Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Duncan blinked at the man, perplexed. "Are ye certain?" "Aye, so Sim says."

  "But where would he be going in full armor in the middle of the night?"

  "I'll tell ye, Duncan Campbell. I'll tell ye where he's gone." Elizabeth half rose from her chair, her eyes darting from face to face. "He's gone after my husband. I know it. 'Tis just what he's done."

  Taking her hand, Duncan tried to calm her. "Why would he do that? He gave ye his word, didn't he? Ye must be mistaken."

  Elizabeth shook her head, sinking back onto the bench when her legs would no longer support her. "Ye won't be convincing me of that."

  Muriella closed her eyes and tried to remember what John had said last night when she told him it had been kinder to let Maclean go. Was it? he'd murmured. I wonder. She stared at the pitted tabletop, her mouth dry with apprehension. She wanted to tell Elizabeth she was wrong, but could not bring herself to put the lie into words.

  ~ * ~

  John sat in a plush velvet chair, staring at the huge door that led to the living quarters at Edinburgh Castle. He was waiting for his brother. Wearily, he adjusted his doublet. He was not looking forward to this interview with Colin. No doubt the Earl would be livid when he learned Maclean had left Kilchurn Castle alive. But John needed his help. He would just have to keep his own temper under control.

  He knew his face had begun to show signs of the strain he had been under recently. His skin was burnt from exposure to the sun and there were dark circles under his eyes. It had taken him two weeks to trace Maclean to Edinburgh—two weeks of riding unescorted to the gates of his enemies' castles and inquiring after the Laird's whereabouts. He had been surprised time and again that not a single man had raised a single sword against him. Of course, officially the Campbells and Macleans were at peace, but surely his brother-in-law's relatives knew what their laird had done to Elizabeth, and why John Campbell sought him now. They must have realized the Campbells would soon regret their impulse to set the man free.

  He had asked a multitude of questions at every keep, and each time, although he discovered nothing, he'd had the feeling they would have told him if they'd known. It made him uneasy. When he finally came upon Evan Maclean on the Isle of Tiree, John had been unable to disguise his impatience any longer. "'Tis only yer laird we seek now," he'd told the young man, "but if ye shelter him, our vengeance will extend to the whole Clan Maclean."

  Evan regarded his adversary with piercing eyes. "Ye want Lachlan Maclean's life, then."

  When John nodded, the other man leaned forward, fists clenched. "Well, my friend, take it, and welcome."

  John gaped at him. "Ye can't mean that."

  Evan's eyes smoldered as he replied, "I do mean it. The man is a fool. He's done nothing but harm to the Macleans for a long time now. The rebellion was his idea, ye ken. We knew it was lost before we began, but no' our laird. He must needs know better than us. And now—" He paused, steadying his voice. "Now that we're finally at peace, he does something that will insure the Campbells are always our enemies." He put his hand on John's arm. "I believe he's mad, and if he lives, he'll eventually destroy us. He thought ye might change yer mind, so he's run to Edinburgh to hide. Kill him this time. He's my enemy as much as he is yers."

  John shook his head, remembering the vehemence of Evan's declaration. He still could not believe the Macleans had abandoned their laird so completely. He wondered, sometimes, what the Campbells would do if Colin—

  "What in God's name are ye doing in Edinburgh?" the third Earl of Argyll roared from across the room. "They told me ye were waiting, but I wouldn't believe them. 'Tis insane to leave Kilchurn unprotected with the Macleans ready to slit our throats."

  John eyed his brother through half-closed lids. Colin was dressed magnificently in velvet doublet and satin trews. Jewels glittered on his fingers, and the Campbell brooch fastened his cloak to his shoulder. His face, John noted, was purple with fury. Swallowing the bitter response that rose to his lips, John said, "Kilchurn is safe enough. I brought no men with me, and Duncan and Richard are there if trouble comes. As for the Macleans, from what I've seen, they won't be attacking us at all."

  The Earl snorted. "Aye, Johnnie, ye were always so wise. Tell me then, how do ye know they won't attack? And why have ye come?"

