Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Thus had he stood on the day Elizabeth left him, thus had he heard the wind scream and moan and whip the sea into a frenzy. The long narrow boulder had been obscured by the storm, but still he had imagined he could see her face. "Elizabeth is dead!" he shouted into the sky. She was gone and he was finally free. The debt he owed his old enemy Argyll had been paid in full. Maclean laughed until the tears ran down his face, until he leaned against the cold gray parapet, his head fell forward, and he wept.

  Chapter 31

  Twelve Campbell men awaited Maclean at the top of Glen Ara, among them, Richard and Andrew. None of the twelve were armed. It was late afternoon and the sun struck through the leaves, glistening where it met the rain-soaked grass. The trees circled the low, flat area where the Campbells stood; the leaves were so thick they formed a solid ceiling overhead. Some of the men had thrown themselves on the ground. They sprawled in the shade, chewing on blades of grass.

  Andrew nudged his brother. "Are ye certain Maclean wanted to claim the body? Seems daft to me. He's walkin' right into our arms. But then, he won't come anyway."

  Andrew had been saying the same thing for three days now. Ignoring him, Richard shifted his blue and green plaid beneath him. Despite its protection, he could feel the dampness seeping through from the ground. "He'll come," he told his younger brother. "Mayhap because he can't help himself."

  "What do ye mean?"

  "Mayhap if the curse is still upon him..." Richard let his voice trail off suggestively.

  This time, Andrew did not laugh at his brother's superstition. He too had heard Sir John's wife curse the Campbells; less than a day later, he and his brother had found Elizabeth chained to the rock. He could not deny what he'd seen with his own eyes. Andrew shivered uncontrollably, though the day was mild and warm.

  Just then, Adam Campbell stepped out of the trees. "Maclean!" he exclaimed.

  The men looked up in astonishment. Pulling his brother to his feet, Richard nodded grimly. "Ye see."

  The Campbells formed two rows of six and stood silent, waiting. When Maclean came from among the trees, they saw immediately that his sword hung at his side and his dagger at his belt. A long look passed among them. He had come armed to the funeral supper. All was not as it should be.

  As Maclean walked down the center of the aisle they had formed, the Campbells began to move behind him. The Laird of the Clan Maclean pulled nervously at his red-and-green plaid, draping it farther over his shoulder. They were unarmed, he thought. It was not like the Campbells. Most likely they had their daggers hidden in the tops of their boots. It wouldn't surprise him if he discovered a knife in his back. The Campbells had always been cowards.

  As they crossed the last hill and the castle came into sight, Maclean wondered once more what insanity had driven him to come here today. For certainly it was insane. He was armed, it was true, but he was one man—one man among a hundred Campbells, and every one of them his enemy. The group paused while the huge iron gate creaked upward. Maclean took a deep breath. He was doing it for Elizabeth, he told himself. He would take her back to Duart and bury her next to Anne.

  As he passed through the courtyard, he noticed there was no one about. The place was silent. Too silent. He stopped when he came to the doors that opened onto the Great Hall. Behind him, he could hear the gate closing, dropping with a final thud against the stones.

  One of the men moved forward to push open the massive oak doors. The hinges made no sound. Maclean blinked as he stepped inside. For a moment he was blinded by the change from bright sunlight to cool shadow, then his vision began to clear and he saw that the Campbells stood all around him, watching his passage in grim silence. He noted that none of them wore swords. Nevertheless, their hatred of him was palpable. It followed him as he climbed the stairs, turning to the right then the left as the man before him instructed.

  "In here, m'lord," Richard said, indicating a door at the end of a hallway. Then he stepped back into the shadows.

  Maclean placed his hands on the latch. As his fingers closed around it, he believed his heart was beating so loudly those inside could surely hear it. Except for Elizabeth. She would hear nothing but silence. Blessed silence. He pressed the latch until the door swung open.

