Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  in-law.

  Elizabeth closed the door behind her. "Aye, at last. Once Megan took over, things went much more smoothly. Thank ye for giving her up for a morning."

  "I would have come myself—" Muriella began.

  Elizabeth shook her head. "I told ye, I couldn't have borne that. I didn't want ye there, reminding me—" She broke off and busied herself brushing the rushes aside, then seated herself on the floor.

  "I wouldn't have spoken a word if ye didn't want me to," Muriella told her.

  Smiling gently, Elizabeth said, "Ye needn't say a word to make me remember. I told ye before, 'tis in yer eyes." She glanced away. "'Tis difficult enough to start for Auchinbreck so soon, but my husband says his men are restless and he doesn't wish to leave them for so long. 'Tis odd," she mused, looking around the small stone chamber pensively, "when I first realized they'd brought me to Kilchurn, I wanted to be anywhere but here, yet now I don't want to go."

  "Maybe ye'll find ye like it at Auchinbreck, once ye've made it yer home."

  "Mayhap," Elizabeth murmured. "But that doesn't make it any easier to leave ye. 'Twas ye, after all, who kept me alive when I would have given up."

  Brow furrowed, Muriella regarded her sister-in-law in concern. "Ye said once that I should have let ye die."

  Elizabeth shivered at the memory. "I was mad with grief then. Things are different now."

  Muriella could see it was true. Elizabeth had clearly been sleeping better; the shadows under her eyes were fading and the color had begun to creep back into her cheeks. "Ye're looking well," the younger woman said. "Mayhap yer marriage suits ye better than ye expected. I've been watching ye over the past few days, and it seems as though 'twill no' be hard after all to accept what ye can't change."

  Elizabeth frowned at the thought of her own words. Had it only been a week ago that she had stood in Muriella's chamber and felt the world dissolving into darkness at her feet? It seemed a lifetime had passed since that cold, gray morning. "Sometimes Archibald frightens me," she admitted in a whisper. "Not because he mistreats me, but because he doesn't. I don't know how to fight his kindness."

  Muriella stared at the needle threaded with blue wool in her hand. "Mayhap," she said at last, "ye don't need to fight anymore."

  With a sigh, Elizabeth settled herself more comfortably on the floor. "I try to tell myself I must. I warn myself to think, to remember how much they've all hurt me before. But sometimes I forget, just the same. This morning I did." Her eyes misted over, and she struggled to find her voice. "Archibald came to me and told me he'd had my things sent from Duart to Auchinbreck. I'm sure the Macleans weren't happy to give them up. My father had given me some wonderful jewels before I left Kilchurn, and many of the gowns were worth a great deal."

  She paused to look up at Muriella. "Archibald says they gave him no trouble, but I'm certain 'tis not the truth. He only said it because he didn't want to distress me. I know he had to threaten them somehow."

  "So the trunks will be waiting for ye when ye reach Auchinbreck?"

  "Aye." Elizabeth took a deep breath. "I'm not certain I have the strength to look inside them. Before I could tell him so, my husband said if I never want to open them, I needn't do so. But if I find, in time, the past is easier to bear, then my things will be there—waiting." She gazed at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "When he told me that, I wanted to weep."

  Even now her eyes filled with tears, yet she smiled. And for the first time there was no sadness in her smile, no bitter realization, no regret. Muriella, moved by her own aching memory of a chamber emptied of scarlet and filled instead with green and gold and brown, put her arm across the other woman's shoulders. "I'm glad for ye," she said. "Mayhap Archibald Campbell is exactly what ye needed to make ye forget."

  Elizabeth nodded. "Ye know, at first I thought 'twas cruel beyond words that my husband shared my father's name. But now I sometimes wonder if the second Archibald Campbell isn't meant somehow to make up for all the pain the first caused me."

  "I hope 'tis so," Muriella whispered.

  "Aye." Once again the two women glanced away from one another. Seeking a distraction, Elizabeth turned her attention to the tapestry spread across the width of the chamber. "I've watched ye work on this so often since I came to Kilchurn that I can't believe 'tis finished at last. May I see it before I go?"

