Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  "So," he muttered, lifting the tankard to his lips. Above the rim, he looked the girl up and down. He grimaced at the sight of her pallid face, untidy hair, and bloody, rumpled gown. "Ye're a bit of a mess, gurrl. Johnnie, didn't ye take care of her?" He swung the tankard up again, tilting it so the ale streamed into his mouth, then released Muriella without another glance.

  Her stomach churned with fury at his careless treatment, at the way John looked away as if she were merely a shadow in the background. Or was the rage only nausea from the throbbing pain? Either way she swore she would maintain her dignity; she would not let them know they had upset her. She pressed her lips together and made no sound as Colin turned to his brother to ask, "Where are Uncle Rob and the others?"

  John sank back onto his bench. "There was trouble," he muttered. "Uncle Rob sent us away, the girl and me. He stayed to keep the Calders back. Or mayhap 'twas the Roses. I don't know which. I can't even tell ye how many there were. I've sent Richard and Andrew to gather some men and go back, though 'tis probably too late." He scrutinized with great concentration the half-empty tankard on the table before him.

  "'Twould have been wiser to stay and fight the bastards," a man near John mumbled. "Och, but then, 'twas safer to slip away in the night, wasn't it? Or mayhap ye were just afraid—"

  Before anyone could stop him, John rose abruptly and, dragging the man up by the collar, struck him across the jaw with a clenched fist.

  "Leave him be," Colin shouted as he pulled his brother away from the stunned man. "We don't need any more trouble tonight."

  John faced his brother furiously. "No man calls me a coward!"

  "How about a fool?" Colin suggested. "The Calders are a cheatin' bunch of bastards and likely to be swarming over the hills to Kilchurn any minute now. We need every man we can get to hold them off, little brother, yet ye knock one about as if he were of no use at all. Think before ye act, why don't ye?"

  John felt the rage flaring within him and struggled to regain control. Then he looked up to see Muriella watching him, her expression an accusation without words. He felt a flash of guilt for having left his uncle, and that only made his anger worse. He’d had no choice; it was for her sake he had agreed to go at all. So why did she stand there looking at him that way?

  At last Muriella dropped her gaze when she began to shake with spasms of freezing numbness and fatigue as well as the endless pulsing pain. She grasped the back of a chair, standing upright with difficulty, her face rigid with the effort to disguise her trembling.

  Duncan tapped his cousin on the shoulder. "The girl is cold," he said. "And I think—surely she's been wounded?"

  John took a deep, shuddering breath. He was so weary, so concerned about his uncle's fate, that he had actually forgotten Muriella's needs. She was shivering. It seemed he could do nothing right tonight, not even care for his future bride. He frowned, motioning over his shoulder to a servant. When the girl approached, he told her, "Megan, take her to Elizabeth's old room. Give her clothes—Elizabeth's will do till tomorrow—and a hot bath if ye can manage it. I don't want to see her again tonight. And Megan"—he paused—"don't hurt her, but watch her close. Ye understand?"

  "Aye, m'lord."

  In silence, Megan led Muriella along the rows of men, who kept their gazes fixed on their food. As the girls mounted the stairs, the servant called for hot water and a tub to be brought. Several others scattered to arrange it.

  Muriella followed the servant, but a thick fog had invaded her mind and she functioned only well enough to force herself upward, one worn stone step at a time.

  She was not aware of Megan stripping her soiled dress from her, nor of the fire that leapt up the blackened stone in an attempt to warm the cold room in which she stood. She was not aware that the servant kept tactfully silent about her blood-stained clothing and heavy bandage.

  Consciousness crept back as she sank into a wooden tub and the heat crawled up and down her body with sharply probing fingers. Pains began to run over her back and thighs, but she preferred the physical discomfort to her memories of the past several hours. Her finger throbbed. She cradled her mangled hand and would not let Megan touch it.

  The servant eyed Muriella in concern as she leaned back in the water. "Are ye all right, miss? Ye're very gray around the edges."

  Muriella closed her eyes briefly saw only blackness there, and opened them. "I'm all right."

