"I shall starve," he bellowed, "if I don't eat soon!"
As his voice rang through the room, the men looked away from Muriella and back to their meal. Someone belched and laughter followed. A tankard clattered on the table, then another and another. Satisfied, John turned back to his wife. She stood unmoving while the firelight enwrapped her, wavering within her eyes. Mesmerized by her gaze, he reached out to wrap his hand in her hair. The strands were cold and wet against his palm. He turned his hand upward, letting the hair spread over his callused skin.
The water dripped from the strands, slipping between his fingers, tinged golden, then orange, then red with the reflection of the firelight. Almost like blood, Muriella thought. Then her body grew rigid. In that instant, the dream came back to her, so vivid that the colors swam before her eyes—John's laughter, the shifting sunlight, the blood that had run down his arms to the elbow. Only it had not been blood. She remembered Mary lying at her husband's feet, the way her hair had settled onto her body, falling through John's fingers with a whisper of longing. Suddenly the fear was with her again, clutching at her throat.
Obsessed by the sun-striped room where Mary waited, Muriella seized her husband's free hand.
"Let me go!" she shrieked, though it was she who held him.
John released her. “Muriella,” he said sharply with a sidelong glance at the men.
Under his warning gaze, Muriella's fear gave way to anger. "Would ye have me be silent? Do ye think ye can command me so easily? Don't ye know it doesn't take words to curse ye? I can do it with my eyes alone. Look at me!" she cried. "Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye!"
A hush fell over the hall as her words echoed against the stone, then faded into silence. This time she had gone too far. In the suffocating stillness left behind, John raised his hand and struck his wife full across the face. He acted without thinking, from a deeply engrained instinct for self-preservation that had taken root in him at birth.
Muriella's knees threatened to give way beneath her. Her head rang with the force of the blow while the pain burned over her cheek, freeing her from the madness that had overwhelmed her for a moment.
"Go," John said with dangerous calm.
The rage hovered, glittering, in his eyes, daring her to defy him. She did not speak again, but turned, hands clenched in the folds of her skirt, and crossed the endless hall while a hundred watching eyes bored into her. She stared at the rush-strewn floor beneath her feet, knowing that if she once looked up to meet those gleaming eyes, she would not find compassion or even pity in their depths, but only a grim and chilly triumph.
Chapter 28
Elizabeth Campbell Maclean listened as the last sounds of night crept through Duart Castle. Pulling the furs over her lap, she settled against the headboard. She was waiting. She sensed her husband would come to her soon, although he had not done so for a long time.
She believed Lachlan needed her tonight. For the past month she had watched as he paced before the fire in the library, trying to pretend he was not waiting for Evan to return from Edinburgh. But Elizabeth had known. She knew, although he had not told her so, that her husband's nephew had gone to treat with the new regents to settle the terms of the peace between the rebels and crown. Once again the Macleans had fought a losing battle to restore the Lordship of the Isles to their own, and once again they were suing for peace.
It had been a hopeless cause from the beginning; even Elizabeth had known that. She also knew that her husband had insisted upon sending a list of demands to Huntly, Angus and Arran, the Queen Mother's new advisors. The Macleans were the vanquished in this rebellion, yet at Lachlan's instigation, they were demanding reparation from the crown.
Elizabeth reached for the wine on the chest beside the bed.
She swallowed slowly, feeling the liquid slide down her throat. She hoped it would still the rapid beating of her heart. Evan had come back today. Lachlan and his nephew had disappeared into the library, while Elizabeth waited in the hall. Neither had noticed her; it would have made no difference if they had. What they had to discuss was meant only for the ears of men.
~ * ~
Inside the library, Maclean had faced his nephew warily, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Evan to speak. "Well, what's the news, man? What said Huntly to my demands?"
Evan was silent for several moments. He had been dreading this interview since the day he left Edinburgh. No, it had been long before that, since the day he left Duart with Maclean's preposterous list in his pocket. "What do ye think he said? He laughed and threw them in the fire."
