Lady Miracle by Susan King

kiss by a healing well,” he murmured. His hand tightened on her shoulder, drawing her closer. “Such a kiss, I hear, brings peace and joy to those who need them.” He lowered his head. “Surely we both need that.” He cupped her cheek.
    He heart thumped fiercely as she gazed at him. She felt as if she lost the thread of coherent thought, aware only of the press of his hand, the deep thrum of his voice in her ear, the shape of his lips so close to hers.
    Aware, then, of his mouth, warm and pliant and wondrous as it brushed hers and lifted away. She took in a little gasp with the marvelous shock that struck through her. Her thundering heart seemed to fill her chest.
    “For luck and a blessing,” he murmured.
    “For that,” she agreed breathlessly, yearning to feel his mouth on hers again. She tipped her head up, lips parted, feeling a simple, strong, sudden desire.
    He lowered his hand, and she looked away, blushing. “Come ahead, we’ve far to ride this day,” he said. She nodded and turned, as he did. Bending down, she took a moment to tear two narrow strips of cloth from the inside hem of her silk chemise. She walked toward the little hazel tree and tied the rags onto branches, where they fluttered among a rainbow display of hundreds of pilgrim tokens.
    “A prayer for yourself?” he asked, behind her.
    “For your Brigit,” she answered. And for us both, she thought as she walked away.
    Hours later, while a vivid sunset bled orange and red into the indigo sky, they reached a narrow pass between a soaring, rugged mountain and a gleaming loch. The wind brought piercing cold, and Michaelmas gathered her cloak closer around her.
    Diarmid, his plaid pulled over his head against the chill, rode ahead of her in silence. Wind whistled around them as they left the dramatic vista of the pass. After a while, he turned. “Dunsheen is several miles yet, toward the sea. Can you ride that far, or do you wish to stop?”
    Her bones ached with weariness, but she lifted her head. “I can ride,” she said, and urged her horse ahead of his.
    Sometime later, she glimpsed the dark gleam of another loch, heard the rhythmic rush of water, and caught the faint scent of the sea. She had used her last reserves of strength to ride this far, stubbornly resisting the fatigue that threatened to crumple her from the saddle. Now, she felt a new surge of energy when she saw a castle jut upward as if it surged, black and whole, from the loch itself. Another glance revealed that the castle and its surrounding wall rested on a long, low isle.
    They rode to the pebbled shore, where Diarmid dismounted and held his arms up to assist her. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her down easily. But as she stood, her knees buckled beneath her. She gripped his shoulders, and Diarmid caught her around the waist.
    “Ho, girl,” he murmured. “You must be tired. Stand here for a moment.” He leaned her against his chest, his breath stirring her hair.
    Muffled against the plaid that covered his chest, taking in the mingled scents of wind and pine, of smoke and man, she closed her eyes, not thinking, hardly feeling anything but the blessed, firm support he offered her.
    Then she pushed away, legs trembling. “I’m fine,” she insisted wearily.
    He murmured assent and took the horses’ bridles to lead them into the shelter of a few trees, where Michaelmas saw the shape of a small hut or stable. After a few minutes, he returned and walked ahead of her along the shore, beckoning her to follow.
    “Loch Sheen is a sea inlet,” he said. “When the tide is low, a sandbar connects the castle to the shore. But tonight we must row across.” He led her toward a cluster of tall reeds, where a narrow rowing boat lay moored.
    She caught her breath and hesitated. Boats and water made her distinctly uneasy. She did not want to reveal her fears or her unwillingness to Diarmid. Thin water lapped at her feet, and she stepped back