  "Well, then, 'tis awful glad I am to hear that. For ye ken, I think Sir John means for me to stay with ye. And 'twould be much more pleasant than servin' in the kitchen." As she talked, she rinsed Muriella's shoulders and worked the worst of the soil out of her long, dripping hair. "'Tis a bitter night for a long ride, isn't it? Too cold for the wolves, let alone a poor lassie like ye. I don't know what they're thinkin', draggin' ye all over the Highlands without even a cloak. 'Tis disgraceful."

  Megan's chatter reawakened Muriella's sleeping senses until she became aware of the touch of the cooling water on her bare skin. She sat up, wondering if she could get out of the tub on her own. But she need not have worried. The servant knelt and lifted her from under the arms. Although Megan was only fourteen and her body was small, she was wiry and quite strong. Muriella felt she could not even lift her hand, but soon she was standing on a soft fur rug beside the tub. She did not move, but stared before her at the shadows that crept up the walls and fluttered in the corners, while Megan threw a linen towel about her body and began to rub vigorously.

  When she was dry, the servant handed her a robe. Muriella slipped her arms into the sleeves, surprised to find they were warm. The robe must have been hanging near the fire. She pulled it close around her, seeking to draw the warmth into her chilled body.

  "Ye'd best let me comb out the tangles tonight or we'll be havin' a devil of a time tomorrow," Megan declared. Before Muriella could protest, the servant pulled a low stool forward, motioning her to take a seat.

  Muriella was hardly aware of Megan's brisk ministrations. She was conscious only of a deep pain that started in her belly and spread through her body until it reached her throat. She thought of Rob Campbell, saw the glitter of a sword slashing through the darkness, and cried out as she buried her face in her hands.

  "Miss?" the servant murmured tremulously.

  Muriella shook her head, motioning for Megan to continue. The servant found it difficult to keep her fingers steady as she worked the comb through the tangles. She could not forget that single anguished cry. Yet she dared not ask what it meant. When at last she was finished, she moved away quickly. "There ye are, miss. The bed is all ready for ye. I thought ye might be weary."

  Muriella nodded, then rose, turning toward the bed that dominated the room. She pushed the heavy curtains aside and climbed up onto the mattress, moving awkwardly because she could not seem to make her muscles work as they should. At last she crawled under the furs and rough linen sheet and stretched her feet toward the warming pan.

  Before she closed her eyes, she looked up at Megan, who hovered beside her. Surprisingly, Muriella gave her a half smile. "Thank ye," she said.

  The servant blinked. "Och, ye're surely welcome, miss. Are ye really all right, then?" When Muriella nodded, Megan crept away to blow out the candles on the rosewood chest in the corner. Moving quietly, she went to a small pallet against the far wall. "Good night, miss."

  Muriella closed her eyes with a sigh. Eventually, the pain inside eased a little as the darkness washed over her in waves. At last she slept.

  * * *

  In her dream she was a child again at Kilravok. Her long braids hung over her shoulders, and as she ran, she enjoyed the swinging weight of her hair against her back. She slipped into the woods with the cool breeze on her face, seeking out the shadows where she could conceal herself from Hugh. She heard him coming, heard the low, teasing note in his voice when he called her name. Smiling, she turned away from the overgrown path.

  "Ye know I'll find ye," he called. "I always do."

  Now h
e was so close she could hear his light footfalls and see his flaming red hair. Muriella held her breath. Pressing close to the trunk of a gnarled oak, she watched him duck beneath the trailing leaves, calling softly, "Muriella."

  All at once, he was gone, enfolded by the moving shadows. She could no longer hear the crunch of twigs beneath his feet. Muriella waited a moment more, then crept from behind the tree to follow the path Hugh had taken. But before she had gone far, she heard his shout of triumph as he came up behind her and grasped her shoulder. "Ye see," he cried, "ye can't escape me no matter where ye hide." He wound his hands in her hair, tugging so she turned to face him, tangling them both in her heavy braids. They held each other and swayed and laughed until the sound echoed upward through the cool, dark woods.

