"Ye saw?" she asked, her gazed fixed on the plate of mutton.
"Aye." The squire frowned. "He doesn't mean to be cruel, ye ken?"
"No," she said tonelessly.
"'Tis just that a warrior's skill and confidence are all he has to keep him safe. If ye make him doubt those things, if the thought of yer premonition makes him hesitate, even for an instant, it could cost him his life and those of his men."
"Aye," Muriella murmured as she toyed with a thick piece of bread. "I suppose ye're right." But the knowledge did not ease the ache inside her.
The squire watched her anxiously. He could not forget how lost she had looked this afternoon, lying in the rushes, her face swollen and red from weeping. He had felt as helpless then as he did on her wedding night when he'd watched her tear herself away from the magic of the Gypsy bonfires. He wanted to console her, but knew there was nothing he could do. No matter how much he might wish to, he could not change the fact that tomorrow, before the sun had risen, the Campbell men would take their broadswords in hand and ride determinedly, even eagerly, into battle.
Chapter 25
In her dream, Muriella wandered through the lower tunnels of the castle where the torches filled the rough stone passageways with an unnatural light. The sound of her footfalls on the packed dirt floor did not disturb the stillness, but seemed instead to meld with the flickering shadows that closed around her.
She paused, listening, when a low moan of fear escaped from the chamber at the end of the hall. Suddenly it was very cold and the torches were painting grotesque patterns on the gray stone all around. She did not want to move forward—in a few steps she would be able to look into the chamber—yet her feet seemed to have a will of their own that carried her closer and closer to the half-open door. Instinctively, she hung back in the shadows, then leaned forward so she could look without being seen.
John was kneeling in the chamber with a dark shape at his feet. It looked like a body, but she couldn't be certain; the shadows were too deep. Then the wind stirred the branches of the tree outside the window and daylight crept between the fluttering leaves. The light played across John where he knelt beside the figure. Laughing, his teeth glittering, he raised his hands above his head. The sound of his laughter chilled Muriella. Then the light struck him fully. His wife screamed, but no sound escaped her. His arms were covered with blood to the elbow. It dripped slowly between his fingers, staining with vivid red the motionless figure at his feet.
Muriella awoke with a start. She lay for a long time, waiting for the frantic beating of her heart to ease and the cold fear to dissipate. As the ceiling of shadows shifted and changed in the firelight, she forced her eyes to focus on the muted patterns above her. She would not let the panic overcome her, she swore silently. Not this time.
It was not so strange that her husband should have blood on his hands; the Campbells were at war, after all. The dream was not a warning, only a nightmare that lingered when the sound of John's laughter and the image of his blood-soaked hands had faded away.
Muriella lay still, willing herself to believe it, until eventually her heartbeat slowed to normal and the heat of her body destroyed the chill the dream had left behind. She fell back asleep while the ghosts of forgotten shadows whispered above her.
~ * ~
The leaves parted in the breeze, fluttered, then came back together with a sigh while their shadows moved over the damp ground beneath. John tensed, reached for his bow and fitted an arrow into place. He did not trust the sudden stillness, broken only by the murmur of the leaves. Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward, his hand on his horse's neck to keep the animal from moving. The men who followed faded into a blur; for him there was only the feel of his bow in his callused palm, the reality of the trees ahead and the awareness of an enemy concealed by the shifting gloom.
A twig snapped. His eyes glinted with anticipation as he raised his head like a wolf scenting its prey. Knees pressed tight to his horse's sides, he drew back the string of his bow, sighted down the shaft of the arrow, released it with a shout of triumph. He knew, even before the man crashed headfirst through the underbrush, that he had hit his target. The pounding of his heart told him he could not have done otherwise.
John swung his leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground, heading for the man who lay unmoving in the bracken. Richard Campbell was there before him.
"Is it Hugh Rose?"
"No," Richard told him. "'Tis black hair he's havin', and he's too old by half, but he's a Rose, just the same."
John bent to examine the dead man. "Well then, Hugh must be nearby." Frowning at the impenetrable tangle of the forest, he glared through the trees as if determination alone could make them give up their secrets. Turning back to Richard, he added, "This time I mean to catch him."
