Lady Miracle (37 page)

“Glad?” Her quiet voice was no more than a breath.

“The widow’s pleated veil,” he said. “You need it no longer.” He withdrew, one by one, the small ivory pins that held her plaits in place in rolls over her ears. As the braids fell into his hands, he combed his fingers through to free the strands. Pale as moonlight, fine as silk, her hair appeared wondrous to him, full of its own light. He drew it out slowly, letting it fall, glistening, over her shoulders.

“A fair, sweet maiden,” he murmured. “No widow’s garb, free to choose. As I am free now. Anabel—” He stopped, gathering the difficult words needed to explain that he was a widower, that old vows no longer held him.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know that she is gone.” He opened his mouth in surprise, began to speak. She touched his lips. “Hush. We will speak of it later.”

He frowned slightly, puzzled, but did not question her. “Later,” he echoed. “Here and now, we begin anew.”

She nodded, smiling tremulously, her wide, shadowed eyes watching him with innocence and understanding and perfect love. He felt humbled by the purity within her. She lifted on her toes and touched her lips to his. Her gentle kiss was so poignant that he felt the last vestiges of grief and old anger fall away into oblivion.

Silently, she undid the brooch that held his plaid on his shoulder, then slid the heavy wool down. Her fingers fumbled with the brass buckle on his wide belt. When it came loose, she dropped it on the floor and tugged gently at the thick draping around his waist. His plaid came away in her hands.

He took its weight from her and swung it behind her, netting her in its voluminous folds, pulling her to him inside the warm circle of wool. Toe to toe, thigh to thigh, his strong and obvious desire for her cradled in the silk that covered her, he kissed her.

She breathed out a sigh, swayed languidly against him. That small movement weakened his resolve to draw this out, to milk with her all the joy and pleasure possible for them. Wanting suddenly to lift her and take her in that instant, his body hardening almost painfully now, he sucked in his breath sharply, stilled his hands on her.

Michael pulled on his damp linen shirt, and he tilted his head, allowing her to draw it off of him. His skin was bared against the warm, slippery silk of her chemise, an arousing, divine sensation. He groaned under his breath and lowered his head, circling the back of her head in one hand. Her breath drifted soft over his mouth. A spark like lightning shot through him, and he was lost.

“Dear God,” he breathed, low and husky. He took her mouth quickly, fiercely, deep and sure. With a little cry, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed against him. Pulsing, hungry kisses built into a cadence, stealing his breath, taking hers as well. He heard her gasp, felt her moan slip into his open mouth.

He explored the dark, sweet cave of her mouth with his tongue, and raised his fingers to trace the delicate contours of her ear. Threads of her hair, so fine they seemed woven of air and silk, fell over his fingers. He brushed them back and grasped the cool, soft mass in one hand, slid his hand down and took the chemise from her body in one long, langourous pull.

Her warm, yielding length pressed openly against him now, drawing another deep, breathy groan from him. The plaid was warm around them, but bothersome. He dropped it and wrapped her in his arms, his hands tracing feathery light over her back and hips and loosened hair. Then he swung her up and strode the few steps toward the bed.

Stretching out beside her between cool linen sheets, he sank with her into the nest formed by the soft, thick mattress and piled pillows. Diarmid reached up yanked the curtain closed to cocoon them intimately in silence, warmth, and darkness.

Michael rolled to him with a little sigh, seeking his mouth, slipping her leg over his. He skimmed his hands over her breasts and hips, his fingertips sensitive, caring. Kissing her deeply, he dragged his mouth away to taste her earlobe and the downy side of her cheek, to trace the graceful arch of her throat and feel the strong, excited pulse there.

Her scent was a light, womanly sweat, and she tasted of salt and an indefinable sweetness that he could not live without. He touched his tongue to the valley between her breasts, licking gently, savoring her taste, her scent. She arched against him and he shifted, took her nipple in his mouth, swirled his tongue over the firm tip, over the ruched velvet circle around it.

“Diarmid,” she moaned, a breath of air. He closed his eyes and suckled her, sliding his hand down to caress her waist, her hip, her small, flat abdomen. He knew, with a burst of awareness, that their children would someday bloom and grow there. He wondered if that had already begun. The thought paused him for an instant with wonder.

