Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  The room began to spin as Colin drew her back into the dance. When she bent her head, the sound of John's voice came to her like a grim, distant warning. There's something I have to do. Something that can't wait any longer. She circled and bowed, skipped and turned, but all the while her husband's furious image was before her. Why had he never answered her questions?

  With a start, Muriella realized Colin was leading her off the floor toward the place where John waited. For a moment she thought she could not face him, then a rush of bright anger restored her courage.

  "Muriella?" her husband asked, disturbed by the strange flush of color on her cheeks.

  "I would speak to ye privately," she said.

  Eyes narrowed, he regarded her in silence for a moment before taking her arm. "As ye wish."

  Together they climbed the stairs without a word. When they reached the top, John drew Muriella into a hollowed niche in the thick stone wall. "Well?"

  The curve of the passageway blocked the torchlight.

  Muriella looked up at her husband, noting the way the shadows clung about him, darkening his face and disguising the expression in his eyes. "Where were ye going when I found ye this morning?" she demanded.

  John stiffened, his fingers closing more tightly around her arm. "Have a care for the way ye ask yer questions," he warned. "Mayhap the answers won't please ye." When she continued to stare at him, unblinking, he frowned. "As I told ye then, I was on my way to meet an enemy."

  With an effort, Muriella kept her voice steady. "'Twas my cousin Hugh, wasn't it?"

  For a moment, her husband was shocked out of his anger.

  "How did ye know?" Then he remembered the smug grin with which Colin had relinquished Muriella. John clenched his free hand into a fist that made his arm ache to the shoulder. "Aye," he said.

  Muriella could not breathe, but fought to make herself go on. "Ye killed him, didn't ye?"

  Cursing his brother under his breath, John put his hands on his wife's shoulders. He had not meant for her to find out this way, had never meant for her to know what Hugh Rose had become. "Listen to me—," he began.

  "Is it true?" she cried. "Just tell me if 'tis true."

  "Aye," he said in resignation. "I killed him."

  "Why?" she asked. Seeking support for the weakness in her knees, she pressed one hand against the stone.

  "Because," John told her softly, "he was an evil man."

  "No!" She looked away and covered her ears with her hands. "I won't listen."

  Forcing her hands away from her head, her husband said, "Ye asked for the truth and now ye'll hear it. Hugh Rose was a thief and a murderer who didn't deserve to live anymore. I only destroyed him before he could destroy me."

  Muriella closed her eyes. It seemed that killing Hugh was not enough for John; he wanted to kill her memories too. She saw again the blackened face that had haunted her dream. She had thought it was the image of some ghastly stranger, but now she understood; the leering mockery of a face had been her cousin's death mask. Suppressing a single, anguished cry, she turned away from her husband.

  "Where are ye going?" he demanded.

  "To my chamber. I've lost a childhood friend tonight. Mayhap ye'll allow me a moment to grieve alone." Sensing he would not try to stop her, she slipped past him to disappear down the narrow, twisting passageway.

  She did not see Duncan stop as she passed and turn to stare after her in dismay. He cried out once, "M'lady!" but she did not even hear him.

  ~ * ~

  "Well, what's so important it couldn't wait till morning?" Colin asked in impatience as he faced his brother across the crowded library. "My guests are waiting, ye ken."

  John sat on the edge of the desk, clutching the wood with unnecessary force. "Ye've been meddling in my business again."

  The Earl noted with misgiving the gleam in his brother's eye. Maybe he had gone too far this time. "What business? Make yerself clear, man."

  "I'm talking of Muriella, as ye damned well know! What did ye say to her?"

  Colin's smile was mocking. "I merely mentioned that she was looking particularly lovely tonight. I'm afraid she doesn't take compliments well."

  "So ye were angry when she didn't fall for yer charm, and decided to get back at her, is that it?"

  The Earl laughed uneasily. "I don't know what ye mean." Releasing the desk and flexing his hands to stop the tingling in his fingers, John took a step toward his brother. "I think ye do. Now tell me, damn ye, what did ye say?"

