Lady Miracle (36 page)

“Poor little one,” Sorcha said. “Her breathing sounds like the others.” Her voice had an infinitely gentle sound, like silk, like water, soft and fluid and giving. Michael watched, awed by the aura of serenity that seemed to surround Sorcha as she held her daughter. “She is beautiful,” Sorcha said, and tucked her against her breast.

“Sorcha—” Michael whispered. She wanted to say that she was sorry, that she had tried, but she found that she could not speak further. She could not say that she did not expect the child to live much longer, but she could see from looking at Diarmid and Sorcha that they knew that already.

Sorcha looked at her. “You did as much as anyone could,” she said. “Thank you. God will take her soon, to be with her brothers and sisters.” She looked calmly down at her child, accepting, fully loving, although her eyes held glinting tears.

Michael turned away, trembling, hardly knowing where she went as she crossed the room into the shadows. Diarmid turned away too, as if he too sensed that Sorcha needed this time with her child. Michael glanced toward Diarmid, saw him stand before the window, saw him reach forward and open the shutter.

To let out a soul, Michael thought.

Behind her, she heard Sorcha begin to sing, a melody of the seal children. She listened, strangely comforted, as the power of Sorcha’s love seemed to flood the room to its brim.

Peaceful silence spilled through the room like a breath of God. And then Michael heard an exquisitely beautiful sound. A tremulous, tiny cry.

She turned. Diarmid turned.

Sorcha looked up at them, smiling, tears flowing freely down her face. The crying was louder now, a quavering, indignant sound, full of life. “Listen!” Sorcha said. “Listen!”

Diarmid walked toward the bed, and Michael followed. The child waved her hands, pumped her tiny legs, her face reddening, fists flying. Deep and impatient, her cries soon took on the strong cadence of a beating drum.

Tears stung and pooled in Michael’s eyes as she watched. Sorcha looked up, smiling. A little sob escaped her lips. “I have prayed for this moment,” she said, “for years.”

Diarmid nodded and touched Angelica’s head. A tear slid down his cheek.

Michael broke then, sobbed out, shattered by joy. Diarmid turned toward her. Sorcha looked up. The child drew another lusty cry and struggled beneath the linen cloth that impeded her legs.

“She is a miracle,” Sorcha said, her eyes shining like diamonds, brilliant and deep. “Truly.” Michael nodded, tears streaming, feeling as if the burden of joy was almost heavier to bear, somehow, than the burden of sorrow she had expected. She wanted to go into Diarmid’s arms, but held herself back, not certain why. He reached out and touched her elbow briefly, but the caress was shy, reserved, as if he too held back.

“Diarmid, will you go tell Mungo that I have a fine daughter?” Sorcha asked. “The cook and the guards will be waiting to hear, too.” Diarmid nodded, kissed his sister, and left the room.

Michael took the child from Sorcha. She listened to the steady, quick thump of her little heart, measured the strong pattern of her breaths, left a kiss on her brow. She swaddled her, marveled at her, pronounced her strong and healthy, and handed her back to her mother.

After making Sorcha more comfortable, Michael gave her a little spiced wine in the herbal infusion. When Sorcha began to nurse the child, Michael sat by the window and looked out through the open shutter.

The darkness was still deep, although she thought dawn was no more than an hour away. Glistening rain pattered on stone, and a chilled breeze streamed in to cool her heated cheeks. She leaned her head against the window frame in weariness and listened to the soothing sound of the rain, felt the cool, cleansing wind on her face.

In the aftermath of a true miracle, she felt humbled, changed somehow, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly newly emerged. She watched the rain glisten like dark jewels, smelled the salt in the air. Her senses had a finer clarity, a deeper awareness of all the textures and wonders around her.

Behind her, Sorcha murmured to her child, a warm, velvet sound. Suddenly Michael wanted to hear Diarmid’s soothing voice, and needed—ached—to feel his arms around her.

The door opened, and she turned eagerly to see him, ready now to run to him, where earlier she had felt overwhelmed, uncertain. But Mungo entered alone and crossed toward the bed, looking at Sorcha. His gaunt face was softened by awe and utter devotion. He loves her, Michael thought sadly; so much, and he cannot show her.

