Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  The silence stretched between them—chill and implacable—while he tried to collect his wits. She had bewitched him for a moment, that's what she'd done. He had not even tried to stop her. Now he became aware that the other dancers had stopped and everyone in the hall was watching to see what he would do. "There's work aplenty," he called to the men. "Don't stand about gawking as if ye'd nothing better to do."

  One by one they looked away. Finally, John turned back to Muriella. "Ye'd best go to yer chambers and rest," he told her. "Ye don't want my father to find ye unpleasant company at dinner."

  Although his voice was little more than a whisper, she heard the warning concealed there. "Aye," she breathed, but she did not know what she was saying. She only knew she had to be alone before the illness in her body betrayed her completely.

  Chapter 10

  Megan closed the chamber door and leaned upon it, her fingers wrapped tightly around the latch. Her gaze swept over the hangings that now covered the stone walls, the new curtains gracing the huge oak bed. Her mistress had chosen to remain in Elizabeth's room, though the Earl had tried to change her mind. "I want to be where I can see the loch," she had explained. "'Tis simple enough to move a tapestry or two and make it more comfortable." In the end, Argyll had relented and the two girls had cleaned the room from top to bottom, brought in fresh sheets and furs, and draped the walls with vivid color. But just now, in the hushed stillness, the chamber felt chill and unwelcoming.

  Muriella was kneeling by the window, as she so often did, trying to lose herself in the ebb and flow of the distant loch. She was aware of little besides the roughness of the stone beneath her palms. When she heard Megan sigh, she turned.

  The servant did not like the expression in her mistress's eyes. Not long ago the girls had been intimate friends, but now Muriella was far away. "What ails ye?" she asked in concern.

  The other girl reached out as if groping for words, then whispered hoarsely, "I 'saw' something just now. 'Twas—" She broke off, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "'Twas my own death."

  Megan gasped, crossing herself defensively, and took a step backward. For a long moment, she merely stared, eyes wide with horror. "Surely ye're mistaken," she whispered finally. "Mayhap ye weren't seein' clearly. Have ye never had a vision that didn't come true?"

  Muriella looked away. "Never," she said. "The Sight never lies. This will come to pass, just as the others have. I can no’ stop it and I can no’ change it. All I can do is wait. Tis the waiting that's the worst. Ye don't know when or where or why..." Her voice grew ragged as she spoke, until her words were indistinguishable.

  Megan groaned. She could find no other words to speak.

  "Now that ye know, do ye see I can no’ marry John?"

  The servant was so surprised by the change of subject it was a moment before she found her voice. "Ye can't? Why, miss?"

  Without realizing what she was saying, Muriella breathed, "He touched me, and he wanted—more."

  Megan heard the panic in those simple words and all at once thought she understood. She grasped this new problem eagerly; she did not want to think about the other. "Of course he did. He's to be yer husband." When she saw the blood had drained from Muriella's face, Megan went to stand beside her. "Didn't ye know about that? Ye're nearly fourteen. Didn't yer mother tell ye what a marriage means?"

  "No." Muriella saw she had been blind and foolish; she had assumed that as her husband, the only things John would take from her were her fortune and her name. Now she realized she would lose more than that when she wed—much more. They called her a woman, but she was not yet ready for all that meant.

  "But, miss, I don't understand. Ye told me ye were betrothed before."

  Muriella stared down at her hands. "I never thought of Hugh that way. We grew up together, ye see. We were companions, friends, that's all."

  "He didn't ever touch ye?"

  Closing her eyes, Muriella tried to remember. "He held my hand sometimes, but 'twasn't the same. He never looked at me the way John did."

  Megan put her hand on her mistress's shoulder. "Marriage would have changed that, ye ken."

  "I suppose so, but I didn't realize—"

  "'Tis time ye did then, with yer weddin' no more than a month away."

  Muriella shook her head. Against her will, she felt again the pressure of John's body against hers, the heat of his lips and the momentary desire she had seen in his eyes. She was bewildered when she remembered the warmth that had touched her own skin. Dear God, some night he would reach out to her with his rough, careless hands—"He was filthy with blood," she gasped.

  "I heard them say he's killed a deer. There'll be venison this night instead of mutton. Ye can't hunt without gettin' a mite dirty. Besides, I don't see why it matters."

  "Don't ye?" Muriella murmured. She herself had seen it clearly. Only for an instant, it was true, but that had been enough. She felt she was no longer fighting for her freedom alone; she was fighting for her life. "I can't marry him!"

  "The Campbells want ye. They'll have ye, miss." Megan turned to the carved oak clothes chest in an effort to escape the gleam of her mistress's eyes. "Ye should change before supper," she said as calmly as she could. "Yer gown is muddy."

  The simple practicality of her request brought Muriella back to earth. Megan was right; there was nothing she could do. She had decided that the first day they brought her here. Numbly she undressed to slip into the gold kirtle and pale cream gown with fur-lined sleeves that Megan shook out for her. She stood unprotesting while the servant fixed her hair, twining gold ribbons among the long auburn braids. When she was ready, she followed Megan from the room. What other choice did she have?

  As they reached the top of the stairs, the two girls stopped. They could hear giggling from the end of the hallway, but it ended abruptly when a low voice interrupted. Megan chewed her lip in indecision. Maybe what her mistress needed was a distraction from her own thoughts. After looking to Muriella for approval, she turned toward the sound of the voice.