  "I came to find Maclean, and they won't strike because they want him dead."

  "What!" Colin demanded. "To find Maclean? They want him dead? He is dead, isn't he? My orders were clear enough."

  He loomed threateningly over his brother. "What've ye done this time, Johnnie?"

  "I let him go," John replied with forced calm. He watched as the lump begin to pulse between his brother's brows.

  "Say that again," Colin hissed. "I wouldn't want to kill ye because I didn't hear aright. Say it again."

  "I let him go free." With difficulty, John fought the impulse to push his brother away from him.

  "Why, in the name of all that's holy, did ye do such a thing?"

  Because ye had a cruel and unworthy idea, he wanted to shout. Because Maclean is the deceiver, not the Campbells. But he did not say those things. "I did it for Elizabeth."

  "For Elizabeth!" Colin spluttered. "For Eliz—Are ye daft? Ye let an enemy go for the sake of a woman?"

  "Elizabeth begged me."

  "I don't give a bloody damn what she said or what she felt. 'Twas business, ye imbecile. Business! 'Tis time ye learned there are a great many things more important than yer sister's

  feelings."

  Rising precipitously, John moved out of his brother's way. He could see it was time to remind Colin of his purpose here before they came to blows. "I came to Edinburgh to kill the man. I need yer help to find him."

  "Help ye! I should kill ye where ye stand. Do ye know how many plans ye've ruined? I've already negotiated with Campbell of Auchinbreck for Elizabeth's hand. We need that alliance."

  John whirled to stare at his brother. "Ye've what? Her husband isn't even dead yet!"

  "'Tis no fault of mine, little brother. That was yer responsibility. And the marriage is necessary. Now listen to me, and this time ye'd best do as I say. My men will search Edinburgh for Maclean. When he's found, kill him at once. Then, when ye're certain he's dead, go back to Kilchurn with this letter in yer pocket." Drawing some parchment from his doublet, he handed it to his brother, who stood speechless at last. "Elizabeth must sign the marriage agreement within these two weeks. See that she does. And see that she makes no trouble over this. If ye fail in any particular, if ye so much as breathe without my consent, ye'll be mighty sorry, I guarantee that."

  John stared at the letter in his hand. Colin had not even waited until he knew Elizabeth was a widow before selling her to another man. For a moment he was tempted to leave Edinburgh without finding Maclean. He wanted no part of his brother's ambitions. Let Maclean live, John thought, and see how Colin's plans worked then. But Muriella—his stomach clenched with sick rage. No, regardless of Colin's greed, his brother-in-law must die. Crumpling the parchment in his fist, John turned to leave the room. He could not stand to look at his brother's gloating face a moment longer.

  ~ * ~

  The following day, John mounted the rickety stairs at the back of a tavern while the landlord watched him anxiously. The innkeeper did not care for the expression on the stranger's face.

  "Who do ye seek?" the man asked with as much courage as he could summon.

  "No one," John snapped. "I've found him." As he climbed the stairs, he tried to concentrate on his object so he would not notice the rank smell arising from behind the stairway or the shabby condition of the halls. Maclean had chosen a hell of a place in which to die. But of course, he did not know he was to die.

  John stopped with his hand on a rusty latch. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

  Maclean sat on the bed with a tankard of ale beside him. The sheets tangled about his waist were stained and torn; they had probably not been washed for some time. Besides the bed, there wa
s a lone table with a candle burning on its uneven surface. The air reeked of sweat and ale and the rotten remains of numerous meals. A mass of picked bones was piled haphazardly on the floor at the bedside. With his fingers clenched on the handle of his sword, John looked for the first time directly at Maclean's face.

  The man was staring at him, stupefied, his irises lost in the whiteness of his eyes. His Adam's apple moved rapidly up and down the line of his throat.

  "How in Christ's name—," Maclean began. Then he stopped. The color returned to his cheeks and he smiled. "Evan told ye, didn't he?"

  John clutched his sword more tightly. He had come full of hatred and fury, but just now pity and disgust were even greater. "No, I found ye on my own."