She stood and went to the door, the urge to be with Diarmid strong. She had to find him.

Mungo and Sorcha looked toward her. “You’ll find him outside,” Mungo said quietly.

Diarmid stood near the edge of the cliff, a tall, lean shadow in the rain. Michael gathered her dampening skirts and ran forward, then stopped as hesitancy overtook her. He did not turn, and seemed intent on his thoughts. He watched as a hint of dawn bloomed pale silver above the dark, sweeping sea.

The wind buffeted his plaid and shirt and blew his hair back, and rain gusted over him, but he stood proud and unyielding in the midst of raw beauty and elemental force.

Sensing that he wanted privacy, Michael wondered if she should go back inside and leave him to his thoughts.

A burst of wind swept over the cliff, whipping her gown against her legs, tearing the white veil from her head. She watched it go, floating over the cliff like a pale, silken angel. Diarmid turned and saw her, but he did not move. She approached him slowly, watching him through the dark and the slicing rain. Her love for him, her need, poured out unbidden in her gaze, like a flood that she could not hold back.

Diarmid watched her silently. Rain streamed in rivulets down his face and hair, soaked his shirt, pelted Michael’s hair and gown as she returned his steady gaze.

Then he raised his arms.

Huffing out a little sob, she ran to him. He wrapped her in his embrace, kissed her brow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He slid his fingers through her damp, tousled hair and held her, rocked her in his arms.

She tightened her arms around his waist and clung to him, her head nestled in the curve of his neck. He was strong, warm, the haven she most needed.

When he cradled her head between his hands and touched his mouth to hers at last, a little moan of joy slipped from her mouth into his. She returned the kiss, her lips moistened by rain and the tears that slid down her cheeks.

She tasted of salt, of wind, of the clean rain that washed their faces. He kissed her hungrily, deeply, wanting her more than he ever thought possible, wanting her to be wholly his, flesh and soul, forever. Her hands supported him, her mouth nourished him, her tears were those he could not shed himself.

He had come out here to be alone, hoping to cleanse the sorrow from his heart. The grief that he carried from Brigit’s birth, and the deaths that had followed, twisted in him like a blade while he watched Sorcha give birth and saw Michael struggle to keep the child alive.

But in the wake of a miracle, the old sadness had finally receded, and joy flowed through his veins. The rain and the silver flash of dawn over the sea, strength and majesty joined, stirred his soul profoundly. He felt as if he had stood on the cliff and felt parts of his old heart sweep away.

He would still regret that long-ago day, but now he knew that he need no longer punish himself. The deaths of Brigit’s brother and mother had been the will of heaven, and not his making; he had struggled to save them. An hour past, he had seen that heartrending battle mirrored in Michael and Angelica.

He raised his head, drew a deep breath, and held Michael close to his heart. Another old anguish had dissolved, its last remnants of regret and anger cleared away by rain and miracles and Michael’s tears. The knowledge of Anabel’s death had freed him from a prison of the heart, allowing him release, granting him peace and promise.

Holding Michael in his arms, he felt joy surge anew. He had not realized, until this moment, that Michael herself was a miracle in his life. Months ago, bold and thoughtless, he had demanded one of her—and she had responded, over time, by giving him her unquestioning love. He had been a fool not to see the wonder in that.

So much to say to her, yet he kept silent and kissed her again, his lips and hands eloquent in place of words. He cherished her, and she was here, and his, and words would wait.

She opened her lips for him, and he delved deeply into her mouth, where she was soft, warm, wet. His body hardened, flared like a hearthfire. The wind and the rain pummeled both of them, but she felt warm and yielding in his arms. He dragged his lips away only to return, unable to slake his thirst for her.

Pulling her close, he felt her shiver. “You’re chilled and wet,” he murmured. “Where is your cloak?” Mundane words, but he was incapable of saying more just yet. His heart was too full of emotion; he could barely comprehend the scope of it. But he knew that he wanted to protect her, hold her, keep her, love her.

Love her.
The impact of that thought took his breath, stirred through his heart and his body. “Come inside,” he said huskily, and swept her up into his arms.

She was an easy weight to bear. He sensed her deep fatigue in the way she rode slack in his arms, draped her arm around his shoulders, rested her head against him. He strode toward the castle through the rain, and stepped in through the narrow door.

