Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  "Be silent!" John had told her, furious that she should challenge his decision. It was not until he stood with his sword above Maclean's head that he realized Muriella was right. He was punishing Elizabeth by forcing her to be part of this. Punishing her for loving a man she should have hated above all others.

  "Mayhap we should have found another way," he told his sister now.

  "It doesn't matter," Elizabeth said. She leaned toward him, smiling strangely. "But 'tis odd, don't ye think, that now we're both left with nothing? I don’t have my husband or my pride, and ye don't have yer revenge. 'Tis a fitting trade, don't ye think, for the life of a man like Lachlan Maclean?"

  Chilled by the careless tone of her voice, John rose, kicking his stool away. "Ye don't know what ye're saying."

  "I do," Elizabeth said. "But since ye don't wish to believe it, why don't ye just go? Ye can't keep yer nightly vigil here."

  John stared at her. How could she know that he had slept little the past three nights while he waited for Maclean to come? Had she guessed about the thoughts of Muriella that would not let him rest? Elizabeth's expression told him nothing. She closed her eyes in weariness and sank back among the furs with a sigh. "Please, Johnnie, go. I don't want to fight with ye. I only want a little peace. Please."

  "Shall I send Muriella to ye?" He should have thought of it before; he had watched the two women grow closer with each day that passed. Muriella's kindness had never faltered. Not once had she been too busy to answer when Elizabeth called.

  "No, she's weary. Let her rest." For the first time, Elizabeth smiled warmly, with affection.

  John shook his head. Somehow, in the past weeks, Elizabeth had become more like Muriella's sister than his own. His wife was much more than companion and friend; she and Elizabeth shared a kinship, a fragile and invisible bond. "She'll come if ye want her." It was true, John realized. The

  Muriella he knew as unapproachable, volatile, moody and changeable, had revealed—for Elizabeth—a well of infinite patience and unfailing tenderness. She gave her sister-in-law a dedication John could not, because, always, his anger and disgust held him apart.

  "I know," Elizabeth murmured. "'Tis why I don't need her now—I know how quickly she would come if I called."

  John did not answer. There was nothing he could say, though he ached at the sound of his sister's pain, which he could neither soothe nor forgive. Silently, he left Elizabeth to the warm, if lifeless, company of the firelight.

  ~ * ~

  John stood in the library with his hands pressed against the stone. The Buik of Alexander the Grate lay open on a brocaded chair, but he had read no more than two sentences before giving it up. Tonight the firelight called him as it had so often of late, conjuring images of Muriella, her face pale and drawn with weariness, her back to him as she spoke to Megan or Mary or Jenny, yet never once let her attention stray from Elizabeth. When, he wondered, had his wife ceased to be a stranger in this keep? When had she made it her home, and the Campbells her family? And why had he never noticed before?

  He paced restlessly before the hearth, his boots making no sound on the soft Persian rug. Muriella's face was always before him—her eyes dark with dread, luminous with pleasure, bright with fierce determination. He was bewildered by her complexity, weakened by her pain, impressed by her courage and stunned by his own wildly changing reactions. His stomach rumbled, but the kitchen was too far away, the hallways too cold. He glanced again at the open book, but it was no use. He could not ignore the unfamiliar tenderness he felt for Muriella, the desire to cup her cheek in his open palm. It made him uneasy. This was not a straightforward battle where he could see the enemy and face him squarely. Perhaps it was not a battle at all, and there was no enemy except his own blindness.

  He pounded his fist on the mantel in frustration. He could feel his wife's presence, even half a castle away. He could feel her warmth, hear the tiny, insistent voice that called him, drew him toward her while it warned him away.

  In the far shadows of the room, Elizabeth's voice echoed coldly: Ye can't keep yer vigil here.

  Without a backward glance, he abandoned the fire, stepping into the dark hallway. He found his way easily enough, although there were no torches to light the path. For the third night in succession, he passed the door to his chamber and many others after it until he came to Muriella's. For the third time, he put his hand on the latch, then paused, undecided. Above all he wanted to look at her, to see her sleeping with her hair spread on the pillow. But for the third time, he left the door unopened and leaned instead against the wall, waiting for something he could not even begin to understand.

