Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  He spoke without inflection, but Duncan recognized the threat beneath the softly spoken words. "I saw her run from her chamber earlier. She—" He paused, running his tongue over his dry lips. "She seemed distraught. I saw her go to the door, the one that leads to the tunnels below, and I followed."

  "Why?" John waited rigidly for his cousin's reply.

  "I don't know. I thought she might come to some harm. 'Twas late and I couldn't understand why she should be going outside."

  "How did she come to fall in the river?"

  This was the question Duncan had feared. He considered lying, but was not certain what Muriella would tell her husband when she awakened. If she had been serious in her attempt, then John should know the truth. "She didn't fall."

  Mechanically, John moved toward his cousin, his sword swinging against his leg. "What are ye saying?"

  "She jumped. I believe she intended—"

  "No! Ye must be wrong." John's hands were shaking as he took Duncan roughly by the shoulders. "Tell me," he demanded, "are ye certain of this?"

  "Aye, m'lord."

  For an instant, John thought if he strangled his cousin, cut off the source of the news he had just received, then it would no longer be true. His wife had fallen, he told himself. Just that. Fallen into the river at midnight, four hundred yards from the keep? No, Duncan must be right, damn him! His fingers closed bruisingly on the squire's shoulders.

  Duncan gasped at the look in his cousin's eyes and felt his palms grow damp with sweat. "M'lord!" he cried in desperation, "I've only told ye the truth!"

  John winced and released the squire at once. 'Twas only a momentary madness, he had told Muriella once. But a moment, he realized, was long enough. "Forgive me," he said. "'Tis not yer fault, I know." He turned away in an effort to steady his breathing.

  Sensing the danger had passed, Duncan sighed in relief, then touched his cousin's arm. "There's something more ye should know," he said softly. "Yer wife must have changed her mind when the water closed around her, because when she saw me, she reached out to take my hand. I don't know why she threw herself in, but I do know she wanted me to save her. 'Tis no' much," he said when he saw the look on John's face, "but 'tis something."

  John raised both fists to his forehead and closed his eyes against the dawning realization that his wife had tried to take her own life. Somehow, his mind refused to accept it. He shook his head again and again in denial. "Thank ye for all ye've done," he said. His face clouded over as he added, "Don't tell the others what's happened."

  "No, of course not."

  Looking at Duncan's lanky body, covered with mud and leaves and a trail of blood that began at his shoulder, then disappeared into the saffron folds of his long shirt, John told him, "Ye'd best get out of those clothes. And have Jenny draw ye a bath."

  "Are ye sure ye wouldn't have me stay?"

  Wearily, John shook his head. "Just now I would be alone. I have to think what to do." As he turned to stare at the heavy oak door that shut him away from his wife, he realized he could not think. His mind was blank from shock and pain and a despair so deep that he dared not recognize it.

  Chapter 42

  Muriella moaned. As her dreams retreated, she tried to think where she was, but her mind was operating from the center of a dense fog; around her everything was dark. She sensed movement nearby, but did not know what it meant. Slowly, with a great deal of difficulty, she opened her eyes. Her vision was cloudy. She could discern only shadows and vague shapes that had no meaning. But she felt a presence just above her. As her vision began to clear, a face appeared, scowling, troubled. She blinked several times before the face came into focus. Then she drew a name up from her memory. John. She felt a rush of relief at the sight of his familiar face. He was safe. Or was it she who had been in danger?

  Her head began to ache at the thought. She noticed that though her husband's hand was resting on the bed next to her shoulder, he was not looking at her. In the same moment, it came to her that the long-awaited storm had broken at last. She could hear the wind moaning as rain slashed furiously against the walls of the keep. No wonder the light was so strange and silver tinted. No wonder John's face looked so gray and haggard. But perhaps that was not it at all. Perhaps something was very wrong. "Johnnie?" she murmured.

  His head snapped up. For a long moment, he simply stared at her. "Why did ye do it?" he asked at last.

  She did not understand. "Do... what?"

  Drawing a deep breath, John leaned closer. He could see the confusion in her eyes and knew it was real. "Ye don't remember, do ye?"

