Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  "Ye could, though 'twould be foolish beyond reason," the Earl said casually. "But ye won't."

  "And why not?" Hugh was sweating and did not like the feeling. He did not like Argyll's certainty, or the power he knew the other man wielded. Most of all, he did not like being backed into a corner like a helpless rat.

  "Because," Argyll said softly, leaning negligently on a plain wooden chair, "the rest of my men await me on the road to Edinburgh. They have in their custody yer oldest son Hugh and his brother David. Their tunics and daggers are stained with earth and the blood of Alex Urquart. They spoiled the lands of Cromarty tonight and killed the man in front of all the servants. They acted heedlessly, did no' even try to hide who they were, but rode out of the keep as they had ridden in, plaids flying proudly. The King does not like such lawlessness and he has no patience for fools."

  Hugh Rose went pale with rage and fear—at his sons, who had grown up wild and greedy and careless. Now they had endangered the entire clan. A moment before he had felt like a cornered rat, but he was less than that to Argyll: a gnat, defenseless and easily squashed beneath the Earl's thumb.

  Suddenly, a whirlwind of flailing arms and legs erupted from behind a screen in the corner. A small flame-haired boy ran for the Earl, striking his knees, biting, trying to knock him down. "I want my papa. Where've ye put my papa?" he shouted.

  With difficulty, Argyll disentangled himself. Hugh Rose smiled; he couldn't help it. His four-year-old grandson had nearly toppled the mighty Earl to the floor. Argyll held him at arm's length, but the boy still struggled, biting the air, snarling and swinging his fists uselessly.

  "Now ye've met Hugh Rose the youngest, my first son's child," the Laird announced. When he saw the dangerous glint in Argyll's eye, he snapped, "Bridget! Take the brat and go."

  "Hugh, lad, come away," Bridget said, moving from among her sisters.

  "But he took my papa! He'll hurt him. I know it. I want my papa!" the child shrieked.

  Bridget backed from the room, the child snarling all the way. Argyll felt eyes full of hatred burning into his back long after the door had closed. It was something to mark for the future, he thought. Something to mark well.

  Hugh dismissed his grandson without a thought. “What are ye going to do?" he demanded.

  "About yer sons, ye mean?" Argyll spoke calmly, hiding his unease. "I am, as ye know, Justice General of Scotland. I didn't like Alex Urquart. I doubt many will mourn his loss.

  Especially if the servants are made to forget what they saw. Ye know if anyone has the power to make them do it, I do."

  Hugh waited. "And? What of my sons?"

  "I'll keep the daggers and tunics, of course, to insure they don't forget how much they owe us. But if ye deal with me fairly, 'twill cost them no more than a small fine."

  "What do ye mean by deal fairly?" Hugh asked suspiciously.

  "Accept my guardianship of Muriella."

  Even then Isabel made no sound. Her face had no color, and the lines between her nose and mouth were deeper, more pronounced. She was rigid, waiting, but her eyes showed no fear or weakness.

  Hugh hesitated, though he knew he was trapped. "Ye already have land and wealth aplenty. To give ye Muriella would only give ye more. It makes my stomach turn to think of it."

  Argyll was becoming irritated. "Yer sons brought ye to this moment, not I. Ye'd best blame them. I'm offering ye a fair exchange. Their freedom for the girl. Ye have to choose— Muriella Calder, and the Thanedom of Cawdor someday in the future, or yer sons now—yer clan, yer own survival. Choose."

  Argyll could feel Isabel's breath withheld, feel its absence in the chilly air. But he did not turn. "Choose."

  "Take the bairn," Rose snarled. "Take her!" He swung away, beating his clenched fist into his hand.

  “No,” the Earl murmured. He went to the look once more into the child's innocent face. "For now, she'll stay at Kilravok. A girl-child should be with her mother, with the women of her own family." He wondered, fleetingly, if he were making a mistake, to put so much wealth into such unsteady hands. But Isabel's gaze was unwavering and he thought again of his own wife and daughter. He believed in this woman's strength. His gaze locked with hers, and there passed between them a promise—unspoken, but binding and real just the same. He reached out to touch the girl's soft cheek, smiled at her gurgle of pleasure.

