Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  "'Twill break her heart if ye don't." Elizabeth gazed thoughtfully into her brother's eyes. "But I wonder…'Twill no' be easy to win yer wife if ye can't forgive her for all the pain she's caused ye."

  "That doesn't matter now."

  "Doesn't it?" Elizabeth said softly. "Are ye certain?" When John moved away from her, she did not follow.

  He turned once more to stare out the window at the languid movements of the men in the courtyard below. Though he tried to close his mind against it, the memory of Duncan's words rang in his head: I don't know why she threw herself in, but I do know that she let me save her. It was that knowledge which had gnawed at John's insides since the moment he left Kilchurn. He knew with a certainty that appalled him if it had been he waiting on the riverbank to pull Muriella from the water, she would have drowned rather than reach for his hand. She had made a choice, in that moment, to give Duncan something she could never give her husband—her trust. And for that John could not forgive her.

  Chapter 47

  Muriella leaned against the windowsill in the library, staring out at the loch below. The clouds had crept around the sun, and the light had the strange silver cast that always came before a storm. She did not turn when she heard the door open; she knew without looking that Alex had come into the room.

  "I'd begun to worry," the Gypsy said. "Ye didn't make a sound for so long."

  "I was thinking." She concentrated more intently on the forming patterns of rain clouds in the graying sky.

  "Did ye learn what ye needed to know?"

  He was coming closer—she could hear his soft footsteps on the thick rug—but still she did not leave the window. "Aye. I learned much more than that," she murmured.

  The Gypsy paused a few feet away from her. "Why won't ye look at me, lass?"

  Releasing her painful grip on the stone, she turned to find him watching. His weathered face was lined and careworn, his gray green eyes full of concern. Those eyes. With an effort of will, she met his gaze.

  "What is it?" Alex asked. "What's troublin' ye?"

  His gaze was not holding her now. She could have looked away if she wanted to, but she did not. She wondered if she could draw the truth from him as he had drawn it from her a few minutes before. When she did not speak, he took another step forward. "What?"

  My child, he had once called her. Her heart was beating too slowly; the blood was hardly moving through her veins. His eyes, she thought. His strange, compelling eyes. "Are ye my father?" she said at last.

  Alex gasped as if she had struck him in the chest. The color drained from his face and faded from his eyes, leaving them pale and lifeless. For a long time she thought he would not answer.

  Finally, he said stiffly, "No. I met yer mother when she'd just begun to carry ye." He forced himself to meet her doubtful gaze. "Ye must try to understand what was between us and no' think badly of her. Isabel needed a friend, and I was there for her. What we shared was rare in this cold, heartless world."

  Muriella was surprised to realize she was not disappointed in her mother. Perhaps it was because she had never known Isabel's husband, had never seen John Calder's face, except once in a painting. Her father had given her Cawdor, but that had never been cause for gratitude. But Alex had shared so much with her. He had given her understanding, compassion, consolation. He was the only one who had told her truths she did not wish to hear. And he had given her music. She understood too well what his friendship must have meant to the lonely Isabel, because Muriella herself had so often felt alone since her arrival at Kilchurn. "Please tell me about it," she asked softly as she drew him toward the chairs in front of the empty fireplace.

  The Gypsy sat down and spread his hands before him, examining the palms in the shifting gray light. "I don't remember the day or even the year we met," he said wistfully. "To me 'twas as if I'd always known Isabel Calder. Ye could say 'twas she who brought me the Sight when I was a boy."

  Muriella frowned, seeking a distant memory. I was standin' above a river, Alex had told her the first time they met, starin' into a pool of clear water, and I saw the face of a woman I didn't know. When I leaned down to fetch her out, 'twas no one there. "Hers was the face in the water then?"

  Alex nodded. "She followed me in dreams, ye see, even before I met her in the flesh. And then—" He hesitated. "I couldn't have changed what happened between us, even had I wanted to. She was an extraordinary woman, yer mother." He gazed beyond Muriella to the bright, remembered image of the woman he had lost. "Every year when the Gypsies moved south, I had to leave her behind," he continued, unable now to stop the flow of painful memories. "And every time the partin' was more difficult to bear. But I couldn't stay away. I didn't have that kind of strength."

