"Mayhap ye can hunt and ride to get away from yer grief and yer anger, but I can't." She closed her eyes, but the mist grew darker, more threatening, and she opened them again. "Don't ye see? That won't work for me, because the horror is here, inside my own head." With a shaking finger, she pointed to her damp forehead. "I can't close my eyes and make it go away; the images only become clearer. I can't run, because they follow." She swallowed with difficulty, then ran her hand down the column of her throat. "And I can't bear it anymore. I can't."
Before he could stop himself, John took a step backward, to keep her anguish from touching him. For the first time, he began to understand the shadowed world in which his wife lived, and he was appalled. He wanted to turn from her, to make himself forget the tortured look in her eyes, but as his father had pointed out, he had a responsibility to fulfill. Muriella needs ye, whether she admits it or not. Slowly, he forced himself to approach her. Grasping her shoulders, he shook her slightly. "Muriella!"
She leaned toward him, and in that instant there was no past, no bitterness, no fear. There was only the blinding scarlet mist that was closing more and more closely around her. "Please," she whispered.
But John did not know what his wife was asking for. He released her while he tried to think.
"M'lord?"
John turned to find Megan standing timidly in the doorway, her brown eyes full of concern. "Is she—," the servant began.
He shook his head. "I think she needs some air. Mayhap a walk in the garden?"
Megan nodded eagerly. "Aye, I'll go with her."
Muriella watched the others from the end of a long, silent tunnel. They spoke of her as if she were not there, as if she were an invalid too frail to make her own decisions. Just now she did not have the strength to tell them differently. She was so weary her bones ached and the thought of the clear air of the garden brought with it a kind of relief. She had told John she could not escape her inner sight, but that would never stop her from trying.
"M'lady?" Megan said tentatively.
"Aye." Muriella did not look at her husband as she turned to go. She did not wish to see the aversion on his face. Quickly, lifting her gown above the scattered rushes, she left the room.
John stood where she had left him; he was not yet able to move. Running his hand through his hair, he gazed blankly at the cluttered floor.
"M'lord?"
John turned to find Duncan standing with his mouth hanging open in astonishment at the sight of the torn gown and tapestries. "What do ye want?" the older man asked sharply.
Duncan looked up. "What?" The squire's mind refused to function for several seconds; then he remembered why the new Earl had sent him here. "There's trouble brewing. The clans are rising in favor of Donald of Lachalsh. They've proclaimed him Lord of the Isles, though the title is rightfully Colin's."
John considered his squire in silence. He believed there was some question he should ask, but he didn't know what it was. "Proclaimed him Lord of the Isles?" he repeated. Then he realized what Duncan was saying. "A rebellion? Now?"
"Aye. They couldn't have chosen a worse time. We're still weak from our losses at Flodden."
"Ye can bet they know that. They move quickly, I'll give them that. What have they done?"
"Taken Urquart and the Castle of Carneburgh."
John paced the floor, kicking the fabric from under his feet. "Huntly will have to go to Urquart, but Carneburgh—we may be able to gather enough men. Do ye know who holds it now?"
"Aye, 'tis Lachlan Maclean."
John stopped his pacing. "Are ye certain?"
"'Tis certain Maclean holds Carneburgh, and he's had himself named Master of Dunskaich in Sleat as well."
"Where's Elizabeth? Is she all right?"
"We don't know, but Colin believes Maclean left her at Duart. Likely she'll be safe enough."
"She'd best be safe," John hissed, "or by God, this time I'll cut his throat. Do ye hear?"
"M'lord," Duncan said softly, "Colin awaits ye below. We must move as soon as possible."
John massaged his forehead absently. "Aye, that we must." This time his voice was calmer. As he started to follow his squire from the room, he stumbled over a tapestry and his expression clouded. Shaking his head, he closed the chamber door behind him.
When he saw Mary hurrying past, John called her to him and spoke in a low-pitched voice. As she nodded, he heard Colin calling from below and turned to start down the stairs.