Richard shook his head. "He's kept ahead of ye for near a week. What makes ye think ye'll find him now?"
"My instincts. He's within our grasp. I can feel it."
"I don't understand why ye're so determined to bring him down. Ye've already scattered most of the rebels, and Hugh's no more than a petty outlaw who can't hurt the Campbells now." John leaned down to cover the dead man's face with a dry corner of his plaid. What Richard said was true. The rebels had given up the fight a week ago and Colin was on his way to Edinburgh to settle the terms of surrender with the regents. The new Earl had made his peace with the vanquished rebels, but John had not. He had far more at stake, this time, than did his brother. "Hugh Rose is more dangerous than ye realize," he said as the two men started back toward their restive horses. "The people fear him when they hear the tales of the money he's stolen and the murder he's done, but they also admire him for the fearless devil he is. If we don't stop him soon, they'll make him a hero, and then we won't be able to touch him. Besides, there are other reasons. I can't let him go on this way. Ye must know that."
Richard did know it. He had heard the rumors the young Rose was spreading and realized that, sooner or later, Sir John would have to stop the man's tongue. He only wished it did not have to be now, when the men were already so tired. "Aye, but the chase might last forever at this rate, and the men are eager to go home."
"Soon," John promised. "But for now, the hunt goes on." Bracken and pine needles muffled the footfalls of the horses as he led the weary men through the forest of hawthorns, oaks and pines, his senses alert for the slightest irregularity. Just when he'd begun to think night would fall while the forest still sheltered the outlaw in its murky depths, he saw a trampled patch of bracken where several horses had passed recently. His exhaustion left him in an instant when he scented the danger vibrating through the cool air around him. Raising a hand to warn the men to silence, he swung himself down from his horse and crept forward on foot.
The last of the light filtered through the trees, revealing the group of men sprawled on the ground in the tiny clearing. They were talking among themselves and sharing a skin full of wine, their plaids tossed carelessly over their shoulders, their bows forgotten at their sides. The leaves whispered, brushing John's cheek in the gust of a breeze as he peered through the changing patterns of green and gray to locate the man who must be Hugh Rose. Even in the fading light, he could see the blaze of wild red hair that, along with the outlaw's fierce war cry and his uncontrolled lust for the kill, had earned him the nickname The Devil Afire.
Hugh was laughing as he leaned back on his elbow, his hazel eyes blurred with the effects of the wine. John took in the scene in disbelief. These men knew the Campbells were close behind them—they had led their enemies in a game of cat and mouse for many days—yet now they seemed oblivious of any danger. The sound of Hugh's laughter came to John on the back of the wind, full of self-confidence and the supreme arrogance of the fearless. Clearly the thought of death held no terror for the outlaw. That made him a dangerous adversary indeed. With a wordless curse, John turned away to return to where the men waited.
Motioning silently for Richard, Andrew, Duncan and Adam to
follow, he took his bow from the saddle horn and moved back through the soft bracken toward the clearing. The men understood his intention without words. They circled behind the concealing trees, moving inexorably forward until only the descending darkness and moving leaves held them apart from their enemies. Each Campbell drew his sword, positioning himself near one of the outlaws; then, at John's signal, they screamed the Campbell war cry, "Cruachan!" and rushed from the protection of the trees.
The men in the clearing did not have time to take a breath before they found themselves lying in the grass with the Campbell blades pressing into their throats.
John knocked the wineskin from Hugh Rose's hand, forcing the young man to his back in the same moment. His blood was singing with the scent of victory; it had been so easy, after all. Then Hugh smiled crookedly.
"Ye must be John Campbell," the outlaw observed in a voice laced with secret amusement. "No doubt ye finally got tired of the game." His eyes glinted bright and clear, with no trace of drunkenness to dim them. "Or mayhap ye realized the only way to best us is to creep up in the darkness and strike before we have a chance to defend ourselves. That seems to be how the Campbells win most of their victories." He could feel the anger radiating from John's body and he smiled again. "Only, when ye took Muriella Calder that way, ye didn't get such a good bargain, did ye?"