The guard was elsewhere, celebrating the birth of MacSween’s new daughter with the other soldiers; Diarmid heard faint, gruff laughter from the guardroom. Unseen, he carried Michael through the corridor and up the turning stairs.

“Put me down.” She laughed softly. “Let me walk.”

He did, and she took his hand to ascend the steps beside him. They had come this way together another time. The memory of those fervent kisses pounded through his body with each step he took. Michael shifted her hand in his and looked up at him; he saw in her eyes that she remembered that night too.

His heart thundered with increasing need as he went upward, still holding her hand, and led her along the shadowed upper passageway, toward the bedchambers.

“I should look in on Sorcha,” she said.

He shook his head. “You are wet and chilled,” he murmured, “and far too tired. Do not fret about her—Mungo said he would wake the midwife and put her to work. You need some rest.”

They passed the partially open door of Sorcha’s room, where Diarmid heard the baby cry, high and lusty. The sound sparked like a flame in his heart. Sorcha murmured to her child, and Mungo made a chuckling comment, followed by the midwife’s terse remark. Diarmid strode past, Michael’s hand tight in his own.

No one saw them as he opened the door to Michael’s chamber and latched it firmly closed. Scant light streamed through the shutters and glassed windows. He looked down at Michael and saw in her face a graceful medley of silver shadows, hardly real, formed of magic and moonbeams.

He reached out with one hand and touched her damp hair, combing the strands back with his fingers. “You need dry clothing.”

“Your clothing is wet too,” she said, plucking at his sleeve. Her slightly amused expression was elfin and charming.

“I will change,” he said. “First we shall get you warm. Then you need some rest.”

She touched his chest, her fingertips hot through the damp cloth. “Rest with me,” she said softly. “I need you with me.”

His loins filled, surged, his gut swirled. He tugged gently at the shoulder of her black surcoat. “We should get you out of this wet clothing,” he said huskily.

In the shadows, her vivid blue eyes, gazing steadily up at him, were smudged dark. Wordlessly, she lifted her arms and allowed Diarmid to draw the damp woolen surcoat off of her. He laid it aside and turned back. Michael remained motionless as he gently undid the silver buttons at the neck of her black serge gown, and lowered his hands to unclasp the brass link belt snugged around her small waist. The belt fell with a faint jingle as he tossed it on top of the surcoat.

His palms traced the curves of her hips, his thumbs grazed the sides of her breasts as he raised his hands to loosen the neck of her gown. He pulled at the tightly fitted long sleeves and slid the gown from her body in a smooth motion.

She stood now in a chemise of pale cream silk, loose and flowing, nearly transparent. He saw the luscious mounds of her breasts beneath, pebbled with chill, or with desire. His blood pounded in him, but he kept his movements deliberately slow and calm. He had gone too fast before; now he meant to take time. Sliding his hand along her arm, touching her fingers briefly, he knelt to lift one of her feet.

She placed a hand on his shoulder for balance as he unlaced the instep closure of one narrow leather ankle shoe, tugging it from her foot, raising the other foot to remove that shoe as well. She wore lightweight woolen hose of a pale color. Her toes flexed in his hand as he slid his fingers along her leg, pushing aside the flowing skirt of the chemise to untie the silken bands around her knee. Rolling down the knitted hose, he withdrew it from her foot and tossed it aside.

Her foot was small-boned and chilly to the touch. He laid his lips against it, briefly, and set it down again. Michael sucked in her breath, and lifted her other foot. He removed that stocking as well and dropped it.

He felt her fingers in his hair, stroking his head, felt her hand drift down to trace the outline of his beard-roughened jaw. Her thumb brushed over his mouth, and now it was he who pulled in his breath. He touched his lips gently to her palm, keeping one knee on the floor, and raised his head, his hands. She glided into the circle of his arms and lowered her head.

The luxury of her resounded through his senses. Her lips were tender against his brow, her scent womanly and deep, her breasts soft, warm globes. The demand within his body grew strong enough to sweep will and thought away. Heart thundering, he stood, looking down at her, and touched her head.

“Your veil is gone,” he murmured, slipping his fingers over her damp, tangled hair. “I am glad that the wind took it.”