Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Muriella had behaved like a madwoman, but since the rain had gone, and with it the darkness, John had begun to wonder why. He could hear clearly the rasp of her ragged breath, see the unnatural color in her cheeks. She had been deeply overwrought before she entered the keep. What could have happened to make her so distraught, to force her into betraying her pain by shouting foolish threats and demands?

  The questions had been haunting him the night through; his righteous anger had been no defense against them. Like it or not, he was troubled by her distress. He raked his fingers across the strings of the clareschaw, making a cacophony of strident notes that did not cover the rustle of skirts.

  John turned to stare in astonishment at his wife, who hovered just inside the door. He had not expected to see her today, was shocked to realize from her white braided fingers and wary expression that she had sought him out. She was pale this morning; the flush of yesterday's fire had left her cheeks. In spite of himself, John wanted to speak softly, to ask her what was wrong. But there were things he must make clear.

  "So," he said with difficulty, "ye've come after all."

  Muriella swallowed dryly. Now that she was here, now that John's stark blue eyes were fixed upon her, she could not find her voice. "Aye," she croaked.

  Frowning, her husband looked away to regard the cold ashes in the fireplace. He was touched by her uncertainty and could not let her see it. With an effort of will, he turned with a face of stone. "Ye won't speak to me that way before the men. Not ever again, do ye understand?" He said what he must say, not what he wished to say. He could not allow her to challenge him, defy him, even curse him. The men would lose their respect for him as quickly as he lost his own. Nor could he let her frighten them with her predictions of disaster. They were too willing to believe.

  Muriella did not answer, but the little color that remained had fled her cheeks, leaving them sallow. Against all reason, John wanted to drop the clareschaw—and his stern demeanor— and hold her. He wanted to take the darkness from her eyes, to understand. He rose stiffly, eyes on her pallid face.

  When he spoke again, his voice was gruff, but he could not bring the coldness back. "Listen to me. Ye're my wife and must do as I say."

  Muriella knew he was right, but that did not stop the rush of helpless anger. John leaned closer, put his hands on her shoulders. Though she could feel his cool breath on her cheek, she did not lower her eyes or back away. She had come to make things right, but she did not know how, and John's searching gaze did not make it any easier.

  "Do ye hear me?"

  "I hear." She licked dry lips. "I didn't mean—what I said.

  'Twill no’ happen again." They were the hardest words she had ever spoken.

  John released her abruptly. He had expected her to scream at him, to fight, to deny what he knew to be true. Her acquiescence unnerved him, made him regret yet again that he could not simply take her in his arms and comfort her. Even if she had not intended to curse him, she had done so. Not for a moment, since she'd left him the day before, had he escaped the image of her arresting face. She had hovered in the light of the torches, in the shadows, in the deepest part of night, taunting him, always just beyond his reach. "Why did ye do it?" he asked softly. "Whatever were ye thinking of?"

  Then, as now, she had been thinking of how her husband looked in the shadows with the light playing over his body. She had been thinking of Mary, with her long black hair, who lay moaning at his feet. Muriella bit her lip until she thought the blood would come. She turned away so John would not see her face.

  "Are ye ashamed to look at me?" he asked.

  She whirled. "No! I've already seen enough," she cried. "I saw ye!"

  Her husband stared at her in astonishment. "Ye saw what? I don't understand."

  She closed her mouth, determined not to say more, but it didn't matter. John had remembered something. Mary thought she heard someone in the hall yesterday. He had taken her to the deserted tunnels because it added spice to their lovemaking and because he did not believe, like Colin, in flaunting his women before all who cared to watch. He had laughed at her nervous assertion that someone was nearby. No one went into those passageways anymore, he had told her. No one but his wife, it appeared.

  "'Tis unfortunate," he said. "I took her there so ye wouldn't see.”

  Now he pitied her; she could hear it in his voice. She wanted to move away, but he had taken her hand. Was he waiting for her forgiveness? No. He was sorry she had seen it, not sorry it had happened.

  "Let me go!" she demanded.