  ~ * ~

  Megan stood beside the shuttered window, looking over her shoulder now and then to see if Muriella still slept peacefully. In the firelight her mistress's face seemed calm enough, but it would not last. Megan was sure of that. The dreams had come every night since Elizabeth had been brought to Kilchurn. Every night Muriella woke up shrieking Maclean's name in terror. Megan pulled her robe closer about her shoulders but did not move nearer the fire. Just now she preferred the chilly air by the window to the heat of the flames. She tried to concentrate on pleasant images that might lull her to sleep, but saw only phantoms that hovered just beyond her reach. She frowned. It was not like her to be disturbed by indefinable fears. But, she admitted to herself, there was something besides her mistress's nightmares that was making her uneasy.

  A movement from the bed shattered her reverie.

  ~ * ~

  Muriella was dreaming of a valley, its hills scattered with wild roses and morning glories. She ran across a wide meadow, seeking the burn that rippled by somewhere out of sight. She could hear the pounding footsteps in the distance and knew that Hugh was coming, that soon he would catch her, laughing, tangling his hands in her long auburn hair. When she found the burn, it was already swelling into a river. She paused on the bank, wondering if she dared try to cross by the boulders protruding from the water, making a bridge to the other side.

  While she stood, undecided, a hand touched her shoulder.

  "Do ye need me to help ye cross?" It was not Hugh's voice, but John's. To her surprise, she turned to smile at him. His smile answered hers, and she was only vaguely aware that the river was rising higher, so both stood ankle deep in water.

  "Come." He took her hand, leading her out to the stones. The boulders were shiny green with moss, and she was afraid of falling, but John coaxed her forward. She took a step, then another, holding his hand tightly all the while. As she picked her way across, the water rose to her knees and the boulders disappeared in the whirlpools the torrent created. When the water reached her shoulders, she turned to look at John for reassurance, but as she did so, she lost her balance and fell headlong into the rising river.

  She was revolving in ever-tinier circles. Her hair was swept around her body, her arms and legs tangled in the strands. She could not move. The circling motion coiled her hair around her hips, her waist, her chest. She gasped, choking, spinning toward the boulders on every side. Then, abruptly, she was lifted from the water. Her hair, which a moment before had coiled like a snake around her shoulders, fell back, dripping and limp behind her. Closing her eyes, she breathed dry air and lay still, blessing the arms that held her high above the river.

  Someone laughed. She opened her eyes to smile into John's face, but he wasn't there. "Maclean!" she screamed. He was laughing at her and his arms fell away and she was falling back toward the black heart of the whirlpool.

  ~ * ~

  Megan had taken a few steps toward her mistress when the door swung open. John did not pause to look at the servant, but went instead to where his wife sat huddled on the bed, her hair falling like a curtain over her face. Taking her in his arms, he held her for a long time in silence.

  Megan stood frozen where she was. He must have heard Muriella call out. But how was that possible? His chamber was not nearby. Then he must have been outside, she thought. But why?

&n
bsp; She remembered her anxiety during the past few nights, how restless Sir John had seemed, how his gaze followed his wife wherever she went of late. Had he been waiting outside the door? Or had he meant to come in all along? Megan shivered. It was too soon. Muriella's fears, once pushed back into darkness, had rushed into the light once more. If John chose to lie with her now, Megan knew it might destroy her mistress.

  The servant stiffened her spine. She would stop him if that were what he intended. Glowering, she moved closer to the bed. John was holding his wife so Megan could not see her mistress's face. He was massaging Muriella's shoulders rhythmically.

  "Muriella," he said, "tell me what ye were dreaming of."

  His wife opened her eyes, compelled by the sound of his voice, but the webs of sleep still clung, woven into the lingering traces of fear. "The water," she gasped. "The rising water." She choked on the words.

  John frowned as his hands moved over her back. Was she thinking of Elizabeth and how she had nearly drowned? Or was there something more? He cupped Muriella's face in his open palms. "'Tis over now," he told her. "Elizabeth is safe."