  "Is that why ye came to me? Because of what ye felt for her?"

  "No' entirely," the Gypsy replied. "Ye see, we were much together in those days while ye rested in her womb. We used to talk like ye were my bairn. 'Twas her wish that 'twas so, and mine as well. With yer father dead and unable to defend ye I swore to Isabel I'd protect ye as if ye were my own. 'Tis what I’ve tried to do."

  Muriella nodded and touched his hand in answer to the question he had not asked. "Did ye see her again after my wedding?"

  Pushing the hair back from his face, Alex gathered his thoughts carefully. "Aye, I was with her soon before she died. We'd been travelin' far from home, south through England. By the time we came north again, she was very ill." He did not try to hide the grief that ravaged his face. "I was a fool, ye ken. I waited too long. I thought since ye were finally married and grown up safe among the Campbells, that she might have come away with me then."

  "Had ye asked her before?"

  "Och, no! 'Twould have been cruel to offer her a choice she couldn't make no matter how much she might want to."

  Leaning forward, Muriella murmured, "Because of me?"

  Even through the weight of his sorrow, Alex smiled, "Aye. Ye were the one true joy of her life. She was determined nothin' should ever hurt ye, so long as she had the power to stop it."

  "But she never sent a single letter—" Muriella stopped before more words escaped, betraying the depth of her bewildered pain.

  But Alex did not need to hear the words. "We talked long and often before she drifted at last into the mist. She told me a great many things. She said she'd never told ye the truth about yer father or yer guardian because, for a long time, she thought ye were too young to understand. Then one day she realized ye were all grown up, and 'twas too late. She didn't want to lose yer trust when she knew someday soon she'd lose ye altogether.

  "She knew when her father said ye were to marry Hugh that she should have sent word to Argyll sooner. She felt the danger always around ye, though she tried to hide it so ye would not feel her fear. No' for a moment were ye really safe with the Roses, but the Earl had left ye with her, and she couldn't bear to give up the gift he'd given her."

  "But surely after my marriage she could have sent word."

  Alex winced at the raw longing in Muriella's voice. "I think her guilt kept her silent more than anything else. She told me she had been selfish and careless for so long, that when at last she let ye go, she had to let ye go completely, though it broke her heart. She wanted ye to have no ties to the Campbells' enemies, no ties to a past gone forever. She made the hardest choice in her life that day—to set ye free, absolutely. But ye must no' think for a single moment she forgot ye."

  Muriella struggled to understand. "But I wrote to her. I sent letters—" She broke off, feeling foolish in the face of her mother's sacrifice.

  "She never saw them," Alex asserted. "She told me she'd always hoped ye'd forgive her and send word. But when ye were silent, she accepted that too."

  "I don't understand."

  "Perhaps her father, Hugh Rose, made certain she never got yer letters. 'Twas the kind of petty cruelty that would have given him pleasure."

  Muriella looked away as an ache of sadness filled her chest. Why had she never kn
own how much her mother cared for her? It had always been Lorna who laughed with Muriella, taught her, listened to her troubles. She closed her eyes at the hot pain that still flared at the thought of her childhood companion. Was that why Isabel had never been more than a figure weaving shadows in the background? Muriella had memories—few and precious and strangely vivid—of the hours spent in the solar learning the magic of the loom, but suddenly that was not enough. Not when Isabel had given up so much to insure the happiness of her troubled daughter. Not when she had given up Alex.

  The Gypsy rose, massaging his eyelids with his fingertips. "Forgive me, lass, but I can't talk more of her now. Even to say her name—" He broke off, turning so she could no longer see his face.

  "Ye've already given me more of her than I had before," she told him. "I thank ye for that."

  When Alex turned back to her, his face showed no sign of his inner turmoil, but his eyes were shadowed with grief. Those gray green eyes met and held hers for a long moment and she drew her breath in sharply. It was as if she were looking into a mirror at the luminous reflection of her own suffering. For the third time in a single day, tears burned behind her lids.

