Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  "They won't find her at Duart," she murmured. "They must look in the water."

  John heard the men gasp, but it had sounded far away. He considered his wife's face for a long time before asking, "Are ye certain?"

  "Aye," she said.

  Sim and the others had not gone to Duart. Those who stayed behind were very conscious of Muriella's presence. They had guessed that the sudden search for Elizabeth had come about because of one of the mistress's visions, but that was something they did not wish to think about.

  John and Duncan had played their harps off and on while the hours crawled by. More than once, John found himself wondering why he had chosen to stay at the keep instead of joining the men for the search. The inaction, the minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, were wearing his nerves away. But still he had not gone after the others; he did not want to leave Muriella.

  To keep himself occupied, he had taken up his harp and begun to play along with his squire. At first the two had attempted cheerful songs, but soon their music began to reflect the lowering sky beyond the windows.

  Muriella sat across the hearth, watching her husband as he strummed the mournful notes. When he and Duncan began to sing together, her thoughts turned back to where they had hovered for the past three hours—in the sea.

  Round the old crags of Arthur's Hill, The tearful mists are slowly creeping As dawns the morn, so sadly still, Dunedin's, Scotland's day of weeping.

  Her mind painted pictures of Elizabeth being tossed about in the waves, her hair streaming over the gray green water, her body wrapped in chains. Once John had held Muriella by the shoulders, asking, "Will she die?" His wife had answered, "I don't know."

  Far murmurs from the city rise, Of wild distraction, mingled cries Of wailing and of fear.

  Outside the storm was rising; she could hear the rain falling in the courtyard, pounding on the cobblestones. The wind raced above the castle, screaming across to the sea.

  Frequent and fast the war-bell tolls, And up the misty mountain rolls

  Its burthen on the ear,

  O'er ferny hollow, loch and lea

  Replying to the moaning sea.

  The water was roiling, crashing against the cliff at the foot of the keep where the seabirds cried their warning. From the heart of Duart, Muriella sensed a bewildered grief that betrayed itself through strangled moans, but that was not Elizabeth. The song ended and Muriella forced her thoughts back to the reality of cold stone all around. She leaned forward to find John watching her. As they stared at each other, afraid to speak, they heard noises in the courtyard.

  Dropping his harp, John leapt from his place to move toward the entryway. Muriella was not far behind. As the door opened for the second time, Richard and Andrew came into the hall with a long, gray burden in their arms. Both were sodden to the skin. When Richard saw John, he said, "We heard ye're lookin' for yer sister, m'lord. Andrew and me, we found her."

  John and Muriella stared at the bundle the men carried.

  Elizabeth was wrapped in a blanket so only her hair was visible; it fell, dripping, from one end. John focused on Richard's sallow face, framed by dark red hair. "Is she dead?" he asked in a strangled voice.

  "Och no!" His hair clinging like seaweed to his freckled face, Andrew answered before his brother could speak. "At least, no' yet. But she's gey ill, or so Richard tells me."

  His older brother nodded. "'Twas a terrible thing the two of us saw. Thought we were daft or bewitched. But no, there she was for all the world to see, chained to a rock in the channel."

  "What!" The single word seemed to fill the hall before John clenched his jaw shut.

  When she saw how her husband's cheeks flushed red, how dangerously his eyes glittered, Muriella forced herself into action. She moved forward, turning back the blanket so she could see Elizabeth's face. Pressing her cheek against her sister- in-law's forehead, she drew a deep breath of concern. She turned to call for servants and found Megan and Mary at her elbow.

  Glancing at John, she told him, "She's feverish. We'd best put her to bed."

  "Aye," her husband agreed. "Take her!"

  Megan and Mary lifted Elizabeth's unconscious form from the two men. With Muriella following, the three women began to move across the hall to the stairs.

  As they went, Richard declared behind them, "The water was risin', ye ken. If we'd been a bit later—"

  ~ * ~

  For the next several hours, Muriella was busy sponging the salt and seaweed from Elizabeth's body, placing cool cloths on her forehead, and attempting to pour warm wine down her throat. She had long ago despaired of getting rid of the smell of fish that clung to Elizabeth's hair. Muriella had dismissed Mary as soon as her sister-in-law lay shivering on the bed. Now Megan worked beside her, alternately building up the fire and bending over the table to mix herbs together and stir them into the wine. Despite all their efforts, Elizabeth remained unconscious and unmoving.

