Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  When, having struggled with the rusty bolt, William finally shoved open the heavy oak door, Muriella tumbled outside, breathing in the fresh air. She ran, stumbling, past Lorna, William, and the shadow of the tower, down the steep hill that protected the south side of the castle. Leaves, bushes, and crawling ferns blocked her path, and the bells of the hollyhock brushed her legs, but they did not slow her down. Holding her skirts above her knees, she flew as if wind-borne. Then, as the river appeared from beneath its ceiling of leaves, her face became young again and her green eyes glowed.

  She did not see that Lorna paused with William beside her. Together they surveyed the trees and thick foliage between the castle and the river. It was several moments before Lorna turned toward the riverbank.

  When Muriella reached the bank, she knelt in the damp moss that straggled in and out of the water. She felt the moisture seeping through the cloth at her knees and listened with delight to the harmony of water and stones and her own desire. She stretched out a hand, placing it just above the water. As she moved it to and fro, she felt the last remains of the weight of the tower leave her. She breathed the air, which was cool under the sheltering trees. At last, she smiled—slowly, exultantly.

  She realized Lorna hovered nearby, watching in silence. Muriella sensed a certain tension that was uncommon in Lorna's easy nature, and she turned to consider the woman inquiringly.

  "Come sit with me in the copse for a while 'Tis—more comfortable there." Lorna surveyed the landscape once more, then turned to William, who stood at her elbow. "Stay here and watch. If ye see anything—"

  "Aye." The guard needed to say no more.

  Lorna pulled Muriella away from the river, retreating into a group of trees with thick ferns growing beneath them. As the woman sank gratefully into the safety of the darkness, Muriella lay down beside her. The damp ground, covered by a layer of curling fronds and dead pine needles, was soft against her back.

  "Lorna," the girl murmured, "why have we really come here?"

  Lorna paused for a moment, then murmured, "For yer wedding."

  Muriella frowned in confusion as she stared up at the shadows overhead. She knew everyone around her was tense and excited, but she also knew it had nothing to do with her marriage to her cousin Hugh. She had grown up with Hugh, after all, had always known she would wed him one day, although the two young people had not been officially betrothed until her twelfth birthday. Besides, as far as she knew, few preparations had been made for the impending ceremony. No, something else was disturbing her family. "'Tis what the others told me, but 'tis no' the truth, is it?" She knew her companion from childhood was the only one who would not lie to her.

  Lorna took a deep breath, considering Muriella through half-closed lids. "Ye're right, 'tis no' all the truth." With a sigh she continued, "Ye know Cawdor Castle has belonged to ye since yer father's death?"

  Muriella nodded.

  "Ye never knew yer father," Lorna observed. "I wonder if 'twould have been different if ye had."

  The girl wrinkled her forehead as she tried to build a picture of her father in her mind. He had died of consumption just before she was born, and though she had seen a small portrait of him once, she could not remember his face at all.

  "I don't believe he really existed," she said. "I can't see him."

  "But he did," Lorna assured her. "He had a troubled life, yer father, and ye have inherited so much that was his."

  "I don't understand."

  "No, I don't suppose ye do."

  A long silence followed while Muriella lay still, her gaze wandering beyond the copse toward the castle. She could barely see the south wall of the tower from where she sat, but she had seen the rest the day before. It stood tall and severe behind the thick stone that circled it on three sides, dominating the hilly ground on which it sat, dwarfing the trees and the river that curled at its back. Staring steadily at the dull, weather-beaten stone walls, Muriella felt ill at ease. This was not her home. Her gaze moved back to the river.

  Above her, Lorna tore at a leaf until it lay in tatters on her skirt. Then she said suddenly, "Muriella!"

  The girl sat up at the note of alarm in her friend's voice. "What is it?"

  Lorna glanced toward the riverbank, then toward the castle. She plucked at the bracken beside her, but when she caught a glimpse of the guard beyond the trees, her hand grew still. "'Tis nothing. Do ye know the history of the castle? Ye should, since 'tis yers."

