Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  ~ * ~

  Four days later, Muriella and Elizabeth sat together in the solar. As always, Muriella was bent over the tapestry, which was now nearly complete. She had only to finish the far bank of the loch, the red-haired woman kneeling on the shore, and the indistinct image of the face in the water.

  Elizabeth had been working on a bit of embroidery for most of the morning, but now she sat with her hands in her lap. She gazed out the window, her thoughts far away.

  Muriella watched Elizabeth with concern. She had not mentioned the vision of Maclean's death or her own dismay over what John had done. The time was not yet right to tell Elizabeth she had become a widow. Daily, she prayed John would return and explain his actions, but for now, she could only watch helplessly while her sister-in-law slipped further and further inside herself. Elizabeth had changed a great deal in the past few weeks; her hair hung lank and colorless down her back, her skin was nearly transparent, and her eyes were either wintry bleak or empty of expression.

  "What are ye thinking?" Muriella asked.

  Elizabeth started as if awakened from a deep sleep. "About my father," she said before she could stop to think. She looked down at her embroidery to avoid meeting Muriella's gaze. With sudden fervor, she began to weave her needle through the fabric.

  "Do ye miss him?"

  "Miss him!" Elizabeth laughed harshly. "Why should I, when he abandoned me without a thought? 'Tis hard to care about someone who values power and wealth more than his own kin."

  Muriella could not deny it. Though four years had passed since the night when, in desperation, she had faced the Earl across the library, she remembered far too clearly the cold determination in his voice. Yer feelings don't matter. The good of the clan comes first. All the weeping in the world will not change a fact so fundamental.

  Elizabeth looked up, her face strained and pale, but for the first time in weeks, her indifference had slipped away. "I was his favorite, did ye know that? As a child I used to read to him, to sit with him before the fire while he taught me Latin and the Gaelic. In those days I thought he had the most beautiful voice I'd ever heard."

  Head bent over the loom, Muriella concentrated on the colored threads to hide her dismay. It hurt her to think the Earl had shared those things with someone else before her. "What happened to change things?" she asked when she could speak again.

  "'Tis simple enough," Elizabeth said. "There was a rebellion, and afterward my father gave me to the enemy in order to seal the bargain. He told me he couldn't displease the King, though I begged him to reconsider. Then, after 'twas done, he wanted me to forgive him." She twisted her fingers in the fabric on her lap. "I couldn't do it. He'd hurt me too deeply. Even as a girl, I knew what kind of man he was, but I loved him so much, I never thought he'd betray me that way." She broke off, choking on the words that seemed to stick in her throat. "But ye should know about that," she added finally. "He did it to ye as well."

  Muriella's hands trembled and she found she could not answer. "I thought ye loved yer husband," she ventured at last.

  Elizabeth met her sister-in-law's gaze with an unwavering stare. "Not from the beginning. At first, all I felt was that my father didn't need me anymore, so he'd cast me away like a favorite bauble he'd grown tired of."

  "But—" Muriella began, then stopped herself.

  "Ye were going to say that Maclean did the same thing, weren't ye?"

  Shaking her head, Muriella started to speak, but Elizabeth interrupted her. "Ye're right, I know." She bit her lip and tears came to her eyes.

  Muriella reached for Elizabeth's hand. The older woman clung desperately. After several moments she found her voice again. "But ye see, no matter what happened in the end, Lachlan always needed me. He was so different from my father, who never wanted to let his weakness show. The Earl would never have asked for help. He was too damned strong for that." She gazed out the window, as if she could see the past painted across the billowing waves. "That's why I swore to myself that I'd give my husband the loyalty I'd always given my father. The Earl didn't deserve it anymore."

  "And once ye'd decided, ye never turned back," Muriella said. How could she ever have thought Elizabeth weak?

  "No," Elizabeth sighed. "Though my family hated me for that choice. Yet not one of them tried to stop the marriage, not even Johnnie. And once it came to me that I loved my husband, I knew I couldn't abandon him, no matter how hard he tried to make me hate him. 'Twas my feelings that mattered, not his."

