For several minutes, Muriella sat staring at the square of faded yellow against the dark leather cover of a manuscript. She waved her hand over the folded parchment as if to make it disappear into the shimmering sunlight. What, in God's name, are ye so afraid off John had asked her once. What indeed? With sudden resolution, she pulled the ribbon loose, spilling the letters onto the desktop. Gently, she spread the parchment open.
"John Campbell, Lord of Lorne, Thane of Cawdor," it read:
My lord,
Yer enquiries surprised me, for I thought that matter had been settled in yer father's time. 'Tis true enough that Hugh Rose has been spreading the rumors far and wide, and mayhap the people fear him enough to believe him. Or mayhap when he stands above them with his sword poised and ready to strike, they tell him only what he wants to hear. But even that won't give him the power to bring the case to light again. There can be no question of illegal proceedings, for all concerned signed fully attested legal documents. Ye need not bother further with Rose's slanders against yer wife's name, for yer right to Cawdor is unquestioned.
But I warn ye, when The Devil Afire sees that his rumors aren't succeeding, he'll resort to the sword soon enough. Still, if as ye say, ye intend to come here soon, I believe yer presence will do a great deal toward keeping the outlaw in line.
Yer obedient servant, Robert, Precentor of Ross
Muriella's vision blurred, though whether with tears or confusion, she was not certain. Laying the letter aside, she chose another.
My lord,
There's been much unrest between the Calders and Roses of late. The old feud is stronger now than it has been in many years; the young Hugh Rose has seen to that. He's been heard to say more than once that ye cheated him out of his rightful fortune by stealing his bride. I won't repeat the foul things he's been saying about yer wife (though there are others less delicate than I). But I'll tell ye this: I don't think she will be safe at Cawdor so long as Hugh Rose lives. Nor will ye.
The outlaw will never forget the humiliation ye gave him last October. By showing him mercy, ye only fed his rage. His right arm is useless since the blow from yer blade, but he makes no secret of the fact that he's been working with his left. From what I hear, his hatred of ye gives him more strength than a normal man. He is feared as much now as he was before. He says when he's ready, he'll come for ye and yer wife. I warn ye, he isn't to be trifled with. 'Tis a dangerous situation here till he's been dealt with. If ye're coming indeed, I pray 'twill be soon, for I mislike the smell in the air.
Ever yer servant,
Archie Campbell Cawdor Castle
Muriella gripped the parchment in cold fingers. She could no longer deny how much the Hugh she had known had changed. It seemed this time John's rage had been justified, and it had been as much for her sake as for his—perhaps even more. Have a little faith, Alex had told her once. She should have listened. Dropping the crumpled page, she reached for the last letter.
Dear Cousin,
I've spoken to a great many people in the past few weeks, just as ye bid me. It's taken time, for, as ye instructed, I've taken care that no one will repeat my questions after ye and yer wife arrive at Cawdor. I believe that, other than the threat from Hugh Rose, 'tis safe to bring her. The servants at the castle don't appear to listen to Rose's rumors. The few who wonder if the rumors are true tell me they don't care, for they hate the Calders with a passion and the Roses as much. The two families have caused a lot of bloodshed with their constant feuding, and those who are neither Calder nor Rose wish yer wife the victory.
As for the other matter, I had to ask a great many more questions with a great deal more care, for I knew the Roses held the secret if any did. I'm afraid ye'll be disappointed at my news, for there is nothing definite, as Isabel Calder has been dead this past month. I believe she was the only one who knew for certain. But one of her sisters, Glenna, seemed particularly troubled by my interest, so I pressed her. After many hours, she finally told me she was aware, all those years ago, that her sister loved a man besides her husband. She did not know whether Isabel had "known" the man, nor did she know his identity. Apparently, Isabel Calder was very discreet. But Glenna did say that, on her deathbed, her sister said something that made her believe the man must have been a Gypsy. As the Gypsies come and go so irregularly, I don't believe 'twould be possible to trace one nameless man. I advise ye to let it rest. For even if, after years of searching, we were to find him, 'twould not answer the one question Isabel alone could have answered.