  Isabel sighed with relief and her grip on Muriella lessened.

  "I don't want to take her from her mother till 'tis necessary. As long as ye can protect her, I'll leave her here, where she can grow and learn as she should. I need ye as an ally, Hugh Rose, not an enemy. I will give ye a bond of friendship. When ye have trouble, send word and the Campbells will come to protect ye."

  "To protect her, ye mean," Rose snarled.

  The Earl was looking at Isabel, though he spoke to Hugh. "All of ye. 'Tis what such a bond means, man." He smiled slightly, then whirled toward Rose, his face devoid of expression. "I'll have yer vow that ye'll send word at the first hint of trouble, that ye'll use our strength to see she is safe, that ye'll keep in yer head always the Campbell motto: 'Be Mindful.'"

  He took his sword and held it, tilted out, toward Hugh Rose. The crusted ruby in silver winked in the pale firelight. "Swear and yer sons will be free, yer family safe. Swear!"

  Hugh's lip curled and he felt ill as he reached toward the offered sword. Friendship indeed. When the Earl offered friendship it was best to turn and flee. But he had no choice. Damn his sons to hell. Briefly, he clasped the jeweled hilt of Argyll's sword. "I swear." He thought he would choke on the words, but they rang loud and clear.

  "Remember," Argyll said, "ye're sworn to be ally to the

  Campbells, but more than that, ye're sworn to keep Muriella Calder safe." He turned to Isabel one last time. "And now so are ye."

  She nodded, stunned by the feeling of relief that swept over her—the first moment of peace she'd known since her husband's death. The turmoil had begun long before that, if the truth were told, since the moment she'd learned she would be John Calder's wife. She kissed her daughter's smooth white brow. "Aye," she murmured. "I swear."

  "Then 'tis done." The Earl felt suddenly unutterably weary. To Hugh, he said, "She'll stay only as long as ye can keep her safe. No' a moment more! That's the pledge," he added with a face of thunder, a face many men had quailed at the sight of. "And don't even be thinking of crossing me."

  Hugh averted his eyes. "No man would be such a fool." Argyll smiled bitterly. "I have learned that most men would rather be fools. I suspect 'tis because they choose to believe themselves stronger than they are."

  Rose looked up, lip curled. "Oh, aye, but 'tis only ye who's invincible, I suppose."

  Argyll glanced from Isabel, with the girl-child in her arms, to Hugh with his smirking grin. "No," the Earl said sharply. "I'm neither blind nor full of false pride. I know I'm only a man, ye see."

  He took a step forward and raised his hand. "Because of that I'll survive and prosper while others fall around me. Because of that, I can make certain that the bairn," he pointed towards the bundle in Isabel's arms, "reaches womanhood, marries and has bairns of her own." He started for the door. "Ye'd be wise to remember what I've said," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the long, dark hall.

  Hugh, Laird of the Clan Rose, did not choose to remember, but his daughter, Isabel never forgot.

  PART 1

  1509-1510

  Chapter 1

  "Muriella!"

  The voice echoed upward through the tower, bouncing off the walls until it reached the girl crouched in the recessed window of the circular room. As the sound dissipated in the late- afternoon air, Muriella Calder leaned against the chilly stone of the embrasure, tipping her head to get a breath of the clear autumn air. The day was oddly warm for October, and she wanted to be by the river, away from the walls of the tower and the oppressive presence of the men-at-arms. Her heavy skirts hung limp and her undergown clung to her thighs and ankles. Unuse
d to the heat, she had undone the intricate laces so her gown hung open, revealing her damp kirtle.

  She moved over carefully, an inch at a time, until she sat at the very edge of the wide window, where she could look down through the trees at the river. She could just see the water glistening through the layered leaves of hawthorns and oaks. As the sun struck the swells of water sharply, Muriella closed her eyes, giving herself up to the murmur of water on stones.

  It was the only sound that could begin to soothe away the anxiety that had haunted her since her arrival at Cawdor Castle two days before. Her mother had told her they had come here to prepare for the girl's wedding to her cousin Hugh, which would take place on her fourteenth birthday, a little more than three months from now. But Muriella did not believe it was that simple. She had seen too many of the furtive looks cast her way in the past weeks, felt too much of the apprehension that marked the faces of everyone around her.

