Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  He paused, gasping for breath, his skin deathly pale. "I was only wounded, but I suppose they couldn't see that in the darkness. They left me for dead. After they'd gone, I found a horse they'd left behind and came here." His voice shook more with each word until the last came out as a groan.

  "Didn't ye see Richard and the others on the way to Kilchurn?"

  "I saw no one. But had I seen them, I might have killed two or three before I realized who they were. I'm a bit jumpy." David paused to shake his head. "I've never seen so much blood—my father's, my brothers', everyone's." Laying his head on the table, he clenched his teeth against the pain.

  Megan wrapped her arms around her trembling knees, rocking back and forth in her hiding place. She bit her lip in sympathy when she saw David's body twitch.

  Duncan left John's side to bend over the wounded man. He considered the bloody plaid before turning back the cloak to reveal an arm cut almost to the bone from shoulder to elbow.

  The squire glanced at his cousin. "M'lord? He's badly wounded in the arm, and probably the hip, judging from his limp. And he's lost a good deal of blood. We'd best care for him."

  John looked up. "Uncle Robbie is dead," he declared in a toneless voice. All at once, he sat up; his mouth fell open, then snapped closed. "She warned me not to go. The girl said, 'If ye leave him now, ye'll never see him alive again.' Do ye think she knew? She couldn't have known."

  Duncan did not respond, but drew David Campbell gently to his feet. "The man needs care," he grunted.

  John stared at the squire blankly for a moment, then shook himself out of his lethargy. "Aye, we must keep him alive, at least." He took David's feet and the three men moved slowly around the table and out of the tiny circle of light.

  "Shall we wake Colin?" Duncan asked as they shuffled across the floor with their burden.

  "No. Tomorrow will be soon enough. There's naught else can be done tonight."

  Megan watched as the shadows closed around them. She was not aware that her candle was leaning precariously until hot wax dripped onto her hand. She jumped at the sharp pain that forced her into motion. After waiting for the flame to stabilize, she turned to make her way up the stairs, shading the candle with one hand. To her, the long, echoing hall seemed very dark and threatening.

  When she stood before the door to Muriella's chamber, the servant paused for a moment, remembering with trepidation her mistress's watchful eyes. The girl said, "If ye leave him now, ye'll never see him alive again ." Do ye think she knew? Megan said a silent prayer, then pushed the door open.

  "Och, miss!" she cried. "'Tis terrible. They've all been killed, every man but David Campbell." Before Muriella could respond, Megan retold the story she had just heard.

  Muriella looked away as she listened. So she had been right. She had not wanted to believe it, even though she knew her visions never lied. Not Rob Campbell, she had prayed. And yet she had only met the man this morning. He was little more than a stranger to her. Why then did she feel so hollow at the thought of his death?

  Muriella had begged John not to leave his uncle to fight alone, had warned him what would happen if he did, but he had not listened. She remembered with bitterness that as they fled that ill-fated glen, the young man had not whispered a word of thanks to his uncle, nor had he looked back—not even once.

  Chapter 4

  Muriella awoke the next morning with a start. For a long while she lay still, but in time the early-morning chill touched her nose and cheeks, rousing her more fully. She opened her eyes reluctantly and gazed around at the unfamiliar room. The bed in which she lay was huge and bulky. Its oak posts rose toward the ceiling, disappearing under the brocade canopy, which Muriella decided must be green, although the light was too dusky to tell for certain. She eyed with curiosity the bed curtains hanging in dense greenish folds at the corners. At Kilravok, in the tiny chamber she had shared with Lorna, there had been no such luxuries. The plain wooden bedstead had barely raised the heather mattress from the floor, there had been only a single fur, and the linen had been much less fine. Yet she had felt more at ease there than she did in this strange chamber.

  She slid to the edge of the bed, pausing as she stared at the mottled gray stone walls. Nothing moved in the tiny fingers of light that filtered through the closed shutters, yet the empty walls, the oak chest in the corner, even the cold stone floor seemed to call to her out of the silence. Suddenly, the air was full of memories that crowded close, speaking in the voices of the past. She reached out to touch the wall. Through her fingers, she thought she could feel the laughter, the tears, and the pain of one who had abandoned this chamber long since.