  She smiled the grim little smile Muriella had come to dread. "At least Lachlan realized he had wronged me. He begged my forgiveness for his betrayal before he had even committed it." She frowned, her eyes damp with tears. "My father didn't ever understand how much he'd hurt me. He didn't know his sin was greater than my husband's, because the Earl claimed to love me." She smiled with infinite sadness. "I suppose ye think me foolish."

  "No," Muriella said, realizing she spoke the truth. "'Twas no fool who had the courage to stand up to John and ask for yer husband's life. 'Twould have been easier to let him die, I think, after all he'd done to ye. But ye never would have forgiven yerself if ye'd done that. I envy ye, Elizabeth. I haven't the courage to love anyone that much."

  Elizabeth took Muriella's hands in a tight grip. "Och, but ye do. Ye just don't realize it. But I thank ye all the same. Ye're the only one who really tries to understand and doesn't blame me for failing the Campbells. I love ye for that, Muriella—for everything. For caring enough to save my life, though I can't think 'twas wise."

  Muriella opened her mouth to object, but before she could do so, Elizabeth interjected, "And because I care for ye, I'll tell ye this. As a woman, the only thing ye can depend on in this life is that men will try to break ye in any way they can. Before ye've recovered from the first blow, they'll strike ye again. 'Tis not really because they're cruel; they just don't know any other way. But remember too, they can only hurt ye if ye give them the power to do so." Elizabeth raised her head and whispered, more to herself than to Muriella, "I don't intend to give anyone that power again."

  Before Muriella could respond, before she could remove her hands from Elizabeth's cold grasp, the door swung open and both women turned. They stared, frozen with shock, as John came into the room. When Elizabeth's hands fell away, Muriella leaned forward, gripping the wooden sides of the loom for support. She was stunned by the rush of joy that flared within her at the unexpected sight of her husband. Then she remembered what he had done. Turning toward her sister-in-law, she saw the mask of indifference settle over Elizabeth's features. Muriella found her voice had left her. She could only gaze mutely from sister to brother and back again.

  Just when she thought the silence would stretch between them until it shattered, Elizabeth spoke. "Where have ye been? To find my husband?"

  John frowned. "Elizabeth—," he began.

  "Ye needn't try to soothe me when ye don't even know if I'm hurt, Johnnie. Just tell me, is he dead?"

  "Aye," he said softly.

  "Where?"

  "In Edinburgh."

  "Do ye think the Macleans will bury him?" Approaching with caution, John took his sister's hand. "Ye needn't concern yerself with that. 'Tis over," he told her.

  Elizabeth ignored him. “No, of course they won’t. They told ye where to find him didn’t they?”

  He wanted to deny it, but could not bring himself to lie. "Elizabeth, let me—"

  "And did ye talk to Colin?" she pressed.

  Taken aback by the question, he regarded her warily. "Aye."

  "What did he say?"

  John tried to look beyond his sister's cool exterior to the pain he guessed must lie beneath, but even her eyes told him nothing. "He was angry," he said, choosing his words with care.

  "But what of me? I'll wager he has another wedding planned, doesn't he? Our Colin isn't one to miss a chance for a new alliance."

  "Elizabeth, I know ye're upset, but—""I'm no' upset. Can't ye see how steady I am? Now tell me."


  "Well, Colin said he thought—"

  "Is there a letter?" she interrupted.

  John gaped at her. Had his sister inherited Muriella's Sight? And why was she so stiff and cold when she should be weeping at the news of her husband's death?

  "Give it to me," Elizabeth demanded.

  For a moment, John hesitated. "Ye needn't look at it now. 'Tis too soon."

  Elizabeth smiled at him pityingly. "Don't assuage yer own guilt by keeping me in suspense. I want to know who Colin has chosen for me. Someone rich, I'll wager, with enough men to give the Campbells a little more power." She turned to Muriella. "As if they don't have enough of that already."

  John did not know what to say. She made it sound so calculating, so inhuman. He wanted to put the blame on Colin, but then he caught Muriella's gaze. Hadn't his own wife been sold to the Campbells in the same way—for a little power and a great deal of money?