  John's eyes widened. He had hurt her; he could see that. But how? Surely she didn't care that he had other women. She had made it clear enough that she did not want him. But that had been a long time ago. He met her gaze and held it, leaning forward until he could feel the warmth of her body beneath his hands. She was driving him mad; she would give him no peace.

  Overcome by a need so fierce it burned away the memory of the terror he had once seen in her eyes, he slipped his arms around his wife to draw her close. Before she could turn her head away, he kissed her.

  For a moment she stood still, shocked by the heat of his lips on hers, by the pressure of his arms around her waist. She tried to cry out, but he slipped his tongue between her lips, circling the moist inside of her mouth until he forced the breath from her body. She was too surprised to be afraid, and when she put her hands on his chest to push him away, her fingers curved inward, seeking instinctively the dark hair beneath his saffron shirt. Her heart was beating quickly and more quickly; she could feel his hands on her back, drawing her closer while his lips demanded a response.

  When she did not pull away, John felt a rush of triumph and began to caress her more boldly. He would learn to know her with his fingertips, make her safe and familiar. Then he could banish her haunting image from his dreams. It was what he had wanted to do since he saw her standing before the fire, damp and lovely, bringing with her the refreshing fragrance of the rain. Carried away by the scent of her hair and the feel of her soft body, he caught his fingers in her curls and pulled her head back with sudden impatience.

  When he felt a tremor shake her as he ran his thumb over her breast, he forgot his anger. Nothing seemed to matter but the way she trembled in his arms, the way her mouth opened to his, the longing he sensed somewhere deep within her. It was the first time she had yielded to his touch, the first time she had answered him with warmth instead of coldness. Dear God, she was a witch indeed to make him forget what had gone before. He wanted her, he realized, with an intensity that frightened him.

  Fired by his own rising hunger, John slid his hand over the front of Muriella's gown. He brushed the skin at the low-cut neckline with his fingertips, then reached down to cup her breast in his open palm. Muriella felt her knees grow weak as a strange warmth grew inside her, spreading through her limbs until no part of her remained untouched. The sudden, devastating need that shook her set her head spinning, and she realized she was falling, falling down into the darkness. The water swirled at her ankles, her waist, her shoulders, cold and forbidding. She fought the rushing foam, choking and gasping in an attempt to find some air. Then her body slipped away and it was someone else who fought the sea for one last breath.

  "No!" she cried, forcing the image back into the darkness.

  But the cold terror would not go. Muriella began to struggle furiously against the arms that held her, while the sweat broke out on her body and the room spun madly. "Dear God, no!"

  The cry was wrenched from her with a force that chilled John. Not again, he cursed under his breath. Not now. Then he looked into his wife's pallid face, saw the frenzied expression in her eyes, and realized it was not he she was fighting against.

  "Tell me what ye're so afraid of," he demanded, above the sound of his own ragged breathing. "Ye can't keep running forever."

  Muriella's feet were made of lead. She could not escape the confusion of emotions that swirled around her, caught up in the menacing ris
e and fall of the water. "No!" she repeated, as if that single word could keep the Sight at bay. "I don't want to know."

  John took her shoulders in his hands and forced her to look up at him. "Know what?" he demanded. "What's happening to ye?"

  He found himself looking into the blank, staring eyes he remembered so well. "Ye've seen something. Tell me what it is."

  She was cold, so still and cold and distant that he thought she might never come back to him. Then the trembling began. He gripped her more tightly. "Tell me," he repeated.

  Muriella was lost in an angry sea, but this time it was not she who was being sucked down into the cold black depths. The pressure of John's hands on her shoulders called to her, forcing her upward, away from the vision of the figure struggling frantically through the storm-ravaged ocean. She gazed at her husband with her dark hollow eyes, her lips moved once or twice, then she reached up, pressing her palms to his chest in a wordless plea. "Elizabeth is in danger," she gasped. "The water will rise. Ye must find her!"