  Maclean laughed without mirth. "Are ye afraid of hurting my feelings? I know Evan despises me, as do they all. It makes no matter. So ye've changed yer mind, have ye? I'm not surprised."

  "Quiet!" John cried. His own repulsion threatened to overwhelm him. "Get up!" he ordered. "Get yer sword."

  "No." Maclean settled himself against the pillows. "No," he repeated, "ye'll have to kill me in my bed. Did ye really think I'd make it easy for ye?"

  "Surely ye don't wish to die that way?" John said. "They'll laugh at ye."

  "Aye, but what will they say about ye, boy? Don't ye think they'll call ye a coward for killing a man when he had no defense against ye?"

  As John moved forward menacingly, a rat skittered across the floor. The candlelight was weak; it did no more than deepen the furrows on Maclean's cheeks. "Ye don't deserve to die like a gentleman. They'll know that."

  "Will they?" His brother-in-law laughed again, more loudly. He watched as John advanced toward him, drawing his sword from its sheath. When the blade hung a few feet away, pointing at his heart, he muttered, "I want to die, did ye know that? No," he added when John retreated a step. "I thought ye didn't." He paused, giving his brother-in-law a grim little smile.

  "Elizabeth knew. Ye take her for a fool, but she's a great deal wiser than ye."

  "Be quiet!" All at once the dead Earl's voice echoed inside John's head. Think before ye act, Johnnie! Think! But for once he had thought. For two long weeks he had thought of the tarnished pride of the Campbells; of Elizabeth, grieving alone while her husband lived free; and of Muriella, retreating inside the darkness of her nightmare. Straightening his shoulders, he took a step forward. This time he had no choice. He met his brother-in-law's gaze for a moment. As he buried the blade in Maclean's chest, he whispered, "For Muriella."

  Maclean's eyes widened with brief surprise before the blood gushed over the sword, dulling its silver gleam. He ceased moving and his eyes glazed over until he stared unseeing before him.

  John wrenched his father's sword from Maclean's limp body, sickened by the sight of the dead man slumped among the sheets, tipping the ale so it spilled onto the covers and blended with the spreading puddle of blood. Blood and ale dripped over the edge of the bed, falling on the discarded bones.

  Without looking back, John staggered into the hallway. It was done. Maclean was dead and his sister free. And perhaps, just perhaps, Muriella's nightmares were over. The thought of his wife made the mist retreat somewhat, but the horror would not go. Blood and ale, his mind repeated with monotonous regularity. Blood and ale. Blood and ale.

  Leaning on his sword, he tried to concentrate on Muriella.

  Unexpectedly, the mist disappeared. He could go home to her now. His heart, which he believed had ceased to beat, took up its rhythm once again. He would see her. The thought brought with it a sudden clarity, a vibrant memory of how her body had felt in his arms. He remembered the way she had looked at him, her eyes clouded with weariness, and run her fingers from his beard to his shoulder to his slow, beating heart.

  John's smile turned to a grimace. Maclean was dead, but Muriella would not thank him for that. She cared too much for Elizabeth. He could envision his wife's face, pale with shock and anger, her green eyes wide with accusation.

  She would not welcome him back, could not forget the past so easily. That much he knew. But maybe he could make her forget in time. He would speak to her, care for her, teach her to know him as he learned to know her. And he would not touch her until, when he held her close, her eyes met his and saw him—only him, and not the specter her fear had created.

  With an awkward motion, he wiped the blood from his father's sword and turned his back forever on Lachlan Maclean.

  So, at least, he chose to believe.

  Chapter 35

  This was in spring, when winter-tide

  With his blast hideous to abide,

  Was over-driven and birdis small

  As throstle and the nightingale

  Began right merrily to sing.

  Duncan's voice rose above the clack of the loom, mingling with the rhythm of Muriella's flying fingers. She smiled, grateful for the squire's song, which distracted her from her own thoughts. He had sensed her restlessness since John went away; often in the waning of the slow, endless days, he came to sing and play his harp, hoping it would cheer her.

