Lady Miracle (40 page)

She felt the illness begin to diminish, as if their locked gazes produced a healing, sustaining force. Ranald grabbed her arm, but she raised her chin, squared her shoulders, firmed her back. He let go. She stepped forward away from him.

Diarmid’s birlinn rocked on the waves, each rise and drop over the waves bringing him closer to her; three hundred yards, two hundred, half that. The distance lessened rapidly as Diarmid’s oarsmen pulled, despite strong currents and merciless winds.

Behind her, Ranald shouted a command. She turned and saw his men raise their bows, saw the arrows fly upward, saw them arc in the sky and fall like a hail of thorns toward Diarmid and his men. She leaped toward Ranald, as if she could stop the order by pulling at him. He knocked her away and lifted his own bow, calling out again. Another volley of arrows lifted on the wind. The world fell into mad chaos around her—careening ship, howling winds, whining arrows. The boat lurched and she stumbled toward the prow. The sickness came over her again. But she could not give into weakness now. She clung to the rim of the birlinn and looked for Diarmid.

He was in the prow still, gesturing to her; she thought he mimicked pulling something over his head. Then he lifted his bow, his men gathering on the deck to do the same. Michael frowned and turned, then noticed several round targe shields lashed to the inside of the hull. She snatched one loose and hunkered down, pulling it over her to protect her head and back.

Peering out, she saw Diarmid lift his arm to signal his men. He aimed his own bow toward Ranald’s birlinn, and they shot in unison. High winds knocked the released arrows awry, no matter how true the aim. Many fell in the sea, but most hurtled toward the birlinn, smacking into wood, ripping the sail, sinking into flesh. She heard someone scream out horribly. Gasping, she crouched under the targe as arrowheads struck it noisily.

Ranald’s men fired another volley. Michael peeked out from under the shield, frightened, confused, never sure which way to turn, to move, to glance. The rocking of the sea knocked her to her side, tossed her, rolled her around on the slippery, narrow deck. She staggered drunkenly to her knees, snatched at the shield’s handgrip, and curled like a snail in its shell.

Arrows thwacked around her and the winds and sea howled. Ill, terrified, she sank so deeply into misery that the careening world became oddly normal to her. She scrambled to her hands and knees, hanging on to the shield, and crawled forward with one goal: she had to see Diarmid.

Lifting her head, she peered out. The daylight had faded rapidly, darkened by heavy clouds. She felt the sting of a few cold raindrops on her hand. Glancing around, she saw Diarmid’s birlinn, but he was out of sight; unable to find him with a quick glance, she rose higher to look again.

Hands snatched her around the waist. “Come here, mistress,” one of the oarsmen said, pulling her backward. “MacSween wants you. He’s been arrowshot. This way, if you will.”

She half-crawled after the Highlander toward midship. Ranald sat propped against the mast, two arrows protruding from his body, one sticking in his lower back, the other bloodying the front of his tunic.

“Take them out,” Ranald gasped, his face green-tinged. “Repair the wounds. I have a task to do.”

“You have only revenge in mind.” She knelt beside him. “Perhaps your wound will stop you now, if no one else can.”

“Pull the arrows out!” he snapped, through gritted teeth.

Tightening her jaw, she did not reply, reaching out to test the arrow in his back. The oarsmen who had fetched her, an older man, large and muscular, sat beside her. She asked for a knife and cloth, and within moments he had produced both, ripping his own shirt beneath his dirty plaid and handing her his sharp dirk.

She slit into Ranald’s thick dark woolen surcoat and pulled it away from his back, then cut through the brown serge tunic and the linen shirt beneath, exposing part of his smoothly muscled torso. The wound in his back was cleanly made, the arrowbed shallow.

She steeled herself, paused, and yanked out the iron tip. Ranald screamed and jerked. Michael pressed wadded cloth against the wound and wrapped a strip around his waist to hold it.

Then she carefully peeled away the bloodied cloth over his abdomen. The second arrow had penetrated deep into his belly. She frowned; this wound was far more dangerous than the first. Directing the Highlander beside her to lay Ranald flat, she cut his shirt more thoroughly and examined the wound. Then she pressed a cloth over it, careful not to pull at the arrowshaft.

The need to help a wounded man, no matter his identity, somehow righted the reeling world. Concentrating on her work, already adapting to the chaos that surrounded her, she nearly forgot her fears, though arrows struck down in a wicked, whipping hail. She propped the shield against her upright back and ducked down, feeling strangely calm now that she had purpose.