  Muriella bit her lip while she tried to follow Lorna's thoughts. Something of great significance was amiss; she was more and more certain of that, but just now she could not untangle her confusion. Instead she lay back and listened.

  "Yer great-grandfather built the castle here," Lorna began. "There's a story that a large bird spoke to him one day, telling him to strap all his gold into a trunk and place it on his mule's back. Then he was to follow the animal wherever it might choose to go. 'And,' the bird said, 'when the mule lies down to rest, there ye should build yer castle.' So yer great-grandfather followed the animal up and down the Highlands till the mule fell down beneath a hawthorn tree and went to sleep.

  "There yer relative began to build. Since he didn't want to destroy the tree, he built the castle around it. Ye were just in the room with the tree growing through its center. 'Tis the very same one.

  "When he died, yer grandfather was very wealthy and a friend to James, the King. Both his son and his grandson added land and money to his original possessions, and when the land came to yer father, it included a vast fortune. Vast enough to make more than one man covet the power and wealth Cawdor would bring him."

  Before Muriella could respond to the warning in her voice, Lorna continued, "John Calder married yer mother in order to end the feud between the Calders and Roses that had disrupted the lives of everyone in Nairnshire for many years. I suppose he hoped that together the two families would be strong enough to hold Cawdor in peace. But the bitterness had gone too deep. A single marriage couldn't heal it."

  The girl braided her fingers together, holding them over her eyes, looking up at Lorna through the broken pattern the shadow of her fingers made on her face. She knew about the feud between the two families; she could not help but know. She had grown up hearing about the Calder raids, the thefts, the animosity that had plagued the Roses for so long. It seemed to her the hostility had intensified in the past two years. There had been more frequent raids with more than a few cattle and sheep taken, and men had lost their lives—both Calders and Roses. "Why didn't we stay here after my father died?" she asked at last.

  "Yer mother was lonely and missed her sisters, so she took ye home to Kilravok."

  The girl bent her head back so she could look into Lorna's face. "I think she was unhappy here. ‘Tis why she wanted to go away." A memory flickered at the back of her mind—something her cousin had told her once. "Hugh says the Calders didn't like my mother, that my Calder uncles didn't want her here." It was not a question and Lorna did not deny it.

  "But," Muriella continued before her friend could speak, "why have we come back now?"

  Lorna stared up at the leaves overhead. She was troubled and did not wish Muriella to see. "Yer grandfather Rose made a promise, and now he has no wish to keep it."

  "What did he promise? And why must he send me away?"

  "He believes ye will be safer here."

  At the slight hesitation in Lorna's voice, Muriella turned, leaning her hands on her friend’s knees. "But ye don't think 'tis safer? Can't ye tell me what they're trying to protect me from?"

  Lorna closed her eyes, placing her hands on top of Muriella's with a sigh. "I don't know what to think. But yer mother and I can't help believing ye'd be better off away from the Roses and Calders. They're greedy, ye see, and ye have so much that they desire. It keeps them always bickering and makes them unwise at times. Yet I could no’ bear to see ye taken from me." She pulled the girl to her breast and held her tightly. When she felt the tension in Lorna's body, Murie
lla remembered a conversation she had overheard once between her mother and her grandfather Calder. He came so rarely to Kilravok that she had been curious, and at Hugh's urging, the two children had knelt in the hallway to listen.

  "Will ye never leave us in peace, old man?" her mother had said. Muriella had been shocked at the tone of disrespect in Isabel's voice; old William Calder had once been Thane of Cawdor.

  "I'll leave ye in peace when I have what's mine returned to me.”

  “Tis yers no longer and well ye know it. ’Twas yer own choice to give yer title to yer son. Ye can’t berate us for that.”

  “I can and I do woman. Ye’re all a pack of fools and I shall regret till I die that I married John to one such as ye. No doubt ye drove him to his early grave merely to spite me.”

  Her mother's voice was bitter when she replied, "My husband is dead. We can't change that, nor can yer false accusations reclaim what ye've lost."