  * * *

  Muriella awoke smiling and burrowed deeper into the feather mattress strewn with heavy furs. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar darkness, unwilling to relinquish the pleasant memory of the dream. For a long time, she lay still, listening, while her smile faded and the night silence took the place of remembered laughter. She looked around the room, but saw nothing beyond the wavering shadows the fire cast over her bed. After several moments she realized a commotion outside had awakened her. She sat up, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart beginning to pound. In an instant, Megan stood beside her, rubbing her eyes with curled fingers.

  "What is it, miss?"

  Muriella waited for the servant's dark shape to come into focus, then asked in a trembling whisper, "Could ye go to the hall and see if aught is going on down there? I need to know. I think—could ye?"

  "Aye, miss, if ye'd like me to." The servant moved toward the nearest chest, struck a light, and held it to one of the pewter candlesticks. Then she picked up her robe and threw it around her shoulders. With her hand on the latch, she stopped to look at Muriella. Her mistress's eyes glimmered incandescent green in the half darkness, lighting her face with alarm and some terrible knowledge. Megan stood paralyzed.

  "Please," Muriella cried.

  Forced into motion by the sound of that anguished voice, Megan bent her knees briefly before she turned to go, the candle flame dancing wildly in her hand. She disappeared into the gloom of the hall.

  At the top of the stairs she stopped, peering over the balustrade into the Great Hall. It was empty now except for Sir John and Duncan and a bloody stranger, who stood with his back toward the girl. The fire had died down and most of the torches were out, so that the hall was unusually dark. A spluttering oil lamp sat before John, creating an island of wavering light in the midst of the chilly darkness.

  His eyes narrowed in concentration, John looked up at the other man, who stood just within the range of the pitiful light. "Well, David?" The pulse in his throat throbbed rhythmically.

  Megan shivered as she crept down the stairs. When she reached the foot, she sat behind the heavy carved balustrade, her fingers locked around the cool wood, rubbed smooth by the touch of many hands.

  Below her, David Campbell moved forward a few steps and turned. As he raised his arm, pain whipped his mouth into an ugly scowl. He tried to touch John's hand but could not quite reach it.

  "Well?" John demanded again.

  "Dead, m'lord," David muttered. "All dead." He sat down abruptly, as if he could no longer stand, while Duncan grasped John's shoulder firmly.

  "Jemmie said there were no more than ten, coming from the north, so we were aye certain we could hold them off. But the bastards came from the east and south as well, forty or more altogether. They must have gotten to Sim and Archie before they could warn us.

  "My father had to think quickly. He wanted to give ye time to get well away. So he had us turn the cooking pot upside down and form a ring around it." He smiled grimly. "To make them think the lass was inside, ye see, so they'd no' go chasin' after ye." His smile faded. "It worked. They surrounded us, and we protected that burned out pot as if the girl and all our fortunes too were underneath." He choked and struggled to go on.

  "When they got to the center, when every man in the ring lay dead, they turned the pot over with a shout of triumph, only to find it empty." In spite of the remembered horror of watching his father and brothers die, in spite of his own pain and weariness and despair, he could not keep a flicker of satisfaction from his voice. "The Calders were fair full of fury, but by then 'twas too late. Ye were far away."

  He paused, gasping for breath, his skin deathly pale. "I was only wounded, but I suppose they couldn't see that in the darkness. They left me for dead. After they'd gone, I found a horse they'd left behind and came here." His voice shook more with each word until the last came out as a groan.

  "Didn't ye see Richard and the others on the way to Kilchurn?"

  "I saw no one. But had I seen them, I might have killed two or three before I realized who they were. I'm a bit jumpy." David paused to shake his head. "I've never seen so much blood—my father's, my brothers', everyone's." Laying his head on the table, he clenched his teeth against the pain.

  Megan wrapped her arms around her trembling knees, rocking back and forth in her hiding place. She bit her lip in sympathy when she saw David's body twitch.

  Duncan left John's side to bend over the wounded man. He considered the bloody plaid before turning back the cloak to reveal an arm cut almost to the bone from shoulder to elbow. The squire glanced at his cousin. "M'lord? He's badly wounded in the arm, and probably the hip, judging from his limp. And he's lost a good deal of blood. We'd best care for him."