  Slowly, one word at a time, his meaning penetrated Muriella's fogged mind. She was grateful he could not see inside her nightmare to the real source of her terror. Elizabeth might be safe, but Muriella was not. "I tried to stop it," she cried, "but I couldn't do it."

  "Ye had nothing to do with what happened to my sister. I've told ye before, 'tis a blessing she's free of that man at last."

  Muriella shook her head. "'Tis not a blessing, but a curse."

  She did not give him the chance to contradict her. "Don't ye understand? I did curse her, not by causing Maclean to put her on the rock, but by keeping her alive—to mourn, to weep, to remember."

  John had no answer for that. He remembered too clearly the chilling indifference in Elizabeth's eyes. "She'll learn to forget. She'll be herself again in time," he said.

  "Mayhap," his wife agreed, but she did not believe it. Gradually, her heart had ceased its frantic beating and her skin had grown warm under John's touch. She looked into his eyes, clouded with his own troubled thoughts. "I wanted to thank ye for what ye did today. I know 'twas not easy to let Maclean go. But for Elizabeth's sake, 'twas kinder."

  "Was it?" John murmured. "I wonder." He saw Muriella was calmer, that the effects of the dream had faded away. "Do ye think ye can sleep now?" he asked.

  "Aye." The concern in his tone made Muriella want to weep. She could rail against his anger and his betrayal and his lust for blood, but his kindness she could not bear. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek, and the simple gesture brought a rush of warmth that frightened her with its power. She made herself breathe slowly, evenly, but could not stop her hand from reaching out to cover his.

  "I'll leave ye then," John said. "Ye need to rest." His fingers tightened around hers for an instant, then he rose to draw the furs up to her neck. When Muriella closed her eyes reluctantly, he stepped back and, motioning for Megan to follow, turned to leave the room.

  The servant stood for a moment longer, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. What could he want from her? With a single glance at her mistress, she shook her head and slipped from the chamber.

  John was waiting in the passage; she could just discern his figure in the dark hallway. She moved forward with care, wishing she had brought a torch.

  "Come!" he spoke impatiently from out of the gloom. Then he was beside her, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the corridor. When he touched her, she thought perhaps he intended to take her instead of Muriella. She had seen the hunger in his eyes when he looked at his wife; mayhap this time Mary was not nearby to assuage it. Megan gave no sign of her apprehension. If that was what he desired, what would she do? She had no answer.

  After what seemed like hours of darkness, John kicked open a door, leading the servant into the library. At least there was a fire, she thought inanely. At least it was warm. As she moved toward the light of the flames, she heard him stop near the desk. She stared into the fire, braiding her fingers in agitation.

  "Megan."

  She jumped despite her resolution to remain calm.

  "Look at me."

  She turned to face him. He was perched on the edge of the desk, his brows drawn together, his hands clenched. "Tonight is the third time," he began, "that I've heard my wife cry out in terror at her dreams."

  Megan swallowed with difficulty. So he had been outside the door for three nights.

  "I want ye to tell me, if ye can, why she's so troubled in her sleep, and why she calls Maclean's name."

  So he had not believed Muriella when she said she was dreaming of Elizabeth. Megan opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. "M'lord—"

  "The nightmares began when my sister came, didn't they?" John persisted.

  "Aye."

  "Do ye know what the dreams are?"

  "No," the servant said. "She won't tell me, though I have asked her often enough."

  "And ye can't guess?" "No, m'lord."

  "What of Maclean?" John persisted. "Why should she see him in her nightmares?"

  The servant stared at her hands. By the look in Sir John's eyes, she guessed his need for his wife had become an obsession. If she wanted to keep him from returning to Muriella tonight, there was only one thing to do.

  "Megan?"

  She looked up. "Aye?"

  "What of Maclean?" he repeated with ill-concealed impatience.

  She had sworn, she remembered, but she could not think of that now. "She often has nightmares about him."

  John ran his hand over his forehead, leaving a puzzled frown behind. "Does she have reason to fear him?"

  "She…I don't—"

  Suddenly his control shattered. He leapt up to grasp her by the shoulders. "Tell me!"

  "Aye," she muttered. "She has reason enough."