Yer loyal cousin, David Campbell
The air in the library was warm, but Muriella's hands were icy cold. How could it be that no one had told her about Isabel's death? She conjured up the image of her mother bent over the loom, fingers flying, singing the songs she created as she worked. Muriella remembered how Isabel had so often kept boredom at bay with her talk of magic and the Kelpies and the wonder to be found in the patterns of colored thread. But now her mother was gone and Muriella had never really had a chance to know her. She closed her eyes against overwhelming grief and regret. But there was something more. "...the man must have been a Gypsy." Her eyes widened. People in trouble sometimes seek out the Gypsies, so yer mother came to me, Alex had told her.
“Dear God in heaven.” Somehow ye've become my concern. Mayhap 'tis because of the burden we share, he had added. Her fingers curled inward until the nails dug into the skin of her palms. Ye see, lass, he had whispered once in his melodic voice, that ye aren't alone.
As the sound of that voice faded into silence, Muriella found she could not move. Outside the door, Alex was waiting.
Chapter 46
Elizabeth sat with her new husband in the library at Auchinbreck. She was reading a book of poems by Robert Henryson while Archibald looked at a treatise on strategy. The silence they shared was comfortable. Now and then Elizabeth looked up to smile at the man beside her. Somehow she was always surprised by the sight of her husband's face: so pleasant, so ordinary, so warmly familiar.
Archibald felt her gaze and glanced up, answering her smile. When a servant appeared in the doorway, he turned sharply; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed. "What is it?"
"Sir John Campbell's come from Kilchurn to see ye, m'lady."
Closing the book in her lap, Elizabeth glanced at her husband before asking, "Is aught amiss?"
"I don't know. But from the look on his face, I'll wager the whole Clan Campbell’s on the brink of ruin."
Elizabeth tensed, and when her husband took her hand, she gripped it tightly. "Bring him here," she said.
The servant hurried away as Elizabeth turned to Archibald. Before she could speak, he said, "I'll leave ye to talk to him alone. If there's any danger, I'll learn of it soon enough."
She smiled in gratitude. "Ye don't mind?"
Brushing a light kiss over her cheek, he rose. "No' at all. I'll be waiting in the hall if ye should need me."
She smiled as he left, but when her brother entered the room, the smile disappeared.
John stood on the threshold with his hair in wild disarray. Although his cheeks were flushed—from heavy riding, she guessed—beneath the color he was ghostly pale. For the first time in all the years she had known him, there were lines etched in his skin from his nose to his mouth, and deep furrows across his forehead. His eyes were a turbulent blue gray.
"Johnnie!" she said, "what ails ye?"
When he did not respond, she left her chair to move forward. Taking his arm, she drew him to her husband's chair. Then, while he sat staring at his hands, she poured him a goblet of wine. He drank it down without pause, clearly unaware he had done so. Elizabeth turned her chair to face his and waited, her fingers laced together in her lap.
"Muriella—" he began, then stopped. He seemed unable to form the thought.
Her sister felt a chill of foreboding run down her spine. "What is it?" When he still did not answer, her heart began to beat erratically. "Tell me what's happened, Johnnie, please!"
"Muriella tried—to take her life."
Elizabeth gaped at him in disbelief, but her brother would not meet her eyes. Finally she whispered, "Is she all right?"
John gazed down at his hands helplessly. "She still lives, if that's what ye mean."
"But she's been hurt?"
Her brother ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "I begin to think the inner wounds are greater than the outer."
Elizabeth felt a sinking in her stomach. "Don't speak in riddles, Johnnie, not about this. Is yer wife hurt?"
"She has a cut on the forehead, mayhap a chill, but no more."
"Thank God." Weak with relief, his sister sank back into her chair. She watched in concern as John rose and began to pace up and down, glaring at the rushes beneath his feet as if they were enemies to be conquered. For a long time she did not have the courage to break the silence, but then, at last, she murmured, "How?"
John stopped with his back to her. "She threw herself in the river."