  She had watched in confusion at Kilravok as her mother gathered their possessions in haste and made their way to the high, strong tower that was Cawdor Castle. She had listened in dismay to the unnatural silence that fell upon everyone as they settled amidst the dust and long-unused furniture on the upper floors. She had held her breath in alarm when she saw how many armed men had taken their meager furs and established themselves on the ground floor.

  Muriella had not been allowed to leave the tower since. She had begun to feel restless under the weight of the somber atmosphere that still lurked in the corners of a place so long uninhabited. She missed the tapestry-hung walls of Kilravok where she had grown up. More than that, she missed Hugh and the woods and burns where they’d played and climbed and hidden from their parents all their lives. She could not help but be aware that she was watched always.

  For two days Muriella had wandered the tower, unable to stay still and unable to go out. She had pestered her mother constantly. "Why have we really come here?"

  Her mother had frowned, answering abruptly, "Because we were told to do so."

  "But who told us?"

  Sighing, Isabel Calder had replied, "My father. ‘Tis dangerous just now at Kilravok, and he's afraid we aren't strong enough to protect"—she paused and looked away—"everyone." She added the last word stiffly, and Muriella sensed it was not the one she had meant to use. But her mother would not explain further.

  She tried to learn more by leaning against the wall beside a dark-haired, tall, muscled man. “William?”

  He flinched, though not in surprise that she knew his name; she made an effort to know all the men’s names. Rather, he was afraid of what she might ask. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to lie to her.

  "I know ye miss yer wife and son. Would ye no’ rather be at Kilravok?"

  “A soldier would always rather be at home, lass, but he’d no’ be much of a warrior if he disobeyed the Laird."

  She caught his gaze, waiting, hoping for something more, but he turned away. Finally she had sought relief in climbing to the room high in the tower where the hawthorn tree grew through a hole in the floor. Lorna, the young woman who had once been Muriella's nurse, was normally at her side, but for the first time in days, the girl found herself alone. From her isolated spot, she gazed through the window at the river far beneath. With her knees pulled up to her chin, she tilted her head so she could just hear voices speaking near the window of the sewing room on the floor below.

  "She's only restless here." Muriella recognized Lorna’s voice. "'Tis no' healthy to keep her so confined. If only we could let her go out, she would be more at ease. But ‘tis too dangerous."

  "Then perhaps," her mother responded, "if we aren't strong enough to keep her safe, 'twould have been better to let her go."

  There was a pause, and Muriella strained to hear.

  "The old man is a fool, right enough." Isabel’s rose in chilly anger, "but I am more concerned for Muriella. We are weak and the Campbells are strong. They could—" She broke off abruptly.

  From her precarious perch, Muriella wondered over what they said, but she could make no sense of it. What did the Campbells and Calders have to do with her? She had been raised by her mother's family, had always considered herself a Rose, though she bore the name of Calder. Shaking her head, she forced the voices into the background, but she could not make them go away altogether. As she leaned toward the river, her head began to spin with the desire to disappear through the window and reappear at the edge of the water, stretched out on the wet ground. She drew in her breath, straightening one leg, then the other, until both fell beyond the edge of the window. She pressed her hands into the stone and threw back her head when she felt the wind come up beside her. "Muriella!"

  She whirled, tangling her legs in her skirts, to stare into her mother's terrified eyes. Isabel Calder stood with her arms outstretched. "Ye could have fallen…." Her voice trailed off.

  Isabel's face softened when her eyes rested on her daughter, but then the worry lines deepened—those lines that had marked her mother's skin for as long as Muriella could remember.

  Isabel's eyes swept her daughter up and down, betraying her apprehension.

  Muriella shook the river from her head, obliterated the comfort of the cool, green water, and confronted her stern aunts. "May I go down to the river?" she asked.