  ~ * ~

  Richard and Andrew Campbell smiled with contentment at the pile of fish lying in the bottom of their boat. The catch had been good today, and they were pleased with themselves. They had planned to stay out all afternoon, but the sky was lowering overhead. They decided it would be prudent to return to shore.

  As they rowed, Richard sang gustily, his deep voice rolling out over the choppy water.

  I've heard them liltin' at the ewe's milkin',

  For the Flowers o' the Forrest are a'wede awa'.

  The wind was creeping inside his damp cloak. He rowed harder as the drops began to fall from overhead.

  "We'd best get back to the keep before gloamin'," Andrew remarked. "Besides, the water looks none too friendly to our little boat."

  Richard nodded, continuing his song with even more enthusiasm.

  I ride single in my saddle,

  For the Flowers o' the Forrest are a'wede awa'.

  "Ye'd be likely to have yer own saddle to ride in, ye fool," Andrew chuckled, dropping one oar for a moment while he drew his hand across his brow. "But we do have the goat Sir John gave ye. Mayhap ye could saddle her and ride her to town." The image of his brother on the decrepit animal's back amused him.

  "Aye," he chortled, "the goat."

  Richard tried to frown but failed miserably. "For shame, Andrew. Yonder is a sad song, ye ken. About the men killed at Flodden. Ye're to grieve when I sing it, not laugh. For shame."

  "And do ye say so?" Andrew replied, shaking the raindrops out of his unruly crop of red hair. As he spoke the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the rain began to fall in earnest. "The Kelpies'll be out tonight, ye can bet," he observed in a whisper. Pulling a blanket from under the seat, he draped it over his already soaking hair.

  "Now, laddie." Richard let the oars lie idle while he squinted through the downpour. "Yon rock is lookin' mighty odd. 'Tis like there's somethin' that doesn't belong there."

  Andrew shook his head. "'Tis the water crept into yer noggin, man. Likely the Kelpies mean to lure us there and eat us for supper."

  Richard chuckled uneasily. "I don't like it," he insisted. "Look for yerself."

  Swiveling on his seat, Andrew cupped his hand over his eyes. "I believe ye're right for once," he agreed. "'Tis mighty odd. Looks like a person, ye ken?"

  "Aye, just as I thought. And we'd best go see what he's doin' out there with the water risin' all around."

  "Now, Richard, my boy, 'tis no' our concern. Ye know Jennie'll be waitin' our supper."

  "Andrew Campbell, 'tis no natural, I tell ye. Somethin's amiss, and if we leave it, 'twill gnaw at me the night through."

  As he spoke, he turned the boat toward the long narrow rock that rose from the sea between the island of Mull and the shore. The tide was rising of its own and the storm had churned the water about so the rock was nearly buried. The closer the boat came, the more uneasy Richard felt.

  Andrew rowed in silence, his face creased in a frown of discontent.

  "By God!" Richard half rose from his seat. "'Tis a woman!"

  Andrew followed his brother's gaze. As the boat drew near the dark outcropping, the brothers turned to gape at each other in disbelief. "She's chained!" Andrew blurted, his voice disappearing into the roar of the angry sea. "Chained to a rock in the middle of the channel. Holy Mother of God!"

  For a moment, neither moved; then Richard began to feel under his bench until his hand closed on a heavy piece of iron.

  "We'll have to get her down, ye ken. We can't leave her like that."

  Andrew nodded in reluctant agreement.

  "If ye can hold the boat steady, I'll swing over and break the chains. Throw the rope on yonder smaller boulder. That'll keep her still enough."

  While Andrew fumbled with the rope, Richard slipped into the icy water.

  "Likely we'll both die of the ague," Andrew muttered.

  His brother swam to the edge of the flat, jagged rock and gripped it in rigid fingers. As he stopped to catch his breath, he could feel the rusted chain beneath his hand. "'Tis old," he mumbled, "but still, it won't be easy to break." Hoisting himself out of the water, he climbed up beside the woman, who looked beyond him, her expression blank. Her hair straggled across her face and down her back. The water slid from it in sheets.

  Richard tried to smile reassuringly, but was too horrified to do more than grimace.

