Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  She nodded, stunned by the feeling of relief that swept over her—the first moment of peace she'd known since her husband's death. The turmoil had begun long before that, if the truth were told, since the moment she'd learned she would be John Calder's wife. She kissed her daughter's smooth white brow. "Aye," she murmured. "I swear."

  "Then 'tis done." The Earl felt suddenly unutterably weary. To Hugh, he said, "She'll stay only as long as ye can keep her safe. No' a moment more! That's the pledge," he added with a face of thunder, a face many men had quailed at the sight of. "And don't even be thinking of crossing me."

  Hugh averted his eyes. "No man would be such a fool."

  Argyll smiled bitterly. "I have learned that most men would rather be fools. I suspect 'tis because they choose to believe themselves stronger than they are."

  Rose looked up, lip curled. "Oh, aye, but 'tis only ye who's invincible, I suppose."

  Argyll glanced from Isabel, with the girl-child in her arms, to Hugh with his smirking grin. "No," the Earl said sharply. "I'm neither blind nor full of false pride. I know I'm only a man, ye see."

  He took a step forward and raised his hand. "Because of that I'll survive and prosper while others fall around me. Because of that, I can make certain that the bairn," he pointed towards the bundle in Isabel's arms, "reaches womanhood, marries and has bairns of her own." He started for the door. "Ye'd be wise to remember what I've said," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the long, dark hall.

  Hugh, Laird of the Clan Rose, did not choose to remember, but his daughter Isabel never forgot.

  PART 1

  1509-1510

  Chapter 1

  "Muriella!"

  The voice echoed upward through the tower, bouncing off the walls until it reached the girl crouched in the recessed window of the circular room. As the sound dissipated in the late-afternoon air, Muriella Calder leaned against the chilly stone of the embrasure, tipping her head to get a breath of the clear autumn air. The day was oddly warm for October, and she wanted to be by the river, away from the walls of the tower and the oppressive presence of the men-at-arms. Her heavy skirts hung limp and her undergown clung to her thighs and ankles. Unused to the heat, she had undone the intricate laces so her gown hung open, revealing her damp kirtle.

  She moved over carefully, an inch at a time, until she sat at the very edge of the wide window, where she could look down through the trees at the river. She could just see the water glistening through the layered leaves of hawthorns and oaks. As the sun struck the swells of water sharply, Muriella closed her eyes, giving herself up to the murmur of water on stones.

  It was the only sound that could begin to soothe away the anxiety that had haunted her since her arrival at Cawdor Castle two days before. Her mother had told her they had come here to prepare for the girl's wedding to her cousin Hugh, which would take place on her fourteenth birthday, a little more than three months from now. But Muriella did not believe it was that simple. She had seen too many of the furtive looks cast her way in the past weeks, felt too much of the apprehension that marked the faces of everyone around her.

  She had watched in confusion at Kilravok as her mother gathered their possessions in haste and made their way to the high, strong tower that was Cawdor Castle. She had listened in dismay to the unnatural silence that fell upon everyone as they settled amidst the dust and long-unused furniture on the upper floors. She had held her breath in alarm when she saw how many armed men had taken their meager furs and established themselves on the ground floor.

  Muriella had not been allowed to leave the tower since. She had begun to feel restless under the weight of the somber atmosphere that still lurked in the corners of a place so long uninhabited. She missed the tapestry-hung walls of Kilravok where she had grown up. More than that, she missed Hugh and the woods and burns where they’d played and climbed and hidden from their parents all their lives.

  She could not help but be aware that she was watched always.

  For two days Muriella had wandered the tower, unable to stay still and unable to go out. She had pestered her mother constantly. "Why have we really come here?"

  Her mother had frowned, answering abruptly, "Because we were told to do so."

  "But who told us?"

  Sighing, Isabel Calder had replied, "My father. ‘Tis dangerous just now at Kilravok, and he's afraid we aren't strong enough to protect"—she paused and looked away—"everyone." She added the last word stiffly, and Muriella sensed it was not the one she had meant to use. But her mother would not explain further.