“Let me help you, Mistress,” the old man said beside her. “I can pull that arrow out, or bandage a wound if need be.”

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Domhnull,” he said. “Domhnull MacSween. Ranald’s cousin.”

She peered at the wound as he spoke. “Domhnull, I need more cloth.” She heard him tear his shirt, felt the warm linen as it dropped in her lap. She grabbed it up, discarding the reddened one she held. “One more favor,” she said. “Tell me if you see Diarmid Campbell on the other galley.”

The man craned his head. “I see him,” he said after a moment. “He’s in the stern, bent over one of his men.”

“Is he unharmed?” she asked.

“I cannot tell. Wait, there is blood on his shirt. He seems well enough in spite of it.
Ach
!” Domhnull swore viciously as an arrow narrowly missed his leg. “I need one of those shields too,” he joked, as she leaned low beneath her shield to work on Ranald. “What a brave woman, without fear. Serene as an angel, you are.”

Michael smiled grimly at the irony. She had never been more terrified in her life.

Ranald raised his head and gripped her arm. “Take the second arrow out too. Now,” he said hoarsely.

“Ranald, the tip may have cut through the intestine,” she said. “You will do better if I leave it for now. It acts as a plug. We must go back to Glas Eilean so that I can tend to it properly.”

“It cannot be that bad,” he rasped. “I feel strong enough to finish this fight. Take it out and bandage me up.” He gestured toward one of his men. “Keep shooting!” he yelled. “Do not stop! Do not let him get away!” He gritted his teeth and groaned.

“Ranald, we must go back,” she said. “You could die.”

He turned a ferocious gaze on her. “I will not die until Diarmid Campbell pays for what he has done.”

“And what of his lady, MacSween?” the old man asked suddenly. Michael turned in surprise. “Do not forget that she saved the life of your child days ago. You owe her for that. And now she is trying to save your own hide. Learn forgiveness from her, man. Give the order to cease and turn back.”

Ranald glared at him. “I need no advice from you, Domhnull,” he snarled, then raised his hand. “Shoot!” he screamed. “Use flame arrows!”

Michael looked up in alarm. Two of Ranald’s men had wrapped oiled cloth around the ends of their arrows and now lit them with a flint. Michael screamed in protest, wrenching around to get up. The men shot the flaming missiles, one after another, which streaked read and orange across the darkening sky.

Domhnull grabbed her. “You cannot stop this. He is truly crazed, I suspect.” He pulled her back. “Protect yourself.”

She sobbed out as she watched the flames bite into the square sail of Diarmid’s birlinn. Another hit inside the boat, and still more hit the sail. She watched the canvas catch fire slowly, smoking heavily, until orange flames erupted around the jutting tip of the mast and began to blaze along the lines.

She saw Diarmid beat out a small fire at the base of the mast, saw him look upward toward the higher flames, with no way to reach them. The old man pulled at her arm.

“Come away, now,” he said gruffly. “I do not want you to watch your man die. A fire on a birlinn is a serious thing. You may have to be stronger than you have ever been before.”

She curled forward in agony. Domhnull laid a hand on her shoulder. Within moments, she felt wet drops on her hands and face, on her arms and back. “Rain!” she cried, looking up as the towering dark clouds unleashed a torrent. “Rain!” she sobbed gratefully, heedless of the downpour that soaked her.

Domhnull grinned. “Another miracle for you. I heard you helped bring one in for Lady Sorcha’s child. You must have angels following you, lady.” He laughed, gap-toothed and whiskery, rain streaming down his face. “Your man will be fine if he can get his ship to land as fast as possible. Ranald’s men will fire no more volleys. The rain has ended this battle.”

She nodded, tears sliding down her face, and saw through the rain that Diarmid searched for her, his hand shielding his brow, his shoulder reddened. She waved to him frantically, trying to plead to him to go back. Mungo stepped over to him then and pointed as if telling Diarmid something dire.

Finally Diarmid turned away, and the smoking birlinn moved obliquely to maneuver around. Michael watched the oars lift and dip rapidly as the vessel pulled away into the sheeting rain. She bit her lip and wiped the wetness from her face.

“They will be back,” Domhnull said. He gripped her arm, steadying her on the undulating deck. “I vow it pains him deep to leave you. But I am here, lady, if you need me. I saw MacSween’s treatment of you. Believe me, I did not plan to let it continue.”