  "I want to see it now," Elizabeth repeated succinctly, as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Don't play games with me, Johnnie."

  John pulled the crumpled parchment from his doublet, and placed it in his sister's open palm. This was not how he had planned this meeting on the long ride back from Edinburgh. He watched as Elizabeth read Colin's letter quickly. Then she started to laugh. It was the one reaction he had not expected, and the sound chilled him, despite the warmth of the tiny room. He could not forget that he had heard the same unearthly laughter in the tower that day. "Please," he said, reaching for her hand. "Elizabeth."

  "Don't ye find it amusing?" she asked, gasping as she rocked forward and backward. "I'm to marry Archibald Campbell of Auchinbreck." When she realized her brother and Muriella were staring at her blankly, Elizabeth drew a deep breath and explained, "Archibald Campbell—my father's name." She laughed and choked until her face was scarlet and her knuckles on the embroidery frame were white. She laughed until the letter fell from her fingers to the floor where it came to rest at John's feet.

  ~ * ~

  Muriella sat by the fire in the library with a book of verses open on her lap. Though she tried to concentrate, her attention wandered and instead she found herself staring into the flames, watching the changing patterns of light. All at once, she raised her head, every nerve in her body tingling with awareness. She knew John had entered the room, though he had not made a sound; she could feel his presence as surely as if his hand were resting on her shoulder.

  “Muriella."

  As she looked up at him—at his face, burnished bronze from long hours in the sun, and his eyes, touched with gold from the glow of the firelight—she felt the same rush of joy that had come to her when she first saw him that afternoon. She had seen him only briefly since, but she had felt his presence during every endless hour in the day. She smiled at him as he crossed the room to seat himself in the Earl's carved oak chair.

  "I wanted to talk to ye," he said, "about Maclean."

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  "I want ye to know I didn't really have a choice. I had to kill him—for the pride of the Campbells and, though ye may not believe it, for Elizabeth. She wasn't truly free until her husband was dead. Ye can understand that, can't ye?"

  In the back of her mind she heard again the two words, For Muriella, and knew he was not telling the whole truth; she sensed he never would. She knew too that she should have been angry he had broken his word to his sister, but all she could feel was relief. As he had said, Elizabeth was finally free of the chains that had bound her to Lachlan Maclean. Muriella looked into the dancing flames and murmured, "I understand."

  "Do ye truly?" John leaned closer, considering her sculptured profile—the curve of her mouth, the gleam in her eyes, the stillness that characterized her features. All at once he wanted desperately to hold her. But he had made himself a promise he did not intend to break. For a long moment, he struggled with the urge to pull her into his arms. He was winning the battle against his own desire when she turned to look at him.

  "Aye, I think I do," Muriella whispered, lips slightly parted, brows drawn together. Without thinking, she put her hand on his knee.

  John's carefully constructed walls crumbled at his feet. In a single movement, he stood and drew her up against him. Her eyes were luminous, mesmerizing, but this time he felt no desire to escape their power. "Muriella," he murmured.

  As she looked up, he kissed her. His lips moved gently against hers and she felt a response stirring deep within. He drew her closer while his hands moved slowly over her back.

  Wherever his fingers touched, her skin began to tingle, as though the fabric of her gown were no barrier at all. When he traced the outline of her mouth with the moist tip of his tongue, she shivered, first with heat, then with cold.

  Longing curled through Muriella’s body at John's touch. She trembled when he slid his hand down to her breast and cupped it, stroking the nipple through the cool satin. She moaned and closed her eyes, leaning into the strength of his hand against her back. Hungry, all at once, to feel his skin with her open palm, she pushed aside his saffron shirt to find the dark, curling hair it concealed. Slowly, tenderly, she brushed her hand across his chest, seeking to know with her fingertips the taste and texture of his skin.

  He held her closer and her nerves seemed to scream beneath his fingers and his mouth. John kissed the hollow of her throat, trailing his tongue over the pulse that fluttered wildly under his lips. Finally, he tugged at the strings of her gown, loosening them so he could slip his hand inside the satin to touch her bare white skin.