  "I lost yer mother," the Gypsy said, "but it doesn't have to happen that way for ye." He motioned toward the letters still scattered over the desktop. "Can ye understand now why Sir John did what he did?"

  Muriella nodded, abandoning with reluctance the subject of her mother. "Ye were right," she admitted. "Hugh had changed. He was evil, just as my husband claimed."

  Brow furrowed, Alex paced across the blue Persian rug. "Then mayhap," he said, speaking slowly, to be certain she understood each word, "the face in the dream wasn't yer cousin's death mask at all. Mayhap 'twas yer first true glimpse of the kind of man he had become."

  Muriella bit her lip. Could that grotesque face have been the image of Hugh's blackened soul? Then she realized it must have been. Death masks were cold and still as stone, but in her dream, Hugh had been horribly alive. She shivered when she remembered his chilling, triumphant laughter.

  Too restless to stay still, Muriella rose and returned to the window to stare out at the wind-whipped loch below.

  Perplexed by her reticence, Alex regarded her more closely. "None of that matters to ye, does it?"

  Muriella shook her head. "Understanding what happened in the past can't change what's to come."

  The Gypsy noticed the rigid line of her back, the way her hands gripped the stone sill until her fingers grew pale from the strain. All at once, he thought he understood. "Ye've 'seen' something, haven't ye?"

  "Aye." The word fell hollowly from her lips toward the raging loch. "Over and over again. Even in my dreams I can't get free."

  The Gypsy sank back into his chair, his hands locked together. "I should have guessed it." For a long time there was silence while he stared at the floor, gathering his thoughts. "Ye'd best tell me."

  "I don't think I can."

  "I know how hard 'tis to put yer fear into words," Alex told her. "But 'tis a risk ye'll have to take if ye want me to help ye."

  She knew it was true, but that did not make it any easier. Closing her eyes against the image of the silver-streaked loch, she curled her fingers inward, seeking a depth of courage she did not think to find. Her heartbeat seemed to echo the churning fury of the distant water. Muriella fought to steady her breathing. When she turned to Alex, her face was unnaturally calm, unnaturally white. She took the chair across from his, then leaned forward, pale and rigid. "In the vision," she began hesitantly, "I'm surrounded by water."

  "Go on."

  "I'm drowning in the waves that are rising all around me—" She broke off, closed her eyes to renew her strength, then continued more slowly. "The water is dragging me farther and farther under until I can't breathe. I try to stay afloat, but 'tis stronger than me and I can't win. I know—" She shuddered, choking on her own voice. "I know someday 'twill take me down so far I won't ever rise again." Frowning, Alex asked, "When does it come to ye?"

  Muriella concentrated on the interwoven pattern of her fingers against the dove gray skirt of her gown. "When my husband touches me... or..." She bit her lip and tried to remember exactly. "Or when he moves me somehow." She looked up, her face ashen. "I feel myself drowning, and it terrifies me."

  "So."

  When the Gypsy said no more, Muriella whispered, "Ye must think me mad for throwing myself in the river."

  "No, lass. I think 'twas the only way ye could find to put an end to the waitin'."

  She froze, her fingers locked in a painful grip. He had always known so much about her. Perhaps too much. Muriella rose and began to pace in agitation. Suddenly she whirled, hands extended toward the Gypsy in a silent plea. "Can ye change a vision once ye've seen it?" she demanded in desperation. "There must be a way!"

  "I don't know for sure," Alex murmured, his voice hoarse with compassion. "But I do know this. If there is a way, 'tis to meet it head-on."

  "I don't understand."

  Choosing his words with care, he said, "Ye follow the vision through to its natural end."

  "No!"

  "Listen to me!" In one swift movement he had left his chair and grasped her shoulders. Only when her eyes locked with his did he continue. "Ye won't ever change the future by fightin' it this way. To conquer yer fear ye must face it once and for all."

  From somewhere out of the stillness that fell between them came the echo of her own troubled voice. I don't think I can face Cawdor again. The memories are too strong.

  "Ye never went back to Cawdor, did ye?" Alex said.

  Muriella's eyes widened at the ease with which he had read her thoughts. She suppressed the urge to shiver and back away. "No," she said shakily.