  "She's very ill, m'lady," Megan whispered, as if already in the presence of the dead.

  Muriella nodded absently. "Aye, help me with the poultice, can ye?"

  Megan lifted the reeking cloth from the bowl while Muriella opened Elizabeth's nightrail and held it aside. When the poultice was in place, she stood staring at her sister-in-law's face. A moment ago it had been deep red and the sweat had stood along her forehead, dripping down into her hair, but now the skin was chalk white and clammy cool.

  "M'lady, ye'd best sit down for a bit. There's nothing more ye can do just now."

  Her mistress pulled a chair near the bed and sank into it, but did not remove her gaze from Elizabeth's face. The woman's mouth was open; Muriella could hear her breath as it struggled up from her throat and over her parched lips. Sometimes Elizabeth would gasp and choke, but then her breathing would settle again. Muriella was painfully aware of the increasing sound of congestion in her sister-in-law's chest. As she listened in dread, the smell of Megan's herbs began to make her head ache. When the servant placed a glass of wine in her hand, Muriella drank it wordlessly.

  Just as she finished the warm drink, Elizabeth moved for the first time. She twisted on the bed, dislodging the poultice and flinging aside the cloth from her forehead.

  Muriella sprang to her feet. Taking Elizabeth's hand in hers, she leaned forward, listening. Her sister-in-law moaned, running her other hand over her body at the waist. Muriella caught Megan's eye and winced. Both women had seen the bruises and abrasions made by the chains. The servant grasped Elizabeth's hand and held it tightly.

  For a long time, she rolled about, attempting to free her hands and moaning, but did not open her eyes. Then she sat up, crying, "Lachlan!"

  Muriella and Megan pushed her gently back until she lay among the pillows. This time they did not look at each other. Both knew it must have been her husband who had chained Elizabeth to the rock, yet she was calling for him.

  "Shall I bring Sir John?" Megan asked.

  "No!" Muriella said. Then, "Aye, bring him."

  When Megan had gone, Muriella poured some of the medicated wine into a goblet and held it out to Elizabeth, who lay staring up at the canopy overhead. "Elizabeth, ye must drink this."

  "Lachlan," Elizabeth moaned. "Where's Lachlan? I want him." She began to claw at the bruises through her nightrail, twisting herself in the linen sheets.

  Catching Elizabeth's shoulder, Muriella held her until she was still again. Then she reached for the wine, holding the goblet close to her sister-in-law's lips. Elizabeth gaped at her blankly and Muriella realized that in her delirium, the woman did not know her. "Drink," she urged.

  Mechanically, Elizabeth raised her head to swallow some of the wine. Then she knocked the goblet from Muriella's hand. The liquid spread over the sheets, staining them red. Elizabeth began to cough and sob simultaneously while the breath rasped in her throat and sobs wracked her body, causing her to double up. And all the time she wailed her husband's name.

  Muriella did not hear John come up behind her, but a
ll at once he reached out, clasping Elizabeth's legs. While Muriella held his sister's shoulders, John straightened her legs, then pulled the heavy furs back over her. Megan brought more wine, and although Elizabeth turned her head away again and again, the servant finally managed to get her to drink.

  When the wine was gone, John nodded once to Megan and she slipped away. Elizabeth was coughing again, gasping incoherent phrases. But at last the coughing fit passed and she fell silent.

  When John looked down at his sister, he felt a tightening in his chest. Her hair was matted; it straggled across the pillow in disorder, except where a strand or two clung to her cheek. Her eyes were yellow, then gray, then the color seemed to fade altogether. The skin was stretched over her bones so it appeared transparent but for the furious red that came and went in her cheeks. Her breathing was slow and labored and the color had been bleached from her lips. She's dying, he thought. When he looked up, Muriella was watching him, her own eyes gray in the firelight. "Has she told ye aught?" he asked.