"What? Did he dare? He won't laugh again, I'll tell ye that,"
Maclean grunted.
"Uncle, ye must stop pretending now. 'Tis over. There's naught we can do. With the others, Arran and Huntly were generous. But from the Macleans they required submission without condition."
"Are they mad?" Maclean stalked up and down, trying to control his rage. "Did ye kill them where they stood?"
Evan shook his head. "No. Nor did I want to. Don't ye see that we've lost everything? With Argyll hovering at our backs, we're helpless. Ye'll have to admit it sometime."
"No!" His uncle stood perfectly still in the center of the room. "I won't admit that ever, do ye hear? How could ye give them what they want without a fight?"
"Because we've nothing left to fight with," Evan snapped.
"Can't ye see that? 'Tis over, Uncle. The Campbells have finally beaten us for good."
Maclean's eyes were smoldering, his face flushed with anger. "Ye're wrong, ye traitor. Ye've dishonored the Macleans."
"Have I? Is it so despicable to admit defeat when it stares ye in the face? To keep two hundred men alive when they could be slaughtered? Ye know as well as I that we had our chance to beat the Campbells and we lost it. If we'd struck at the funeral as we planned, we could've won. We could've caught them unaware and dragged them down. But we didn't. Ye called us away. Are ye sure ye want to accuse me of dishonor? Are ye certain 'tis not ye who is the traitor?" He did not wait for an answer, but turned on his heel and left the room.
Maclean clenched his fists convulsively. He knew Evan was not the only one who thought that way; the others were simply too afraid to say it aloud. His clan believed he had betrayed them. Failed them miserably at the very least. His nephew was right; the funeral had been their only chance and they had lost it. Running his hand through his hair, he tried to force down the nausea that climbed up his throat. Lost it because of Elizabeth. The blood pounded in his ears, deafening him.
~ * ~
Elizabeth had stood in the hallway, transfixed by Maclean's expression. His face had been pallid, his cheeks sunken, except where the red flamed high on his cheekbones. He had stared unseeing before him. As his anger faded, pain mangled his features.
It was not the first time she had seen that look, but never before had it been so naked or intense. Always he had come to her afterward. But it had been four years this time. He had not shared her bed since that night at Kilchurn. The night before Muriella's wedding.
Elizabeth tensed, thinking she heard footsteps in the hall, but whoever it was passed her door without stopping. She sipped her wine again, remembering that night. He had stumbled into her room at midnight, drunk. After crawling into her bed, he laid his head in her lap and blurted out the story of how he and Andrew Calder had tried to kill Muriella.
"But do ye know," he had said, gripping her hand, "I was glad when I saw her come back unharmed. I didn't want to hurt the lass, not really. Do ye believe me?" He had peered at her through the darkness, waiting anxiously for her response.
She remembered the feel of his curls beneath her fingers as she answered, "Aye, I believe ye."
"Are ye certain?" He had pulled himself up beside her so he could look into her eyes. "'Tis all right, then?"
Cupping his face in her hands, she had whispered, "'Tis all right."
He had come to her like a child asking forgiveness.
Most of the time he ignored her, or hated her, but she did not think of leaving him, even when her father had begged her to. Because sometimes Maclean would place himself in her hands, as he had that night, and with his head in her lap, he would pour out his guilt. She knew she would never turn him away; she would comfort him, always, because he needed her.
"Elizabeth," he had told her that night, "I'll never hurt ye. No' the way I hurt Anne."
"Hush," she had reassured him. "'Twas no' yer fault. And I know ye won't hurt me. Hush." She had run her fingers through his hair, wrapping her other arm about his shoulders, and he was silent. As always, he believed her. He had fallen asleep with his head on her breast.
"Elizabeth?"
She was surprised after all when her husband entered the room. She had not heard the latch move. Peering toward the open door, she realized the light from the single candle on the bedside table didn't reach the shadows where he stood.
"Elizabeth, I—shall I go away?"