  "Remember?" Muriella's heart began to beat unsteadily.

  John ran his hand through his hair, smoothing the untidy strands as if he could sort his disordered thoughts as easily. After a time, he asked, "Ye have no idea what happened last night?"

  His wife frowned, trying to think. She remembered the room full of swirling dancers, the way John had held her in the fragmented light, and the stirring warmth of his lips on hers, but then—nothing. "I don't think—," she began, but a distant, troubling memory made her stop. It hovered before her, just out of reach. Perplexed, she drew her brows together and felt a strange discomfort across her forehead. Muriella reached up to touch the thick linen bandage, wincing at the pressure of her fingers on the wound beneath. As the pain sliced through her head, it all came back to her: John's face, the candlelight, the darkness, and, finally, the river. "Dear God!" she cried, turning away.

  "Muriella."

  The sound of his voice brought the flaring pain up through her limbs. She was shaking and could not stop. She felt him touch her shoulder, curse under his breath. Then he was gone and the coldness was with her again. "Johnnie," she called, "don't leave me!"

  She did not know if he heard her. She closed her eyes, pressing her hands into the warm furs, hoping to still the trembling. Just when she thought it might never end, John reached from out of the unnatural stillness beyond the bed to offer her a goblet of wine. "Drink."

  She took the cold pewter in her hands, raised her head, and drank. As the soothing warmth began to move through her veins, the shaking eased until, at last, it stopped altogether. Only then did she find the courage to look up at him.

  "Now," her husband said, setting the goblet aside, "tell me."

  She could feel his breath on her cheek and it made her want to weep. "I didn't really wish to die," she told him, knowing it was not enough, that nothing she could say would ever be enough.

  "Then why, in God's name, did ye do it?"

  "'Twas—" She tried to think, but the throbbing in her head defeated her. Then, in the midst of the numbing pain, came the memory of something he had told her once. Grasping a wolf pelt in her cold fingers, she said, "'Twas only a momentary madness. The river hypnotized me and I didn't have the strength to resist."

  It was not what he wanted to hear; she knew by the way he retreated, his expression hidden by half-closed lids. All at once, she wanted to draw him close, to smooth the pain from his face with the touch of her hands. "I swear to ye, I didn't mean to do it."

  He stared at the rushes at his feet until the power of her gaze was too great to ignore any longer. "If 'tis so, then tell me why ye left the keep in the middle of the night. Why were ye even near the river?"

  "I had to get away," she replied without thinking.

  John winced as if she had struck him. "From me?"

  "No!" she cried. "But mayhap—" Her eyes clouded with confusion. "I don't know."

  Massaging his forehead as if it pained him, her husband sank deeper into a chair beside the bed. Muriella wanted to take the hand that rested on his knee, but she sensed he would not welcome her touch. The constriction in her throat nearly choked her and tears burned behind her lids.

  John ran his hands over the soft wool of his trews as he tried to find an explanation for his wife's behavior that he could understand. He knew she had wanted him when he held her at the foot of the stairs. He had felt her response when his
lips met hers. As they danced, she had been happy; he remembered clearly the radiance in her eyes each time she looked at him. But afterward, something had gone wrong. He looked up to find Muriella watching him in tense silence. Only the thunder of the rising storm outside disturbed the stillness. "Was it because of Cawdor that ye ran away?" John asked. "Or was it Hugh Rose?"

  Muriella blinked at him in astonishment. She had forgotten Hugh completely. "No," she told him. "'Twas neither of those things."

  "Then why?" John reached out to take her hand. "In God's name, tell me the truth!"

  His wife felt his desperation, and though she formed the words of a soothing lie, her lips would not utter it. "I don't think ye really want to hear the truth."

  He looked up then, his face drawn and pale. "I can't stand the waiting any longer. Tell me."

  Muriella stared at his strong, sun-browned hand for a long time before her fingers closed around it in a plea for understanding she knew he could not give. "I did it because of ye," she said. "Because ye will destroy me."