  The hallway had been dark compared to the room he now entered. Torches burned along the walls and there were candles placed at intervals down the long table that dominated the room. Maclean did not wish to look directly at the bier. Instead, he glanced down the walls on either side of the table. They were lined with Campbell portraits. Beneath each portrait flickered a small candle. Beneath each candle stood a live Campbell in full- dress uniform. Maclean noted the regular gleam of metal at each man's waist. Each had a sword, each a dagger. Each stared before him, looking neither to right nor left, and each had his hand poised above the hilt of his sword.

  Maclean swallowed noisily, looking at last down the center of the table. To the left stood Muriella, frozen in time, her face a gray mask. To the right stood John with a dangerous brilliance in his eyes. And at the head of the table sat Elizabeth, staring at her husband unblinking across the hundred candles that separated them.

  Chapter 32

  Maclean drew in his breath with infinite care. So, he thought, the Campbells were not so foolish after all. He could hear the whisper of metal on metal as the men unsheathed their swords.

  "Welcome, my lord." John's mocking voice echoed off the walls, covering the sound of the rising blades on both sides of the table. He removed his hand from his sister's shoulder and started the long walk to the other end of the room where Maclean stood waiting. By the time John reached his brother-in- law, he and all the other Campbells held their swords in their hands. "Welcome," John repeated, "and farewell."

  Maclean did not move; there was nowhere he could go. When John raised his sword, the blade flashed in the splintered candlelight.

  "No!" Elizabeth screamed.

  John paused with his weapon above Maclean's shoulder, glancing back at his sister, who stood leaning heavily on the edge of the table.

  "Please!"

  Muriella turned to her sister-in-law, but Elizabeth avoided her, dodging past the corner of the table. When she came up beside John, she grasped his arm, digging her nails into his skin.

  "Johnnie, I beg ye, if ye've ever loved me, let him go!"

  "Ye aren't going to tell me again that 'twas no' his fault, are ye?" John spoke quietly, fiercely. "Do ye realize what he's done to ye?"

  "Aye," she answered with difficulty. "I know." She did not turn to her husband.

  "And still ye would have me set him free?" John's face darkened with fury as a new thought struck him. "Ye won't go back to him, Elizabeth, do ye hear?"

  "I know," she whispered. "I know. But I would have ye let him live."

  God in heaven, how could she ask this of him? The men would be appalled by such an act of weakness; they would snicker behind his back that Maclean had won after all. But as John looked down into his sister's eyes, he found that he could not deny her. Before he could stop to think, he tossed his sword onto the table and commanded, "Let him go!"

  The men did not move at once and John eyed them with impatience. "Put yer weapons away. I said Maclean will go free."

  As they sheathed their swords, the men stared at Maclean, who had not moved since Elizabeth first spoke. His hand still clutched the dagger at his waist; he had reached for it instinctively when John drew his weapon. Now Maclean stood frozen, considering his wife's face as if it belonged to a stranger. When she did not meet his gaze, he took a step toward her.

  "Go!" John shouted. "Get out before I change my mind and spit ye like a squealing sow!"

  Maclean fumbled with the latch on the door, then hurried from the room.

  When he had gone, Elizabeth looked up at her brother, still clinging tightly to his arm. "Thank ye, Johnnie," she said.

  John found he could not speak. He shook her hands away and strode out the door.

  When Maclean came t
o the head of the stairs, he paused. Below him, the Campbells stood gaping as if he were an apparition. He knew they had expected a bloody corpse; their anger at finding him alive was evident on their faces. Some of them had drawn their daggers from within their draped plaids. Perhaps he would not make it out of Kilchurn Castle after all.

  There was a gasp as all the men released their breaths at once. Maclean looked over his shoulder to find John standing behind him.

  "Put the daggers away," John called, his order carrying clearly through the hall. "Maclean goes free." He was not surprised at the expressions of disgust on the faces below him.

  He felt the same. Every muscle and nerve in his body was poised, ready to strike this man dead at his feet. But Elizabeth had chosen otherwise and he had given his word. He wondered if she would ever know how much that decision had cost him. Schooling his features into a mask of indifference, he preceded Maclean down the staircase.