  She tried to learn more by leaning against the wall beside a dark-haired, tall, muscled man. “William?”

  He flinched, though not in surprise that she knew his name; she made an effort to know all the men’s names. Rather, he was afraid of what she might ask. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to lie to her.

  "I know ye miss yer wife and son. Would ye no’ rather be at Kilravok?"

  “A soldier would always rather be at home, lass, but he’d no’ be much of a warrior if he disobeyed the Laird."

  She caught his gaze, waiting, hoping for something more, but he turned away. Finally she had sought relief in climbing to the room high in the tower where the hawthorn tree grew through a hole in the floor. Lorna, the young woman who had once been Muriella's nurse, was normally at her side, but for the first time in days, the girl found herself alone. From her isolated spot, she gazed through the window at the river far beneath. With her knees pulled up to her chin, she tilted her head so she could just hear voices speaking near the window of the sewing room on the floor below.

  "She's only restless here." Muriella recognized Lorna’s voice. "'Tis no' healthy to keep her so confined. If only we could let her go out, she would be more at ease. But ‘tis too dangerous."

  "Then perhaps," her mother responded, "if we aren't strong enough to keep her safe, 'twould have been better to let her go."

  There was a pause, and Muriella strained to hear.

  "The old man is a fool, right enough." Isabel’s rose in chilly anger, "but I am more concerned for Muriella. We are weak and the Campbells are strong. They could—" She broke off abruptly.

  From her precarious perch, Muriella wondered over what they said, but she could make no sense of it. What did the Campbells and Calders have to do with her? She had been raised by her mother's family, had always considered herself a Rose, though she bore the name of Calder. Shaking her head, she forced the voices into the background, but she could not make them go away altogether. As she leaned toward the river, her head began to spin with the desire to disappear through the window and reappear at the edge of the water, stretched out on the wet ground. She drew in her breath, straightening one leg, then the other, until both fell beyond the edge of the window. She pressed her hands into the stone and threw back her head when she felt the wind come up beside her.

  "Muriella!"

  She whirled, tangling her legs in her skirts, to stare into her mother's terrified eyes. Isabel Calder stood with her arms outstretched. "Ye could have fallen…." Her voice trailed off.

  Isabel's face softened when her eyes rested on her daughter, but then the worry lines deepened—those lines that had marked her mother's skin for as long as Muriella could remember. Isabel's eyes swept her daughter up and down, betraying her apprehension.

  Muriella shook the river from her head, obliterated the comfort of the cool, green water, and confronted her stern aunts. "May I go down to the river?" she asked.

  Isabel glanced at her sisters, apprehension tingeing the high edges of her cheekbones pink. "Can't ye stay and sew with me?”

  The girl hesitated. She wanted to ease her mother’s sadness and fear, but did not know how. Her helplessness made her heart ache. She did not know Isabel Calder well enough to comfort her. "Please, Mother," were the only words she could manage. And even then she was not certain what she was asking for. "Let me go."

  Isabel, who still held her sewing in her ha
nd, fluttered it before her daughter's face. "Ye must learn that here ye can't simply wander as ye did at Kilravok. Ye have become a woman now. Ye must stay close."

  "But if I'm a woman, why am I watched like a bairn? Why can't I do as I wish?"

  Isabel shook her head sadly. Taking her daughter's hand, she murmured, "No woman can ever do as she wishes, my dear. Especially ye. Ye have to understand that we don't get to choose our own fate. I'm afraid ye'll learn that for yerself sooner than ye care to."

  Muriella saw the misery in her mother's face, and it was more than she could bear. She had to get away. Her eyes locked with her mother's, and the girl's gaze held the woman immobile; she could not look away. "Please may I go?" Muriella repeated.

  Isabel threw up her hands and the white cloth fluttered to the floor. For a full minute she regarded her daughter in indecision, wondering if she should listen to the inner voice that bid her free Muriella from the tower. But to lose her so soon—.

  She remembered vividly the tender look on the Earl of Argyll's face the night he had come to Kilravok. She remembered the unspoken promise that had passed between them. She had believed him then. She must believe him now.