  "I will have Cawdor back! I’ll not stand by and watch a bairn—and what's worse, a daughter of Rose—take it from me. I'll have it no matter how I have to get it. Ye are the last who should stand before me and cry 'Fair play!' Ye—"

  Hugh had dragged Muriella away then and she had clung to him, asking him to explain what she could not understand. For a while he had refused, but then, at last, he had given in to her entreaties. He told her that many years ago old William Calder had stepped down as Thane of Cawdor in favor of his young and vigorous son John, despite the grumblings of his three younger sons. But then John had died of consumption, leaving only a daughter to inherit Cawdor, and that had destroyed William Calder's plans. He and his three living sons were left with next to nothing, while the entire Calder fortune had gone to Isabel's tiny daughter.

  "But what did he mean when he said he would get it back?" Muriella had demanded, perplexed.

  Hugh had shaken his head, but Muriella saw the flicker of unease that crossed his face; he had been afraid. She remembered, too, that her mother had wept that night, and refused to let her daughter out of her sight for many days thereafter. Now, as she lay with her head in her friend's lap, Muriella realized that Hugh's unease had grown until it engulfed every person at Kilravok—even Lorna.

  All at once, the woman rose and began to pace in agitation. "They're all very much afraid."

  Muriella stood to face her, eyes bright. "Are they afraid of losing Cawdor?"

  Lorna saw an awful intelligence in the green eyes that held her own. "They're afraid," she repeated, "but 'tis no' just for the land they fear."

  The girl's eyes froze. "Afraid for me?"

  Lorna moved away, pressing her hands against her mouth. Muriella sensed that she wished she had never voiced her apprehension. The girl began to speak but found she could not form the words. A low humming in her ears that made her head begin to spin choked them off. She gasped at the chill that spread through her body, making her hands shake uncontrollably. The sheltering pines blurred before her eyes, dissolving into the image of a huge, shimmering loch. The water was black and still, except where the moonlight reached across in a wide gleaming path, and the trees scattered along its shore were tipped with silver leaves. Beneath the placid surface of the moonstruck water, shadows moved darkly, threateningly; then the water stirred, scattering the silver light into glittering fragments that shone for a moment, then faded into the blackness.

  Muriella thought she might fall to her knees when the humming in her ears grew louder, then began at last to subside. As the trees gradually ceased their spinning, she fought for breath, clasping her chilled hands together in an attempt to still their trembling. She didn't know what the vision meant, but she knew how it made her feel. "I think they're right to fear," she whispered.

  Lorna caught Muriella by the shoulders, turned the girl's face up to her own, staring into her still, dark eyes. She knew what those blank eyes and the cold, clammy feel of her shaking hands meant; Muriella had had one of her visions. Once, when her face had clouded over this way, she had foretold Lorna's own mother's death.

  Lorna believed in Muriella's gift. There was more to her than just a wild girl with strange green eyes. The aunts called her a witch, but that was because they were afraid, and Lorna ignored them. They did not want to believe in the Sight, but there were many in the Highlands who did. She felt the girl slipping from her grasp and shook her firmly. "Muriella!"

  "Aye," she responded as her eyes began to clear.

  Lorna attempted to divert her by pulling her back down into the bracken. She did not know how to comfort Muriella because she was so uneasy herself. She began to talk randomly, chanting old legends, hoping to settle the girl's mind on the past.

  Muriella listened, leaning forward slightly, but the words fluttered past; she heard only the sounds, the inflections. They had no meaning for her and began to mingle with the pulse of the river beyond. She rose, wandering from the voice, the trouble of trying to make sense of the words. She moved out of Lorna's reach, toward the water, where she knelt on the bank.

  Lorna's voice had flickered out at last. Gazing at her distorted reflection in a small pool, Muriella thought she heard a new sound flowing through the water. She turned her head, closed her eyes and, wrapped within herself, she listened. Her eyebrows came together and her hair fell unheeded into the river as she tried to identify the source of the sound. It began to beat against her in heavy rhythm and the rhythm rose from the water. Finally her eyes flew open when she recognized the thud of horse hooves splashing through the river. They had begun far in the distance but now they were quite near. She fell into the musical pulse while the blood pounded in her ears.