  ~ * ~

  Elizabeth stayed where John had left her, staring at the place where her husband had been a moment before. As the others filed from the room, she did not look at their faces. She knew what she would find there—shock, repulsion and pity. She had seen those things in John's eyes, too. The thought brought the pain up from her stomach and into her throat. Fleetingly, she wondered why she had agreed to the ruse at all.

  When, against all expectation, she had recovered from her illness, she had been aghast at the magnitude of her husband's betrayal. At first she had been silent, caught up in her own private cycle of horror, recounting to herself over and over the list of Lachlan's transgressions. Then she had begun to laugh, too loudly, remembering the night when he had come to her and wept. She had forgiven him his sin beforehand, she thought. Forgiven him without knowing. In the end, she had screamed at the walls, pacing the floor like a caged animal. But she had not wept.

  Then John had come to read her Colin's letter in which the Earl had planned for Maclean's ignominious death. Elizabeth had chosen to cooperate; after all, her husband had long ago forsaken his right to her loyalty. She had really believed she could make it through to the end when he lay dead at her feet. She believed it until the moment she saw him standing at the foot of the table, facing the Campbells alone. Then it had been too much for her and she had broken her resolve, destroyed John's faith in her, and insured her own inevitable misery. All so that Lachlan Maclean could go free.

  From far away she heard the wail of the gate as it wrenched upward. Suddenly, she began to run. Unaware of her surroundings, she fled through the halls toward the door of the eastern tower. The latch was stiff, and she hit it with her knuckles again and again until her hand was covered with blood. When at last the rusted latch came loose, she pulled the door open and started up the stairs. She was heading for the window near the top of the tower. Once there, she paused, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest.

  As she tried to catch her breath, she examined the sweep of ground below the castle. It was empty. She was afraid he was already gone. Then he came into view; even from where she stood, she could see his head was not bowed. No one would ever guess he was fleeing for his life. She leaned down, gripping the windowsill, knowing she would not see him again. The last of the sunlight struck his red hair, setting it ablaze. As her husband moved into the shadows at the edge of the forest, Elizabeth knelt in the darkness with her head pressed against the unfriendly stone.

  ~ * ~

  Muriella found her sister-in-law standing at the highest window in the eastern tower, staring in silence. The young woman approached quietly, placing her hand on Elizabeth's arm.

  "Elizabeth."

  "Leave me be."

  The chill on her sister-in-law’s skin shocked Muriella. "Ye must come away. Ye'll be ill again if ye don't get warm."

  "No." Elizabeth continued to stare out the window. "I won't come away, for I mislike the stairs. Mayhap I'll find another way down."

  "Elizabeth—" Muriella could not think clearly. She had spent the last hour sitting in her room, struggling against the compassion and dread, pity and repulsion that warred within her. Even Megan had been shocked into silence. Yet whatever her feelings, Muriella had known she must find Elizabeth; she was certain her sister-in-law was in need of company. But she had not expected this wooden expression, this pair of gray and lifeless eyes.

  Under her breath, she cursed John for listening to Colin. She had known how hard it would be for Elizabeth to sit and watch her husband die, had told John the Earl's plan was cruel beyond words. But he had not listened; his hatred for his enemy had been stronger than his compassion for his sister, at least until the end. Muriella shivered at the thought. She had wanted to stay away from that candlelit room today, but had guessed Elizabeth would need her. For her sister-in-law's sake, she had waited with the others for Maclean to arrive. Muriella tried to remember what Elizabeth had said a moment ago. Finding another way down—that was it. She grasped the ledge with cold fingers, turning to look at the ground far beneath her. "Don't talk that way!" she protested.

  Elizabeth smiled. "I meant it, little one." Leaning down, she whispered, "There are worse things than death, ye ken. Much worse."

  Muriella went rigid. "Don't," she repeated in a strangled voice. "Please come away."

  "No, not this time. Ye should have let me die, ye know. 'Twould have been best."

  "Surely ye don't believe we would want ye to do this?" Muriella gasped.

  "Wouldn't ye? Then tell me, can ye comfort me?"

  The younger woman was silent.

  "Can ye tell me ye don't pity me? That John and Duncan and the others won't turn away when I see them?"