The rage that had been building inside John for the past week fed upon itself, growing more powerful with each ragged breath. He pressed the point of his blade deeper into the outlaw's chest until he heard the slight explosion of breath that told him he had broken through Hugh's plaid and doublet to the vulnerable skin underneath. For a moment, his fury blinded him, but something kept him from ramming his sword home. Was it the watching eyes of the men—his own and Hugh's—or the sudden memory of his father's voice? Think before ye act, Johnnie. Think!
"Well?" Hugh cried, unnerved by his captor's restraint as he had not been by the sight of the gleaming blade. "What are ye waitin' for? Don't tell me ye're a coward as well as a thief!"
John's hand trembled with the force of his anger, but still he did not move. His father's words came back to him like a warning. There's no room for foolish emotion in a man meant to lead the Clan Campbell. It weakens yer judgment when ye need it most. John fought against his fury with the tiny whisper of reason that still remained in the back of his mind. "I'm no’ the one who steals from the crofters and lairds alike, burning his way across the north and killing any man who gets in his way," he said at last.
Hugh curled his lip in disdain. "What else would ye have me do? When ye took Muriella from me, ye took Cawdor too, leaving me and the whole Clan Rose with nothing but my sword arm to keep us alive."
"There are other ways to survive, and well ye know it."
"For a Campbell mayhap, who has the King and the Earl of Argyll on his side," the outlaw snapped, "but no' for a Rose without money or power." Despite the pressure of John's blade against his chest, Hugh rose on one elbow. "I won't sit quietly in my crumbling keep, watching my family slip away one by one. I may not have the King's ear, but I promise ye this: I'll make such a noise in these glens that the Campbells won't forget the sound of my voice for a long, long time to come. Even though ye kill me now."
There are ways to get what ye want without killing, the Earl had told John once. Maybe his father was right. Death was too good for Hugh Rose; it would transform the reckless outlaw into legend for the Highlanders to worship, and John did not want that. "No," he said softly. "I think I'll let ye live."
Hugh's mocking smile faded and his eyes were dark with something that might have been fear. He could feel the curiosity of the other outlaws like a cold hand at the back of his neck. "But I'm telling ye, ye'd best stop yer killing and stealing or I'll make ye regret it." Hugh was staring up at him now, jaw clenched and nostrils flared. "And just so ye see that I mean what I say, I'll leave behind a little warning."
The young man winced as John raised his weapon to bring it down with devastating accuracy along Hugh's sword arm, cutting deep and to the bone. The blood poured out, clear and red, staining the saffron shirt, dark doublet and bright plaid that lay crumpled on the ground. John heard the gasp of disbelief from the other outlaws; they did not fear death, but this was humiliation. He also saw the hatred in Hugh's eyes beneath the glaze of pain, but that he chose to ignore. "Take their weapons and leave them," he ordered his men. Then, slowly and quite deliberately, John turned his back on Hugh Rose.
Chapter 26
Muriella leaned forward, pleased that some of her hair had begun to escape from her crown of braids to whip about her face. The smell of loam and loch was heavy in the air as her horse carried her closer and closer to the silver blue waves whose rhythmic lapping called to her. The moisture clung to her cheeks, cool and invigorating, completely unlike the musty chill inside the walls of the keep. She knew Megan was behind her, but the sound of the hoofbeats was lost in the enchanting rush and thunder of the wind. Throwing back her head in pure enjoyment, she urged her horse to greater speed.
As the thrumming of hoofbeats grew louder, Muriella pressed her knees into her animal's warm, heaving sides until he flew over the fine-grained earth, outdistancing Megan's horse with ease. But no, Muriella could hear the other animal coming closer after all. She smiled. If Megan wanted a race, a race she would have. Muriella's heart pounded in time with the motion of the horse beneath her, and the wind threw her breath back into her face. The speed and the breeze and the hypnotic voice of the loch mesmerized her. As she approached the stones jutting out into the water, she realized the other horse had come up beside her. Then a hand reached out to grasp her reins and she looked up in astonishment at John's sun-browned face. All at once, she found it difficult to breathe. She had not seen her husband in three months. For an instant, the sight of his blue eyes and wildly curling beard caused an ache in her chest, and she could not seem to find her voice. "Where—when did ye get back?" she asked at last.
