Lady Miracle (18 page)

Diarmid looked at the old man who snored in the chair. “Angus is hardly suffering,” he replied wryly. “Tomorrow is another matter, though, and I will gladly leave his care to you.” She looked at Angus critically. “We will need something quite cold to press against his jaw to help with the swelling,” she said. “Cold stones will do well.”

“I can fetch some stones from the loch shore for him,” Diarmid said. “Go up to your chamber. You will have much to do in the morn, and it’s already late.”

She nodded gratefully and turned to go, but shifted to face him. “I am not the healer you thought me, Diarmid,” she said softly. “I—I am sorry for that.”

He tilted his head, struck by the meekness in her tone. That hesitancy touched him deeply, like an arrow breaking through a defense; it matched his doubt in his own abilities. So much had turned in the space of a few moments—he had done surgery, and she had been the one to draw back from it. He did not want to see such insecurity in her. She had a gift, a shining, gentle power as a healer, and he wanted her to know it. He had full confidence in her abilities, book-trained and God-given.

“Dentistry is tough work, and often takes muscle,” he said. “But you did well.”

“I did not know what to do,” she said.

“You learned a new skill,” he said in encouragement. “Now you are a barber-surgeon for certain.” He ran a hand through his long hair and grinned briefly. “And so you will probably charge me a hefty fee to shear this.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “I would do it for free for you.”

He smiled, watching her. A feeling swept through him then, so strong and potent that it rocked him to his heels.

“Come here,” he murmured hoarsely.

A quizzical frown folded her brow, and she moved forward. He took her arm and drew her closer until her skirt draped against his thigh. Reaching up, he touched her face with his right hand, stroking the downy softness of her cheek, glad she had not had time to wrap her chin in the widow’s wimple.

“Michael my girl,” he said gently, “you are just the healer I expected, and just the one I wanted. Do not doubt that.”

She stared at him. “Diarmid—”

“Hush,” he breathed. Before he could stop himself, before he could think through his action, he leaned forward and touched his mouth to hers.

He had tasted her once before, on a bright day beside a pool, a kiss as quick as a wafting breeze. Now he savored her, pulling her close, sliding his fingers through the cool silken strands of her hair. She gave out a little cry and put her arms around his neck. Surrendering to the lure of her warm, soft, willing lips, and her lithe body pressed against his, he kissed her again, his heart pounding hard.

Her mouth trembled beneath his as he touched his tongue lightly to her lips. She sipped at it, opened tentatively for it, then gave out a hushed, poignant cry and pushed at his chest.

“You have a wife,” she whispered. “We should not—”

Gently said, the words chilled him. There were times when he forgot the existence of the other, times when he could almost forget her face, even when he could not forget or forgive the hurt she had dealt him, or the ruin she had made of his life.

Michael had done what no other woman had: erased for long, blessed moments his awareness that the other existed, and still prevented him from reaching out for what he needed and wanted.

“I do,” he admitted, letting go of her. “I am sorry.”

Michael stepped away, then spun and ran from the room.

Several days of rain, accompanied by fierce winds that whirled and howled past the solid walls of Dunsheen, prevented Diarmid from making the short journeys he had planned. He had meant to visit the Campbell chief and others to inquire about Ranald MacSween’s activities, and he had meant to sail to Glas Eilean to visit his sister and to take the opportunity to glance around Ranald’s storerooms.

Before he had left Dunsheen, Arthur had given Diarmid several accounting sheets that he said he had secretly taken from Ranald’s cupboard. He had said that they were significant, thus indicating to Diarmid that his brother suspected something.

The storms gave him a chance to pore carefully over the account rolls. As he sat in the great hall reading the last of the rolled parchment sheets, which contained yet another list of imported goods purchased by MacSween, he rubbed his fingers in his weary eyes.

He must need a change from the tedium, he thought, for few of the figures he had reviewed in the past hour made much sense to him. The day was dreary and cold and the storm was noisy against the outer walls, but the hearth fire was warm beside him. He sat back, preferring to listen to Gilchrist, who practiced a new piece of music on his harp.