Her fingers were agile, tender, warm and healing wherever she touched him. She slid her hands over his chest, raked through the thick dark hair that led to his hard belly. The soothing, sensual heat of her fingertips made his heart race, made his loins fill and pulse until he thought he would burst with urgency.

He took her other nipple, felt her indrawn breath, felt her back arch, her hips press forward, her hands begin to plead and guide him. He traced his fingers over her navel, down to the small nest of curls, then raised his head and took her sudden gasp in his mouth. She glided into the cradle of his palm, and welcomed his fingers inside of her. His fingertip found the trembling, heated bloom there and slicked over it slowly.

Miracles, he suddenly thought; she was made of them, her flesh soft and blissful in his hands, her breath like silk on his lips. She moaned softly, quivered beneath his touch, danced her hips toward him. He felt her small, knowing hands glide over the planes of his chest, along his waist, moving until she found his hardened core and took him into her hand.

The warmth, the loving in her slow stroking caresses, the gentle sway of her hips begged him to come into her. He heard her breath quicken, felt the tremors begin to ripple through her body under the rhythm of his touch.

He felt her release, felt the sigh that slid through her, heard her faint, joyful laugh as she surged toward him like a wave of the sea. When she stretched her limbs languidly, gracefully, the movement undid him.

He covered her, felt her shift beneath him until she yielded him entrance. Her little soft cry roused him further, and she took him into her, her body as giving, as wondrous, as accepting as her heart.

Plunging into her deep warmth, into the honeyed silkiness inside, his breath deepened. The darkness behind his closed eyes burst into light and streams of luminous color. He heard her moan beneath him, breathy, ecstatic.

His need for her, his love, formed a new cadence that pulsed and promised within him—
forever, forever
—and he thrust forward, carried by that elemental force, until his soul swept through him and touched hers at last.

Michael opened her eyes and looked at Diarmid. He lay beside her, bedclothes tangled over his broad chest, long muscled legs half bent as he slept soundly. Feeling the warmth and firmness of him against her hip, she smiled, remembering. She touched the dark mat of hair on his chest, and slid gentle, reverent fingertips along his throat and the rough edge of his jaw. She sighed. An echo of deep pleasures still swirled within her—how long had they been lying here? she wondered.

She rolled to her side and parted the bedcurtains. The light confused her at first, for she had lost touch with day or night. She slid from the bed and picked up her chemise, slipping it on, and went to the window to unlatch the shutter.

The rain had stopped. The early sky was pearled pink and silver, and the air that buffeted over her face was moist and fresh. She watched the dawn, shivering, but contented and awed. Below the soaring pastel sky, the ocean rippled toward the island like endless ells of gray-blue silk.

Michael watched the sky and the sea and felt the sorrow, the loss and fear of the past few years finally slip away from her. A few tears stung her eyes and fell, cleansing gently, and she wiped them away.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned as Diarmid sat beside her on the cushioned bench and leaned his shoulders against the wall. He drew her back against his bare chest and wrapped both of them in the thick folds of his plaid. She sighed, closed her eyes, subsided into comfort and support.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured beside her ear. He kissed her cheek. “We slept only a little. You need more rest.”

She shook her head. “I must check on Sorcha and the babe,” she whispered. “Later I will rest. Diarmid—will Sorcha and Mungo know, do you think, that we—?”

She felt him smile, his cheek against hers. “They would not condemn us for it.”

She gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “We are not wed.”

He sighed, long and low, tightened his arms around her. “In the Highlands, there is a custom that binds two people without benefit of clergy,” he said.

She paused, her heart beating oddly fast. What he suggested raised a swirl of excitement and craving through her. She wanted him with her forever, and his soft remark told her the same.

“I know,” she said, “handfasting for a year and a day.”

He shook his head. “There is another, older, rarely used.” His breath lingered on her cheek. “If we declare between us that we take each other in marriage—if we even so much as agree to be wed—then we are, according to ancient Celtic law. In some parts of the Highlands, it is as binding as the words of a priest.”

