For some time, John crouched, listening, until he heard the splattering of pebbles overhead, which indicated the direction Calder had taken. Readjusting his bow so it would not swing out and betray him, he placed his sword on the rocks at his feet. It was too bulky and he did not intend to use it anyway: he had other plans for Calder. He could hear by an occasional scraping noise that the outlaw had not rid himself of his own weapon.
John began his climb slowly and patiently. For once, he knew he had the advantage, and he did not mean to lose it by acting in haste. As he moved along behind Calder, the sun began to set. Already the shadows were long and the light dusky. So much the better, he thought.
For a long time the outlaw stayed well ahead of him, but John was unconcerned. He could see where the man was heading. In his ignorance, Calder would back himself into a corner; then he'd be right where John wanted him. It was quite dark by the time the outlaw pulled himself over a final ridge and dropped down under an outcropping of rock that sheltered him from the back.
Above him, John smiled as he watched Calder gazing around, his inspection only gradually assuring him of what he had done. At his back, the face of the rock jutted out, curving over his head to form a solid wall. The wall was joined on two sides by slabs that stood so close there was no room for a man to squeeze through. Before him stood a huge, flat rock that both protected him from the front and blocked his escape. The only way out was the way he had come, and he was sure John Campbell was waiting there.
Crouching in the darkness, John waited for over an hour, until the moon should rise above the trees, giving him the light he needed to finish off Calder. For the time being, the outlaw huddled behind the flat rock so John could not see him. Minute by minute, the moon filled the rocks with bleak shadows, but still Calder did not move. When he did, however, John would be ready. Taking his bow from his shoulder, he drew an arrow from the quiver and stretched the bowstring taut.
Calder, having heard no sound, no breath of life, for over an hour, decided he could wait no longer. He had to see what was happening out there. Moving as quietly as possible, he pulled himself up so he could peer over the rock face and try to discern, in the added light of the moon, what his enemy's position might be.
As the outlaw's forehead appeared above the boulder, John drew back the arrow until the bowstring reached its full length. Then, screaming the Campbell war cry, "Cruachan!" he let the arrow fly.
~ * ~
Muriella sat up in bed as the familiar coldness swept through her body. She had been dreaming of Hugh again, running from him in the woods and laughing, when the trembling awakened her. She clutched frantically at the warm, tangled furs in an effort to assure herself of the firm reality of the bed, but the spinning had already begun in her head and she could not stop it. She felt the shadows closing around her and shivered violently. The air was still and heavy until a triumphant voice pierced the silence. "Cruachan!" An arrow sped through the night, then blood spouted up and out, spilling over the face of a huge, flat rock.
The smell of blood was everywhere; Muriella was choking on it. The world tilted and swayed around her before the spinning ceased at last. But the coldness lingered. It simply would not go. Covering her mouth with her hands, she bit her palm to keep from crying out.
Across the room, Megan sat up sleepily and called, "What is it, miss?"
Muriella had to struggle to force her vision into words. When she finally answered, her voice was hollow. "Andrew Calder is dead."
Chapter 17
Megan woke Muriella before the sun had risen. "Come, we must begin early or we won't be ready in time. Och! Miss, there's so much to be done!"
Her mistress sat up, making an effort to calm her breath. For an instant, when her feet touched the floor, she thought her legs would not support her.
"So it's come," she whispered in a voice so strained it did not sound like her own.
"Aye, miss," Megan said. "Come, we must bathe ye while the water is warm. Miss Elizabeth brought ye some of her special scent. She makes it herself." She knelt at the edge of the rough wooden tub and sniffed. "'Tis heavenly."
Muriella stood beside the tub, watching the steam rise in clouds that drifted through the cold morning air. Her nightrail lay in a heap at her feet, and the light from the torches danced over her naked body, painting it with an orange glow.
Megan contemplated her mistress in surprise. She had changed in the past few months; her breasts were fuller, her waist more slender. She looked, just now, more like a woman than a girl. And tonight that transformation would be complete. In order to hide the concern in her eyes, Megan bent her head, concentrating on the task of running the sponge over Muriella's shoulders.