  She had felt Archibald Campbell's strength of will, his unbending determination. She'll stay only as long as ye can keep her safe. No' a moment more! Remember, ye're sworn, he had said to Hugh Rose, and turning to Isabel, added softly, and now, so are ye.

  As if the words had been wrenched from her, Isabel said, "Go then. But ye must take one of the guards with ye." Her eyes met Lorna's, and she felt a painful band tightening across her forehead. Both women knew that a single guard would never be enough; she might as well send none at all. But she must pretend for the sake of the others who were watching her so warily. "Ye must take care, ye ken?" she added softly. "The guard will protect ye."

  "As will I." Lorna touched the dagger in a sheath at her waist.

  Taking a deep breath as she searched for strength, Isabel knew that for the first time, she would openly defy the men who had ordered her days, her months, her life by their will. She had made her own decision, listened to her own voices. She shivered at the thought, but pushed her doubts aside.

  She ignored the denial in every inch of her woman’s body. Muriella was all she had. She did not know why she had not explained everything to her. Like Hugh Rose, she had pretended she would never lose her daughter. And in pretending, she had betrayed her daughter, bewildered her, hurt her. She didn't know how to make that right; it was too late. But she could save Muriella's life, and hope that someday her daughter would understand and forgive her.

  "Lorna, will ye take her down?"

  As Muriella peered up at her friend's pleasant brown eyes and broad, gentle mouth, she felt a fine, shimmering thread of hope. She, kissing her mother's outstretched hand. "Thank ye, Mother," she said. "I don't know what ye want of me, but I'll try to do as ye say."

  "Never mind now. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

  Muriella smiled up at her; the girl's face became vividly lovely and at the same time vulnerable. "Good day," she said.

  Isabel's heart stilled as she watched the girl turn away to start down the stairs with her companion. Lorna's hand rested on Muriella's shoulder, and Isabel saw that she was at home beneath that hand. As she stared after the stranger who was her daughter, the lines of Isabel's face twisted into panic. Yet she turned away from the stairway, sinking back into the life her father had chosen for her. She bent to pick up her sewing with a sigh, though she felt the light had gone out of the room.

  * * *

  Muriella strained under the gentle pressure of Lorna's hand. She did not understand the pain that filled her chest, but she knew she would find comfort in the shade of the trees and the song of the river.

  The guard, with his claymore at his side and his bow slung over his shoulder, followed the two, tense and alert. William had been awakened from a nap a few minutes before and was less perplexed to discover he was to accompany the girl down to the river. Still, he had always respected Isabel Calder; she was wise beyond some men he knew. If she wanted him to protect Muriella, he would do so willingly.

  “William,” the girl welcomed him with a half-smile, while Lorna touched his arm softly. “Thank ye,” she murmured.

  When, having struggled with the rusty bolt, William finally shoved open the heavy oak door, Muriella tumbled outside, breathing in the fresh air. She ran, stumbling, past Lorna, William, and the shadow of the tower, down the steep hill that protected the south side of the castle. Leaves, bushes, and crawling ferns blocked her path, and the bells of the hollyhock brushed her legs, but they did not slow her down. Holding her skirts above her knees, she flew as if wind-borne. Then, as the river appeared from beneath its ceiling of leaves, her face became young again and her green eyes glowed.

  She did not see that Lorna paused with William beside her. Together they surveyed the trees and thick foliage between the castle and the river. It was several moments before Lorna turned toward the riverbank.

  When Muriella reached the bank, she knelt in the damp moss that straggled in and out of the water. She felt the moisture seeping through the cloth at her knees and listened with delight to the harmony of water and stones and her own desire. She stretched out a hand, placing it just above the water. As she moved it to and fro, she felt the last remains of the weight of the tower leave her. She breathed the air, which was cool under the sheltering trees. At last, she smiled—slowly, exultantly.

  She realized Lorna hovered nearby, watching in silence. Muriella sensed a certain tension that was uncommon in Lorna's easy nature, and she turned to consider the woman inquiringly.