She sat silently in his arms, resting her hands over his, watching the sun fill the sky, watching its light stream upward into the threatening overhead clouds.

“And do you want that?” she asked in a whisper.

He touched his lips to her cheek. “Very much,” he murmured. “More than my life.”

She watched the sky and thought, realizing that he was free to make this decision. “Ranald told me about Anabel,” she said softly. “He knew, and did not tell you. I am sorry, Diarmid.”

He sighed. “I mean to deal with Ranald over that matter,” he said. “But for now, it is enough to know that I am no longer wed. There is nothing to prevent it—unless you do not want it.” He shifted to look at her. “Will you take me as your husband?”

“I will,” she whispered. “I do take you, for always.”

“And I take you to wife,” he murmured, his voice low, safe, strong at her ear. He held her warm against him as the cool dawn breeze fluttered in to touch them. He turned her, propped her chin on his finger, and kissed her so gently she thought she would melt into a little stream of joy.

She smiled. “Is it done, then?” she asked.

He laughed softly. “I think so, Michael mine.” She laughed too, tilted her head, accepted the next kiss, deep, exquisite, and slow. “This wedding should have happened long ago,” he said.

“I would not have wed you then, when you only wanted me to cure your niece and go home again,” she said reproachfully.

He grinned, touching his brow to hers. “That was wretched of me,” he admitted. “I meant to say that I should have wed you years ago. I was greatly tempted to ask your brother for your hand after I met you. My brother Fionn talked about it, too,” he added. “What you did on that battlefield those years ago not only saved Angus MacArthur’s life, but caused two young men to fall in love with you.”

A blush warmed her cheeks. “I never forgot meeting you and Fionn,” she said. “I went to Italy two years after that. I doubt I would have accepted a marriage offer from anyone. I was determined to become a physician—because of you, Diarmid.”

He smiled, a little sadly, she thought. “And when we met, you were little more than a child. Fionn and I both thought you pure, somehow, holy because of the healing gift. We were certain that you would become a nun, and so each of us gave up the idea as fancy and married others. Fionn found real love for himself,” he said, looking down. “I, on the other hand, made a mistake.”

She watched him. “Why did you wed her?”

He shrugged, looked out the window, snugged her back against his chest. “After Brigit’s birth—and while I was recuperating from the wounds to my hand—Anabel helped to nurse me. She was Ranald’s cousin; I had met her around the time that he and Sorcha wed. She was beautiful, in a dark, lusty way—and she was not a shy woman. She came to me at night, lay with me, helped me forget. I thought I loved her, thought I adored her. I wed her and brought her into my home.”

Michael listened, trying to understand, although a dull pang of jealousy went through her. But she reminded herself that her love for Ibrahim had been vastly different from her love for Diarmid. She must trust that Diarmid felt the same.

The past was over, done for both of them. Dawn light filtered over her hands, where they lay on top of his, and she remembered his vow to her that he wanted to begin anew. And so let it be, she thought.

“Anabel gave you what you needed then,” she said.

“She did, but I discovered that she had a lover—a lover I now believe she had before she wed me—” He shook his head. Michael knew that he meant Ranald, although he would not speak the name. “I was half crazed with anger. I sent her from Dunsheen, rode to the bishop’s house in Glasgow, petitioned for a divorce. I could not bear her betrayal along with the rest of the pain I felt inside. The pain she brought me was the only hurt that I could fight, and so I did.”

“The court sent her away?”

He nodded. “They banished her to a convent for adultery, and made us both take a penitential vow of chastity. Neither of us have a lover so long as the other lived. I wonder, now, if she kept that vow,” he said quietly.

“Harsh, to punish you for her sin,” Michael said.

He shrugged. “I wanted punishment of some kind, I think.” He drew a long breath. “But she is gone, has been gone for a year. Even my mourning time was over before I learned I was widowed. And I do mourn her. She was not evil. She gave a great deal to me at first. But betrayal, my future stolen from me, no wife, no heirs—that I found unforgivable. Not so now.”

“You feel some peace, then.”

“So much,” he whispered, tucking his chin on her head. “So much, my wife.” She smiled, silent and content in his arms.