~ * ~
Washed, dried, scented, and creamed, Muriella stood before Megan, Mary and Elizabeth. The three women surveyed with alarm the bruises that discolored the bride's face.
"Is there no’ anythin' we can do?" Megan asked, biting her fingernail in distress.
Elizabeth came forward. "Aye, there's a way." She looked at Muriella's face, and her eyes darkened with shame at her husband's cruelty to such a young girl. "I went to the Gypsies and they gave me a cream to cover the bruises and a powder to smooth over the cream. The old woman swore they would hide the marks."
"I've never heard of such a thing," Megan whispered, gazing in wonder at the heavy white cream in Elizabeth's palm. Tentatively, she touched it, circling her fingertip through the thick, cool mixture that clung to her hand when she drew it away. "Do ye really think 'twill work?" she asked.
"The Gypsies can do a great many strange and wonderful things," Mary said. "They have the magic touch."
"I only hope it hasn't left them today when we need it most." Turning to Elizabeth, Megan added, "Can ye do her face while I work on her hair?"
Elizabeth nodded and Muriella was guided to a low wooden stool where she sat quietly. She avoided meeting Elizabeth's gaze just as Elizabeth avoided hers. The older woman spread the cream with slow, gentle motions, and Muriella found it soothing, despite her inner turmoil. Behind her, Megan tugged a comb through her hair and began to separate the strands into sections. Mary helped, giggling when they dropped a braid or hopelessly tangled the interlaced strands. Soon, even Megan was laughing as they looped and wove and arranged Muriella's thick auburn hair.
At last both Megan and Elizabeth declared their work done. "Och, Miss Elizabeth," Megan cried, "ye've done it right enough! Ye can barely see the bruises. In the dark chapel, ye’ll no’ be able to see 'em at all."
Now the dressing began. First, Megan shook out the kirtle of pale cream satin. When the simple shift with long fitted sleeves was in place, Elizabeth knelt at Muriella's feet, straightening the hem. The girl looked down when she felt Elizabeth's hand tremble. Her face looked furrowed with care in the light of the torches, and behind the tears, Muriella sensed a desolation that outweighed her own bewildered distress. She looked away.
Finally, Megan lifted the green velvet from the bed. Standing on a chair, she lowered the gown over her mistress's head with great care. It slid easily over the satin.
The velvet was warm, and Muriella realized she had been cold for some time, although Megan's face was flushed from the heat of the fire. Muriella curled her fingers within the wide sleeves, trying to speak some feeling in the numb shell of her body, but it was useless.
At last Mary placed a wreath of wild roses on the girl's head and the two servants stepped back to admire their handiwork. The flowers rested among the many tiny braids surrounding Muriella's face, while the rest of her hair fell down her back to her knees. The deep green of the low-cut velvet gown tied with sea-green ribbons made Muriella's eyes seem huge, though the usual fire that kept them bright burned low. The broad green sleeves were folded back to reveal the tight satin sleeves of the kirtle; below her elbow, the sleeves fell almost to her hips. The skirt was so voluminous the green satin slippers were not even visible.
As the three women stood staring, ther
e was a knock on the door. Mary pulled it open a crack to peer out. "What is it?"
"I wish to see Elizabeth, if ye please." It was Duncan's voice.
Elizabeth went out into the hall, and when she returned, she held a carved wooden box. Standing in front of Muriella with it in her hands, Elizabeth felt she should kneel to the strength that kept the girl's eyes still and her small hands steady. "Yer bride gift from the groom," she said.
Muriella stared at the box in silence. The top was intricately carved with gryphons, dragons and winged horses cavorting on their dark rosewood background. Muriella felt herself begin to sway again. She had, of course, sent the embroidered linen shirt to John quite early that morning. She had known he would send her a gift as well, but was reluctant to see what it was.