  Colin tried to think of the wisest answer, then with a shrug, decided to tell the truth. "I told Muriella ye'd gotten what ye wanted from her and left her for the pleasure of the hunt, with Hugh Rose as the prey."

  John gasped in disbelief. When he caught his breath again, he had to fight to control the rage that left him shaking. "I knew ye were low, but—"

  Smiling crookedly, Colin regarded his brother in unconcern. "Don't try to abuse me just because ye aren't man enough to keep her happy, Johnnie. 'Tis no' my fault."

  In an instant, John closed the space between them, grasping his brother's doublet in his hands. The fury boiled in him, clamoring to be released. "I warned ye before to leave her alone, ye bastard."

  "'Tis no' me who's the bastard, and well ye know it. I've heard they don't have real feelings like other people. I just thought I'd see for myself."

  At Colin's bland smile, John's control finally snapped. He released his brother and, with all his strength, slammed his fist into Colin’s jaw. The third Earl of Argyll, staggered briefly, then slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  Chapter 41

  Once she had left her husband behind, Muriella ran without stopping until her chamber door was closed and the bolt slid into place. The fire had died down, so the chamber was cold, but she did not revive the flames. Collecting several candles from around the room, she lit each from the torch and set them in a circle she had cleared on the floor. Numb with shock, she sank to the stone with the candles as a wall of fluttering light around her. They seemed to isolate her from the people and music and laughter that swept through the keep beyond her door. Feebly, the flames attempted to push back the gloom to the corners of the room.

  Closing her eyes, she felt the glow of the candlelight against her lids as she tried to bring the image of Hugh's face into her mind. But all she could see was the blackened shell of his death mask. Soon, even that faded as John's face rose to cover it. Her heart slowed and she tried to free herself of the image, but it would not go.

  It would be with her always—in her dreams and her nightmares, in the sunlight and the darkness, even in the Loch Awe tapestry, where she had woven her husband's face without knowing. Why could she not escape it? The answer came to her in the flutter of the candlelight through the shadows—because she loved him.

  Muriella gasped, pressing her hands against the floor as if to keep herself from falling. She had been blind. She should have known it long ago, but she had shut her eyes to the truth. She had not wanted to face the turmoil of her feelings for John: the frantic beating of her heart, the ache that never ceased to come at the sight of his face. The hopeless, joyful, cruel, intoxicating force of her love, and at the center of all those things—the fear that would never leave her.

  The solid stone room began to sway, tilting wildly from side to side as her heartbeat grew labored. Slowly, inevitably, the coldness settled in her bones. She was struggling with the darkness that closed around her until it became the water, rushing, white and chilling, about her body. It would sweep her away; she had no strength left to fight it anymore. She clawed her way upward, choking and gasping, but the water pulled her down and down and down, sucking the last of the breath from her body.

  She shuddered, arms wrapped tightly across her chest. It was a long moment before she realized the water had retreated and she was sprawled on the floor in her chamber within the ring of candle flames. The sweat rolled down her face into her hair as she rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to chase away the
chill. She thought her heart had ceased to beat, that it might never again take up its rhythm, but then she felt the painful thumping in her chest and knew she had survived the vision once again. Long after the chill had left her and the trembling had stopped, the image of the rushing water lingered—cold and bright and menacing, like the rage that glimmered in John's eyes.

  She had first seen it on the afternoon when the Campbells arrived at Cawdor and he'd come crashing toward her through the river. She saw it always in his love for the chase, the hunt, the inevitable kill. The fury that drove him to hunt down his enemies until every last one of them was dead—Andrew Calder, Lachlan Maclean, Hugh Rose, and countless others whose names she did not know. 'Tis no' really that they're cruel, Elizabeth had murmured. 'Tis just that they don't know any other way. Yet it was that very intensity of feeling that had tempted John, for a moment, to silence his own sister because he could not bear her weakness. The rage that was his God, ruled him, obsessed him, changed him—the rage that might one day be turned against Muriella herself.