  Isabel glanced at her sisters, apprehension tingeing the high edges of her cheekbones pink. "Can't ye stay and sew with me?” The girl hesitated. She wanted to ease her mother’s sadness and fear, but did not know how. Her helplessness made her heart ache. She did not know Isabel Calder well enough to comfort her. "Please, Mother," were the only words she could manage. And even then she was not certain what she was asking for. "Let me go."

  Isabel, who still held her sewing in her hand, fluttered it before her daughter's face. "Ye must learn that here ye can't simply wander as ye did at Kilravok. Ye have become a woman now. Ye must stay close."

  "But if I'm a woman, why am I watched like a bairn? Why can't I do as I wish?"

  Isabel shook her head sadly. Taking her daughter's hand, she murmured, "No woman can ever do as she wishes, my dear.

  Especially ye. Ye have to understand that we don't get to choose our own fate. I'm afraid ye'll learn that for yerself sooner than ye care to."

  Muriella saw the misery in her mother's face, and it was more than she could bear. She had to get away. Her eyes locked with her mother's, and the girl's gaze held the woman immobile; she could not look away. "Please may I go?" Muriella repeated.

  Isabel threw up her hands and the white cloth fluttered to the floor. For a full minute she regarded her daughter in indecision, wondering if she should listen to the inner voice that bid her free Muriella from the tower. But to lose her so soon.

  She remembered vividly the tender look on the Earl of Argyll's face the night he had come to Kilravok. She remembered the unspoken promise that had passed between them. She had believed him then. She must believe him now.

  She had felt Archibald Campbell's strength of will, his unbending determination. She'll stay only as long as ye can keep her safe. No' a moment more! Remember, ye're sworn, he had said to Hugh Rose, and turning to Isabel, added softly, and now, so are ye.

  As if the words had been wrenched from her, Isabel said, "Go then. But ye must take one of the guards with ye." Her eyes met Lorna's, and she felt a painful band tightening across her forehead. Both women knew that a single guard would never be enough; she might as well send none at all. But she must pretend for the sake of the others who were watching her so warily. "Ye must take care, ye ken?" she added softly. "The guard will protect ye."

  "As will I." Lorna touched the dagger in a sheath at her waist.

  Taking a deep breath as she searched for strength, Isabel knew that for the first time, she would openly defy the men who had ordered her days, her months, her life by their will. She had made her own decision, listened to her own voices. She shivered at the thought, but pushed her doubts aside.

  She ignored the den
ial in every inch of her woman’s body. Muriella was all she had. She did not know why she had not explained everything to her. Like Hugh Rose, she had pretended she would never lose her daughter. And in pretending, she had betrayed her daughter, bewildered her, hurt her. She didn't know how to make that right; it was too late. But she could save Muriella's life, and hope that someday her daughter would understand and forgive her.

  "Lorna, will ye take her down?"

  As Muriella peered up at her friend's pleasant brown eyes and broad, gentle mouth, she felt a fine, shimmering thread of hope. She, kissing her mother's outstretched hand. "Thank ye, Mother," she said. "I don't know what ye want of me, but I'll try to do as ye say."

  "Never mind now. Tomorrow will be soon enough." Muriella smiled up at her; the girl's face became vividly lovely and at the same time vulnerable. "Good day," she said.

  Isabel's heart stilled as she watched the girl turn away to start down the stairs with her companion. Lorna's hand rested on Muriella's shoulder, and Isabel saw that she was at home beneath that hand. As she stared after the stranger who was her daughter, the lines of Isabel's face hardened into panic. Yet she turned away from the stairway, sinking back into the life her father had chosen for her. She bent to pick up her sewing with a sigh, though she felt the light had gone out of the room.

  ~ * ~

  Muriella strained under the gentle pressure of Lorna's hand. She did not understand the pain that filled her chest, but she knew she would find comfort in the shade of the trees and the song of the river.

  The guard, with his claymore at his side and his bow slung over his shoulder, followed the two, tense and alert. William had been awakened from a nap a few minutes before and was less perplexed to discover he was to accompany the girl down to the river. Still, he had always respected Isabel Calder; she was wise beyond some men he knew. If she wanted him to protect Muriella, he would do so willingly.

  “William,” the girl welcomed him with a half-smile, while Lorna touched his arm softly. “Thank ye,” she murmured.