Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  ~ * ~

  Megan drew away from the window as a flash of lightning blazed across the sky, illuminating the distant peaks with a brilliance that made her shiver. Quickly, she closed the shutters against the storm. "I don't like to think of Sir John out there in the rain," she said.

  In spite of the storm, Muriella's husband had left Kilchurn. She would have known it even if Megan had not come to tell her an hour since. Already the bleak gray walls had begun to ring with the sound of his absence. "He knows his way over these hills, even in this weather. He'll take care," she said, praying it was true. But she knew in her heart John was in a dangerous frame of mind and not at all likely to take care. She feared the storm inside him was greater than the one without.

  Turning away from the window, the servant returned to Muriella's side. For a long moment, she stared down at her hands before asking hesitantly, "Why did he go, m'lady?"

  Muriella could not meet Megan's troubled brown eyes. "Because I didn't give him any choice."

  "But Sir John isn't the kind of man to let his wife make choices for him."

  "No," Muriella murmured, "but even he isn't strong enough to fight the power of the Sight and win."

  Megan retreated a step. She did not want to think about that. "Do ye think—" She looked down at her hands again. "Do ye think he'll come back?"

  "I don't know." Muriella found it difficult to speak. All at once, she knew she must be moving. Throwing the furs aside, she slipped from the bed.

  "M'lady, please. Ye aren't strong enough to be up yet." Muriella shook her head. "I can't stay still." At Megan's frown, she added, "But thank ye for caring, my friend."

  "Am I yer friend, truly?"

  Stopping to meet the servant's searching gaze, her mistress smiled sadly. "Aye, from the first day they brought me here, I think. I'm grateful for that, Megan. For everything." Before Megan could respond, Muriella turned and started slowly over the rushes, shivering when the cold from the stone beneath penetrated through to her bare feet. While the servant hovered anxiously nearby, she slipped into a gray kirtle and gown—to match her mood, she thought. As she dressed, she bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering. She had not yet shaken the chill that had settled in her blood from the icy water the night before.

  "What are ye goin' to do?" Megan asked.

  "Go to the library, I suppose. I only know I can't stay here." Where the sound of his voice still lingers, she added silently. Where the memory of his face hovers always before me. Don't grieve for me, Elizabeth had said. It doesn't last forever, ye ken. The months pass, the hurt eases, and then, one day ye begin to accept what ye can't change. Muriella could not make herself believe it, not while the vision of the endless, empty days stretched out before her, making a lie of every word of comfort she had ever heard.

  "Come," she said abruptly. "Let's be gone."

  With Megan behind her, she stepped into the passageway. To her surprise, she found the hush there even harder to bear.

  She realized too late that the icy water had taken more from her than she'd supposed. For a long moment, she stood with her arms wrapped around her body, unable to move forward, shivering uncontrollably. When she tried to take a step, she lost her balance and started to fall.

  A callused hand reached out to steady her. "M'lady? Are ye ill?

  She looked up into Richard Campbell’s troubled face and noticed that, where it touched her arm, his hand trembled. He was afraid of her. "No," she said, "but I thank ye for being here to catch me. I don't seem to have any strength today."

  Richard frowned. "Ye look mighty pale. And yer head must pain ye. Don't ye think—" He stopped, realizing he had no right to question her.

  Muriella shook her head. Though he could not disguise his unease in her presence, he also would not shirk his duty. And that duty was to protect her, no matter what his feelings were.

  "I can't stay still," she told him.

  When she started to move again, her knees wobbled. Once again Richard took her arm. "Will ye at least let me help ye, then?"

  "The only way ye could help would be to bring my husband back." The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Her problems with John were no concern of Richard's.

  Richard blinked at her in surprise. "If ye didn't want him to go, why didn't ye cast a spell to keep him here?"

  She sighed wearily. "Because I don't have that kind of power."

  Something about the raw pain in her voice made him believe her. He looked at her more closely, noticing how her hands trembled, how pale her cheeks were and how deep the shadows under her eyes. Just now, it seemed she was no longer a woman to be feared, but rather a girl to be pitied.

