Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Those hands, clutching the pewter in a fierce grip, would later touch her in the same way, possessively, hungrily, just as Maclean had touched her once. The veins on John's hands seemed to throb beneath the sun-toughened skin. All at once she knew she was going to be ill.

  Muriella glanced at the Earl, but he was nodding in his chair, his head resting on his hand. As she rose abruptly, Elizabeth looked up at her, taking her hand for a moment. The older woman smiled in understanding of her sister-in-law's need to escape. Squeezing Elizabeth's hand in gratitude, Muriella turned and slipped around the end of the high table and out of the hall.

  The fresh, cold air outside struck her brutally after the cloying heat in the hall, but the chill made the sickness retreat. Muriella closed her eyes as the pounding of her heart slowed to normal and the blood began to move through her veins once again. She kept to the shadows, in case anyone should follow, but by the time she crept beneath the gate, she realized only Elizabeth had seen her go.

  She moved away from the towering walls of the keep, taking huge gulps of the crisp air. Then she caught a glimpse of the light from the Gypsy bonfires over the hill and heard their gay music. She could not resist. Without looking back, she found her way through the darkness toward the Gypsy camp.

  When she reached the ridge, she stopped, taking in the glorious scene before her. The circle of tents was outlined sharply by the glow from the two bonfires that burned at either end. Where the tents did not block the light, figures danced with abandon around the leaping flames. The women's skirts swung out almost straight from their bodies as they spun and dipped in the quivering firelight.

  Near the dancers were the musicians: the flutist, the lutist, one man blowing on the pipes. Several men with deep bass voices sang enthusiastically, but the words were indistinguishable. Those Gypsies who stood between the girl and the fire were no more than silhouettes against the brilliant flames, but now and then she would catch a glimpse of a ruddy face lit by the orange glow, or a cascade of dark hair against pale, gleaming skin.

  Muriella was entranced. The Gypsies, she thought, did not need wine and ale to help them find their pleasure. Back in the Great Hall, the couples staggered in broken circles, oblivious to their surroundings. But the Gypsies circled their bonfires in fluid motion, dipping and revolving with infinite grace. Neither were they aware of their surroundings, but that was because they were caught up in their private frenzy, sheltered by their strange magic. To them, the world was no more than the fire, the music, and their own bodies, awake to every flicker of flame and song.

  Muriella scrambled down the hill, her sleeves billowing behind her. As she ran toward the center of the camp, the Gypsy men turned to stare as if she were an apparition. The firelight moved across her, catching the gleam of her eyes and outlining the bruises along her cheek, but even that could not spoil the beauty of her face in that moment. One man reached out to pull her down beside him, but she slipped away before he could catch her. She was looking for Alex.

  She found him sprawled on the ground beside the musicians, his clareschaw lying at his side. His gaze was fixed on the dancers and his voice rose and fell in time to the pulsing music. As she came near, Muriella saw that his hair looked even grayer in the fitful light; despite the elation all around, his expression was full of sorrow.

  The girl knelt, taking his hand in hers. "Ye're grieving," she whispered.

  He turned to look at her, then did not move for some time, slowly absorbing the sight of her face. At last he slid his hand from between her fingers and nodded. "I should send ye back," he murmured, "but I find this time I can't do it."

  "Why can't ye?" Muriella asked, locking her arms around her legs.

  The Gypsy looked beyond her into the light of the fire.

  "Just now, ye can only think of those who might comfort ye. But ye'll learn, in time, that ye have a great ability to comfort others. There are depths in ye that ye don't yet comprehend."

  While Muriella considered this in silence, Alex looked with concern at the bruises along her cheek. Now and then, a wisp of auburn hair trailed over the discolored skin; somehow it made her seem terribly fragile. Yet for once the shadows were gone from her face and she looked peaceful, even relaxed. In that moment, she reminded him of a woman long dreamt of but never seen. A woman who would haunt him indefinitely, leaving him always unfulfilled. The girl would find a difficult path ahead of her, he knew, and tonight was her last night of freedom—if indeed she had ever known freedom at all.