She found him at last through the gloom and smiled, shaking her head. She knew he would leave her if she asked him. When he came to her like this, he seemed to lose his own authority, even his ability to decide. "Come," she murmured. "Will ye have some wine?"
His sigh of relief was almost palpable. He moved toward the bed very slowly, more slowly than usual, she thought. But of course, he had never been so badly beaten before. Watching her as if she might change her mind at any minute, he turned back the covers and slid into bed.
"Ye must hate me," he said, sitting on the far side of the mattress.
"Ye know I don't," Elizabeth asserted.
He could not meet her eyes. "Evan does. Evan thinks me a fool."
Reaching out, she covered his hand with hers. His fingers were cold. "Then Evan is a fool," she said. "I love ye. Ye know that."
He turned, his eyes burning, wild. He crouched before her as if she might strike him. "No," he declared. "Ye must not love me!"
"Isn't that why ye're here, Lachlan? Because ye know exactly how I care for ye?"
"Aye," he choked just above a whisper. Once again he seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, but finally he moved closer, sliding his arms around her waist. "Elizabeth!" he cried, "ye'll hate me in the end. Even ye!"
"No," she repeated. "Never." Drawing the covers over him, she cradled him in her arms. He was shaking. "I killed her, ye ken. I killed my Anne."
Elizabeth flinched. So it was Anne already. Usually it was early morning before the memories of his dead betrothed began to eat away at him. "'Twas my father's men who killed her, no’ ye. Ye were only trying to protect her." How many times had she said those same words? How many more would she have to do so before he believed her?
"No, 'twas me. I told her to go. Dear God in heaven, I let her go!"
He moaned and she could feel his hot breath through her thin nightrail. For a long moment he said nothing. Then, "Elizabeth," he murmured as he moved his hand over her thigh, "do ye want me tonight?"
"Aye."
He looked up as he slid his fingers beneath her gown, trailing them over the bare skin of her stomach and higher, to the curve of her breast. "Are ye certain?"
She nodded, fumbling with the strings of her nightrail while his lips met hers. Her head went back and she shivered with pleasure when his moist tongue slipped between her lips. The soft, insistent pressure of his mouth, the movement of his hands upon her body, created a melting warmth inside her that spread through her limbs like the last traces of wine. Deliberately, her husband drew the gown from her shoulders, exposing her breasts, tantalizing her with the languid tracings of his fingers along her naked shoulders.
"Lachlan," she whispered huskily, "please."
He cupped her breasts in his warm palms, ran his tongue along her nipple, making tiny circles on the soft pink flesh.
Sucking in her breath, Elizabeth slid down until she lay flat on the bed with her husband stretched out above her. He hovered there for a moment, not daring to breathe, then lowered his body onto hers. She closed her eyes.
All at once, his hands trembled violently, so violently that the tremors seemed to spread through the rest of his body. He dug his fingers into her back, unaware of her shudder of pain as his nails pierced her skin.
"Lachlan!" she cried. "What is it?" Elizabeth tried to push her husband away, but he was too strong and she found she could not stop him.
Maclean entered her roughly, pressing her head into the pillows, covering her mouth with his until she thought she would suffocate. For several moments he twisted above her, heaving. Then he collapsed, rolling halfway off her. His head lay on her breast and she felt clammy where his skin touched hers. His face was wet; she realized with dismay that he was weeping.
"Elizabeth!" he shuddered. "Forgive me! I shouldn't have let ye go. She's dead, ye know. Anne's dead." He was clinging to her, his fingers bruising her flesh. "Please," he gasped, "I beg ye, forgive me. I could do nothing else. Do ye believe me?" He looked up, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. "Please."
She hesitated, too bewildered by his behavior to find her voice. Then she realized that he needed her now more than ever. She could not fail him merely because she did not understand. Closing her arms around him, she drew her husband near. His head fell against her shoulder while the tears ran down her neck and across her chest. She reached out to touch his hair with her fingertips. "Hush," she whispered. "I love ye, Lachlan. I forgive ye."