  When she shook her head, the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. The room was once again four walls without life or spirit. Muriella pushed a bearskin aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She gasped when her feet touched the floor. The rushes were old and stale; they offered little protection from the cold stone beneath. She shivered as the chill engulfed her bare feet and legs.

  In the soft gray light that seemed to swirl around her shoulders, she made her way to the window and knelt before it. She tried to open the shutters, hoping a fresh breeze might dissipate the gloom, but the wood resisted her awkward, one-handed efforts. After several tugs, she finally succeeded and breathed in the heather-scented air with relief.

  With her hands pressed against the wide sill, she leaned out, trying to recognize shapes and colors in the mist. It seemed to her the air had never smelled like this at Kilravok, nor in the stuffy rooms at Cawdor. But the invigorating scent of morning, lovely as it might be, could not make her any less a prisoner. She wondered if any power on earth could alter the future the Campbells had arranged for her. The waters of the loch lapped on every side against the narrow overgrown strip of land surrounding the castle. The soft, rhythmic sound might as well have been a death knell to her sensitive ears.

  She felt a flash of hope when she remembered Hugh. Perhaps her betrothed would come for her and take her back to Kilravok. Hugh is in the past, Rob had told her. Muriella shook her head in denial, but when she tried to visualize her cousin's face, she found she could not do it. In that moment she thought her misery would choke her.

  Seeking escape from her thoughts, she peered at the tangled garden that rose out of the mist. The mountains were still cloaked in clinging white, but hollyhock and bracken and autumn roses shimmered as sunlight began to burn away the dew. The sky was reflected in waves of blue drifted with white in the still, still water of Loch Awe.

  The loch spread outward from the castle, curving away to far beyond her sight. It was scattered with lush green islands draped in mist that wound its way through the trees and lay in swathes on the water, like fairies’ breath.

  "Och, miss! Ye'll be certain to get the ague that way, ye will indeed," Megan spoke unexpectedly from behind her. "Come away and crawl back into bed while I build up the fire again. Ye must come away!" When her mistress did not move at once, Megan put her hands on her waist and tugged.

  Muriella whirled, twisting free of the servant's grasp. Her finger had begun to throb again and the pain swept over her in waves. She started to fall, but Megan caught her. The two girls swayed as the room revolved before Muriella's eyes. When her vision cleared she found herself staring at the servant's troubled face.

  "Miss? What is it? Can ye stand now?"

  Straightening slowly, Muriella raised her injured hand to find it was covered with blood. From far away she heard Megan gasp and realized she was being guided toward the bed.

  Climbing in among the soft, warm furs, she stared blankly at her hand until Megan touched her arm.

  "I'll have to change the bandage and try to stop the bleedin', but I'm no' certain I can do it. Sir John brought these last night, but I didn't want to wake ye." The servant dropped a pile of bandages, a dagger and a sack of herbs at Muriella's feet, then with a deep breath, reached for the injured hand. "I'm afraid I'll hurt ye," she murmured.

&n
bsp; "Ye will." Muriella's voice sounded overloud in the still room. "But ye must, so ye'd best get on with it."

  "Aye, well." Megan bit her lip nervously. "I forgot, Sir John left some wine. Mayhap 'twill help a little."

  While Megan poured the wine, Muriella took the dagger in her right hand and cut the old bandage away. She did not look down at the uncovered finger, but turned instead to accept the pewter goblet the servant offered. Muriella swallowed while Megan worked. Twice she thought she would faint or be ill as the spasms of pain flashed up her arm, but with an effort she kept the blackness at bay.

  At last Megan pulled the new bandage tight. While Muriella leaned back, the servant went to revive the fire. Megan dressed quickly when the flames began to creep up the blackened stones, but the heat did not stop her from shivering as she moved barefoot over the rushes. "Can I get ye some more food, miss? Or more wine?"

  "Aye, a little more wine."