  There was another John, a tiny voice whispered from out of the gloom. A man who saw her needs and cared for her and tried to understand. But that John frightened her even more, because, when he came to her and held her, he could make her forget. Sometimes Archibald frightens me. Not because he mistreats me, but because he doesn't. I don't know how to fight his kindness.

  Muriella buried her face in her hands. When John had made love to her, when he'd held her and taught her to know his body, the joy had rushed through her in waves, overwhelming her wisdom. As he caressed her skin with his gentle hands, she'd forgotten, for an instant, that those hands were covered with blood—and always would be. Ye can't ask the impossible of a man like Johnnie. He won't change, my friend, and neither will ye.

  Muriella was choking on the smell of must in the tiny, airless chamber. She had to get away from here—from the maudlin shadows the candles painted across the walls. Away from the voices screaming inside her head like disembodied spirits singing a frighteningly beautiful song.

  She had to leave it behind before it consumed her. She would go to the loch, because there she would find peace. Moving awkwardly, as if her limbs were not her own, she rose, went to the door, and slid the bolt open. Turning toward the darkened end of the corridor, she groped through the shadows for the door through which Megan had taken her on her first morning at Kilchurn. When she found it, she dragged it open, abandoning herself to the dank, curving passage beyond. She did not look to see if she was followed.

  Muriella ran incautiously, brushing against the moist walls, stumbling on the steep downward path, but she did not slow her pace. She dared not take the chance of pausing, or the weeping voices might overcome her. At last she came to the final door. She slid the bolt back with both hands, unaware that it stained her lingers with streaks of rust. When she emerged into the lower garden, the cold wind rushed at her, nearly forcing her to her knees. She embraced the chill because it shrouded her senses, dimming the clamor of voices to a dull, persistent murmur.

  She had meant to follow the battlemented walls of the keep and find her way through the darkness to the loch, but when she heard the sound of the river, she paused. Its voice was loud enough to sweep away the other troubling noises. Muriella turned toward the deafening roar. As she approached, the river lashed within its banks, discontent and deadly with the swollen bravery the melting snows had given it. She stood on the bank, feeling the spray that drenched her face, her hair, her deep blue gown. As the water cooled the heat in her cheeks, the river seemed to call to her.

  She swayed forward, fascinated by the rush and thunder of the water swirling over tumbled rocks. She could feel it closing around her shoulders, drawing her under. The terror welled within her, stopping her breath, but still the water called, echoing with its hypnotic voice her own long-ago words to Megan. 'Tis the waiting that's the worst, it roared. The waiting... The slow, wearing agony of not knowing when or where or why... The river laughed and groaned, throwing the words in her face time and again, until she moved closer, mesmerized by the swift-flowing image of her fear. 'Tis the waiting, the waiting, the waiting that's the worst. The water wooed her, lured her, called for her to come... come know the chill, swirling heart of yer terror so it need not haunt ye anymore. Come...

  If she answered, if she let the water take her, then the waiting would be over and she would be at peace.

  Drawn by the call of a nightmare too powerful to resist, she plunged, unthinking, into the river. Then the icy water closed around her and the shock of the bitter cold woke her from her trance. As her legs were swept from beneath her, she cried out, realizing in horror what she had done, but her voice was drowned by the force of the rushing river. The water dragged her, struggling, in its path. Though she flung her arms out, reaching for the shore, she could not free herself from the furious torrent that had her in its grip at last.

  Then a sharp sound broke through her terror. She looked up to see Duncan stretched above the river on a heavy branch. In the clear, cascading moonlight, she saw he was weeping, and the thought of his tears was more painful than the rocks and bushes that tore at her. Choking on the water that filled her eyes and throat, Muriella reached for his hand as the current swept her beneath him.