  His wife shook her head.

  "We have to know. I'll have to ask her."

  Muriella nodded reluctantly, placing her hand on Elizabeth's forehead in a protective gesture.

  Taking both his sister's hands, John murmured, "Elizabeth, ye must tell me who did this to ye."

  Elizabeth turned her head from side to side.

  John was not certain she had understood him. "Elizabeth," he repeated slowly, "who?"

  "He didn't know. He couldn't have known!" his sister cried. "No, 'twas the other two."

  "What two?"

  "Strangers!" Elizabeth gasped. "Never knew them. Never!" "No? Are ye certain of that? Ye'd never seen them at Duart?" John persisted.

  "At Duart," Elizabeth said as if the idea were new to her. "Aye, at Duart, every day."

  John leaned down until he could feel his sister's breath on his face. "Then they were yer husband's servants, weren't they?" Elizabeth looked away. "Aye, they were, but Lachlan didn't know their plans. I swear it."

  John shook his head. "Do ye think," he said, "do ye really believe two servants would do such a thing without their master's consent?"

  Elizabeth was weeping. "I love him," she cried. "He wouldn't—I love him!" Her voice faded as she began to writhe again.

  John stared, too appalled to speak, afraid he might choke on the revulsion that had lodged in his throat. His hands opened and closed convulsively about Elizabeth's neck. For an instant, he wanted to crush her voice with the weight of his fists so he need never again hear her anguished cry—I love him!

  Muriella saw John clench and unclench his hands. Too frightened to think clearly, she leapt in front of him so her body shielded Elizabeth from his gaze. "No!" she cried, pounding her fists against his chest. "Leave her be!"

  Gradually, John became aware of the pain in his chest, of the weight of his wife's body pressed against his. As Muriella's face came into focus, the blood ceased its fierce pounding in his head and the tension began to drain out of him. He could not look at Elizabeth's face, gray and bloodless on the pale linen sheets; he could not bear to. Grasping Muriella's flailing fists in his hands, he tried to move her aside, but she would not go. "I told ye to leave her be!"

  “Listen to me,” John said. I won’t hurt her. My sister is safe now," he added, "from all of us." Then, releasing his wife, he turned to leave the room.

  All at once, Muriella was too weak to stand. She sighed raggedly as she sank onto the bed next to her sister-in-law. Reaching out to touch the other woman's cheek, she saw how her fingers shook and drew them back within the folds of her gown. Elizabeth's eyes were once again dark with fever. Perhaps, in her delirium, she had not seen the way her brother's hands hovered threateningly above her. Perhaps she had not seen the violence in his eyes. Muriella could only pray it was so.

  When her body stopped shaking at last, she rose, found the cloth Elizabeth had tossed aside, and dipped it in a basin of cool water. Gently, she pressed the cloth to her sister-in-law's forehead, then her flushed cheeks and throat. Muriella knew Elizabeth was not aware of her ministrations, but she had to do something. She had to try to keep her sister-in-law alive, though she feared it was already too late.

  She forgot about the passage of time or the chill of the room or the aches in her own limbs as she sponged Elizabeth's body again and again. Muriella moved from the basin to the bed and back again, stopping only to replace the poultice, straighten the crumpled sheets, or give Elizabeth a sip of wine. She heard someone enter the room behind her, but assumed it was Megan and did not look up from her self-imposed task.

  "Muriella."

  She stiffened at the sound of John's voice.

  "Ye look too weary to stand anymore. Ye'd best sit down for a bit."

  "Not till the fever breaks," she told him, glancing over her shoulder at her husband where he leaned against the wall. He looked weary too, as if he need the support of the stone to hold him upright, but she could not think about that now. She had just rinsed the cloth in her hand, but already it had grown warm from the heat that raged through Elizabeth's body. With a sigh, she dipped it in the water and began her task all over again.

  John watched his wife work tirelessly until exhaustion drained the color from her face. He wanted to help, but sensed she would not let him near. He wondered, as he watched her push the damp hair back from Elizabeth's eyes, if she was not wise. Yet something held him there—watching, waiting, helpless in the face of his sister's pain.