  After a moment's hesitation, he whispered hoarsely, "M'lady, I'm sorry."

  She stared at him in astonishment. "I don't understand."

  He shifted from one foot to the other, his face flushed with embarrassment. "I’ve had unkind thoughts of ye," he explained haltingly. "But mayhap I was wrong."

  "I told ye so time and again," Megan interjected, "but ye wouldn't listen to me."

  "Mayhap some things a man has to see for himself." He turned back to Muriella. "Do ye think ye can forgive me?"

  A lump formed in her throat. "Ye had reason enough to believe what ye did, and I didn't try to tell ye different. But now ye see"—Muriella spread her hands to indicate her own slender body— "I have no power beyond the power of the Two Sights, and that I would forsake today if 'twere my choice."

  Richard listened, brow furrowed.

  "I want ye to know that no matter what I said, I never meant the men any harm. Can ye believe that?"

  "I can try." Then, before she could stop him, he leaned down to kiss her hand.

  It was the first time in over four years that one of the men had touched her of his own free will. The simple gesture made the tears ache in her throat. "Thank ye," she murmured.

  Richard raised his head. "I must needs see to my brother's wound before the mornin's out. Can I go, m'lady?"

  It was the first time, too, that one of John's men had asked her permission, even for a thing so small. "Aye," she said in a strangled voice.

  He bowed and, with a tentative smile, left them.

  John would be pleased, Muriella thought. But John was not here, she reminded herself; he might never be again. As Richard disappeared down the passageway, she could hold back her tears no longer.

  Chapter 44

  Later, after her tears had dried and Megan had insisted she sit by the fire and eat some broth, Muriella ventured again into the hall. The chill in her blood had finally begun to dissipate, and this time her legs were strong enough to support her. The two women made their way to the library in silence.

  While Megan sewed by the light from the single window, Muriella settled in the Earl's carved chair and tried to read. She found, to her dismay, that the carefully transcribed parchment pages might as well have been written in a language she could not understand. The only words that had meaning for her were the ones John had spoken that morning while the world outside her window went mad with the fury of the storm. What, in God's name, DO ye want? If only she'd had an answer to give him.

  The rain had raged at last into silence and the clouds had parted to reveal the pale blue sky, but the freshness that rose in the wake of the storm only made Muriella's loneliness deeper. She opened the worn manuscript of John Barbour's The Bruce, tracing the familiar words with her fingertips, as if to recapture the warmth she had once shared with the Earl while they recited it together. But he was dead. Today even his memory could not reach her.

  She had just rested her forehead on the desktop in despair when she heard the door open. Muriella looked up to see Duncan seat himself on a stool nearby, his Highland harp in his hands. Before she could speak, he began to play, and though she leaned closer, he shook his head. "I've only come to see ye're safe."

  As he spoke, he ran his hands over the strings of the harp in a soothing rhythm. He sat on the stool in h
is long saffron shirt, his fair head bent forward so his hair fell into his eyes, but he did not push it away. In the sunlight, the pale strands glimmered, but she saw from Duncan's pallid skin that he’d had a restless night. Because of her. She started to speak again, but again he shook his head.

  "Some things are too difficult to say and even more difficult to hear," he told her softly.

  "But I must tell ye—"

  Without raising his head, he stopped her with a wave of his hand. "'Tis enough to say last night I did what I thought was right. 'Twas my duty to ye and to my cousin." He looked up then, his brown eyes steady. "I'm grateful to see ye here, but please don't talk, because I don't think I wish to know if ye feel differently."

  Tears threatened to betray her again. Muriella blinked them back. "Did ye think I would blame ye for saving my life?"

  The squire shrugged. "I didn't know. How could I? But it doesn't matter now, so long as ye're safe."

  "It matters," Muriella said, but he only smiled and bent to concentrate on his music once more.