"No!" The color drained from Elizabeth's face. She had thought the horror was behind her, but John's toneless statement had brought it rushing back. Struggling for breath, she fought the memory of those crawling, endless hours chained to the rock while the water rose in fury all around her. "Muriella couldn't have done such a thing!" she gasped.
"So I thought too. But it seems we didn't know her as well as we thought."
Elizabeth clutched the arms of her chair until her hands ached. She was afraid if she let go, she would fall. She saw John move toward the wide embrasure. Placing one booted foot on a low chest, he gazed blindly out at the courtyard below. She realized he was not aware of her distress. Unable to find her voice, she rose and went to the shelf where Archibald had left a flagon of wine. Holding a pewter goblet in her shaking hand, she filled it with the dark liquid and drank it down. As the wine began to affect her, the mists of memory receded and the shock dimmed a little. Her heartbeat slowed to normal while the silence stretched between brother and sister—thin as a single thread, and as fragile. Elizabeth closed her eyes, wondering why John had come to her at all. When at last she turned toward him, her face was expressionless.
"So," she said calmly, "what have ye done with her?"
John turned in surprise, as if he'd forgotten his sister was in the room. "Done with her? I left her at Kilchurn."
"Just that? Nothing more?"
Her brother gazed at her, perplexed. "What would ye have me do?"
"'Tis a terrible sin to try to take yer life," she said, moving toward him, her gown rustling about her ankles. "The Church will surely excommunicate her if they hear of this. Will ye tell them?"
"No!"
Elizabeth was unmoved by the single explosive word. "But after what she's done, no one would blame ye."
"I wouldn't be caring if they did. I won't do it, that's all."
Why?"
Eyes narrowed, John regarded his sister intently. "Elizabeth—"
"Then will ye lock her in a tower?"
"No, by God!" He moved toward her menacingly, but she did not retreat.
Raising her chin, she said coolly, "Our father would have done so, after he beat her bloody, no doubt."
John clenched his fists and fought the urge to strike her. "Damn our father! She's my wife!"
"But surely ye'll punish her."
"Elizabeth, I warn ye—"
He was so close she could reach out to touch his face, distorted by anger, but still she did not quaver. "Ye don't seem to realize, 'tis a sin, Johnnie!"
"I don't care."
"But—"
"She's my wife, damn ye, and I love her!"
Brows drawn together, Elizabeth repeated stubbornly, "But if she tried to take her life—"
She broke off abruptly when John grasped her by the shoulders. "Stop this madness, Elizabeth, before ye push me too far. I love Muriella, do ye hear? Whatever she's done!"
His sister's eyes glittered, but she spoke without inflection. "I see."
He noticed then the odd expression on her face. She was smiling knowingly and seemed to be waiting. But for what?
Then, all at once, he heard a distant echo—the sound of his sister's voice weeping, I love him! He wouldn't—I love him! He released her and his hands fell to his sides. "Dear God," he murmured. "Elizabeth, forgive me. I thought—"
"Ye thought I was a fool and weak besides. But now ye see, don't ye? I was just as ye are."
He sank back into the chair. "Aye, just as I am," he muttered in despair.
His sister smiled a little. "Tis a curse on our family, don't ye think? This compulsion to love someone to the point of madness? Muriella once said she admired it in me, but I didn't believe her."
"Muriella," John repeated. The sound of the name brought his anguish rushing back. He stared at the floor in silence.
Elizabeth watched her brother slump forward, defeat in every line of his body. She was surprised to find she pitied him.
Never had she seen him so helpless. Kneeling beside him with her hand on his arm, she said, "I think this has affected ye more deeply than ye realize. Mayhap ye don't want to admit it, but ye're horrified by what she's done."
"Doesn't she even fear the wrath of God?" John demanded. Unable to bear the sight of his confusion, Elizabeth looked away. "How can she, when she's already lived in hell?"
John closed his eyes but could not disguise the pain that transformed his face. "Hasn't she ever been happy, even for a moment?"
Elizabeth gripped his arm. "I didn't mean that, Johnnie. Of course she's been happy."