  He contemplated his wife's competent, gentle hands as she pressed cool cloths to Elizabeth's forehead. She worked intently, giving her kindness and the last of her own dwindling strength.

  Muriella moved more and more slowly, dragging her feet through the scattered rushes. Her breathing became labored and she began to think that to lift her arms once more would be an agony too great to bear. When she stumbled, John was beside her in an instant, supporting her sagging shoulders with the strength of his arm. "Ye must stop. There are servants to do this. Besides, she doesn't even know ye're here."

  With an effort, his wife straightened. "She knows," Muriella told him softly, "but even if she didn't, I'd stay. If I can't save her, then I can't, but I don't mean to let her die, even if 'tis what ye wish."

  Appalled, John turned her to face him. "Ye can't believe that."

  "Are ye forgetting so soon? I saw how ye looked at her. I know—"

  "'Twas only a momentary madness," he said grimly. "She's a Campbell, and my sister; I don't wish her ill."

  Muriella heard the pain in his voice and knew he spoke the truth. "Please," she said wearily, "I must see to her." When she tried to move away, her knees buckled and she started to fall.

  John caught her in his arms and carried her to the low chest against the wall. Seating himself with his back to the cold stone, he settled his wife in his lap. "When ye've rested," he said. "'Twill no' help Elizabeth if ye make yerself ill too."

  "Ye don't understand," she whispered. "'Tis all my fault."

  John stared at her, bewildered. "How—" Then he remembered. Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye! With his hand under her chin he forced her to meet his eyes. "No, Muriella. Even ye don't have that kind of power."

  How could he be so certain, Muriella thought, when he had never felt the force of the Sight that destroyed in an instant her strength and her will? Yet she wanted to believe him, wanted to abandon her fears, her remorse, and give herself to the slow, rhythmic beating of his heart. When she rubbed her arms to start the blood flowing through her limbs again, John drew her closer, running his hands over her body, hoping his warmth would chase away the chill from her skin. For a long time he was silent while she sat tensely, staring into the fire across the room.

  The smell of herbs and wine hung heavy in the air. Muriella breathed the fumes and felt them running through her blood. She could not seem to move; the rise and fall of her husband's breath was so soothing. At last she succumbed to her exhaustion and res
ted her head on John's shoulder. His circling touch warmed her, frightened her, disturbed her, but she was tired. Too tired to break away. Drawn by a need she could not explain, she looked up at

  John's face. Its harsh lines had been softened by his own weariness and the firelight that dimmed the bright blue of his eyes. She reached up to touch the springy, dark curls of his beard, and he smiled. Muriella trailed her fingers down his throat to his shoulder, rested her palm above the hypnotic pulse of his heart. Could this man with the comforting hands be the same one who had stood above his sister with murder in his eyes? Before she had a chance to grasp the thought, it swirled away, absorbed by the mist that clouded her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she let the mist enfold her until she drifted into sleep.

  ~ * ~

  Lachlan Maclean spread the parchment on the table, pressing out the creases with careful fingers. Pulling the lamp closer, he stared at the letters until they ceased roving across the page and fell into words and sentences. "31 January, 1514," he read aloud for the third time. With a great deal of resolution, he forced himself to read further.

  Lachlan Maclean

  Laird of the Clan Maclean

  My Lord,

  Yer wife Elizabeth died yesterday, early in the morning. She was delirious with fever for three days before her passing. Her body lies in state at Kilchurn, where she will be buried in one week's time.

  Sir John Campbell of Lorne, Thane of Cawdor

  Maclean rose stiffly, found the steps carved from stone and made his way to the battlements of Duart, the letter clutched in his hand. The wind rose howling and shook him to the bone, twisting his plaid about his shoulders. He stared blindly downward at the deep blue bay, at the mainland, where the force of the wind tortured thick groves of trees. Beneath him, the walls of the castle seemed to be a mere continuation of the stone beneath. Steep castle walls and jagged cliffs towered in sullen contrast to the peaceful heart of the bay. Far below, the waves thrummed ceaselessly against unforgiving stone. Maclean breathed in the throbbing rhythm.