  Muriella rose, hands trembling as she lifted the huge tapestry, then drew one end up and across the other so that, when she reached the far side of the chamber, the front of the hanging was visible. No one but she and Megan had seen the completed design, and she awaited Elizabeth's response with eagerness and apprehension.

  Eyes wide with admiration at the vivid colors, Elizabeth knelt beside the first panel, in which the bubbling burn flowed by while the Kelpies watched from the protection of their leaf- shrouded bower. In the distance, the golden-haired woman led her friends as they rode to the hunt, laughing, their plaids caught up in the wind behind them. "'Tis lovely," Elizabeth murmured, "Ye can almost hear their laughter."

  She moved to the second panel, where the water swirled around the woman's waist as the burn swelled into a deadly torrent. Her mouth was open in terror, the wreath of flowers askew on her long, flowing hair. Within the rushing water, among the leaves and in the darkness beyond, the Kelpies laughed and danced, celebrating their victory over the lady who had ruled their valley for too long. Elizabeth shivered at the gleaming triumph in their eyes.

  Finally, she came to the last panel. She leaned forward to look more closely at the sweeping grandeur of Loch Awe. The islands of birch and larch were lovely in every detail of earth and bark and shadowy leaves; the water rippled gently, the moon shone down in silver radiance, and the path of golden light touched the water with ethereal brilliance. Elizabeth held her breath, running her fingers over the fabric, marveling at its fine weave and subtle shading of color. Then she noticed for the first time the red-haired woman kneeling on the near bank, staring at her reflection in the water. But it was not her reflection. It was— Elizabeth's hand grew still above the image of her brother's blurred but vibrant face. She looked up to find Muriella watching, eyes dark with grief. Neither spoke for a long moment.

  Muriella looked away, breaking the stillness at last. "Do ye know where he's gone?" she asked.

  Bewildered by her desperation, Elizabeth shook her head. "Even when we were close, my brother didn't tell me his plans." At Muriella's look of disappointment, she rubbed her chin and tried to think. "But I heard Archibald say something—I believe Johnnie's gone after a man who has been giving him trouble for a long time. I'm afraid 'tis all I know."

  "Aye," Muriella said, "John told me he was going to meet an enemy. But he wouldn't say who."

  "Ye saw him today?" Elizabeth asked in surprise.

  "Just before dawn. I found him in the chamber where the weapons are kept. He was armed, the men were armed, but he wouldn't tell me why."

  Elizabeth frowned. "Why should that frighten ye? 'Tis no' unusual for men to keep their battles and their grudges to themselves. They don't think we care or understand about such things."

  "It frightens me because I saw the look on his face. 'Twas the look of a stranger, and his eyes—they were blind, as if I weren't there, as if there were nothing in the world but his own rage." Muriella shuddered at the memory of those cold, implacable eyes.

  Spreading her hands helplessly, Elizabeth said, "'Tis the way things are with Johnnie. 'Tis no' in his nature to feel anything halfway." She paused, choosing her words with care. "Mayhap he didn't tell ye more because he didn't want to upset ye."

  "Doesn't he realize the waiting, the uncertainty are the worst? Doesn't he see how hard it is to be left behind?"

  "Ye know he doesn't," Elizabeth murmured. "He's a man. How can he understand that the walls of the keep ring with silence when the men are gone? How can he when he's never heard the chilling stillness for himself? How can he understand the boredom of inaction when his life is all motion an
d danger and excitement?" Sighing in compassion, she said, "Ye mustn't ask the impossible of a man like Johnnie. He can't know what ye feel any more than ye can know what he feels. He won't change, my friend, and neither will ye. Ye'll be happier by far when ye come to accept that."

  Muriella could not argue with what she knew to be true, but that did not ease her dread. A hush fell and the two women stared at the dust motes dancing in streams of sunlight that fell through the wide solar windows. Finally, Elizabeth rose. "I must go now. My husband will be waiting."

  "Aye," Muriella breathed. Not until that moment did she realize how much she would miss the companionship she had shared with Elizabeth over the past few months.

  Elizabeth and Muriella faced each other, suddenly at a loss for words. Then Elizabeth whispered, "Ye'll come to visit me at Auchinbreck, won't ye? Soon?"