Without being aware of it, she smiled.
John caught his breath and leaned toward her, drawn by the momentary warmth of that smile. "Just now. I haven't yet been inside the keep." He and his men had been riding for many hours, exhausted by their efforts against the rebels and the long trip back to Kilchurn. He'd been looking forward to settling himself in front of the fire in the Great Hall with a tankard of ale in his hand. But when he saw his wife riding recklessly along the shore, some instinct he could not explain had made him follow. "Tell me what ye're running from," he said.
Muriella shook her head. The horses circled, heading back the way they had come, and she saw Megan waiting farther down the strand. "Not from—to. The water brought me here." Brushing a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, she turned toward the iced blue ripples that moved rhythmically inward toward the shore. "Can't ye hear it calling?" She closed her eyes, conscious that John's callused hand still clasped the reins so his fingers curled next to hers. "Listen," she murmured softly. "'Come,' they say, 'now. Come to me now.'"
John considered his wife in silence, surprised by her carefree manner and whimsical expression. While he was away, he had remembered only the blank, shuttered look he had come to dread. That disturbing memory was one of the things that had driven him on, made him hesitate to return to Kilchurn, long after his allies had turned for home.
But now Muriella's eyes were clear and sparkling, her cheeks rosy from the touch of the wind, her lips curved in a secret smile. She swayed gently, echoing the undulation of the lapping waves.
John sat upright, startled by the tremor of pleasure that shook him. He was glad to be home, surrounded by the familiar safety of the keep where he had grown up, glad to be riding along the shore with Muriella beside him. There was something about the ineffable simplicity of her pleasure that drew him as strongly as her fear held him apart. "Muriella," he murmured.
She opened her eyes, at ease with the sight of his darkly bearded face, and surprised that she should feel such calm. "Are ye
back to stay?"
"Aye, the rebels have been subdued at last."
Muriella felt a flicker of apprehension. She leaned toward John, her knees pressed tight against her horse's sides. "What of Maclean?"
"He fled to Duart when he saw he couldn't win," John declared in disgust. "No doubt he's still hiding there, hoping we'll forget." He released his wife's horse and touched the battered hilt of his sword. "But we won't forget. He'll learn that in time."
Muriella thought of Elizabeth and her heart sank. "Will ye attack Mull then?"
"No." John's jaw tightened while he glared at the wind-whipped sand as if he regretted the fact. "'Tis over—for now. We've won this time, yet lost only twenty men."
"Only twenty," his wife repeated hollowly.
"War always means death for some," John said. "'Tis the way it must be. Ye'd best learn to accept that as the men have. They aren't afraid, so long as they die with honor."
"No," Muriella mused, "but then, they aren't the ones left behind." She thought of the last three lonely months, of the long, dim corridors of the keep, emptier by far without the voices of the men to fill them. While the warriors were away, the women had been subdued, going about their chores ploddingly and without laughter. Often, seeking companionship, they had huddled together in the solar to sew and weave the yawning days away. Only the colors and patterns beneath their hands grew and changed; all else remained the same: hushed and expectant, waiting for the men to return. If they returned.
Muriella pushed the thought to the back of her mind. The waiting was over; the men were home. Yet, inexplicably, the loneliness lingered. And somehow, the sight of John's face, softened by his disheveled hair and framed by the drifting clouds all around, only made the ache deeper.
~ * ~
Later that evening Megan and Muriella joined the women grouped around the fire, listening while the men told stories of their adventures in the north of Scotland. The warriors did not seem at all dangerous now, perched as they were on benches or the floor, their tankards beside them, the firelight softening their rough-hewn faces. The keep rang once again with the triumphant laughter of men and women alike, so the huge, vaulted room seemed a little warmer and the stone walls a little less forbidding.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 87