Elizabeth waited patiently, holding the box while Muriella hesitated. She touched it first with her left hand, tracing the intricate design with her fingertips. Her half-finger looked pale against the dark wood; with sudden resolution she lifted the lid and took out what lay inside. Again she paused, struggling for breath, as she gaped at the object in her palm. It was a pendant on a thick gold chain: a carved golden flame with a ruby at its heart. As the torchlight moved above her, the flame seemed to leap in her hand.
So, she thought, Alex had told him. The Gypsy had seen her look at the pendant and had told John she desired it. She began to breathe again, irregularly. She could not understand the ache that began deep in her chest and spread throughout her body. Or the tears that gathered in her eyes.
Peering into her mistress' cupped palm, Megan took the pendant to fasten it about Muriella's neck. It fell against the kirtle, glimmering. The flame never seemed to lie still, but danced and flickered constantly. "Miss." Megan's voice was low with admiration. "I’ve no’ ever seen anyone so lovely."
~ * ~
The chapel at Kilchurn was barely large enough to hold all the guests. As Muriella stood in the courtyard, clinging to the Earl's arm, she could smell the scent of candles and sandalwood brushed out the door in the wake of the skirts that swept inside. She wanted to kneel and pray—in silence and alone. She felt separate from the rest of the world, yet she was aware of the flame on her chest as if it were a real one.
Argyll was resplendent in a blue velvet doublet and jacket, and he wore a fine linen shirt over his trews instead of the usual saffron garment. This was a celebration indeed, and he intended to make the most of it. His pleasure was only slightly dimmed by the knowledge that Maclean had not suffered a disgrace after all, but at least Andrew Calder was dead. His act of sacrilege among the Standing Stones had increased the hatred against him, and therefore the people's approval of the Campbells. The Earl would have to be content with that for the moment.
Although he was aware of Muriella's silent misery, the Earl chose to ignore it. He loved her dearly, but she was young and obstinate. She would learn in time to accept her marriage and all it meant. He would see to it. As he squeezed her hand, her cold fingers closed more tightly around his.
He heard the signal he had been waiting for and started toward the open chapel doors. The ceremony had begun. Argyll and Muriella walked down the narrow aisle to the strumming of harps from the gallery above, but the girl did not hear the music. She could see John waiting with Colin at his side. The silver decoration on the wooden altar gleamed behind him, making a glittering backdrop for his thick, dark hair. The light softened his roughly carved features; even his heavy beard seemed less wild. For the first time, he actually looked handsome to her. As she came up beside him, she saw that beneath his dress plaid and velvet doublet he wore the shirt she had made for him.
Bride and groom turned to the altar in silence, without meeting each other's eyes. Each gazed fixedly at the priest as he raised his hands and began to intone the traditional Latin phrases. They listened with heads bent, repeated the words he told them to speak, knelt and rose at the right moments, leaned down to kiss the cross of his ruby-and-pearl rosary. But the words were strangely empty, the gestures stiff and unnatural.
When at last John took her hand, Muriella was shocked at how cold his fingers were: as cold and rigid as her own. The knowledge made her look up to meet his gaze for the first time.
She had expected to find him grinning in triumph because he had finally won Cawdor for his own, but his lips were no more than a thin line, and his eyes were dark and empty. She realized then he'd meant it when he said he wanted this marriage no more than she did. For an instant, the bleakness of his expression touched her and she felt a flash of something she had never thought to feel again: pity.
Then the priest spoke, raising his voice as he lifted his hands in benediction. "Go from me in peace as man and wife, never by others to be parted again."
It was over. With her husband's arm linked through hers, Muriella left the altar. Her skin was pale, almost transparent, and the bruises had begun to show again, dark and ugly from temple to chin. She held her lips in a forced smile. But it was her eyes that shocked the guests to stillness; they glowed with a despair so plain, those who saw it felt the need to look away. John saw it too, and he too turned away.
Suddenly the Earl was upon them, kissing his son on both cheeks and clasping his daughter-in-law in his arms. He alone, of all who stood in the chapel, had not seen the look in the girl's eyes. He alone appeared to be unconcernedly happy. Grinning, he escorted the couple to the Great Hall and up to the dais. For the occasion, the table had been covered by a linen cloth and set with the finest silver and pewter.