She nodded, his reassurance that Diarmid would be back for her repeating like a litany in her mind. Determined to make certain of that, she turned to Ranald.

“Diarmid is returning to Glas Eilean,” she said. “Enough of this. We must go back too.”

“I did not win,” he growled, wincing as he placed a hand on his stomach.

“You did not,” she said.

“Pull out the arrow,” he barked.

She shook her head. “When we return to the castle, it will be done properly. Tell your men to turn the galley around.”

“Remove the arrow now,” he said, grasping the shaft with a bloody hand, “or I will do it myself. I am not done with Diarmid Campbell. I will turn back and pursue him. Pull it out and bandage me. I need to take command of this vessel.”

She sank to her knees and placed her hands over his. “Stop. You will kill yourself.”

“Let go,” Ranald growled.

“Ranald,” she said. “Remember that you will need a skillful surgeon if you hope to survive this wound. Leave Diarmid in peace, I beg you.”

He snarled incoherently, tried to yank, and groaned.

Michael pressed her hands over his to prevent him from pulling out the arrowtip. As if a flame sparked unexpectedly, she felt heat flow from her hands into his, joined around the shaft. She sat in a rocking ship in the aftermath of a battle, in the cold biting rain and howling wind, and felt a warm, loving peace descend into her.

She gazed at Ranald and saw into his brown eyes, where fear lurked, where his needs were hidden. Sympathy for him, a mute understanding, filled her without words. Heat poured through her hands, and she felt her fear, her anger toward him dissolve.

Ranald stared at her and slowly released his hands. “What—what are you doing?” he asked. “The heat—the pain is gone.” He struggled to sit up. “What did you do?”

“Helped you, Ranald,” she said quietly. “Only that.”

“Jesu,” he breathed, staring at her. “By all the saints.” He shook his head as if in a daze.

“We must go back,” Michael said.

“We must,” he said. “I feel stronger now. I am not done with Diarmid.”

“You are a fool, Ranald MacSween,” Domhnull snapped. “Think of what you owe this woman! You have a daughter now—think of that child, if no one else!”

Ranald rubbed a hand over his face. “I have a daughter, but none to carry on my name.”

“There are plenty to carry on the name of MacSween,” Dommhnull said. “Because of this woman, you have a child to carry on your blood.”

Ranald hesitated, looking at Michael, looking at his elder cousin. Then he grimaced, grabbed the arrowshaft, and tore it from his abdomen. Screaming out, he fell sideways. Domhnull leaned forward to lay him down.

“Ranald—” Michael grabbed his arm. “Go easy. Let me see.” Domhnull handed her a cloth and she wadded it against the gushing wound. “Now he will need Diarmid Campbell’s skill for certain,” she said quietly to Domhnull. “I cannot repair such serious damage alone.”

“I must have my satisfaction against Diarmid,” Ranald gasped out. “You do not know how much he has taken from me.”

“Never meaning to, Ranald.” She held the wadded cloth against him, tried to summon the heat, the power again. “Never meaning to.”

Around her, she heard shouts. Men scrambled to take up the oars, screaming to one another through the furious sound of the storm. Domhnull turned. “Seek safety, lady,” he said. “Hold on to the mast.”

“What is it?” she cried.

“The currents have carried us northeast, well past Glas Eilean and Isla. Look there.” He pointed through the curtain of rain. “Those mountains are on the isle of Jura.”

“Jura!” Ranald shouted. “How far up its coast are we?”

“Too far,” Domhnull replied. “Too far!”

“What is wrong?” Michael cried, alarmed.

“Listen!” Domhnull shouted above the deafening howl.

Diarmid had said that to her once, at sea.
Listen.
She did, and heard an agonized roar, like a monster caught in the deep, and remembered what Diarmid had told her then. No storm alone could make that hideous, black-hearted sound.

Ranald lurched to his feet, clutching his belly. “The currents have driven us toward Jura’s northern channel. We must turn—
row
!” he screamed. ”
Row!
Your lives depend on it. Turn back!”

Michael looked at Domhnull, dreading, knowing.

“The whirlpool—it has come to life, just ahead,” he said.

“The boat can be repaired,” Diarmid said, as he sat heavily on a wooden chest. “Her mast is partly burnt and the sail is gone, and she has a few leaks. But we made it back whole, with all the men aboard.”