  His pain was so great he had to look away. She had admitted at last what he had always suspected. He realized, as he released his wife's hand, that she was right; he did not want to know. "So," he said in a tone so still it frightened her, "'tis me ye see in the vision that comes whenever I touch ye."

  Muriella bit her lip. The time had come when she could no longer avoid answering his questions. Her mouth was dry and her empty hands trembled as she whispered, "The vision is of my own death."

  "Yer death?" he repeated blankly. Then he realized what she was saying. John rose from the chair and kicked it away. "But that can't be," he said, knowing he was fighting a battle he had lost long ago. "I love ye too much."

  Muriella gave a strangled moan and turned her head away, but not before he saw the bitter realization on her face.

  "Were ye such a fool that ye didn't know that?"

  "Aye," she muttered. "Just such a fool."

  John began to pace in agitation. He had to think, but his thoughts were clouded by hopelessness and, beneath that, a violent denial. The Sight had never been wrong before, but—

  He turned in a sudden determination. "'Tis not true," he declared. "I wouldn't ever want to hurt ye."

  She wanted to believe him, but the sinking in her stomach told her she dared not. "Just as ye never wanted to hurt Elizabeth?"

  John stopped still, thumbs hooked in the wide leather of his sword belt. He could not deny it. He remembered the overwhelming rage he had felt as his sister lay ill, calling Maclean's name. And Muriella did not even know how near he'd come to hurting Duncan the night before.

  Muriella waited for him to speak, to tell her she was wrong, to repeat his assurance that he would never hurt her, but John simply stood there, staring before him, appalled. His wife quailed.

  John saw her shiver and he looked away. "I assume," he said carefully, in a voice without inflection, "that ye want me to go away so ye'll be safe."

  Terror of a new kind shook her. "No! I don't want to be safe."

  Finally, inevitably, his control snapped. He leaned down, pressing his hands into the mattress, trapping her head between his two arms. "Then what, in the name of all that's holy, do ye want?"

  It was there in his eyes again—the rage that made him into a stranger. She wanted to push him away, to free herself from that glittering stare. Elizabeth's warning pounded in her ears:

  Remember, they can only hurt ye if ye give them the power to do so. "I don't know," Muriella said.

  John's shoulders sagged in defeat. He straightened slowly, releasing her from the prison of his hands. She sensed he was going to leave her and knew she had to stop him. Muriella reached up to grasp her husband's hand before he could slip away. "Please!" she cried.

  She had made that plea before, but now, as then, he did not understand what she was asking for. Her fingers were warm and beguiling on his. Against his will, he met her gaze. She held him immobile with her eyes; he could not look away. It had always been so. She tortured him, tempted him, enchanted and denied him. Her eyes were wild and green and fathomless, and he knew, in that instant, that he had to break free—before she dragged him into the sea of her terror and they both drowned in the waves. "I've done what I can," he said, withdrawing his hand from her grasp. "I don't know what else to do." He turned away.

  "Johnnie!" Muriella cried, but he did not pause. He crossed the chamber in three long strides, and the sound of the door slamming behind him echoed from the damp gray walls. Muriella closed her eyes. She should feel relief, she told herself. He was gone and she was safe. But she knew as she lay there, struggling with the darkness, that she could not bear his absence.

  Chapter 43

  Colin awoke with a painful grunt. Gingerly, he touched his swollen jaw, wincing when he opened his mouth. He moved his lower teeth back and forth, hoping the motion would loosen his sore muscles and relieve the pain somewhat. John had done a thorough job, he thought, glowering. Now that it was too late, he remembered the warning his brother had given a week ago: Ye'd best remember that when they're drunk, men sometimes lose all fear and sanity. Likely to do anything, they are.

  But John had not been drunk. The thought disturbed Colin.

  If necessary, he could deal with an intoxicated fool, but he did not know how to deal with a man who had been neither wild with drink nor weak with fear. Fear was the only thing the Earl really understood, the only method he knew to control the men under his command. But he had lost that control over his brother. John did not fear him anymore. And Argyll did not like it.

  "M'lord? Are ye awake?" Sim poked his head inside the door warily.