  John looked up. "Uncle Robbie is dead," he declared in a toneless voice. All at once, he sat up; his mouth fell open, then snapped closed. "She warned me not to go. The girl said, 'If ye leave him now, ye'll never see him alive again.' Do ye think she knew? She couldn't have known."

  Duncan did not respond, but drew David Campbell gently to his feet. "The man needs care," he grunted.

  John stared at the squire blankly for a moment, then shook himself out of his lethargy. "Aye, we must keep him alive, at least." He took David's feet and the three men moved slowly around the table and out of the tiny circle of light.

  "Shall we wake Colin?" Duncan asked as they shuffled across the floor with their burden.

  "No. Tomorrow will be soon enough. There's naught else can be done tonight."

  Megan watched as the shadows closed around them. She was not aware that her candle was leaning precariously until hot wax dripped onto her hand. She jumped at the sharp pain that forced her into motion. After waiting for the flame to stabilize, she turned to make her way up the stairs, shading the candle with one hand. To her, the long, echoing hall seemed very dark and threatening.

  When she stood before the door to Muriella's chamber, the servant paused for a moment, remembering with trepidation her mistress's watchful eyes. The girl said, "If ye leave him now, ye'll never see him alive again ." Do ye think she knew? Megan said a silent prayer, then pushed the door open.

  "Och, miss!" she cried. "'Tis terrible. They've all been killed, every man but David Campbell." Before Muriella could respond, Megan retold the story she had just heard.

  Muriella looked away as she listened. So she had been right. She had not wanted to believe it, even though she knew her visions never lied. Not Rob Campbell, she had prayed. And yet she had only met the man this morning. He was little more than a stranger to her. Why then did she feel so hollow at the thought of his death?

  Muriella had begged John not to leave his uncle to fight alone, had warned him what would happen if he did, but he had not listened. She remembered with bitterness that as they fled that ill-fated glen, the young man had not whispered a word of thanks to his uncle, nor had he looked back—not even once.

  Chapter 4

  Muriella awoke the next morning with a start. For a long while she lay still, but in time the early-morning chill touched her nose and cheeks, rousing her more fully. She opened her eyes reluctantly and gazed around at the unfamiliar room. The bed in which she lay was huge and bulky. Its
oak posts rose toward the ceiling, disappearing under the brocade canopy, which Muriella decided must be green, although the light was too dusky to tell for certain. She eyed with curiosity the bed curtains hanging in dense greenish folds at the corners. At Kilravok, in the tiny chamber she had shared with Lorna, there had been no such luxuries. The plain wooden bedstead had barely raised the heather mattress from the floor, there had been only a single fur, and the linen had been much less fine. Yet she had felt more at ease there than she did in this strange chamber.

  She slid to the edge of the bed, pausing as she stared at the mottled gray walls. Nothing moved in the tiny fingers of light that filtered through the closed shutters, yet the empty walls, the oak chest in the corner, even the cold stone floor seemed to call to her out of the silence. Suddenly, the air was full of memories that crowded close, speaking in the voices of the past. She reached out to touch the wall. Through her fingers, she thought she could feel the laughter, the tears, and the pain of one who had abandoned this chamber long since.

  When she shook her head, the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. The room was once again four walls without life or spirit. Muriella pushed a bearskin aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She gasped when her feet touched the floor. The rushes were old and stale; they offered little protection from the cold stone beneath. She shivered as the chill engulfed her bare feet and legs.

  In the soft gray light that seemed to swirl around her shoulders, she made her way to the window and knelt before it. She tried to open the shutters, hoping a fresh breeze might dissipate the gloom, but the wood resisted her awkward, one-handed efforts. After several tugs, she finally succeeded and breathed in the heather-scented air with relief.

  With her hands pressed against the wide sill, she leaned out, trying to recognize shapes and colors in the mist. It seemed to her the air had never smelled like this at Kilravok, nor in the stuffy rooms at Cawdor. But the invigorating scent of morning, lovely as it might be, could not make her any less a prisoner. She wondered if any power on earth could alter the future the Campbells had arranged for her. The waters of the loch lapped on every side against the narrow overgrown strip of land surrounding the castle. The soft, rhythmic sound might as well have been a death knell to her sensitive ears.