~ * ~
Later, Muriella climbed to her chamber, pausing for a moment outside the door. She and Megan had wandered from the garden down to the loch. In the freshening afternoon breeze, the color had gradually returned to Muriella's cheeks. She had stared into the water lapping against the shore and willed the haze of fear and grief to leave her. She had fought against the pain she saw reflected in the green-gray water. With Megan's chatter to help her, she had somehow managed to keep the despair at bay. But now her stomach twisted and her hands tightened on the latch. She didn't want to enter this room. She remembered the afternoon too clearly and did not wish to see what she had done. At last, however, she pushed the door open, then stood rigid, the breath gone from her body.
The floor was covered with fresh rushes. The shredded gown had disappeared, as had the bed curtains and tapestries. She looked up, expecting to find bare walls, but someone had replaced the old hangings with new ones. Her gaze traveled over them in disbelief. They were all worked in yellows and browns and greens. She turned to the bed, where the curtains had been replaced with gold and green ones. She swallowed with difficulty.
Too stunned to think clearly, she went to the chest that held her gowns. Lifting the lid, she saw that the kirtle for the scarlet gown was gone. She shifted the dresses one at a time, searching through layer after layer, but there was no doubt. She let the lid slip from nerveless fingers, sank onto the chest, her fingers curled on the carved rosewood. She had learned to live with the pain and the emptiness and the fear in the eyes of others when they looked at her, but this single act of kindness was more than she could bear.
The walls that had kept her safe since the Earl's death came crashing down around her and she gave a strangled moan as her body folded inward upon itself. She began to weep with wrenching sobs that rose from her throat and left her shuddering. Rocking wildly, her arms locked over her chest, she sobbed at the pain that washed through her in waves. Then the waves became real ones and she was lost in an angry sea, fighting for breath while the water surged around her, drawing her deeper and deeper into the suffocating darkness, until she could no longer see the light.
Chapter 24
Muriella struggled upward through the shadows toward a wavering brightness that beckoned like the touch of a human hand. Slowly, as the blackness dissolved, freeing her from the web of sleep, she opened her eyes. The first thing she became aware of was the weight of a cool cloth on her forehead. She was lying on the bed with the heavy furs beneath her, but she could not remember how she'd gotten there. On the far wall burned the torch whose light had lured her out of the darkness. She focused on the gold-and-orange flame, hoping its warmth would chase the chill from her body. Her breath seemed to come and go in time with the movement of the flame, but the heat could not reach her. Turning her head, she peered about until she saw movement, heard a sharp intake of breath.
"She's awake. Ye'd best go now."
Megan. But there was someone else who murmured something she could not understand before slipping from the room. "Who—" Muriella began, but she could not force the words past the raw pain in her throat.
"'Twas Duncan," the servant told her, approaching the bed on silent feet. "He helped me lift ye from the floor. I couldn't do it on my own." When her mistress started to rise, Megan laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Lie still. Ye aren't well."
It was true. Muriella felt weak and faintly dizzy; the slightest movement of her head set the room spinning. Her heartbeat was uneven, but when she saw the gold-
and-green curtain that swayed as the servant came closer, her pulse increased. She remembered now—the new hangings, her cry of pain, her tears, and then… Her head pounded dully and she closed her eyes, swollen and painful with weeping.
"What ails ye?" Megan asked as she adjusted the cloth on her mistress's forehead. "Ye don't seem to have a fever, but yer face is so pale"
Muriella took a deep breath. "I'm no’ ill," she said. "'Twas only the Sight."
The servant's eyes widened. "But we found ye on the floor. Ye didn't even know we were there."
Muriella found it difficult to speak around the lump in her throat, but she saw that Megan too was afraid, and knew she had to calm her. "I think 'twas because the vision was too strong. It overwhelmed me so completely that I had to fall beneath its weight."
The servant did not understand, but she touched her mistress's hand in compassion, hoping Muriella would not feel how erratically her heart was fluttering. "Was it the battle again?"