  He closed his other hand around her wrists and they swayed there, balanced precariously, while the branch shifted under their weight. Duncan lay still, holding her as best he could, while he waited for the movement to subside. The river was only inches away, tumbling beneath them with a fury that made him shiver. Afraid as he had never been before, Duncan found a strength he had not known he possessed. While Muriella dug her fingers frantically into his shoulders, he slid his arms around her waist and drew her up beside him. They clung to the heavy branch of the oak, trying to catch their breath, then, slowly, an inch at a time, began to crawl backward away from the water.

  When he reached the trunk, Duncan dropped to the ground and stood waiting to help Muriella as she made her way down in her drenched skirts. Leaning awkwardly against the rough bark, he pulled her dripping body close to his own. He rested his head on her hair, and did not attempt to move again.

  Muriella clung to him, wet and bruised, blood running down her forehead. She did not think, and although she was chilled, she did not shiver. With her head on Duncan's heaving chest, she gave herself up to the memory of his tears. She did not notice the blood running more and more freely over her face, and she slipped into unconsciousness without ever having looked into his eyes.

  Duncan felt her slump against him. When he tilted her face up, he saw where a rock had cut her forehead at the temple.

  Pushing her gently away, he tore a long strip from his shirt to wind around her head, hoping it would slow the bleeding. When he began to breathe normally again, he lifted her in his arms and started toward the castle. She was heavier than he had thought, and the path to the keep was long and steep. He struggled with his burden, stopping to rest now and then against a nearby tree. Gradually, as he left the river behind, the fear began to slip away and his mind to work once more. Thank God she was safe, he thought. Thank God he’d had the presence of mind to recognize her distress when he saw her running from the fete. He'd waited outside her door, then followed her with increasing dread when she left her room to disappear into the passageway. He remembered with a chill the horror he had felt when she'd thrown herself in the water.

  It took the squire a long time to find his way through the gloomy passage. When he finally pushed open the inner door, he paused, relaxing for a moment against the stone wall. Then he continued down the hall, noticing with relief that the door to Muriella's room was ajar. With his foot, he kicked it open.

  Megan stood in the center of the room, a ring of burned out candles at her feet. John stood beside her, his face drawn and gray. At the sight of his cousin, Duncan stopped on the threshold, aware, for the first time, of what he must now face. He wanted to turn and run, but his burden was too heavy and
it was already too late.

  John raised his head, blinked, and froze where he stood.

  "What in God's name," he roared, "have ye done with my wife?"

  Duncan trembled, intensely aware of the weight of Muriella's head against his shoulder. He thought he would not be able to answer, but then his voice returned. "I—didn't do it," he stuttered. "I—only—found her." Furious at his own weakness, he swallowed once and spoke more calmly. "Before I explain, I think she needs care. Her head—"

  With an effort, John got his anger under control. He could see from the blood seeping through Duncan's makeshift bandage that his wife did indeed need care. He crossed the floor in two long strides, lifted Muriella from the squire's arms, and carried her to the bed, where he laid her among the scattered furs.

  "We'd best get her wet gown off before she falls ill," Megan whispered behind him.

  "Aye," he said, unable to pull himself away from the image of his wife's ashen face. She lay with her skirts twisted about her, dripping over the mattress and down the side of the bed. She was breathing unevenly, her lips slightly parted. Her skin was translucent—pale ivory in some places, gray in others. The blood trickled over her forehead and into her wet hair.

  "M'lord," Megan said.

  John turned away abruptly. "I'll get Mary to help ye see to her." Brushing past the squire, he stepped into the corridor and shouted, "Mary! Where the devil are ye when I need ye, girl? Mary!"

  When the servant finally appeared, John ushered her into Muriella's chamber, then, motioning for Duncan to follow him into the passageway, he closed the door with a bang. "Now," he said sharply, "tell me."

  Duncan shifted from one foot to the other, staring down at his damp, mud-stained trews. How could he describe what had happened when he was not even certain himself? He frowned, searching for words, though he knew there were none. "Yer wife's been in the river, m'lord. I think she hit her head on a rock and that's why—"

  "How did she get there," John interrupted, "and how is it ye were there to find her?"