  After Megan handed her the goblet, Muriella pulled one of the furs from the twisted pile around her and held it toward the servant. Megan gaped at her.

  "Ye look cold," Muriella explained. "The fire doesn't seem to warm the room well enough."

  Megan's eyes widened in surprise. She smiled shyly as she wrapped the heavy fur around her shoulders. "I never had a mistress do that before."

  Muriella frowned. "Do they mistreat ye here?"

  "Och, no! 'Tis just that in the kitchen ye don't have much chance to get cold, what with the big ovens and the runnin' back and forth. And even if ye did, no one would care. 'Tis different below, ye ken. The cooks aren't always in a pleasant frame of mind. They don't ever hurt me—at least, no' very often. But once they threw Davie out on his head. He had a great lump for near a week." Megan chattered until her curiosity overcame her. "They hurt ye yesterday, though, didn't they?"

  "I—who?"

  Megan lowered her voice as if afraid someone might overhear. "Why, the Campbells, miss. Yer finger. What did they do?"

  Her mistress looked away. "'Twas no' the Campbells. 'Twas my friend, my nurse from when I was a bairn. She—" Muriella choked on the words but forced herself to go on. "She bit off my finger."

  Megan gaped at her, eyes wide with horror. "But why?"

  Frowning, Muriella tried to remember through the painful haze that cloaked her thoughts. "She said she had to mark me."

  Speaking with difficulty, she added, "So the Campbells couldn't bring an imposter to claim Cawdor."

  Megan bit her lip until it ached, then murmured, "But miss, just think how much she must have loved ye to do such a thing.

  It couldn't have been easy for her."

  Muriella blinked in surprise. She had never thought of that. With a sigh, she bowed her head. She could not think of it now either; thinking hurt too much.

  Unnerved by the sadness in her mistress's face, Megan turned away. "Well," she said briskly, "we must find ye something to wear. We'll have to get rid of the things ye came in. I'll give the wool to the seamstress to cut up for the servants and we'll burn the others. Do ye mind?"

  "No," Muriella whispered. She watched, nodding in approval as Megan scooped up the tattered clothes and dropped them into the fire. She wished she could as easily destroy everything that reminded her of yesterday. As the flames leapt up the stones, she found herself enthralled by the moving light that reached out for the bed, licked about its heavy legs, then crept away. Muriella felt caught up in the play of light and shadow.

  "There!" When the flames had consumed the last fragment of cloth, Megan wiped her hands and turned to the chest against the far wall. Lifting the lid, she called over her shoulder, "Mayhap we can find something in here. I know Miss Elizabeth kept her things, even from when she was a bairn. Mary told me she wouldn't throw anythin' away if once she'd loved it. Now, let me see." Megan explored the inside of the chest, talking softly to herself as she pulled the clothing this way and that.

  "Who is Elizabeth?" Muriella asked, remembering the overwhelming sense of another presence she had felt earlier. "This was her room, wasn't it?"

  "Aye, it belonged to her before they married her to Lachlan

  Maclean. She's Sir John's elder sister. They were always close when they were bairns. At least, that's what Mary says. She says

  Sir John used to play the lute and sing while Miss Elizabeth worked her tapestry. But of course, 'twas a long time ago. They don't speak so much anymore, even when she comes to stay."

  Megan's head disappeared into the chest again and she added another gown to the pile on the floor beside her. "Ah," she said at last, "here." She held up a light blue gown with a square neck and long, full sleeves. "It must have belonged to Miss Elizabeth a long time ago, 'tis so small. But it just might fit ye, miss. I don't want ye bein' tied up in one of those heavy things." She pointed to the gray and black gowns at her feet. "Too dark, with no life in them. But there! Ye don't need to listen to me. Mary never does, nor does Jenny. That's because Jenny is always listenin' for Colin, ye see. But I listen to them, ye can bet. I've learned a great many things that way."

  While Megan talked, Muriella discarded the gown she had slept in, then stood still while the servant slipped the blue gown over her head.