  "I'll come," Muriella told her. "And mayhap now ye won't be afraid to return to Kilchurn."

  "No," Elizabeth agreed. Her gray eyes steady, she met Muriella's gaze. "I think soon I'll find I'm not afraid of anything anymore."

  Her sister-in-law nodded mutely.

  Eyes damp with tears, Elizabeth and Muriella embraced one last time, while at their feet, the afternoon sun shone on the softly undulating waters of Loch Awe, frozen forever in a pattern of glowing silk and colored wool.

  Chapter 40

  The Great Hall was ablaze that night with a thousand candles. Most of the tables had been removed and the rushes dragged into the courtyard so the floor would be free for dancing. Muriella stood at the foot of the stairs, surveying the crowds of jeweled men and women who rotated before her. Until tonight, she had not believed there were that many jewels in all Scotland. She touched the pendant at her own throat. For the first time since the wedding over four years ago, she was wearing the golden flame that had been her gift from John.

  She had no trouble picking out Colin where he stood across the room. His doublet was of deep wine satin, his shirt was ivory, and he wore a jeweled belt at his waist. When he gestured, his hands were collections of colored flame in the candlelight. He had discarded his plaid for the evening and wore instead a burgundy velvet cloak. He was by far the most magnificent among the men, but Muriella was not impressed. She wanted to laugh at him. He was playing king and those who danced before him were his subjects.

  "So here ye are, my wife." Muriella started at the sound of John's voice. She had not known he had returned to the keep. Anxiously, she turned to find the furious stranger had gone. Her husband's eyes were clear, untarnished blue, the rigid lines of his face had softened, and his lips were curved in a pleased smile. He was dressed for the fete in a black doublet and trews, his plaid wrapped gracefully around his shoulders. The clothes were simple, but his dark looks were far more memorable than Colin's blond splendor. Muriella's heart began to beat unsteadily.

  "As ye can see, ye had nothing to fear," he said as he took her arm in a warm grasp.

  "Ye haven't been wounded?" his wife asked, examining his shirt and trews for the telltale bulk of a woven bandage.

  John's smile broadened and he drew her toward him with both hands cupped under her elbows. "Not even a scratch." Eyes sparkling, he brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "I've missed ye," he said huskily, as if a week of frustration and loneliness had never come between them. "Will ye forgive me for my neglect?"

  Muriella trembled with pleasure and dread as her husband slid his arms around her back. She had missed him too—more than she'd realized. More, perhaps, than she could bear. John's hands were circling slowly over her back, bringing her skin to tingling life, and she made herself speak again before her courage burned away beneath his magic touch. "What happened today to change ye so much? This morning—"

  "This morning things were different," he interrupted. "Ye were right to think there was danger, but ye needn't concern yerself anymore." His voice was a mere whisper a breath away from her parted lips. "The danger has passed."

  Just for an instant, when his mouth met hers, he made her believe it. Muriella swayed toward him, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. She could feel the texture of his satin shirt, strangely cool beneath her heated palms. Her breasts brushed his chest, and even through the fabric of her gown, they ached for his touch. His lips caressed hers, gently at first, then more and more fiercely, until Muriella's doubts were consumed by the stirring movement of his hands across her body. As he drew her closer, the wild yearning rose within her, warm and blinding and fearfully bright.

  "We'd best leave off, my little one, or I'm sorely afraid we'll disgrace ourselves before the guests." He pulled away from her, his cheeks were flushed, and the finger he ran along her cheek quivered just a little. "If we leave now, Colin won't ever cease his taunting, so we'll stay. But I'll come to ye later."

  "Aye," she said. There was no other answer she could give. "Since we must be here, we might as well enjoy the evening," John murmured. "Shall we have a dance or two?" When she nodded, he led her out onto the crowded floor.

  She was hardly aware of the laughing tilt and sway of the dancers around her, or of the magnificence of the many lights that had at last destroyed the chill in the cave-like hall. The warmth of John's fingers on her skin made her giddy. As she whirled in his arms, the candles and the flaming jewels seemed to merge into one gleaming, flickering mass of color. Her body rose and fell with the music; the lights danced magically before her eyes. Each time the intricate steps brought John near, she smiled, and each time his grip on her grew tighter. The song of the clareschaws was running through her blood; John's breath was brushing across her cheeks. She rotated rhythmically in the candlelight, her skirts swirling about her legs. When the harps fell silent, Muriella leaned against her husband while she steadied her breathing and her pulse began to slacken. After a moment, he looked down at her, smiling, and said softly, "I've been thinking that now 'tis safe again, 'tis time to go back to Cawdor."

