—”

“All I think about, and all I try not to think about. Now go to bed. If you stand there longer, I will not be able to do what I came here to do this night.”

She stepped closer. “And what is that?”

“Not this,” he growled, and took her into his arms.

With a small gasp, she melted into his embrace, tilting her head back, welcoming his lips over hers. His kiss was a demand, a plea, a gift. His hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers slid into her hair, his mouth slanted over hers. She slipped her hands around his neck, pressing close to him.

His hands slipped down to span her waist, stroke her hips. Restless, warm, compelling, his touch delved beneath her cloak to shift the silk over her body, sending shivers through her. She arched into him in silent acceptance and delight, lifting on her toes to lean her hips into his. He growled low into her opening mouth and spread his hands over her hips, pressing her against him until she felt the strength of his desire through the layers of his plaid.

She moaned low and soft into his mouth and ran her hands over his chest, where his heart beat stirred her fingertips. He parted the seam of her lips with his tongue, so gently that she thought she would melt, her lower body tingling as a deeper desire sparked within her. She gasped for the utter, wicked joy of the sensation and touched the tip of her tongue to his, soft, wet, curious, wanting more.

Diarmid groaned deep in his throat and pulled back. Cool air filled the space between them. Only his strong hands held her upright, for her legs had gone weak.

“Enough,” he said hoarsely. His breath came ragged in his throat, and he set her firmly away from him, turning back to the window. “I did not mean for that to happen.”

She stepped beside him, placed her hand on his arm. “It has happened before, and each time it seems stronger. So strong that it hurts, somehow.”

He watched the dark sea. “I know. Soon I will not be able to set you away from me.”

“Must you?” She leaned her forehead against his arm, her breathing rapid. She felt a kind of wildness in her heart when he was near, when he touched her, an urge so powerful that it pulled inside her very soul.

”
Ach, Micheil
,” he whispered, and touched her hair gently. She loved the feel of his fingers slipping along its length, loved the sound of her name on his lips. “Go back to your bed and forget this. Forget me. This is not meant to be.”

She shook her head. “I cannot forget this.”

He sighed. “Go on, now.” He shifted her away from him gently. “I do not want you here.”

His words stabbed like a betrayal. Michael stepped back suddenly. She had been wrong. Wrong. He did not feel the same overwhelming love for her that she felt for him.

Likely he felt only lust and did not wish to shame her. He had succumbed to his bodily urges and now meant to control them. She had stood beside him wearing only silk and skin, had kissed him fervently. He was no saint to resist that. But he did not want her as she wanted him. She felt foolish. “I am sorry—” she spun away.

He grabbed her arm. “Michael, I do not mean to hurt you.”

“Then let go,” she said flatly. “For you do hurt me. Your grip is too tight.”

He complied, and she walked away, shoving open the curtains of her bed, climbing in, pulling them shut as the iron rings rattled over her head. She yanked off her cloak and burrowed under the covers, pulling them over her head to muffle the sound of the sobs that she could not hold back.

His heart felt as if she pulled it from his chest when she walked away from him. Diarmid sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, turning, hoping that the cool, salted, breeze would blow some sense into his head, for he surely had none of his own.

He had not wanted to hurt her, but he had, and he did not know how to repair the damage. There was no muscle tear to seal with silk thread, no bone to mend, no bruise to salve and bandage. He could not even adequately repair a flesh wound, let alone a deep gash to the soul rendered by his own words.

He felt a fierce, frustrated ache himself, spanning soul and body both. Making fists, he squeezed so tightly that his left hand began its customary, flawed tremble. He pounded it against the wall and swore under his breath. He had been a fool to come into this room. Knowing he took a chance, he had tried not to wake her. After watching her sleep peacefully, he had closed the curtains of her bed and had gone to the window to open the shutters.

Now he leaned a shoulder against the windowframe and watched the dark sparkle of sea and sky. The window provided a wide vantage point. On a clear day, the green slopes of Ireland were visible to the west, while to the north and east rose the craggy peaks of the Isles and the mountains of the mainland. To the south, the wide sea leading up from England or Ireland. A ship could be seen from here from miles away, even on a moonlit night, if a signal flare was lit.