He met her compassionate gaze fiercely. "When?" he demanded. "Name me one day when she wasn't haunted by her demons."
"There were many, as ye'd know if ye asked her. But I don't think I've ever seen her as happy as she was the morning after my wedding and the battle that followed. She was so full of joy that day her face shone with it and her body could barely contain it all."
"Oh, God!"
Elizabeth drew away. "I'm sorry. That only makes it more difficult for ye, doesn't it?"
He could not answer. His despair was choking him.
Elizabeth rose to pace before the empty fireplace, conjuring Muriella's face before her, trying to understand the hopeless tangle of her friend's feelings. "Did she tell ye why she did it?"
It was a long time before John answered. "She said she'd had a vision, that she was afraid I would—" He could not bring himself to say the words. "That I would harm her someday."
Elizabeth paused as a strange stillness descended upon her. "Can ye really blame her for thinking that?"
John looked up sharply at the bitterness in his sister's voice. She was staring at him, her gray eyes wide with unsettling memories. Those eyes carried him back to that moment when the madness had overtaken him as he stood above Elizabeth while she lay ill, calling for her husband. "Ye knew," he whispered hoarsely.
"Ye thought I was delirious, but I knew."
Her steady, unblinking gaze was more than he could stand. Rising abruptly, he moved toward the window. "I don't know what to say to ye. I don't know how to explain—"
"No, Johnnie," his sister interrupted. "Ye don't need to explain. 'Tis past now."
John shook his head. "I don't think 'twill ever be past."
Elizabeth crossed the room until she faced her brother. "I've tried to leave those days behind—I had to. Mayhap ye should do so too. 'Tis Muriella who matters now. What are ye going to do about her?"
Her brother looked away, rubbing his fingers over his brow as if to ease the pain within. "I don't know."
Elizabeth's heart contracted in compassion. "Do ye think ye can live without her?" she asked softly.
John turned, his face haggard with care in the soft evening light. "'Tis hard to know."
"I'll tell ye something ye may not believe, but 'tis true just the same. I doubt Muriella can live without ye."
John's eyes widened. How could he believe it? "Ye don't seem to understand. She fears m
e too much. She thinks I'll hurt her."
"Then go back to Kilchurn and show her she's wrong."
John gaped at his sister in astonishment.
With a sigh, Elizabeth put her hands on his shoulders. "Listen to me, Johnnie. I know ye've killed many men in battle, mayhap more than I can count. 'Tis the way ye survive.
But murder—I don't think ye're capable of that."
John struggled to find his voice. "Ye can say that?" Her gaze did not waver.
"Aye."
"But ye saw me—"
"I saw what ye wanted to do. 'Tis no' the same as what ye would have done. Stubborn ye may be, passionate in yer rages and desires, mayhap even cruel sometimes, but ye simply aren't the kind of man to hurt someone ye love."
"Ye really believe that?"
"I do."
John felt a constriction in his throat. For the first time in his life, he wanted to weep. "Why? After all I've done?"
"Because on the day when Lachlan Maclean last came to Kilchurn, ye let him live." Her brother started to interrupt, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "Ye had far more reason to want his life than ye did mine. He'd long been an enemy to me, to ye, to our father and the clan and the King. All he'd ever given the Campbells was years of trouble and betrayal. Yet when I asked ye to, ye set him free."
"But I killed him in the end."
When he would have turned away, Elizabeth held him with the touch of her hands on his shoulders. "I spoke to Megan the day after ye left Kilchurn. I know why ye did it. I know too that Lachlan had to die. He'd pushed us all too far too often. I knew that even in the beginning. 'Twas just that I couldn't bear to watch it happen."
John stared at his sister as if he had never seen her before.
Ye take her for a fool, Maclean had said, but she's a great deal wiser than ye. Strange that in the end, the husband who had mistreated and despised her should have known Elizabeth so well. And yet, John himself must have trusted his sister more than he realized, or he would not have come to her now. "Ye're Muriella's friend. Ye understand her best. Do ye really think I should go back to her?"
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