  Megan fumbled for several moments before she managed to tie the laces. Then she stepped back and smiled." Ye look much better than ye did last night. Blue suits ye, that it does, though with those eyes, green should be yer color, don't ye think?"

  Muriella was looking out the window, unaware of Megan's question. "Could ye take me to the garden? 'Tis so cold and dark in here."

  Megan considered her mistress in silence. When Sir John had brought the bandages last night, Colin had been close behind him. The older brother had warned Megan that the girl might try to escape. "And if she does, I don't have to be saying what will happen to ye, gurrl," he had threatened.

  But Muriella's expression was so wistful as she looked at the garden. Surely there was no slyness in her eyes. Besides, the servant had always found a perverse delight in upsetting Colin.

  It was not difficult to make him angry enough that the lump for which he was so well known would rise between his brows. "We couldn't go by the front gate, that's sure," she mused. "The guards won't open for us, and they'd probably call Sir John." "Is there no other way out?"

  "Well..." Megan paused, "there’s another passageway. But ye mustn't let on I told ye."

  Muriella recognized the servant's hesitation. "Ye needn't fear I'll run, for no doubt I couldn't get far before they caught me. Besides, I don't think I’d be safe at Cawdor now." The sound of those words on her own lips—and the jolt that went through her when she realized they were true—made her shudder. In sudden determination, she started for the door.

  Megan stopped her with a gentle tug at her elbow. "Do ye think I might go down to the kitchen first to get some bread and cream? Aren't ye hungry?"

  Muriella was not, but she realized she had not eaten much last night. And she had been too restless to eat at Cawdor. She would make herself ill if she wasn't careful, and she sensed she would need all her strength in the days to come. "Aye," she agreed, "and see if ye can find some meat as well."

  Megan smiled with relief. "That I will. Don't worry yerself, I'll be back soon."

  Once beyond the door, Megan was swallowed by the gloomy shadows, and her mistress felt intensely alone in the silence left behind.

  Several minutes later, with bread and meat in hand, Megan led her mistress to a door a few yards beyond the one to Muriella's chamber. "This is the way. Are ye sure ye want to go down? 'Tis dark and cold in this passage."

  "I want to."

  Nodding, the servant put the rest of her breakfast into one of her huge pockets and, grasping the heavy iron handle on the door, pulled with all her strength. As the door swung open, Muriella stepped back in surprise; it made no noise, and the hinges at Cawdor always squealed.

  Megan glanced over her shoulder, then, taking her mistress's hand, drew her into the passage. Muriella had not t
hought anything could be darker than the hallway, but the light had never touched the walls that towered damp and forbidding on either side. Here the smell of stale, chilled air the was intense, and the gray stone was beaded with moisture. There was no noise besides the slapping of their feet against the packed dirt floor to disturb the silence.

  The girls twisted around several corners, clutching the damp stone to keep from sliding as the path cut sharply downward, before they came to another door. This one had three bars across it and a rusted bolt at its edge. Megan began to push and shove, panting as she heaved each bar back. She struggled with the bolt for a moment, then at last pushed the door open.

  Muriella moved past her to stand in the sunlight, which banished the chill that lingered inside the castle walls. She gazed about her in wonder at the bracken and heather that twisted among the swaying pines and birches. Here and there sprays of white or red broke through the confusion of green and brown and silver, making their own disorderly pattern on the sloping landscape. Muriella thought it wonderful. Even the tall, brooding mountains seemed less threatening in the sunlight. The jagged sides were slashed with rushing streams that glittered silver against the unrelieved blackness. It was beautiful in a powerful and dramatic way. With a sigh, she clasped her hands before her, wincing at the unexpected pain. "'Tis lovely."

  The servant considered for a moment, brow furrowed. "'Tis a bit overgrown and wild, don't ye think? I'm always afraid I'll get lost in the roses and cut myself on the thorns." She paused. "But it helps hide the path to the castle from our enemies so I suppose 'tis best. Still, I'm no' at ease."

  Muriella smiled. "Ye need only take yer time and learn to know the plants. Then they can't hurt ye." Her eyes darkened as she knelt to touch a cluster of yellow roses.