Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  "Aye, m'lord. We'll be gone before ye look behind ye." Dragging his brother by the arm, Richard moved away. "What did I tell ye?" he called. "Didn't I say there'd be trouble?"

  "So ye did," Andrew grumbled sleepily. "But ye need no' shout in m'ear. I can hear ye well enough, man. See to yer men instead o' yer gloatin'."

  John watched them go, and then turned to consider Muriella where she sat unmoving on his horse's back. He noticed a groom hovered at the animal's head, grasping the reins uncertainly.

  Even Duncan seemed to be waiting. He felt a sudden impulse to simply turn and leave her, but his common sense won out over his weary frustration. He reached for the girl to lift her from the saddle and set her on the ground, where she swayed for a moment, then drew herself upright.

  Muriella looked at him, her eyes glassy green, but behind the surface he saw a violent spark of fear—or was it fury? At the moment, he was too weary to care which. Besides, his mind was back in that glen with his uncle and the other men. "Duncan," he called, motioning the squire forward. "See to the girl while I collect my wits." He started away, then added as an afterthought, "Don't let her out of yer sight, ye ken?"

  "Aye." As his cousin turned to go, Duncan touched his arm. "Colin's here. He rode in this morning. Told us to wake him as soon as ye returned."

  John shook his head at the thought of facing his older brother now. At the best of times, Colin and he were no more than uneasy allies, and tonight John was not in the mood to swallow his brother's bitter humor. He moved toward the hall with reluctance, but the thought of meat and ale was too great a temptation to ignore.

  Duncan watched his cousin go with concern. ‘Twill no’ be a pleasant night, he thought, remembering Colin's annoyance at having missed the chance to join the ride to Cawdor. "The hunt," he had called it. Not until John disappeared into the hall did the squire turn to Muriella.

  Her shoulders were drooping and she seemed small and frail in the unflattering light of the torches. His eyes narrowed against the yellow glare, Duncan lifted her chin with his forefinger so he could see her more clearly. Her skin was pale and there were shadows under her eyes and along her cheeks. Her lids were lowered, but as he stared down at her, she glanced up. He saw weariness and a kind of hopeless resignation in her gaze that tore at his heart.

  Duncan took a deep breath, released it slowly. For a moment he was silent, held by her gaze, then she looked away.

  "So ye're the Calder girl," he mumbled, turning her in the direction John had taken. "Aye."

  "They didn't say ye were so bonnie."

  Muriella was grateful he could not see the grief that welled within her at those words. Hugh had said the same thing every time she braided her hair and put on a fresh gown—as if he were seeing her for the first time. Just now the memory was painfully vivid.

  Her silence made Duncan uneasy. "I suppose yer uncles will be coming to Kilchurn soon to try to take ye back."

  She whirled. "They won't. They're too afraid of the Campbells. Mayhap not a few in the woods, but they won't dare to come here." As she said it, she realized it was true and her despair deepened. Without another word, she turned to step through the blackened hole of the doorway and into the vast hall.

  A fire burned in the fireplace along the far wall, and several torches guttered in their sconces against the rough-hewn stone, but the light was too dim to destroy the shadows that played about the vaulted, cavelike room. Most of the men were already seated around the rows of trestle tables strung across the uneven stone floor.

  Muriella's gaze swept over the Campbells. The heavily armed military force had melted into weak and haggard puppets with their heads cradled against the tables on which they rested; their exhaustion had finally overtaken them. Even John.

  He was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, his face white except where the shadows had settled around his eyes and between his nose and mouth; even his heavy beard could not disguise his pallor. His dark hair was in disarray where he had pushed it back from his forehead, and his eyes were cloudy gray. He sat glowering at the pitted tabletop in silence.

  As Muriella paused in the doorway, apparently unnoticed, young women began to appear from the kitchens with thick slabs of bread, cold meat and ale. Nudged out of their lethargy, the men ignored their aching muscles and concentrated instead on filling their stomachs. No one glanced at Muriella or spoke to her or asked her to sit down. For the first time, her weariness retreated behind a wave of anger. It was followed by the same intense loneliness that had overwhelmed her earlier. The Campbells had taken her but did not want to care for her. They made no offer of food or shelter or even a tankard of mulled wine.