"But Anne," he mumbled into her hair, "and ye. I betrayed ye—both of ye."
"No, ye betrayed no one. Sleep," she soothed. "Go to sleep."
Chapter 29
The wan morning sun filtered through the windows of the solar but did not quite reach Muriella where she sat at the loom, her fingers flying. The second panel of her Loch Awe tapestry was nearly complete, and as she worked, she lost herself in the wonder of the pattern she was weaving with the soft wool thread. In the center of the panel, the blond woman knelt beside the raging stream, her mouth open in a silent cry of terror, the flowers askew on her head, her hair trailing over the water. Behind her, the valley had begun to disappear beneath the rising river; within the blue and white flow of the water, the chimerical figures of the Kelpies laughed in triumph.
As she gazed at the loom, brow furrowed, a shadow seemed to fall across the image. Something was wrong—something that had nothing to do with John or his anger or her own growing dread. The water seemed to move, to swell beneath her hands. Gasping, she snatched her fingers away. She did not want to know. At last the fabric grew still and the pounding of her heart ceased.
She could not so easily escape her own thoughts. She had dreamt of Hugh again last night, had teased him, run from him, and finally, fallen laughing into his arms. But when she awoke to the watery dawn, the laughter had died in her. Now her own words sounded in her head again and again. Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye!
Muriella closed her eyes to shut out the memory, but it would not go. She should not have said it, she knew, but she had been powerless in that moment. She had wanted to hurt John as much as he had hurt her. She rested her fingers on the lacery of colored threads. Surely it was fear and anger that had made her speak, not the dull ache of betrayal. And yet—
"Megan?" she said.
The servant raised her head from the gown she was hemming. "Aye?" Her gaze was full of compassion and concern.
"I must go to him."
Megan blinked at Muriella in astonishment. She had seen the thunderous expression on Sir John's face this morning, heard the vehemence with which he cursed at any small annoyance, and the servant knew without a doubt that his wife was the cause.
As the evening passed, while Megan cooled the fierce redness of Muriella's cheek with a wet cloth, her mistress had told her of the confrontation in the hall. The servant shivered even now, with the warmth of the fire at her back, when she remembered the words Muriella had spoken. "I don't think 'twould be wise just now. He isn't in a pleasant fra
me o' mind."
"No," Muriella agreed, "nor is he likely to be. But he's my husband and I can't avoid him forever."
Megan could not argue with that, but still she was uneasy. "What will ye say?"
Focusing once again on the colors of the tapestry, Muriella considered her answer. The humiliation she had felt when John struck her before the men had been deep, but sometime during the night it had slipped away. She had realized eventually that she had left her husband with no other choice. "I don't know," she told Megan. "I only know I have to go."
"Well then, go ye must." But as her mistress rose, smoothed out her pale green gown, and started for the door, Megan closed her eyes and crossed herself in a silent prayer.
In the music room, John slouched down, one leg slung over the arm of a bowed chair. His casual posture belied the turbulence inside him. He strummed a clareschaw sporadically, but the notes were harsh and discordant to his sensitive ears. He stared into the cold, gray ashes of the lifeless fire that bore no resemblance to the blaze in the Great Hall the day before. That fire had burned too bright and hot, illuminating Muriella with brilliance, searing her shouted curse into the ancient stone.
John gripped the harp too tightly, nearly snapping a fragile string. He’d had to strike her. She had left him no choice. Had she shrieked such things at him in private, he might have let them pass, but not in the Great Hall with everyone watching.
"Ye did the right thing," Duncan had admitted reluctantly later, when John sat morose and silent in his chamber. The right thing. Yes.
Why then could he still feel the sting in his hand, sharp as an accusation?
He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the awful silence filled with the sound of Muriella's ringing curse. He remembered too her flushed face and glittering eyes, the long wet hair he had wrapped around his palm. The night before, such thoughts had made his anger flare hotly, dangerously. But now he had had time to think, and what should have been rage had turned to confusion.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 89