  "Ye must dance, lass!" Alex cried.

  Muriella nodded, then smiled in delight. "Aye, to dance!" She rose, stood nearby for a moment, watching the dancers rotate; then she bent to touch his cheek. By the time he reached up to the place where her hand had rested, she was gone, a part of the glittering circle made fantastic by the firelight.

  The velvet swirled about her legs, and she was drawn into the dance regardless of her will. She circled slowly at first, aware of her own strangeness in the face of the lighthearted Gypsy girls, but as the song swept her up, and she lost all sense of those around her. The music rushed through her blood and she moved without thinking, in perfect time. She could do nothing else; she was wrapped in the spell of the light and the songs. Her wedding night might have been many miles away, her bridegroom a nightmare she had created. Only the dance was real. Only the sensations that shook her body from head to toe and left her laughing.

  When Megan broke into the circle, interrupting the flow of the music, Muriella refused to answer the call of responsibility or the reality of the keep just over the hill. Grasping the servant's hand, she drew her along in the dance.

  Eyes wide with concern, Megan found herself whirling with her mistress through the firelight. Somehow, she could not pull away. When she saw the exaltation on Muriella's face, she forgot, for the moment, the turmoil at the castle, the drunken search for the bride who had disappeared. She forgot the Earl, bellowing that Muriella must be found, his voice louder with each word, as if by increasing the volume he would increase the chances of finding the girl. She forgot Colin with his crude jokes, laughing at his brother's misfortune. But she did not forget John, standing like stone at the head of the table, his face stricken, repeating again and again, "She's gone. I knew she must go."

  Suspecting where her mistress might be, Megan had crept into the courtyard, determined she would be the one to bring Muriella back, not those reeling men. She found Duncan already there, and in silent assent they left the castle and went to the Gypsy camp.

  Now, with the music pounding against her ears and the incandescent green of Muriella's eyes to reassure her, Megan danced, losing herself in the rhythmic pulse. Then she caught sight of Duncan, waiting patiently at the edge of the circle. With desperate energy, she pulled her mistress from among the dancers, breaking the pattern that had held her in its grasp.

  The shock was severe. Muriella stood, breathless, and gaped at the servant in astonishment. For a full minute she did not recognize her. Then, as the music died down and her skirts ceased swinging around her legs, she remembered. The knowledge of her wedding, of what was to come, made her shudder. She grabbed Megan by the shoulders and her eyes filled with misery.

  The look on her face was more than the servant could bear.

  Her determination wavered and she wrapped her arms around Muriella's waist, weeping. The girls rocked there, lost in their sorrow, clinging together because there was no other comfort but each other.

  Duncan waited, clutching his sword. That he did not understand the source of the girls' grief did not stop him from feeling it throughout his body. But then his senses began to return. Resolutely, he moved forward. Placing one hand on Megan's shoulder, he said, "We must get back."

  The girls steadied themselves but continued to cling together, unwilling to part.

  "They'll send the men out soon. We mustn't let that happen." With one hand on each girl, he drew them apart.

  At last Megan nodded. Without another word she took
Muriella's hand and began to shove her way through the watching Gypsies. Duncan followed and the three moved out of the reach of the firelight and into the starless night.

  ~ * ~

  Muriella paused in the doorway, staring at the wreckage strewn about the Great Hall. Empty dishes covered the tables and the dogs roamed the floor, sniffing among the rushes for discarded bones and meat. Only a few men still sprawled across the benches. The rest of the guests swarmed through the hall and up the stairs, searching for the missing bride. No one looked at the girl framed in the doorway.

  It was the Earl who discovered her. Staggering down the stairs, he caught sight of the green velvet gown. "Aha!" he exclaimed as he pulled her into the light. "So ye're found at last!" His fingers dug into her arm and he leaned down, speaking into her ear, "Did ye mean to frighten us half out of our minds? If so, ye did a pretty thorough job of it. I promise ye, I'll not forget that."

  She did not have time to respond before the guests gathered around her. The women were giggling now, all except Megan and Elizabeth.