  She blinked as if she had not heard him properly. "Ye don't mean—" Stopping in confusion, she tried to find the words to express her distress. "But 'tis barren there, and long abandoned. There're neither hangings on the walls nor rugs on the floors."

  John shook his head. "I've taken care of that. Ye'll find things have changed a great deal since yer last visit."

  Looking away, she murmured under her breath, "They couldn't have changed enough."

  "Muriella?" her husband asked. "What troubles ye?" She drew away from the shelter of his arm to meet his questioning gaze. "I don't think I can face Cawdor again. The memories are too strong."

  "Even now?" he whispered.

  She nodded. "Even now."

  Before he could respond, Colin appeared from among the weaving dancers, calling, "Johnnie, where've ye been hiding?" When John did not answer, the Earl reached out to grasp Muriella's free hand. "Ye wouldn't deny me a dance with yer wife, would ye? I've been waiting all evening." He did not stop to hear his brother's response, but pulled her toward an opening in the press of moving bodies.

  For a moment, John kept his hand on Muriella's, as if he would not let her go, but when he realized some of the guests were watching, he released her. Bowing with elaborate courtesy, he said, "As ye wish, Brother. But take care of her."

  Colin smiled as he faced his new partner. He had not missed the underlying threat in John's voice. However, his brother did not intend to pay John any mind. The Earl had found, at last, that he was bored with Jenny, and his eyes had begun to wander. He had not failed to notice that Muriella was magnificent tonight. She wore a deep blue velvet gown with satin ribbons, and as she rotated in the dance, the skirt parted in front, revealing her sky blue kirtle. Her auburn braids were wound around her head, with pale blue ribbons twined among them. At her throat the ruby glowed in its gold setting. Colin squeezed her fingers, and when she came near to circle with him, he moved his hand above her waist. "I was hoping Johnnie wouldn't return before dawn," he said. "Then I could've had ye all to myself."

  Muriella whirl
ed away as the dance demanded, but when she faced him again, she said, "He wouldn't like to hear ye talk that way."

  "Do ye think I care what Johnnie likes? Ye forget that I'm the Earl. My brother is nothing."

  Muriella stiffened and took a step back. "Nothing," she said, "except my husband."

  Forcing himself to smile, Colin closed the space between them. "'Tis no' wise to scorn me, ye know. If I want ye, I shall have ye."

  "Ye sicken me," she said.

  "Do I?" His voice was cool but she felt the rage underneath. "I suppose ye prefer my little brother."

  She faced him squarely. "Aye."

  "Then ye're a fool," he hissed. "He's more interested in hunting down his enemies and making them cry for mercy than in visiting yer chamber. He knows, no doubt, what he'll find in yer bed, but out there, with a sword in his hand, my brother plays a game he thinks he can't lose. Or hadn't ye noticed his gloating smile tonight?"

  Muriella withdrew her hands from Colin's grasp. "What do ye mean?"

  "Didn't he tell ye? I'd have thought he'd be bragging about his triumph to anyone who'd listen. Ye see," he said in an exaggerated whisper, "The Devil Afire will burn no more." Muriella regarded the Earl curiously. She had heard the name before but could not remember where.

  Colin saw her confusion and leaned forward until she could not escape the cold gleam of his eyes. "Surely ye know of the one they call The Devil Afire? 'Tis the outlaw, Hugh Rose. Or at least, 'twas till today, when Johnnie killed him."

  The foreboding was with Muriella again, so all-enveloping it took her breath away. "Ye're lying," she choked.

  "No, my blind little fool, 'tis the truth. Haven't ye realized yet that Johnnie's determined to make certain there's no one left to challenge his right to Cawdor?" The Earl smiled when he saw the color fade from Muriella's cheeks. "Hugh Rose was in his way—and now he's dead."