"No. 'Twas something I first saw long ago. I thought I was free of it, but..." Her voice trailed off as the memory of her own words echoed in her head. The Sight never lies. The vision will come to pass, just as all the others have. I can't stop it and I can't change it. All I can do is wait. Her mouth was dry and her hands damp with sweat.
"Well," the servant murmured, "I think 'twould be best if ye closed yer eyes and tried to sleep. I'll tell Sir John ye won't be down for supper." She could not quite banish the quaver from her voice. When she turned to go, Muriella put out a hand to stop her.
"I have to go down."
"Why?" the servant demanded. "Ye don't even look like ye could stand."
"Because," Muriella said, "I don't want to be trapped here among the shadows all evening. Just now my thoughts aren't very good company, ye ken." She paused while Megan regarded her doubtfully. "Don't worry," Muriella added. "The weakness will go soon. 'Tis always the way. I'll rest for a while, then join the others in the hall."
The servant narrowed her lips into a thin line of disapproval, but she did not argue. She had learned long ago once Muriella had made a choice, she would not be swayed. Perhaps she should slip away and tell Sir John how she had found her mistress sprawled unconscious among the rushes. Surely he would make her stay in bed where she belonged.
Muriella's grip on her arm increased and Megan leaned closer. "Don't do it," Muriella said. "Swear to me ye won't tell him."
The servant could not look away from those strange green eyes that saw so much. With a shiver of apprehension, she whispered, "I swear."
~ * ~
In a brocade gown of many colors, with her braid wound tightly around her head, Muriella stood looking down into the Great Hall. John was not at the high table with Colin, and it took her a moment to locate him, seated at one of the trestle tables with his men. He was using a thick slice of bread for a plate, just as they were, and seemed perfectly at home on the rough plank bench they all shared. Duncan was beside him, but Muriella could see the squire was not as comfortable as his master. The sight of John's dark, bearded face brought the fluttering wings of fear back to life within her. She wanted to turn in the other direction and make her way to the high table, but the thought of the walls of her chamber made her turn toward her husband.
As she passed, the men fell silent one after another, their knives clutched in their hands, their bearded faces lit by the yellow glare of the torches. The stillness rang in her ears, louder by far than their raucous laughter, and though she looked neither to the right nor left, she felt their wary eyes upon her. The heavy fabric of her skirt gripped tightly in her fingers, Muriella approached the table where John sat. The men around him began to shift uncomfortably.
When he realized how quiet the others had become, John looked up, smiling, and saw his wife, who had stopped at the end of the table. The laughter died on his lips. What was she doing here, waiting expectantly, destroying, with one look from her disturbing green eyes, the easy camaraderie he and the men had shared?
Beside him, Richard Campbell took his slab of meat- soaked bread and, swinging his leg over the bench, made his way to another table. His brother Andrew did the same. One by one the others followed, until only John and Duncan were left.
As Muriella came closer, John leaned forward to speak in a whisper rough with impatience. "Mayhap 'twould be better if ye sat at the high table where ye belong."
The men were watching and listening, waiting for her to turn away, but she could not do it. She could not let them see how much their apprehension hurt her. "'Tis where ye belong as well, but that doesn't seem to worry ye. So," she added, "I'll stay." Without waiting for his response, she seated herself on the bench.
John's fingers tightened around the handle of his dagger, which still held a piece of dripping mutton he had speared before he noticed Muriella. He should have ordered her to leave and been done with it, but it was too late for that. They would both look like fools if he sent her away now. "So long as ye don't linger," he said.
"I'll get her something to eat," Duncan declared, rising from his own bench with alacrity.
Muriella watched the squire go, certain he was grateful for the excuse to slip away, even for a moment. Placing her hands on the rough plank table, she traced the furrows and pits in the wood with apparent concentration.
"Well?" her husband demanded. "What's so important that it couldn't wait?"