Diarmid suspected that Ranald had taken this room for the view it offered rather than out of respect for his wife’s condition. He was certain that Ranald watched for approaching ships from here.

A ship was out there tonight. He felt in his bones, sensed it in Ranald’s return and his anxious temper. Diarmid had to discover Ranald’s intent.

But all he wanted to do was tear open the curtains of that bed and pull her into his arms, devour her sweetness with his mouth, his hands, take her, hold her, keep her safe.

Abruptly, he turned and left the room, striding quickly through the corridor, down the turning stairs, past the men snoring in the great hall. With a quick nod to the guardsmen at the gate and the gift of a silver coin, he went through the narrow door in the portcullis and stepped outside.

The silence deepened until Michael could bear it no longer. She slid out from under the covers and yanked aside the bed curtain. He was gone.

She slipped from the bed and went to the window to close the shutters. Instead, she looked out over the dark infinity of sea and sky, feeling deeply sad. Gradually she became aware that one of the stars that winked in the night was sparkling gold and growing larger.

And then she realized that it was a lantern. A ship approached Glas Eilean.

Surely that solitary ship was the reason Diarmid had been watching out her window, Michael thought. Whatever the reason, it had to be important to him. But now he was gone, and might not have seen the light out on the sea. She had to tell him.

Her cheeks blazed at the thought of speaking with him so soon after his hurtful words to her. Regardless of her feelings, she must find him. She yanked her boots onto her bare feet, grabbed up her cloak from the foot of her bed, and left the room.

She dashed down the turning stairs quickly and silently, and peeked into the great hall, where over the men slept, snoring and tossing, on pallets spread out near the hearth. She saw at a glance that Diarmid was not among them. She would have recognized the set of his shoulders, his thick hair, the length of his legs. Wondering if he had taken his vigil outside, she went to the gate.

The guardsman was loathe to let her out alone, and offered to accompany her for the fresh air she claimed to need. But when she begged the guard to help her find the laird of Dunsheen, saying that his sister has sent her to look for him, the guard softened and opened the doorway in the portcullis.

“If that sweet lady wants her brother, then you go fetch him,” he said kindly. “But hurry back, for MacSween would have my soul for this if he knew I let anyone out of here at night.”

She smiled her thanks and fled into the shadows. As she ran along the perimeter of the outer wall, which soared immense and solid overhead, her instincts took her toward the cliffs.

The seaward side of the castle was separated from the ragged cliff edge by a span of no more than a hundred feet, much less in places. The wind seemed far stronger here, whipping her cloak about her legs as she ran.

Diarmid stood near the cliff edge, beyond the farthest corner of the castle. She called out his name.

He spun, saw her, and ran back to grab her shoulders. “Michael,” he said hoarsely, “what in God’s name—? Go inside!”

Breathless with running, she gripped his arms to steady herself against the pounding force of the wind. “I came to tell you that I saw a light far out in the sea from the window. I think it was a ship. Was that why you watched from my chamber?”

He made a wordless exclamation and turned toward the cliff, keeping one hand on her shoulder. For a long moment he scanned the black horizon, and then nodded. “I can barely see it,” he said at last. “From the window, higher up, you would see it sooner.” He turned to her. “Thank you. Now go back inside.”

She scowled, opened her mouth to protest, then spun and walked away. A moment later, he ran up behind her, grabbed her around the waist, and began to half-carry, half-drag her toward the cliff. When she cried out, he put a hand over her mouth. Reaching a cluster of boulders near the edge, he shoved her down behind them, then crouched beside her.

“If you value your life or mine, keep quiet,” he hissed. “Ranald is walking toward the cliffs.”

She nodded, wide-eyed, and leaned against the cold rock, her heart thumping ferociously. Diarmid drew his dirk, his body shielding hers as they knelt behind the boulder. He peered cautiously around the curve of the rock. Unable to turn, Michael looked up at the glittering sky and the wafer moon, and listened to the distant shush of the sea against the cliff, hundreds of feet below.