  Colin leaned back behind the bed curtains so the servant would not see his bruised face. "Aye!" he snapped. "What is it?" "I wouldn't disturb ye, but a man came with a message from court. He said ye're to see it right away."

  "Well, don't stand there dithering in the corner. Bring it here, man!"

  Reluctantly, the servant came forward, keeping his eyes lowered.

  "Can't ye move any faster?" Argyll snarled. "Would ye have me wait all day?"

  "Forgive me, m'lord," Sim muttered as he handed over the sealed parchment with shaking fingers. "I didn't mean to keep ye waitin'."

  Colin noted with satisfaction that Sim did not look up. Now here was a man who knew how to approach the Earl of Argyll— a man who could not even meet his master's gaze out of fear of what he would find there. Grasping the note, fixed with the royal seal, Colin cuffed the servant on the ear for good measure. "Be gone!" he said.

  Certain he would be obeyed, the Earl opened the parchment to find a request from the Queen Mother that he return to Edinburgh at once. There was trouble at court. He frowned. As if he did not already have trouble enough. On the other hand, he would not really mind leaving the damp walls of this keep for the luxuries at court. Only when he heard Sim shuffling from one foot to the other did he realize the servant still stood at the bedside. Brows drawn together in anger, he said, "I told ye to go."

  "I heard ye, m'lord. But there's somethin' else I think ye should know."

  "Out with it!" the Earl demanded.

  The servant swallowed nervously. "I thought ye should know that Sir John left Kilchurn an hour since."

  "Left? To go where?"

  "No one knows. When Duncan asked where he was goin' and when he would return, Sir John said 'twas no' anyone's business but his own."

  "Did he now?" The Earl rose at last, throwing a robe over his shoulders as he moved toward the fire. "He was angry then?"

  "No' exactly. He was—" The servant fumbled for words. "Still, ye ken, and silent, with cold, cold eyes. But he frightened me more this mornin' than he does when he's in one of his rages, I can tell ye that."

  With his back to Sim, Colin touched his battered chin as he gazed thoughtfully into the flames. "Do ye have any idea what happened to make him that way?"

  Sim coughed, hoping the Earl had not seen him staring at the dark, ugly bruise on
the side of his face. "I did hear 'em sayin' in the kitchen that Sir John's wife threw herself in the river last night."

  "She did what?" Colin turned so he could see the servant's face.

  “Jenny says she heard Duncan tell Sir John that his wife threw herself in the river.”

  "She isn't dead, is she? Someone would've informed me, surely."

  "Och, no! She hurt her head, I'm told, but 'twas only after she awoke and Sir John spoke with her that he went away."

  Colin's eyes narrowed. "So," he murmured. "Where is she now?"

  "In her chamber. Jenny said she isn't likely to leave her bed today."

  Running his fingers over his jaw, the Earl murmured, "Leave me now."

  "As ye say, m'lord."

  When the servant had gone, Colin stood pressing his hands against the stone above the fireplace. He had meant to punish John for his behavior last night, but his brother had already slipped out of his grasp. And Argyll did not have time to track him down just now. The Earl smiled crookedly when he thought of Muriella trying to take her life. He did not wonder why; he had given up long ago trying to understand her motives. Besides, this time she had made her husband miserable enough without Colin's intervention, it seemed. Perhaps it was better, for the moment, that she make John pay for his error in judgment.

  His brother had said they'd be leaving for Cawdor soon. By the time the Earl returned, they would be gone. He would see to it. Then there would be peace again at Kilchurn.

  But with Muriella at Cawdor, there would be no mistress here. Colin frowned, rubbing the good side of his chin with two fingers. Perhaps on his way home, he would collect Janet and the children and bring them to the castle. His wife had asked to come often enough. The voices of his children might even make the keep seem a little less empty.

  Argyll clenched his hands into helpless fists. What foolishness. Kilchurn was full of Campbells, all of whom looked up to him with respect—and dread. Except for mad Johnnie and his fey wife. Glowering into the fire, Colin thought he would be happy to see the last of those two.