"A toast!" Argyll called, lifting his tooled silver goblet from among the wreaths of white winter blossoms that decked the table. "To this day and all the blessings it has brought us. To the bride and groom!"
Obediently, Muriella touched the rim of her goblet to John's. For a moment, their gazes met and held. He swallowed once, then forced a smile; she answered with one of her own, but the chill in their fingers as they brushed told their own story. When the Earl drew his son and daughter-in-law closer, Muriella bent her head to take a sip of her mulled wine.
She knew when the servants approached with the first platters of meat; the heavy smell of spice-laden beef and mutton rose in the air and clung around her shoulders. At Argyll's enthusiastic gesture toward the heaping platters, John chose the first morsel of beef, then leaned toward Muriella. She chose another, larger piece and held it up to her husband's parted lips. They ate together, accompanied by roars of approval from the crowd, but they were hardly aware of the sound. It was as if they stood alone: two strangers who shared a meal, but nothing more.
"Come!" the Earl said. "Sit! Enjoy!"
With a sigh of relief, John did as his father bid him. As the endless meal progressed, he spoke to his new wife now and again to ask if she cared for salmon or sweetmeats or bread, and she saw that he had enough ale and meat to satisfy him. But as congratulations flowed into tankard after tankard of choice ale and course after course of rich food, John's senses began to dull and he did not turn to Muriella again. Instinctively he did not touch her, not even to place his hand on her arm, not even when he was so drunk he could not stand. He would never be drunk enough to forget the way she had shuddered when he put his arm around her waist to lead her to the seat of honor. He would never be drunk enough to forget the look in her eyes.
Chapter 18
The banquet had gone on for too long. The musicians, gathered from all over Scotland, had played too many lilting ballads on their Highland harps. Too many tankards had been refilled again and again with the thick ale, too many platters of beef and lamb and poultry had circulated through the room. The men, drunk as they always were at weddings, had begun to pull the women out to the center of the floor to dance, kicking the rushes aside as they moved. Both men and women had forgotten the bride's face in the midst of their drunkenness and flushed laughter. They clasped hands and circled the floor, their brightly colored plaids flowing behind them, their satin and velvet and brocade gowns swirling about their ankles.
&nbs
p; The Earl was pleased. He could see his guests were impressed by the splendor of the occasion, perhaps even a little intimidated. That was as it should be. He had given them a taste of the wealth and power at his command; he knew the memory of this day would linger, serving as a reminder that the Campbells were worthy friends—and dangerous enemies. He speared a piece of lamb with his dagger and watched the juice run down the blade. Things were going very well.
When Muriella saw Argyll's satisfied smile, she looked away. She thought he had forgotten her, as the others seemed to have done. She realized then that although this was a wedding feast, no one was really celebrating her marriage. They were celebrating the Campbell victory over their enemies, the acquisition of one more piece of valuable land and one more stack of golden coins. She might as well have been an ornament on the wall for all the attention they paid her. Only Elizabeth seemed aware of her new sister-in-law's distress.
Muriella could not help wondering if her marriage to Hugh would not have been different, if, on that occasion, someone—her mother or Lorna or Hugh himself—might not have smiled at her and meant it.
She raised her head when a drunken man stumbled up to the far end of the dais, where John was speaking to a friend.
"Johnnie, m'laddie," the man called, "tonight's the night and no mistake. No more serving wenches in the stable yard for ye."
He lurched forward, grinning, and cupped his hands in the unmistakable shape of a woman's body. "Looks to be a ripe one, doesn't she?" the man whispered loudly enough for all to hear.
Muriella's gaze was caught by the sight of John's hand clenched around the handle of his tankard. His fingers were clutching the pewter so tightly the knuckles appeared unnaturally white, the rest of the skin unnaturally red.
His wife could not look away. The skin of his palms would be rough from the swords he had wielded, the leather belts he had beaten to softness, the arrows he had let fly.
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