She was no longer certain what instinct had drawn her here instead of toward the relative safety of her usual place; she only knew that she’d had to come. She wondered why, when she looked up at her husband's frowning face. His brown hair was tumbled in disorder, mingling with the curling confusion of his beard, emphasizing the displeasure she read in his eyes. Muriella forced herself to meet John's gaze. "I came to say my chamber is lovely." To her the words were an agony he would never understand; since the Earl's death, John had twice touched feelings she had willed into darkness. Twice he had moved her and made her weep. That frightened her as even his anger had never done, as deeply as the terror that whirled within her at the vision of the rising water.
John stared at his wife in surprise. He had forgotten, in the turmoil of preparing for battle, about the scene in her room that afternoon and the instructions he had given Mary. He had wanted to forget, had welcomed the coming conflict because it kept his thoughts occupied. Even had he remembered, he would not have expected Muriella to acknowledge his gesture. For the first time he noticed that the glitter had left her eyes. Her cheeks were pale, touched slightly with pink, and her face had an uncharacteristic softness tonight. Without conscious thought, he reached to cover her hand with his. "Ye seem better. Has the vision left ye?"
Muriella shook her head in confusion. She had thought it gone, but now it was back. As John's fingers closed around hers, the image became stronger, more vivid. Or was it something else? Her head began to swim with the image of falling shadows streaked with red and her ears to ring with the clashing of many blades. She saw the struggle, the battle, the death, but it was not the same. It was—
Her heart began to pound. "Ye're going to war, aren't ye?"
John released her hand abruptly. "Who told ye that?" He'd given strict orders that his wife was not to be told until the last minute.
Muriella kept her eyes lowered. "I overheard it in the halls," she lied. "Is't true?"
John sighed. He should have known something like that could not be kept secret. "Aye," he told her. "We leave before first light tomorrow."
Muriella felt a rush of relief. He was going away. She would be safe. Then her throat constricted with a new kind of fear. She'd be out of danger, but he would not. "'Tis the Macleans, isn't it?" she asked unsteadily.
"They aren't the only ones, but they're involved, aye." "And Elizabeth?"
"We don't know for certain, but we think she's at Duart, away from the center of the rebellion. If she stays there, she should be all right."
When he saw that Muriella was not reassured, John squeezed he
r hand. "Don't worry. Maclean is a fool, but he isn't a madman. He'll see that Elizabeth is safe."
It was not really her sister-in-law Muriella was thinking of; it was John. Instinctively, she closed her fingers tighter around her husband's, asking a silent question of the Sight she had never before summoned of her own free will. For a moment, the warmth of his touch shook her. Then the coldness seemed to settle over her skin and the room began to sway.
When John felt his wife squeeze his hand spasmodically, he looked down at her in confusion. She had never done that before. Then he saw the gray cast of her face and the strange darkness in her eyes.
"No!" he shouted, springing up and away from her in one swift movement. "Ye could curse a man that way, don't ye know that?"
His voice rang through the hall, and the men, who had begun to talk among themselves again, fell silent, staring from John to Muriella and back again.
Muriella's eyes cleared, the room ceased its spinning, but her heartbeat dragged and her hands trembled. John glared down at her, his face white with rage or fear, she could not decide which. She felt inexplicably bereft. Around her the men were staring, their eyes full of silent accusations that echoed John's own. She was alone in a room full of strangers, a world full of strangers who could never understand—and did not wish to.
John heard a movement beside him and glanced up to see Duncan with Muriella's supper in his hands. The older man welcomed the interruption. Motioning for the squire to pass, he said in voice that carried to other listening ears, "Eat. 'Twill make ye feel better."
Muriella looked away, but not before he caught a hint of the pain on her face.
"Damn!" Turning on his heel, John called. "I'm going for a ride. 'Tis far too close in here for my taste."
"But m'lord, ye'll be riding all day tomorrow," Duncan protested.
John glowered at the squire. "Since when are ye my nursemaid? 'Tis a ride I want and a ride I'll have." Carelessly, he kicked his bench aside and strode across the hall.
When he had gone, Duncan set the platter before Muriella, then sat nearby.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 86