  A commotion at the top of the stairs drew Muriella's attention away from her own numb misery. A tall man stood laughing, a servant girl fluttering about him. He was fastening his robe, and his blue eyes glimmered when they rested on the girl at his side. Slapping her on the behind, he called, "Get me some ale, lass. 'Tis time to celebrate!"

  The girl scurried down the stairs and off to the kitchen while the man followed more slowly. Considering the occupants of the hall with interest, he located John, who stood up. "Ho! Johnnie! Ye've got the lass then?" Running his hand through his sandy hair, he strode forward. "Well, bring her!" he demanded. "Let's have a look."

  John squinted across the room at Duncan and the girl.

  When his cousin nodded, Duncan took Muriella's arm gingerly, as if he were afraid of hurting her. She wanted to stand on her own, but wasn't certain she could move without his support. Her attention focused on Colin's flushed face, she managed to cross the hall without stumbling. When she stood before the brothers, Duncan released her. Muriella thought she would fall, but Colin caught both her hands in one of his while accepting a tankard of ale with the other. She winced at the pain as his fingers closed around her makeshift bandage.

  "So," he muttered, lifting the tankard to his lips. Above the rim, he looked the girl up and down. He grimaced at the sight of her pallid face, untidy hair, and bloody, rumpled gown. "Ye're a bit of a mess, gurrl. Johnnie, didn't ye take care of her?" He swung the tankard up again, tilting it so the ale streamed into his mouth, then released Muriella without another glance.

  Her stomach churned with fury at his careless treatment, at the way John looked away as if she were merely a shadow in the background. Or was the rage only nausea from the throbbing pain? Either way she swore she would maintain her dignity; she would not let them know they had upset her. She pressed her lips together and made no sound as Colin turned to his brother to ask, "Where are Uncle Rob and the others?"

  John sank back onto his bench. "There was trouble," he muttered. "Uncle Rob sent us away, the girl and me. He stayed to keep the Calders back. Or mayhap 'twas the Roses. I don't know which. I can't even tell ye how many there were. I've sent Richard and Andrew to gather some men and go back, though 'tis probably too late." He scrutinized with great concentration the half-empty tankard on the table before him.

  "'Twould have been wiser to stay and fight the bastards," a man near John mumbled. "Och, but then, 'twas safer to slip away in the night, wasn't it? Or mayhap ye were just afraid—"

  Before anyone could stop him, John rose abruptly and, dragging the man up by the collar, struck him across the jaw with a clenched fist.

  "Leave him be," Colin shouted as he pulled his brother away from the stunned man. "We don't need any more trouble tonight."

  John faced his brother furiously. "No man calls me a coward!"

  "How about a fool?" Colin suggested. "The Calders are a cheatin' bunch of bastards and likely to be swarming over the hills to Kilchurn any minute now. We need every man we can get to hold them off, little brother, yet ye knock one about as if he were of no use at all. Think before ye act, why don't ye?"

  John felt the rage flaring within him and struggled to regain control. Then he looked up to see Muriella watching him, her expression an accusation without words. He felt a flash of guilt for having left his uncle, an
d that only made his anger worse. He’d had no choice; it was for her sake he had agreed to go at all. So why did she stand there looking at him that way?

  At last Muriella dropped her gaze when she began to shake with spasms of freezing numbness and fatigue as well as the endless pulsing pain. She grasped the back of a chair, standing upright with difficulty, her face rigid with the effort to disguise her trembling.

  Duncan tapped his cousin on the shoulder. "The girl is cold," he said. "And I think—surely she's been wounded?"

  John took a deep, shuddering breath. He was so weary, so concerned about his uncle's fate, that he had actually forgotten Muriella's needs. She was shivering. It seemed he could do nothing right tonight, not even care for his future bride. He frowned, motioning over his shoulder to a servant. When the girl approached, he told her, "Megan, take her to Elizabeth's old room. Give her clothes—Elizabeth's will do till tomorrow—and a hot bath if ye can manage it. I don't want to see her again tonight. And Megan"—he paused—"don't hurt her, but watch her close. Ye understand?"

  "Aye, m'lord."