  The notes rose clear, sweet and pure, weaving wordless stories in the sunlight. In spite of herself, Muriella fell under the spell of the music. As the song washed over her, she became aware of the magic Duncan's fingers created—a filmy tissue of interwoven notes that hung suspended in the air, softening reality like an undulating gauze curtain. Muriella smiled her gratitude, and when the squire looked up to meet her eyes, he seemed to understand.

  A loud knock on the door shattered the moment, and the fine, clinging notes of the song faded, so everything came once more into sharp focus.

  "Aye?" Muriella called.

  Mary opened the door and stood with her hand on the latch. "M'lady, there's someone to see ye."

  "Who?"

  "I wouldn't be knowin'. He wouldn't say. But he swore he must see ye."

  With a curious glance at Megan, who shook her head, Muriella said, "Bring him, then."

  "Aye, m'lady." Mary curtsied before leaving the room. She had not been gone long when the door opened again and Alex the Gypsy stepped over the threshold.

  "M'lady," he said, bowing.

  Muriella gaped at him. She tried to speak, but could not. Alex glanced quickly around the room. "Could I speak to ye alone for a time?" he asked.

  Megan rose, a half-finished shirt in her hand. "Ye don't think—," she began.

  The Gypsy interrupted her. "Ye want to help her, don't ye?"

  "Aye, but—"

  "Well, I can do it. Ye can't. But ye must leave us alone." At last Muriella recovered her voice. "Please, do as he says."

  Megan wanted to protest, but the sight of Muriella's face stopped the words in her mouth. There was a new light burning in her mistress's eyes. This man's arrival had distracted Muriella from her depression for the time being. "If 'tis what ye wish." But she was clearly reluctant to go.

  Alex put his hand on Megan's shoulder. "Yer mistress will be safe with me."

  Suddenly she remembered where she had heard that melodic voice before. She looked into Alex's eyes for the first time in four years and, instinctively, she trusted him. It was strange it should be so, she thought, but she did not stop to wonder why as she left the room.

  When, at Muriella's nod, the squire rose to follow, she said softly, "Thank ye, Duncan, for everything."

  With an uneasy smile, he nodded and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  While she tried to collect her wits, Muriella considered the Gypsy in silence. Alex had not changed much in the past four years. His weathered face was the same, aged beyond his years by day after day of sun and toil and the weight of his special knowledge. His clareschaw was slung over his shoulder as always. Just as she remembered, his silver hair and beard curled over the shoulders of his green-and-gold Gypsy shirt.

  "Ye've been gone a long time," she said at last.

  "Too long, it seems."

  She grasped the carved arms of her chair. "I don't understand."

  "I think ye do," Alex said quietly.

  She had forgotten the power of his eyes that changed from green to gray and back again in the path of the shifting sunlight. She wanted to look away but could not. "Why have ye come back?" Muriella asked.

  Alex seated himself unhurriedly on the stool Duncan had abandoned. "Because ye need me," he said, brushing a strand of hair back from his seamed face.

  She did not bother to tell him it was not so; she knew he would see the truth in her eyes. "How did ye know?"

  He smiled. "Ye asked me that once before, I think. My answer is the same now: I dreamed of ye last night."

  "But—"

  "Our camp isn't far from here," he interrupted. "As I also told ye, people talk to the Gypsies. I know yer husband has left Kilchurn. I know too that ye tried to take yer life. So, I came."

  Muriella took a deep breath. "Why should ye care about that? I'm not yer concern."

  "Somehow ye've become my concern, though why that should be I can't say. Mayhap 'tis because of the burden we share." He leaned closer, reaching out to brush her furrowed brow with his fingertips. "Because of this"—his fingers traced the hollows of her cheeks—"and this"—the rigid line of her mouth—"and this"—and came to rest on her eyelids as they had done four long years ago.

  Muriella sat for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the feather light touch of the Gypsy's fingertips on her lids. She remembered so clearly that distant afternoon when she had known for the first time that another understood her pain, because Alex had felt it too. Then he drew away. She opened her eyes to find him regarding her intently.