Diarmid turned and put his finger to his lips, and ducked lower in the shadow of the boulder. He pulled up the folds of her hood, making it clear, without speaking, that her pale hair shone like a beacon. After a while, he shifted his position, seeming more relaxed.

“He’s gone,” he whispered. “He came out of the castle just as you walked away, and stood near the cliff edge to watch out to sea. He held a blazing torch over his head and waved it three times, then twice. After that, he went back inside.”

“He signalled the ship,” she said. Diarmid nodded. “What will he do now?”

He shrugged. “I am not certain. He may go down to meet them.” Crouched, he began to move cautiously toward the edge of the cliff and lay prone, his hands and head extended over the cliff edge. The rim of the cliff rose in a slight incline, adding some security to his treacherous position. But Michael exclaimed in fear and scrambled after him on her hands and knees to grab his ankle.

“Get back, are you foolish?” he said, shoving her gently.

“No more than you,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Watching the ship. She is anchored out in deep water, and she’s sent a rowboat toward the cliff.” He turned to look again, his words partly vanished in the whistling wind.

She crawled toward the edge slowly, scraping along cold stone and thick moss, hoping her courage was enough to match her powerful curiosity, for she desperately wanted to see what Diarmid saw down there. Grasping the raw crust of the cliff, she inched her head forward.

The dizzying bird’s-eye view made her gasp. She scooted back quickly and clung to the rock beneath her, breathing hard.

“Go back,” Diarmid whispered.

“I cannot. Ranald will find me.”

“Then go over to the rock and hide there.”

“I think I am stuck.”

“Stuck?” He swiveled his head to look at her.

“I cannot seem to move my legs. Or any other part of me.”

“Ah,” Diarmid said. “It is just the fear. Lay there until it passes.”

She moaned. “Then I will be here until Judgment Day.”

He laughed, quick and soft, and touched her shoulder. Then he returned to his vigil while she lay on her stomach. When her anxiety had eased some, she opened her eyes. In another few moments she propped herself on her elbows, although she was hardly eager to look over the edge again. “What do you see?”

Diarmid did not answer, but moved forward until his head and shoulders hung completely over the edge so that he looked straight downward. Michael gasped and grabbed hold of his thick plaid where it crossed his back.

He turned his head to look at her, the wind whipping his hair fiercely. “Michael my girl,” he said, “that will hardly hold me. If I fall, you will fall with me. Let go.”

She complied, although his precarious position made her anxious. “What do you see?” she asked, curiosity tormenting her.

“Mm? Ranald is a busy man,” he said, distracted.

”
Ach
,” she ground out, knowing she would get no more detail than that from him. She crawled forward with excruciating slowness.

“The sun will rise before you get here,” Diarmid observed.

“I am trying,” she snapped. Nearer to the edge, she shifted closer to the warmth and security of his body. “I am looking now,” she announced, and opened her eyes a bit. Diarmid chuckled beside her, and rested his arm on her back, his hand on her shoulder, heavy and solid and blessedly safe.

She sucked in a breath and forced herself to look. The wind whirled her hair into her eyes, and she inched her fingers forward to clear her sight.

Torches, and boats. She blinked, and looked again, and gradually became accustomed to the crazy, stilted view, able to look as long as she felt the solid rock beneath her, and Diarmid beside her. She saw three small boats, and a few men holding flaming torches, rowing through the waters at the cliff base.

“Look at that,” Diarmid murmured, his voice deep and reassuring at her ear. “The ship has sent out a small boat with a few men, and the other carrying barrels. Ranald meets them, see—he is in the other boat.”

“But why? Who are those men?”

“Smugglers, I imagine,” he murmured. “Englishmen with wheat, linen, wine, wax candles, iron—whatever goods Scots need imported. But the English king has forbidden his merchants to trade with Scots. This hardly looks legitimate to me.”

She gasped. “Are those English goods?”