  "Elizabeth—"

  "Tell me if ye can!"

  Muriella wanted desperately to look away from Elizabeth's steady gaze. Drawing her breath in slowly, she said, "I can't."

  With a sigh, Elizabeth turned back to the window. "I thought ye would lie to me. Thank ye for telling the truth."

  "Ye don't understand. No matter what we feel, it doesn't mean we don't love ye. It doesn't mean—"

  "It does. It means everything. I would rather ye hate me. Ye came here to console me for my loss, didn't ye? Do ye really believe ye can save me with yer pity?” 'Come away, Elizabeth, and I'll weep for ye. And when ye're gone, I'll shake my head and wonder how ye could have been so weak and foolish.'"

  "Didn't ye pity Maclean because he was one man against many? Isn't that why ye pled for him? Do ye think he cares why? 'Tis done; that's what matters."

  Elizabeth did not answer for a long time. When she spoke at last, some of the ice had melted from her voice. "Ye're right," she said. "I pitied him. I thought I wouldn't ever pity a man again, least of all my husband. But ye're wrong if ye think he doesn't care. I believe he would've wanted me to let him die. 'Tis what he's wanted from the first day I met him, but I didn't know it. Not until today. When I saw him standing there with the swords drawn all around him, I knew as if he had screamed it to me that he was grateful because I was going to end his guilt. I decided then and there that he would live. I know he'll remember, and his memories will gnaw at his insides until he goes mad. He never loved me, ye see, but he hurt me, and he won't be able to bear that."

  Muriella frowned. "If 'twas for that reason—"

  "Twasn't." Elizabeth sighed. "Ye know that as well as I do." Her hands closed on the ledge until the stone dug into her palms. "I did it because he trusts me, because he's the only person who ever needed me. My father—" She broke off abruptly as she took in the shadowed landscape below. She thought she could feel Muriella shivering. "It frightens ye, doesn't it? My feelings for Lachlan make ye ill with fear. I'm wondering if ye're afraid for me or for yerself?"

  "Elizabeth, please."

  "Tell me, is it John?" Muriella did not answer.

  "Tell me!" Elizabeth began to laugh in the darkness. "Tell me and mayhap I can pity ye!"

  Her laughter echoed in the room until it seemed the stones would crumble. "Tell m—"

  Murie
lla looked up to see John cross the chamber in two long strides. Without a word, he took Elizabeth in his arms, cradling her head on his shoulder, muffling her laughter in his plaid. The laughter dissolved at last into silence, then to tortured weeping. Elizabeth flung her arms about her brother's neck and sobbed without restraint.

  Chapter 33

  John rested his head in his hands. Through his fingers he could see the patterns the torchlight cast among the fresh rushes. He watched them in fascination, willing his troubled thoughts into silence.

  "Ye needn't stay with me, Johnnie."

  He looked up, startled, at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. She had not spoken since he'd brought her to her chamber and settled her on the bed. He had been relieved. He did not want to hear again the unearthly sound of her laughter. "I don't think ye should be alone," he said.

  Elizabeth smiled grimly. "'Tis over now, and I've been alone before, ye ken."

  John shook his head. "I'll stay."

  His sister shrugged in indifference. "As ye wish." After a moment, she propped herself up on her elbow, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "Tell me why ye let him go," she said.

  John blinked at her in astonishment. "Because ye asked me to.”

  “I don’t think so. Ye didn’t really care what I wanted. Ye sought to make my husband pay for his mistakes and ye used me to do it.” Her brother started to protest, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "'Tis cruel, aye, but true. Ye needn't bother to deny it."

  John shifted on his stool, remembering that Muriella had said the same when she read Colin's letter outlining the Earl's plans for Maclean. "How can ye even consider such a thing?" his wife had demanded. "How can ye treat yer sister so cruelly when she has no strength to fight ye?" She had paused, her eyes bright with anger. "Or mayhap 'tis what ye're counting on. Mayhap ye wish to punish her for her weakness. If so, ye couldn't have chosen a better way to do it."