Lady Miracle (30 page)

“Then go back and get her,” she said reasonably. “She belongs at home with us. We love her.”

“You and your doll?” he asked, amused.

“You and me,” she said. Her luminous gaze was oddly wise. “Ah,” he said. “So you think to know my feelings, do you?”

She gave him an elfin smile. “Are we not magic folk? And Lady Michael is like us.”

He sighed. “Brigit,
milis
, we are not magic—”

“We are,” she insisted. “I can feel the magic working when Lady Michael touches my legs.”

He stared at her. “You what?”

“I feel the magic,” she said simply. “My leg tingles and gets hot when she rubs it, like it is coming alive. You promised me magic, remember? Is this a charm that will make my leg strong again?”

“I did ask her for magic,” he said thoughtfully. “Brigit, when Iona or someone else rubs your legs, do you feel the same?”

She shook her head. “Not like when Lady Michael puts her hands on me. Her hands get so hot. I dreamed once that she put her hands on me and told me that I would walk. But she said it would take a long time. She said we would see little miracles, bit by bit.”

He stared at her. “She said that to you in a dream?”

She nodded. “Little miracles, bit by bit, and I would walk. I do not know what she meant. But dreams can be silly.”

Diarmid smiled, running a hand through his hair. Then he laughed. “Not so silly. Perhaps we should bring her back here again, and soon.”

She nodded, smiling. “She is magic, like you and I. She belongs here with us.”

“She does.” He kneaded her tiny toes between his fingers for a moment, smiling half to himself. Then he lifted her little foot and kissed it soundly. “I will bring her back.”

“Promise.”

“I promise,” he said.

“Then we can have as many miracles as we like,” she said with satisfaction. She gave her doll a smacking kiss and settled against the pillow.

“We can, angel,” he murmured. He kissed her head, tucked her under the blankets, and turned toward the door.

The simple wisdom of a child had shown him what he wanted most. He wanted Michael with him, no matter how high and strong the barriers were between them. She was capable of miracles, and he owed her one in return: he would find a way for them to be together.

Michael stood near the cliff and faced the sun as it sank toward the sea. She had come outside after glimpsing the bright, beautiful sunset sky through a window, unable to resist the lure of the view. She inhaled the fresh, salted air, and lifted her head to the breeze, glad of a little time to herself.

Sorcha slept now, following another difficult afternoon filled with irregular, troublesome labor pangs. Michael had finally coaxed her to sleep with a back rub and an infusion of calming herbs. Then she had asked Mungo to sit outside Sorcha’s doorway in case she awoke while Michael was gone.

The sun drifted slowly toward the horizon, washing the sky in golden light, spreading its gleam over the sea. She walked toward the edge of the cliff, cautious of the danger below her feet, but feeling no real fear. Her memories of being here with Diarmid gave her a firm sense of safety, as if he helped her to find the courage to stand alone on the cliff.

She watched in fascination as sky and sea turned to molten gold, a shining expanse broken only by the black silhouettes of small islands. Diarmid and Dunsheen Castle were out there somewhere beneath that magnificent sky, she thought. She wanted to be with him, away from the strange tension at Glas Eilean that centered around Ranald MacSween. She imagined, briefly, lying safely in Diarmid’s arms, although she had tried to accept that such joy might never come to be. She wondered if he watched the sunset as she did. The thought warmed her, and she hugged her arms around herself as she stood there.

“'Tis cold out here,” a voice said abruptly, startling her. She spun, cloak whipping around her legs, to see Ranald walking toward her. “What are you doing out here, Lady Michaelmas?” He spoke in precise, clipped English, as he so often did, though he had been born to the Gaelic as she had.

“The sunset is brilliant tonight,” she replied in English. “I only came to watch.”

He stood beside her, the wind blowing the hem of his cloak, stirring his smooth brown hair. “This is a dangerous place to stand,” he said. “You could fall over the edge and we would not know of it until too late.”

His odd tone sent a frisson of fear down her spine. She turned away, intending to walk back toward the castle, but he took her arm. “Hold for a moment, my lady,” he said. “Stand here and watch the sky with me. 'Tis truly beautiful.” He turned her as he spoke, and kept a hand on her arm. “Only in the Isles can one see these golden sunsets. Think how priceless that sky would be if it could be measured in coin.”

“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?”