Gilchrist bowed his head in somber concentration as he plucked the harp strings in a quick rhythm. Diarmid relaxed, enjoying the new song, and glanced toward the other end of the room. Within the privacy of a window niche, fitted with two stone benches and cushions, Michael sat murmuring with Lilias. A few days ago, Michael and Lilias had spent time in the small workroom off the kitchen, where Lilias kept her store of herbs. Now he watched her scribble out recipes for infusions and potions, which she asked Lilias to make up herself, or send out to the herb-wife.

She looked serious and beautiful as she leaned over and spoke, then laughed suddenly with his elderly cousin. He was content just to watch her. She seemed to shine like a beam of sunlight in the dismal rainy atmosphere.

Just as he had predicted, Michael had acquired several patients since Angus’s quick recovery. She had consulted with Lilias for an entire morning concerning the catalogue of the woman’s aches and pains. Michael had seen to it that Lilias began a regimen of herbal medications, hot baths and dietary changes to ease her painful joints.

He had seen Iona murmuring with Michael at one point, sniffling, and Michael had nodded with her and put an arm around her. He suspected that was not medical, but had something to do with Gilchrist, for Michael gave the girl a little push toward his brother, smiling encouragement. Iona had spoken then to Gilchrist, received a one-word reply, and had run from the room.

The next day Michael had tended to Eva’s persistent cough. After a long discussion with Iona, Lilias and Eva, Michael had advised the child to stay away from the stable kittens to see if the cough would improve, to avoid nuts and cheeses, and to sip herbs in honey daily.

Donald and Fingal had tumbled down the outer steps while chasing each other, and Michael had tended to their cuts and bruises quickly, advising them to stay inside for the remainder of that day. They had played games with Brigit and had taken turns at lessons on an older harp belonging to Gilchrist. Diarmid had been surprised at the willing patience which his normally taciturn younger brother had shown the children.

He had been surprised, too, when Michael had sat down beside Gilchrist one day, and with his permission, began to play a lovely melody with the accomplished grace of a trained harper. She had told him that her mother was a harper who had trained her in the old style.

Diarmid had watched her often, noting her graceful hands with their bowed little fingers, somehow suited to harp playing. He had closed his eyes and listened, and wondered at the changes that seemed to be taking place within him. He was not certain what they were, but he could feel the subtle shifts in his mind and emotions, odd yearnings sensations that stirred inside.

Michael had become a more necessary presence at Dunsheen with each passing day. She played the harp with Gilchrist, spent time with the children, and consulted with anyone who came to her for medical advice. The word of her skills had quickly spread among Dunsheen’s tenants, and a few had begun to row over to the isle to ask for her advice.

She had even trimmed his hair as she had prommised, cutting its clean length deftly with small sharp, scissors that she had taken from his surgical kit. As she had shaped and combed it, Diarmid had reveled in the luxurious, sensual shivers he had felt under her hands.

And every day and evening, with consistent patience, Michael had tended to Brigit. She rubbed the child’s weakened muscles and changed the contents of the medicines; she insisted on hot baths for the child each evening, and insisted, too, that Brigit spend time every day standing, holding on to the chair or to any one of the willing supporters among her kin at Dunsheen.

He and Angus and made a pair of splints for Brigit with wood and silk wrappings, and she wore them over her knees, walking stiffly around the great hall, holding on to willing hands or to the dogs’ thickly furred backs.

Now he looked at Gilchrist as he played the harp, and watched Brigit standing beside him, one hand grasping the arm of the large carved chair, the other on Padraig’s glossy black shoulder. The dog seemed equally as rapt as the child as they listened to the music. A few feet away, Eva whirled to the rhythms, giggling as Columba circled her playfully.

Diarmid frowned slightly, his interest caught when he noticed Brigit move her left leg slightly and awkwardly in time to the music. He did not recall seeing her do that before. Perhaps Michael’s strengthening treatments had begun to take effect. HIs heart surged inside of him. When he saw Brigit’s knees wobble, saw her grip the chair, he crossed the room to pick her up and seat her in the chair.

“You are doing well,” he told her. “But rest now, and listen to the music.”

She looked up at him, tugging at his sleeve. “Uncle,” she whispered, “I want to dance like Eva. Can you make my magic now, please? I have waited a long while for it. I have been good.”