  "'Tis because of that," he said, "that ye'll tell me what happened yesterday to make ye seek the comfort of the river." His searching gaze held her immobile, though she fought to free herself from its power. Against her will, she murmured, "It started, I think, when my husband received a packet of letters from Cawdor. I knew something was amiss, but he didn't tell me what it was. He didn't come to me at all." That was not what she wanted to say, but the words spilled out, welling up from a place the Gypsy had uncovered with a single, telling glance. She laced her fingers together in her lap. "But the real beginning was the dream."

  "Aye," Alex mused. "So I should have guessed." His hands resting on his knees, he leaned forward—waiting.

  "I'd had it before, but 'twas no' the same. My cousin Hugh and I were young again at Kilravok, and happy, before I'd ever heard the name of Campbell. Always in the end, we fell together, laughing, but this time when I turned to him, I saw only his blackened death mask. 'Twas a warning, ye see." She swallowed, wishing the Gypsy would look away for even an instant, but his steady gaze did not waver. "My husband killed Hugh yesterday."

  Considering her in silence, Alex finally shook his head. "'Twas only for that? Ye hadn't even seen the man since ye left Cawdor."

  "No, but I'd lost something precious just the same. In all the years since I've come to Kilchurn, 'twas my only dream untouched by fear. And now that dream too has become a nightmare. I couldn't bear to lose Hugh that way."

  The Gypsy moved closer as, unblinking, he said softly, "The Hugh in yer dream was a child. People change."

  "I can't believe he could change so much. I don't want to believe it."

  Thoughtfully, Alex ran his fingers through his heavy beard, catching them in the tangled strands. "Is that why ye tried to end yer life—because Sir John had taken yer childhood friend from ye?"

  "No," she whispered.

  "Then why?"

  "Hugh's death—somehow it made me realize—" She stopped, but his gaze burned into her, exacting the truth regardless of her will. "I realized how much I—care for my husband."

  Alex leaned back, sighing deeply. His eyes lost some of their luminous intensity. "I see."

  Released from his spell at last, Muriella looked away. "This time I don't think ye do."

  The Gypsy frowned. "Do ye know why Sir John killed Hugh?" His hair had fallen into his face again and he pushed it back impatiently.


  She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now."

  "But it does. Mayhap the reason ye fear yer husband is because ye don't understand him well enough."

  Muriella stiffened. "I didn't say I fear him."

  "Didn't ye?" Alex murmured, "I thought ye did." The Gypsy reached out to raise her chin with one callused finger. "My child, ye can't understand yer husband till ye know the truth—unclouded by doubt or fear or the memory of a once- pleasant dream. Ye said there were some letters from Cawdor. Mayhap if ye read them, 'twould help ye see things more clearly."

  "Mayhap," Muriella replied warily. "But I don't know where they are. And I don't think—"

  "Aye?" the Gypsy murmured. "What don't ye think?"

  Once again she tried desperately to look away, but the light in his eyes had captured her and would not set her free. "I don't think I want to know."

  Smiling grimly, Alex drew away from her. "And that, above all, is why ye must know."

  Chapter 45

  A short time later, Alex entered the library again. "Here they are."

  Muriella surveyed the packet he had thrown onto the desk, but did not reach out to take it. "How did ye get them?"

  "Duncan helped me find 'em among Sir John's papers."

  "Why would he do such a thing?" she asked, half to herself.

  "Surely he knows John would be angry."

  Alex shrugged. "He didn't like it, but I told him how important 'twas for ye to see 'em."

  "Do ye think he understood?"

  The Gypsy shook his head. "No, but he tried. Ye're lucky to have such a friend."

  Muriella thought of all the gifts of song the squire had given her—and one gift more. "I know."

  "Would ye have me stay while ye read?"

  She noticed the strained energy that had characterized him earlier had gone. Now he did not seem at all intimidating, only very, very tired. "No," she said. "'Tis best if I'm alone, I think."

  "As ye wish. But I'll be nearby."

  "Thank ye."

  "Ye may no' wish to thank me when ye've seen 'em." Before she could respond, he slipped out, closing the door without a sound.