  Taking possession of John, the men moved off to allow the women to precede them up the stairs. With Megan and Elizabeth close behind her, Muriella was propelled upward, her heart pounding against her ribs. As she climbed the stairs one by one, fear lodged itself in her throat and throbbed there dully.

  She saw they were leading her to a huge bedchamber hung all in crimson. The women crowded into the room, laughing and blushing, while Megan began to remove her mistress's clothes. The green velvet fell to the floor, and next came the kirtle; it fell at Muriella's feet in a gleaming pile. Megan's expression was rigid. Men shouted in the hallway, chanting obscenities, pounding on the door.

  Muriella heard the voices—echoing harsh and crude against the stone—which threatened to force the door inward.

  She imagined the smell of drunken breath, and nausea rose in her throat. When the door began to creak open, she choked back the sickness time and again.

  "Let us in!" the men roared. They no longer cared about propriety; they were Scotsmen, Highlanders, many of them, and all they wanted, just now, was one more bit of fun to remember.

  Though only a man or two managed to get a glimpse inside the room, Muriella saw the avid glitter in their eyes.

  Behind them would come John, her husband. No door would be strong enough to keep him out. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment, for the laughter, the lewd remarks, the cruel leers that penetrated the heavy wood, stripping her of the last of her pride. Her marriage had left her with nothing—not even her self-respect.

  All at once, a man forced his way into the chamber. Before anyone could stop him, he pushed Megan aside and, turning Muriella with one hand, slapped her soundly on the behind.

  It was too much. The terror and helpless fury that had been building inside Muriella erupted in a moment of madness. Naked, face white with rage, she whirled and struck the man hard across the face. Surprisingly, she heard shouts of approval from the onlookers.

  John, who had been forced to the front of the crowd, lunged for the man as he fled the chamber, but Colin caught his brother in a close grip, pinning his arms to his sides. "Ye wouldn't want to ruin yer wedding night, now, would ye, little brother? Besides, yer wife has done yer work for ye."

  The offending guest had disappeared, and the crowd had grown quiet, stunned, for the moment, into sobriety. Clenching his teeth in fury, John wrenched himself free of his brother's grasp. His clothing had disappeared along the way and the candlelight fluttered over the sweat glistening on his chest. Muriella swallowed convulsively.

  Elizabeth and Megan touched her gently. "Come to bed.

  'Tis warm there, and safe from prying eyes." Rigidly, she allowed them to lead her toward the high curtained bed, to help her up, to draw the linen sheets and furs beneath her chin.

  John stood facing the dwindling crowd until most of them had crept away in shame. Only then did he climb up beside his wife.

  Megan and Elizabeth slipped out of the chamber quietly, trying to erase the image of Muriella's gray, drawn face, just as the Earl entered. His drunkenness seemed to have dissipated in all the excitement.

  "Ye see, Johnnie," he said, "if ye just wait, ye'll eventually get what ye want." He nodded toward Muriella. "There was no' any need to hunt the Calders down till ye'd killed every last one. Simply by marrying the girl, ye've struck them a blow from which they may never recover. Don't ye forget it."

  Glancing at Muriella, he tried to smile, but even he could not keep up the pretense that this was a celebration for her. With a sympathetic shake of his head, he left the room, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.

  Muriella sat very still. She was determined not to betray her inner torment, and so twined her fingers together and fixed her gaze on the curtains at the foot of the bed.

  "I couldn't stop it, ye know," John said at last.

  The sound of his voice made her shiver. "Ye could have refused to marry me. Then 'twould never have happened."

  "Ye' re a fool if ye believe that. 'Twould have happened sooner or later. If no' with me, then with someone else."

  Muriella turned to look at him for the first time. "But it had to be ye, didn't it? It had to be, because ye couldn't bear to lose Cawdor. Ye didn't care what I thought. Ye didn't even ask."

  "Ye made yer feelings clear enough." He remembered with a fresh wave of anger how Colin and the guests had laughed into their tankards when Muriella's absence was discovered. They had been laughing at him. As he turned to his bride, his hands clenched into fists, the fur slipped down, revealing his bare chest.