  Something made her turn to look over her shoulder. A single rider sat several yards away from her, watching. He held a bloody sword in his hand and his eyes glittered, even in the long shadows beneath the leaves. As she stared at him, horrified, he grinned. It was then that she saw the guard lying half-concealed by the bushes, crumpled in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  “William!” she cried. “No!” She opened her mouth to scream louder, but no sound came. Fear lodged in her throat, choking off her voice as she stood helpless, her heart pounding erratically. Before she could force her frozen limbs to move, a dozen horses came at her from the heart of the river.

  The thundering of hooves through the water made her turn, her mouth still open in a silent scream. Suddenly the river was crowded with steaming animals and strange men. The sight freed her voice and she cried out in terror—a long, high wail of warning that echoed upward through the trees. She did not need her Sight to tell her there was danger here. The faces of the men who glowered down at her from the safety of their horses told her that. She shuddered at a chill that set her body trembling.

  In desperation, she whirled toward the copse where she had left Lorna. She saw her friend running, trying to get to her before the men and horses. Muriella reached out, but as she did so, she felt a sickening coldness in her chest and knew that Lorna could not help her.

  Chilled and unthinking, she tried to run, but the man with the bloody sword blocked her path while the other riders moved forward threateningly. Finally one clear thought penetrated the fog of fear in which she moved; she could not escape them.

  They were everywhere, surrounding her in a circle of gleaming swords. Struggling to breathe around the constriction in her throat, she turned at last to confront the strangers. Another scream welled up from the hollow in the pit of her belly, but her tongue was swollen, useless, and once again no sound escaped her.

  "'Tis a bonnie lass she is," said one man, who sat easily on his horse before the others. The leader of the pack of riders, Rob

  Campbell of Inverliver, peered down at the girl, the patchwork of crisscrossed lines on his face crinkling as he gave her a reassuring smile. Despite her fear, Muriella noticed his thick, speckled beard lent softness to his leathery skin. There was kindness in his eyes, but she recognized in the blunt strength of his mouth a determination beyond her own. When he motioned behind
him, a younger man rode forward.

  The new rider, John Campbell, leaned down, examining Muriella's face with care, surprised she seemed so young. As his uncle had said, the lass was bonnie, but his blue eyes betrayed nothing as they lingered on the lush auburn hair that fell in disarray half across her face and behind to her knees. Then he turned to Rob. "So," he said, "this is John Calder's heir?"

  Rob Campbell nodded. "'Twould be wise—"

  He was interrupted by a quick movement from Lorna that drew one man out of his saddle. He did not touch her, but stood watching, arms crossed. Lorna paused.

  The coldness in Muriella's chest expanded to her shaking limbs. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she stepped back instinctively into the river. Lorna saw the girl retreat, saw her shiver up and down as the water slapped her legs beneath her sodden skirt. Breaking through the ring of horses, Lorna flung herself toward Muriella and felt the girl clinging wildly to her neck.

  Lorna glanced once toward the castle, but she knew these men had been too wise. They had chosen the only path by which they could approach the tower without being seen by the guards: the river. The trees lining both banks effectively hid them from sight.

  Both John and Rob dismounted, pausing beside their horses in water that came to their knees. Lorna took the girl's hands from around her neck, cupping them in her own. "Muriella," she whispered, "this is what they feared. Ye'll be taken from here. Perhaps ‘tis even best, though ye may not believe it now." She stopped, glancing up at the waiting men. "It may be many years before we see ye again, and things change so quickly." Her words came faster and faster, as if she sensed that the men's patience would wear thin soon. "The time will come when ye return to claim yer heritage. When ye do, we must be certain 'tis ye who comes and no imposter. Take care." Her voice broke, but she steadied it resolutely and raised the girl's left hand to her lips.

  Muriella's eyes were luminous; they mesmerized Lorna with their steadfast gaze.

  "I must mark ye so we can always be sure." With a silent plea for understanding in her eyes, Lorna took Muriella's finger in her mouth and bit it off at the knuckle.