  Colors whirled within her, hot and fevered, bright and blinding, setting her heart pounding and her head spinning. She could not control her body; she was certain the force of her passion would tear her apart. Then the vision of the deadly rising water filled her head, and she knew she would never catch her breath again. Stop! she wanted to cry. Stop! She shuddered, unable to bear the torment any longer.

  John felt her shiver, and the movement broke at last through the haze of his desire. Pulling away, he saw her staring with her blind, dark eyes and knew the specter was with them again. He closed his eyes, fighting the impulse that urged him to ignore her fear, to force her to forget the past and remember only the feel of his hands on her skin. But she was quivering, her skin so cold that the chill moved from her body to his. John released her, his breathing harsh and uneven.

  Muriella swayed, lost in the rushing, swirling water, and fought her way to the surface where the promise of daylight beckoned. For a long moment, she stood trembling, not daring to open her eyes.

  "What in God's name are ye so afraid of?" John demanded.

  She heard the sound of his ragged voice, but the words were far away. Farther than she could reach. She opened her eyes to see him standing, fists clenched at his sides in an effort to force his hunger into pain. Muriella tried to concentrate, to stop her shaking and turn her thoughts away from the memory of the white-foamed water, but it would not leave her.

  With a muffled curse, her husband grasped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Every time I touch ye, ye retreat to a place where I can't reach ye, as if the devil himself were holding ye in his arms."

  The dead Earl's voice echoed deep in her memory: Ye hold yerself apart from him as if ye were made of ice and stone instead of flesh and blood.

  "Why?" John demanded. "What are ye afraid of?" His eyes, like iced fire, burned away the mist that shrouded her thoughts.

  She swallowed once, then whispered, "Sometimes I see things."

  "What things?" When she remained silent, he shook her until her head snapped back. "Answer me, damn ye'"

  "I can't."

  John's fingers dug painfully into her skin. "Ye mean ye won't."

  Muriella looked up at him, her terror moved too deep, too frightening to express. "No," she said. "I can't."

  Her husband turned away, running his hand through his hair again. "But the vision is of me," he said to the gray stone wall. When, once again, she did not answer,
he whirled to face her. "'Tis me ye fear, isn't it?"

  Muriella opened her mouth to tell him it was so, but the words would not come. Never had she seen his face in her vision, yet always it was he—the touch of his hands, his fury, his tenderness—that made the water rise. She knew he was waiting for her answer, breathing harshly, his face dark with the simmering rage that held him in its grip. That, she thought, was what she feared. Or was it?

  "Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me the truth."

  "I don't know," his wife said. "I'm not sure."

  John advanced on her, eyes blazing. "Then ye'd best think about it, hadn't ye? Ye'd best be sure before ye drive us both to madness."

  "Aye," she murmured, "before 'tis too late."

  Much later, Muriella pushed open her chamber door, entering the light-filled room that seemed to promise peace. Then she saw Megan standing near the bed, smiling in delight.

  "M'lady!" the servant gasped when she saw her mistress, "just look!"

  Muriella moved toward the bed with her heart thumping against her ribs. When she stopped, her vision seemed to come and go with the pulsing of her blood. The furs were hidden under all manner of exquisite fabrics. There were gold brocades, creamy satins, violet silks and fine linens. In the center, atop all the others, was a bolt of deep blue velvet, beside it a paler blue satin. Muriella reached out to run her fingers over the velvet. It was incredibly soft, and blue—not icy, like the sea, but warm. The satin was the exact color of John's eyes.

  "Where have they come from?" she asked when she found enough breath to speak.

  Megan smiled. "Sir John brought them for ye from Edinburgh. All for ye."

  "Tell me," she whispered, "are there any reds among them?"

  "Why no, I don't think so. 'Tis strange, isn't it, since red's so popular with the ladies. Why do ye ask?"

  "Because," Muriella murmured, half to herself. "Just because." Her fingers closed over the blue velvet; she brushed it over her cheek like a fleeting caress against her cool skin.