He glanced at Michael, who looked up from her seat in the window niche as if she knew he looked at her. Their gazes melded across the width of the room.

He touched Brigit’s head. “Brigit
milis
,” he said. “If you keep working so hard to strengthen yourself, and take Lady Michael’s medicinal potions, you will make your own magic.”

“But I want to dance,” she whispered. “We have been inside all week because of the storms. Look, Padraig wants to dance too.” The dog, sitting by the child’s chair, thumped his tail eagerly.

Struck by an unaccustomed impulse, Diarmid suddenly swept Brigit into his arms. Holding her securely, he began to spin in time to the music, making a few awkward fancy steps such as he had seen at the king’s court last Yuletide. Brigit clung to his neck and giggled with delight. Eva and the two dogs circled him while he continued to bounce and spin with his niece.

He caught Gilchrist’s surprised glance, and heard his brother laugh. Grinning, caught in the freedom of the moment, Diarmid laughed and spun away with Brigit. She waved her right arm and hand gracefully, her small face uplifted, eyes closed, loving the motion of his silly spinning dance.

Why had he never done this before with her, he thought, when it brought her such sweet, simple joy? When he turned again, he saw Michael and Lilias walk over to stand near Gilchrist and clap their hands to the music.

Gilchrist rang the end of the song with relish and a wide smile. Diarmid stopped spinning and held Brigit, both of them laughing.

“Now I know what I will call this new song,” Gilchrist said.

“What is that?” Lilias asked.

“The Dance of the King of the
Daoine Sìth
,” he answered.

Michael laughed in delight, a light, clear sound that seeped into Diarmid’s heart like rain on dry ground. He looked at her over Brigit’s head and smiled, hearing only her laughter. He had never heard a more magical sound in his life.

That thrill was followed by a yearning unlike any he had ever felt, a longing so strong that he fisted a hand against it, bit his lip, lowered his eyes to smother it. Need, raw and burning and real, rolled in him like hunger. He realized then that he wanted Michael, needed her in some deep, elemental way that he could not comprehend. He wanted her wholly, in flesh and in spirit, two souls bonded together as one.

Startled by the depth of the craving, he became acutely aware that he had long carried within him an emptiness, a hole that he was incapable of filling. Even the joyful, laughing child in his arms did not ease the anguish he felt. He could not reach out for what he needed, no matter how brightly the light shone upon the darkness within him. Satisfaction, joy, love—dear God, he felt the strength of love within him now—were forbidden to him because of a mistake he had made years ago.

Michael walked toward him, smiling, and turned her face up to his. He glanced away from the shining brilliance in her eyes. If he returned the gaze, shared the smile, some part of him would be lost into her keeping forever. Desiring that, he saw that it was dangerous to both of them.

Magic indeed, he thought. She possessed it in every fiber of her being, and did not even know it.

She lifted a hand to touch Brigit’s arm where he still held his niece, her thumb brushing over his, stirring a rapid beat in his heart. “That was a lovely dance, Brigit,” she said. “None of the fair folk could have danced more gracefully than you did, sweet.”

“I told you Uncle Diarmid was the king,” Brigit said, smiling. “Even Uncle Gilchrist knows it.”

“Ah, then Gilchrist must be a prince, for they are brothers,” Michael said. Gilchrist chuckled behind her as he adjusted the harp strings, and Lilias rang out a hearty laugh. Diarmid, listening as he held the child, did not even smile. The profoundness of what he had just realized stunned him. He needed to consider all the aspects of his feelings for Michael when he had time and privacy to think them through.

“You look so somber now, Dunsheen,” Michael said, her voice lightly teasing, still amused. “What thoughts could set the king of all the fair folk into such a dark mood?”

He looked at her then, into eyes so blue. “I was thinking of magic.” He turned to set Brigit back in the chair.

Hearing soft cries from Iona and Lilias, he turned, as did Michael and Gilchrist. Mungo entered the hall bearing a large wooden chest on his shoulders.

“Here you are, Mistress Physician,” Mungo grunted, as he set the chest down heavily. “Your books and belongings, just as you asked. Hey!” He grinned then, and opened his arms to his children, who ran toward him.