  "Mayhap ye need to do just that."

  "I don't think—," Muriella began.

  Alex increased his grip on her shoulders until she winced. "'Tis long past time ye did think. And not just about Cawdor. Before Sir John comes back—"

  "He may not return at all."

  "He will," the Gypsy assured her. "He can't help himself. But before he does, ye should consider something with a great deal of care. Remember yer visions aren't always what they seem. The dream of Hugh wasn't. Mayhap 'tis true of this one as well." With one gnarled finger he raised her chin, capturing her once more in his compelling gaze. "Think of this, Muriella. Think long and hard. Mayhap 'tis no' yer husband ye fear at all. Mayhap 'tis yerself."

  Chapter 48

  John stayed at Auchinbreck for one week. On the seventh day he sought out Elizabeth to bid her good-bye.

  "Do ye know what ye'll do now?" she asked him. Her brother shook his head. "I can't say for certain." "Ye've missed her, Johnnie. I've seen it on yer face."

  He looked away. "Aye, that I have. Sometimes I think just to see her again would be enough for me. But then I begin to wonder—"

  "Don't think so much," Elizabeth warned him. "Ye've always been guided by yer feelings before. Ye should know by now they won't lead ye astray." She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear and smiled up at him. "Just remember Muriella needs ye even more than ye need her. Give her a chance to tell ye so."

  "She may not want to see me at all."

  "Ah, Johnnie," Elizabeth murmured, brushing his cheek with her fingertips, "ye haven't heard a word I said."

  John took her hand and smiled down at her. "I heard ye and I thank ye—for everything." He tilted his head, contemplating his sister's face in a new light, coming to know it all over again. "We've been strangers for far too long," he said at last. "But things will be different now."

  Elizabeth nodded. "I don't think I realized until ye arrived a week ago how much I've missed ye since I first went to Duart. I don't think I wanted to admit, even to myself, how lonely I was there."

  "But now that Duart's behind ye, are ye any happier?"

  "Happy?" his sister repeated thoughtfully. "My life is comfortable now, even pleasant. But happy? I don't think I know what that is. And yet—" Sh
e smiled at the memory of the spring roses she had found strewn across her bed that morning. "Mayhap I'm learning about it after all."

  "'Tis time ye did," John said fervently.

  "'Tis time we all did."

  Drawn by the smile in her eyes, John took his sister in his arms. It had been so long since he'd seen her smile.

  For a moment she was too surprised to respond, then she returned his embrace, resting her head, for a moment, on his shoulder. "Take care," Elizabeth whispered. "And Johnnie," she added as he turned away, "God go with ye."

  ~ * ~

  "Andrew, ye shouldn't be out of bed!" Muriella cried when she saw him leaning weakly on the balustrade at the foot of the stairs in the Great Hall. The heavy bandage beneath his loose saffron shirt was unstained with red, but that did not mean it would remain so. "If ye don't have a care, yer wound will re- open and then where would ye be?" In the two weeks since the battle with the Macleans, the gaping wound in Andrew's shoulder had begun gradually to heal, but she could see from his sallow face, covered with pale freckles, that he was still too weak to be about.

  "So long as I'm no' locked away in that tiny room, I don't care," he told her. "Ye can't think how quickly a man can go daft with only his brother to keep him company." He paused to catch his breath. It was the longest speech he had made in many days. Then he smiled crookedly. "I wanted to see if there was still life in the rest of the keep. And I thought it couldn't hurt to come down for supper this once."

  When his hand slipped on the balustrade and he began to sway, Muriella hurried to his side. "Ye're daft indeed to take the risk," she said, "but if ye must, at least let me help ye so ye don't fall into the rushes."

  "Ye needn't bother about me," Andrew whispered, smiling weakly. "No Maclean is going to get the best of me! And where," he added as his knees threatened to buckle, "is my brother when ye need him?"

  "Here, ye fool," Richard said, bracing Andrew against his strong shoulder. "I'll see to him, m'lady, or I'm sore afraid ye'd end up draggin' him across the room to lay him on a table, dead to the world."