  In silence, Megan led Muriella along the rows of men, who kept their gazes fixed on their food. As the girls mounted the stairs, the servant called for hot water and a tub to be brought. Several others scattered to arrange it.

  Muriella followed the servant, but a thick fog had invaded her mind and she functioned only well enough to force herself upward, one worn stone step at a time.

  She was not aware of Megan stripping her soiled dress from her, nor of the fire that leapt up the blackened stone in an attempt to warm the cold room in which she stood. She was not aware that the servant kept tactfully silent about her blood- stained clothing and heavy bandage.

  Consciousness crept back as she sank into a wooden tub and the heat crawled up and down her body with sharply probing fingers. Pains began to run over her back and thighs, but she preferred the physical discomfort to her memories of the past several hours. Her finger throbbed. She cradled her mangled hand and would not let Megan touch it.

  The servant eyed Muriella in concern as she leaned back in the water. "Are ye all right, miss? Ye're very gray around the edges."

  Muriella closed her eyes briefly saw only blackness there, and opened them. "I'm all right."

  "Well, then, 'tis awful glad I am to hear that. For ye ken, I think Sir John means for me to stay with ye. And 'twould be much more pleasant than servin' in the kitchen." As she talked, she rinsed Muriella's shoulders and worked the worst of the soil out of her long, dripping hair. "'Tis a bitter night for a long ride, isn't it? Too cold for the wolves, let alone a poor lassie like ye. I don't know what they're thinkin', draggin' ye all over the Highlands without even a cloak. 'Tis disgraceful."

  Megan's chatter reawakened Muriella's sleeping senses until she became aware of the touch of the cooling water on her bare skin. She sat up, wondering if she could get out of the tub on her own. But she need not have worried. The servant knelt and lifted her from under the arms. Although Megan was only fourteen and her body was small, she was wiry and quite strong.

  Muriella felt she could not even lift her hand, but soon she was standing on a soft fur rug beside the tub. She did not move, but stared before her at the shadows that crept up the walls and fluttered in the corners, while Megan threw a linen towel about her body and began to rub vigorously.

  When she was dry, the servant handed her a robe. Muriella slipped her arms into the sleeves, surprised to find they were warm. The robe must have been hanging near the fire. She pulled it close around her, seeking to draw the warmth into her chilled body.

  "Ye'd best let me comb out the tangles tonight or we'll be havin' a devil of a time tomorrow," Megan declared. Before Muriella could protest, the servant pulled a low stool forward motioning her to take a seat.

  Muriella was hardly aware of Megan’s brisk ministrations. She was conscious only of a deep pain that started in her belly and spread through her body until it reached her throat. She thought of Rob Campbell, saw the glitter of a sword slashing through the darkness, and cried out as she buried her face in her hands.

  “Miss?” the servant murmured tremulously.

  Muriella shook her head, motioning for Megan to continue. The servant found it difficult to keep her fingers stead as she worked the comb through the tangles. She could not forget that single anguished cry. Yet she dared not ask what it meant. When at last she was finished, she moved away quickly. "There ye are, miss. The bed is all ready for ye. I thought ye might be weary."

  Muriella nodded, then rose, turning toward the bed that dominated the room. She pushed the heavy curtains aside and climbed up onto the mattress, moving awkwardly because she could not seem to make her muscles work as they should. At last she crawled under the furs and rough linen sheet and stretched her feet toward the warming pan.

  Before she closed her eyes, she looked up at Megan, who hovered beside her. Surprisingly, Muriella gave her a half smile. "Thank ye," she said.

  The servant blinked. "Och, ye're surely welcome, miss. Are ye really all right, then?"

  When Muriella nodded, Megan crept away to blow out the candles on the rosewood chest in the corner. Moving quietly, she went to a small pallet against the far wall. "Good night, miss."

  Muriella closed her eyes with a sigh. Eventually, the pain inside eased a little as the darkness washed over her in waves. At last she slept.

  ~ * ~

  In her dream she was a child again at Kilravok. Her long braids hung over her shoulders, and as she ran, she enjoyed the swinging weight of her hair against her back. She slipped into the woods with the cool breeze on her face, seeking out the shadows where she could conceal herself from Hugh. She heard him coming, heard the low, teasing note in his voice when he called her name. Smiling, she turned away from the overgrown path.