  And for to make in their singing,

  Sundry notes and sound-es sere,

  And melodies pleasant for to hear.

  Muriella bent closer to the forming tapestry, running her palm over the finely woven threads as the notes of Duncan's clareschaw began to soothe her. She did not thank him, for he seemed to understand her gratitude intuitively; sometimes he came and went without either of them speaking a word. He had become a friend who shared with her the silence as well as the songs. The colors of the third and final panel of the Loch Awe hanging glimmered under Muriella's hands as the fabric shifted in a draft of cold air. Lovingly, she traced the glow of silver moonlight that turned to gold when it reached the water of the loch. She liked this section of the tapestry—woven with the thread the Earl had brought just before his death—best of all; it showed the shimmering expanse of Loch Awe with its wooded islands and tree-scattered shore. In the center of the interlaced blues and greens, the moon made its radiant path of light. In the far corner, a woman with long auburn hair knelt on the bank, looking at a reflection in the water—the face of the woman of the loch, who had so often called to Muriella in her high, haunting voice.

  And the trees began to make

  Buds and brightest blooms also,

  To weave the covering of their head

  That wicked winter had them reft.

  Muriella almost lost herself in the lacework of colored threads, in the sound of Duncan's voice, in the lilting song of the Highland harp. Almost, she escaped the loneliness that had grown deeper as the days passed. Her friends were with her— Megan, Duncan and Elizabeth—filling the hours with chatter and work and companionship. But it was not enough. The ache inside reminded her always that John was away. The keep seemed strangely empty without the sound of his rage, his laughter, his ceaseless energy. She missed him, Muriella admitted in dismay.

  John's face rose before her, blocking the vivid pattern of the cloth, reminding her of the day he had kissed her in the music room. Her skin tingled at the remembered touch of his hands, and the low, vibrant humming began in her head. Rising abruptly, she dropped the shuttle and watched it swing forward and back across the colored fabric. She stared, mesmerized by the languid movement, by the flickering images in her mind that seemed to take on the color and shape of the tapestry before her. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to look away.

  Muriella shivered at a gust of chilly air and moved toward the welcome warmth of the fire. Duncan had finished his song. He turned as she passed so the heat could reach his face. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned closer to the flames.

  As Muriella knelt before the deep stone fireplace, an unnerving stillness settled around her, holding her away from the heat of the fire. She was so cold, all at once, so empty. The flames curled around one another, melding, then separating. She peered more closely into the fire. She thought there was something there. Something—her h
and shook, her pulse quickened, and the flames leapt unnaturally. Then she saw John, standing in the darkness with a sword in his hand. A candle flickered, revealing Maclean's tangled red curls. The sword moved through the shadows, and as the blade plunged into Maclean's chest, John cried, "For Muriella!" The blood gushed out, mixing with a wash of golden ale and dripping over the edge of the bed.

  "Dear God!" Muriella cried, while John's voice rang in her ears. As the room spun out of control, she gasped for air, reaching blindly with her sweat-bathed palms for the support of the unyielding stone.

  For a moment, Duncan was frozen with fear at the sight of her dark, empty eyes, but she was falling and he knew he had to catch her. With his hands on her shoulders he pulled her close, running his fingers over her back in slow circles, repeating her name again and again. He did not know what else to do; he was helpless in the face of her disturbing power.

  When Muriella shuddered and buried her head in his plaid, he closed his arms around her. He sensed she did not know he was near, but this time he would not leave her alone with her terror as he had long ago when she first came to Kilchurn—the day of the battle with Andrew Calder, when she'd foreseen the deaths of so many men. He fought back his own apprehension, holding her until the shaking eased. Gently, the squire tilted her head back. She was weeping.

  Muriella clung to him wordlessly. Maclean was dead.

  John had killed him, and he had done it, not for Elizabeth, but for his wife. Why? She did not know who held her now, drawing her back to the reality of the airy chamber. She only knew she wanted to forget, to escape the lingering chill of the vision that would not leave her. Muriella leaned closer, seeking the comforting warmth of Duncan's body. His fingers brushed away her memories.