  With a stifled cry, Muriella shrank away from him. "I'm not a monster," he shouted, struggling to keep his voice steady, "no matter how much ye might want to believe it." His eyes glittered icy silver blue, like the sea before a winter storm, and Muriella could not suppress a shiver of apprehension. "I know," she said, “but please don’t touch me.”

  John swung around, leaning on the carved headboard so he held her imprisoned between his two hands. "I don't think ye understand. Ye're my wife."

  As he spoke, he moved closer until she could feel his breath like a warning on her cheek. She stared at him, wide-eyed, painfully aware of his naked body so close to hers, of the strength of his arms on either side of her head. Nevertheless, she was wholly unprepared when he tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head upward to meet his fierce kiss.

  His lips pressed against hers with the heat of his anger, and though she tried to break away, he held her too tightly. For an instant she drew him closer, then pushed frantically at his chest until her fingers curled inward and she sank her nails into his flesh.

  At the sudden pain, John raised his head, staring down at her through the flickering light of the torches. "It doesn't have to be this way," he said. "If ye didn't fight me at every turn—"

  Muriella felt the pressure of his fingers ease a little while he hovered above her, waiting for an answer. She twisted out of his grasp, scrambling for the other side of the bed. "No!" she cried, when his fingers closed around her arm.

  "Aye," he muttered, pinning her down with his calloused palms on her bare shoulders. He raised his head to gaze at her white slender body, freed at last from the hindrance of furs and sheets. She had ceased her struggles, and lay rigid and unresponsive beneath his hands. This was not what he wanted, but he knew she would give him nothing more. Infuriated by the cold, blank expression in her eyes, he kissed her again, bruisingly.

  Muriella's vision blurred; she felt the blood in her throat would choke her. He drew her beneath him so the weight of his body pressed her down and down into the mattress, where she could not escape from the touch of his skin or the harsh demands of his mouth on hers. From somewhere deep within, the water began to hiss and churn until it rose inside her head, white, cold, and furious, drowning out everything but the sound of her fear. She tried to cry out, but he swallowed her cries with his hungry lips.

  A fine sheen of sweat covered
his body. She felt its clammy coolness on her skin, penetrating her pores so even her insides were tainted by his touch. Then, with a groan, he entered her, pausing for an instant when she gasped in pain.

  He looked up, and Muriella, released at last from the pressure of his lips, turned her head away as she fought back the illness that rose in her throat. He rocked against her, his hands buried in her thick, tangled hair. With each thrust, the pain became greater, until it merged with the rushing water to swamp her senses. Just when she was certain she could bear no more, he ceased his assault and collapsed beside her.

  Her heart dragged, as if it could not bear the strain anymore. Quivering, her palms cold with sweat, her head spinning into the unfriendly darkness, Muriella rolled over and, drawing her knees to her chest, retreated to the farthest corner of the bed.

  When his breath began to come more easily, John turned to look at his wife. She lay curled at the edge of the bed, so near that he thought she might tumble to the floor at any minute. She was shivering, her arms wrapped protectively over her breasts. "Muriella—"

  He reached for her but she shuddered and pulled away. She was cold, as cold as the gray stone walls around them. He could not bear the sight of her small trembling body. He shut his eyes and turned away.

  Muriella did not move, but lay as she would for many hours, staring blindly at the blank face of the door.

  ~ * ~

  When she awoke, the torches had burned themselves out and the morning light was just beginning to push its way through the shutters. Someone had covered her with a heavy fur and she huddled beneath it, unwilling to turn and face her husband. When at last she glanced up, she realized the bed was empty. Her racing heart slowed to normal. As she looked over the remnants of the night before—her gown on the chest, her kirtle glimmering among the rushes—she knew she had to get away. Groping through the half darkness, she picked up the kirtle and threw it over her head. Then she went to the door to look outside. She guessed that because of the celebration the night before, the guests would sleep until late in the morning. She did not know where John might be, but prayed she would not meet him.