  John released her, stepping back. "What is it?"

  Megan swallowed once more. "Ye remember just before the weddin' when she fell and bruised her face?"

  "Aye." The cold fury was already gathering in his face. "Go on.”

  “She didn’t fall.”

  “Maclean.” His voice was without inflection, but Megan recognized the threat beneath the single word. “There were scratches on his neck that night. I remember he tried to hide them.”

  “I didn’t think ye noticed.”

  He nodded, took a deep breath, and forced himself to ask, "Did he rape her?"

  Megan hesitated for an instant. "She said he didn't."

  Closing his eyes, John fought to retain control. "But ye don't believe her?"

  "I don't know what to believe." The servant moved away from him. She was not certain what he might do next. When he opened his eyes, they glittered cold and silver in the firelight. "Why didn't she tell me?" he asked at last. For a moment he absorbed Megan's startled expression, then looked away. "No," he said, "ye needn't answer." Moving past her, he lowered himself into a chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

  When he spoke, his voice was so low Megan had to step forward to hear him. "Ye can go back to her now. And thank ye."

  He did not look up to see her leave the room. His thoughts were circling around a distant memory. He was staring at the bruises that discolored Muriella's face. Taking her chin in his hand, he had said, So, little one, ye'll be damaged for our wedding. Are ye sure ye haven't done it on purpose? Then, on their wedding night—he did not like to remember how cruelly he had taken his wife that first time. No wonder she shrank away from his touch.

  He looked up, his jaw muscles tightening convulsively. The image of Muriella's face dissolved, and in its place he saw Maclean laughing as the gate opened before him. John sat up, staring unseeing at the fire. "I let him go," he hissed. "I set the bastard free!"

  In one swift movement, he reached the door. He wrenched it open and hurried down the corridor to his chamber.

  Chapter 34

  Muriella
paused at the top of the stairs, looking out over the crowded trestle tables strung across the Great Hall. The noise this morning was unusually subdued. Men and servants sat staring before them with no laughter and very little chatter.

  Muriella was surprised to see Duncan and Elizabeth already seated at the high table; her sister-in-law had not joined them for a meal since her arrival. John, she noticed, had not yet come down. She felt a flash of disappointment that made her hand tremble on the balustrade. She tightened her hold on the worn, smooth wood until the feeling passed. With a steadying breath, she went to join the others.

  She sat next to Elizabeth, who smiled wanly. Muriella felt a flicker of hope at the gesture. Touching her sister-in-law's hand, she murmured, "'Tis good to see ye here."

  "I couldn't stare at the four walls of that chamber any longer," Elizabeth explained. "'Twas too much like a prison there, ye ken?"

  "Aye," Muriella agreed. "I knew ye'd have to come seeking the light soon. 'Tis fortunate the sun has burned the mist away this morning."

  Her sister-in-law looked up at the high slitted windows where the light spilled into the room, softening the mottled gray stone walls. "'Tis late," she observed, brow furrowed. "Why hasn't Johnnie come down yet?"

  "I didn't wish to disturb him," Duncan told her. "He hasn't slept well the past few nights. I'm beginning to wonder what ails him."

  Muriella concentrated on the platter of cold meat Jenny handed her, grateful for the excuse to hide her thoughts. She too had begun to wonder. Why, she asked herself again and again, had her husband come to her last night? Had he been passing through the hall when he heard her cry out? Or had he intended to enter her chamber all along? Her pulse pounded at the thought, and she remembered with mingled pleasure and unease the warmth his touch had brought her.

  Just then, Andrew Campbell came to the head of the table. "I went to wake Sir John, as ye bid me," Andrew explained to Duncan, "but I found him gone."

  "Gone? Gone where? Do ye mean he went hunting?"

  "Aye, so I thought at first. But I asked the men, and it seems no one saw him go and he took no one with him. Then I asked Sim. He was watchin' the gate, ye ken." Andrew leaned forward, full of the importance of his news. "Sim said he opened the gate for Sir John when 'twas still dark night. He was alone and"—he paused in order to hold his audience in suspense a moment longer—"he wore full armor and carried his father's sword. What do ye think of that?"