  "Ye know I'll find ye," he called. "I always do."

  Now he was so close she could hear his light footfalls and see his flaming red hair. Muriella held her breath. Pressing close to the trunk of a gnarled oak, she watched him duck beneath the trailing leaves, calling softly, "Muriella."

  All at once, he was gone, enfolded by the moving shadows. She could no longer hear the crunch of twigs beneath his feet. Muriella waited a moment more, then crept from behind the tree to follow the path Hugh had taken. But before she had gone far, she heard his shout of triumph as he came up behind her and grasped her shoulder. "Ye see," he cried, "ye can't escape me no matter where ye hide." He wound his hands in her hair, tugging so she turned to face him, tangling them both in her heavy braids. They held each other and swayed and laughed until the sound echoed upward through the cool, dark woods.

  ~ * ~

  Muriella awoke smiling and burrowed deeper into the feather mattress strewn with heavy furs. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar darkness, unwilling to relinquish the pleasant memory of the dream. For a long time, she lay still, listening, while her smile faded and the night silence took the place of remembered laughter. She looked around the room, but saw nothing beyond the wavering shadows the fire cast over her bed. After several moments she realized a commotion outside had awakened her. She sat up, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart beginning to pound. In an instant, Megan stood beside her, rubbing her eyes with her curled fingers.

  "What is it, miss?"

  Muriella waited for the servant's dark shape to come into focus, then asked in a trembling whisper, "Could ye go to the hall and see if aught is going on down there? I need to know. I think—could ye?"

  "Aye, miss, if ye'd like me to." The servant moved toward the nearest chest, struck a light, and held it to one of the pewter candlesticks. Then she picked up her robe and threw it around her shoulders. With her hand on the latch, she stopped to look at Muriella. Her mistress's eyes glimmered incandescent green in the half darkness, lighting her face with alarm and some terrible knowledge. Megan stood paralyzed.

  "Please," Muriella cried.

  Forced into motion by the sound of that angu
ished voice, Megan bent her knees briefly before she turned to go, the candle flame dancing wildly in her hand. She disappeared into the gloom of the hall.

  At the top of the stairs she stopped, peering over the balustrade into the Great Hall. It was empty now except for Sir John and Duncan and a bloody stranger, who stood with his back toward the girl. The fire had died down and most of the torches were out, so that the hall was unusually dark. A spluttering oil lamp sat before John, creating an island of wavering light in the midst of the chilly darkness.

  His eyes narrowed in concentration, John looked up at the other man, who stood just within the range of the pitiful light. "Well, David?" The pulse in his throat throbbed rhythmically.

  Megan shivered as she crept down the stairs. When she reached the foot, she sat behind the heavy carved balustrade, her fingers locked around the cool wood, rubbed smooth by the touch of many hands.

  Below her, David Campbell moved forward a few steps and turned. As he raised his arm, pain whipped his mouth into an ugly scowl. He tried to touch John's hand but could not quite reach it.

  "Well?" John demanded again.

  "Dead, m'lord," David muttered. "All dead." He sat down abruptly, as if he could no longer stand, while Duncan grasped John's shoulder firmly.

  "Jemmie said there were no more than ten, coming from the north, so we were aye certain we could hold them off. But the bastards came from the east and south as well, forty or more altogether. They must have gotten to Sim and Archie before they could warn us.

  "My father had to think quickly. He wanted to give ye time to get well away. So he had us turn the cooking pot upside down and form a ring around it." He smiled grimly. "To make them think the lass was inside, ye see, so they'd no' go chasin' after ye." His smile faded. "It worked. They surrounded us, and we protected that burned out pot as if the girl and all our fortunes too were underneath." He choked and struggled to go on. "When they got to the center, when every man in the ring lay dead, they turned the pot over with a shout of triumph, only to find it empty." In spite of the remembered horror of watching his father and brothers die, in spite of his own pain and weariness and despair, he could not keep a flicker of satisfaction from his voice. "The Calders were fair full of fury, but by then 'twas too late. Ye were far away."