  "Come sit with me in the copse for a while 'Tis—more comfortable there." Lorna surveyed the landscape once more, then turned to William, who stood at her elbow. "Stay here and watch. If ye see anything—"

  "Aye." The guard needed to say no more.

  Lorna pulled Muriella away from the river, retreating into a group of trees with thick ferns growing beneath them. As the woman sank gratefully into the safety of the darkness, Muriella lay down beside her. The damp ground, covered by a layer of curling fronds and dead pine needles, was soft against her back.

  "Lorna," the girl murmured, "why have we really come here?"

  Lorna paused for a moment, then murmured, "For yer wedding."

  Muriella frowned in confusion as she stared up at the shadows overhead. She knew everyone around her was tense and excited, but she also knew it had nothing to do with her marriage to her cousin Hugh. She had grown up with Hugh, after all, had always known she would wed him one day, although the two young people had not been officially betrothed until her twelfth birthday. Besides, as far as she knew, few preparations had been made for the impending ceremony. No, something else was disturbing her family. "'Tis what the others told me, but 'tis no' the truth, is it?" She knew her companion from childhood was the only one who would not lie to her.

  Lorna took a deep breath, considering Muriella through half-closed lids. "Ye're right, 'tis no' all the truth." With a sigh she continued, "Ye know Cawdor Castle has belonged to ye since yer father's death?"

  Muriella nodded.

  "Ye never knew yer father," Lorna observed. "I wonder if 'twould have been different if ye had."

  The girl wrinkled her forehead as she tried to build a picture of her father in her mind. He had died of consumption just before she was born, and though she had seen a small portrait of him once, she could not remember his face at all.

  "I don't believe he really existed," she said. "I can't see him."

  "But he did," Lorna assured her. "He had a troubled life, yer father, and ye have inherited so much that was his."

  "I don't understand."

  "No, I don't suppose ye do."

  A long silence followed while Muriella lay still, her gaze wandering beyond the copse toward the castle. She could barely see the south wall of the tower from where she sat, but she had seen the rest the day before. It stood
tall and severe behind the thick stone that circled it on three sides, dominating the hilly ground on which it sat, dwarfing the trees and the river that curled at its back. Staring steadily at the dull, weather-beaten stone walls, Muriella felt ill at ease. This was not her home. Her gaze moved back to the river.

  Above her, Lorna tore at a leaf until it lay in tatters on her skirt. Then she said suddenly, "Muriella!"

  The girl sat up at the note of alarm in her friend's voice. "What is it?"

  Lorna glanced toward the riverbank, then toward the castle. She plucked at the bracken beside her, but when she caught a glimpse of the guard beyond the trees, her hand grew still. "'Tis nothing. Do ye know the history of the castle? Ye should, since 'tis yers."

  Muriella bit her lip while she tried to follow Lorna's thoughts. Something of great significance was amiss; she was more and more certain of that, but just now she could not untangle her confusion. Instead she lay back and listened.

  "Yer great-grandfather built the castle here," Lorna began. "There's a story that a large bird spoke to him one day, telling him to strap all his gold into a trunk and place it on his mule's back. Then he was to follow the animal wherever it might choose to go. 'And,' the bird said, 'when the mule lies down to rest, there ye should build yer castle.' So yer great-grandfather followed the animal up and down the Highlands till the mule fell down beneath a hawthorn tree and went to sleep.

  "There yer relative began to build. Since he didn't want to destroy the tree, he built the castle around it. Ye were just in the room with the tree growing through its center. 'Tis the very same one.

  "When he died, yer grandfather was very wealthy and a friend to James, the King. Both his son and his grandson added land and money to his original possessions, and when the land came to yer father, it included a vast fortune. Vast enough to make more than one man covet the power and wealth Cawdor would bring him."

  Before Muriella could respond to the warning in her voice, Lorna continued, "John Calder married yer mother in order to end the feud between the Calders and Roses that had disrupted the lives of everyone in Nairnshire for many years. I suppose he hoped that together the two families would be strong enough to hold Cawdor in peace. But the bitterness had gone too deep. A single marriage couldn't heal it."