  He saw that the chains circled her waist several times, then trailed down the rock. Meticulously, he followed the uneven pattern of the chain across the stone until he found the far end wrapped around a jutting piece of boulder near the waterline. It did not occur to him to speak to her; he only knew he had to work to do. Without a word, he began to strike a heavily rusted link with his iron tool.

  Andrew's grumbling voice came to him from the water.

  "Can't ye hurry, man? Would ye have us all drown while ye tinker the day awa'?"

  Richard grunted in reply. He could feel the link beginning to give way and struck harder. Finally he grinned in triumph.

  "'Tis done," he called down to his brother.

  The woman did not move while he unwound the chain from her waist. When he pulled her free, she collapsed against him, as if the rusted links had been her only support.

  "There," he muttered in embarrassment. "There now. Ye'll be safe enough with us, ye will."

  The woman did not respond. She followed his directions numbly, crawling along the boulder and dropping into the water alongside the boat. Richard slid down beside her, guiding her to a firm handhold on the rocking boat. "Ye'll have to help me, Andrew. We'd no' want the whole thing to tip, and she doesn't seem able to balance herself. Feverish, I think, and no wonder."

  He glanced back at the rock and shuddered. "What kind of person would do such to another?"

  "Save it, Brother. We've business to attend to." "Aye, just as ye say."

  Andrew pulled from above while his brother pushed from below until the woman lay safely beside the fish in the bottom of the boat. Richard followed her quickly, glad to be out of the icy sea.

  "Shall I give her the blanket?" Andrew asked as his brother took up the oars again. "'Twill no' do her much good; the rain's soaked it through already." Nevertheless, he draped the heavy wool over her huddled form. She did not seem aware that he had done so. He would have thought she was dead if he had not seen the occasional rise and fall of her breathing. "By all the saints!" he exclaimed. "Do ye know who this be?" He shook his head distractedly. "We've gotten ourselves into a bundle of trouble this time."

  Richard pulled on the oars, waiting for Andrew to calm down enough to impart his news. "Well," he said at last, "who?"

  The younger man leaned forward, lowering his voice as if someone might hear. "Elizabeth Campbell Maclean, that's who."

  Richard's mouth dropped open. The woman was so bedraggled that he had not recognized her. Or perhaps he had not wanted to. "Holy Mother of God!" He crossed himself, risking the loss of an oar in the turbulen
t water. He glanced back toward Mull, where Duart Castle was visible through wind and rain and thundering waves.

  Richard shuddered. Maclean could quite easily be watching as the sea rose like a living breathing monster to consume his wife. Richard imagined he could feel the Laird of the Clan Maclean's cold gaze upon him now. The chill settled deeper into his bones as the full horror struck him. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and low. "'Tis naught but a lot of sorrow will come of this day's work, and no mistake."

  The sea echoed his grim despair as it battered the walls of stone that protected Duart Castle.

  Chapter 30

  As the door to the Great Hall swung open, everyone turned to stare expectantly at the man who stood on the threshold. "There be a storm brewin' and it looks to be a mighty one." Adam Campbell paused when he became aware of the number of people watching him. Seeking out John where he sat near the hearth, the man added, "I thought ye should know, m'lord. 'Tis only the storm I came to warn ye about."

  John ran his fingers over the strings of his harp. "Thank ye," he said. Though his tone was impassive, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth betrayed his unease.

  Adam half bowed, then left the hall, swinging the door closed behind him. The men scattered through the drafty room turned away in disappointment. Their dinner had long been cleared away, but they showed no signs of leaving their seats. Now and again, one or the other glanced at Muriella, who sat with her back to the stone fireplace, then, afraid to meet her gaze, quickly looked away. They were waiting, as was John, for news of Elizabeth.

  Three hours before, they had been laughing and recounting their successes against the defeated rebels, when John had come down the stairs with his wife, shouting that the men were to form groups to go in search of Elizabeth.

  "Sim," he had cried, "take ten men and cross to Duart. David, ye—"

  Muriella had taken his arm and he had fallen silent.