  Her mistress followed close behind. In Muriella's three months at Kilchurn she had discovered Megan was right: one could learn a great deal listening to servants' gossip.

  "And they said..." The speaker, who Muriella recognized as Jenny, paused for effect, then continued, "they said her mother lay with another man. They swore it, and—"

  After the first few words, Megan attempted to pull her mistress away, but Muriella refused to move.

  "They swore her mother and father never lay together at all. The Calders'll get back her fortune if 'tis so. Then Colin laughed and called her a bastard, and Sir John said, 'What if 'tis true—?'"

  Muriella whirled away into the darkness with Megan at her heels. She was not aware of the direction she took; she only knew she must escape from that voice. She was shocked, therefore, to find herself at the head of the stairs and to hear the Earl's voice calling up to her.

  "There she is. Come down and join us, lass. The Gypsies are coming to sing for us, we have venison, and tomorrow I must go away. So tonight we must enjoy ourselves. Come, let's eat!"

  As the stairs swayed under Muriella's feet, the flames from the torches leapt across the walls, throwing ghostly shadows over the room below. Laughter, mingled with the din of pewter on wood, assaulted her ears. John stood at the foot of the stairs, his face clean and his torn garments discarded for whole ones. In the alternating light and shadows, his face was that of a stranger. The men glowered up at Muriella, their mouths open and their expressions hostile. Then the girl caught a glimpse of the Earl's face.

  "What is it, lass? Are ye ill?"

  The steps ceased their movement; the flames crept back into their sconces, leaving the men no more than men. John's face settled into its usual lines. When she felt Megan taking her arm from behind, Muriella forced her body into motion and started down the stairs.

  * * *

  Throughout dinner, the Earl did not allow her to leave his side. He put his arm across her
shoulders and examined her face as she seated herself on the bench beside his ornately carved chair. Her skin was pale, he noticed, and her eyes seemed overlarge. "Are ye certain ye aren't ill? Would ye like another cushion to sit on?"

  She shook her head, focusing her attention on the salted herring and venison heaped on her platter. She had no real appetite and only chewed absently on a bit of bread covered with sweet butter. She looked up once to find Colin watching her across the table. And Colin laughed and called her a bastard… He looked away when she continued to stare at him. She refused to let him see her weakness.

  Concerned by her silence, the Earl offered her a tray of sweetmeats and dried figs. "Ye must eat something or ye'll be ill indeed, and we can't have that."

  To please him, she took a fig and put it in her mouth, surprised to find she liked the sweetness on her tongue. Somehow she had thought every morsel would taste of dust tonight.

  "Tell me, little one," Argyll murmured, choosing an iced cake and placing it in her hand, "did ye like the green velvet for yer gown?"

  She looked up at him, remembering when they had brought the gift to her. She had sat gazing at it for a long time before she ran her fingers over the deep, soft fabric.

  Green, like her eyes. The kind of velvet she had often wished for at Kilravok, but known she could never have. Argyll's thoughtfulness had brought tears to her eyes. She had realized, in that moment, that the Earl would give her anything she asked for—anything but her freedom. "'Twas a lovely gift," she told him. "I was surprised ye went to so much trouble.

  Then the Gypsies began to file into the hall. She watched anxiously as the minstrels crossed to the fireplace. Alex was the last.

  The Gypsy's gaze met hers at once. Ye'll learn things today that ye don't wish to know. He smiled and nodded and Muriella tightened her grip on the Earl's arm. Perhaps, she thought, the music would erase the memory and the word that now echoed inside her head: Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

  As the minstrels played reed and harp and lute, the men began to stamp their feet beneath the tables. Alex's voice rang out above the others, deep and sure.

  Cauld winter is awa', my luve,

  And spring is in her prime,

  The breath o' God stirs all to life,

  The grasshoppers to chime.

  The buds canna contain themsel's

  Upon the sproutin' tree,

  But loudlie, loudlie sing o' luve,

  A theme which pleaseth me.

  With their bellies full and their tankards thrice emptied, the men laughed and joined in the singing. Then one or two rose, grasping passing servant girls, and began to dance. The Earl turned to Muriella with a smile. "Ye should dance too, lass. 'Tis a celebration."

  Muriella shook her head. "I'm a little weary."

  "Surely not so weary that ye can't dance with the man who's to be yer husband?" Colin asked with mock chagrin.

  Muriella wondered if he had heard about her earlier encounter with John; by the challenging gleam in Colin's eye, she guessed he had. But she would not play his game. "Perhaps tomorrow." She looked up to find John watching her. What was he thinking, she wondered, with his cool blue eyes and unsmiling mouth?

  "Can't ye learn to enjoy yerself?" he asked. "Or don't ye dare?"

  She opened her mouth but no words came. She used to enjoy herself with Hugh at Kilravok, before she began to carry her mother’s fear. But now—John was right; she felt as if she did not dare. How was it he knew so much when she herself had just recognized her trepidation?

  John leaned close and spoke so quietly that only she could hear. “I saw how ye danced earlier, with abandon—I’d even call it joy. Ye forgot to hide behind yer anger and yer fear. Surely if ye can forget once, ye can forget again. Can ye no’?”

  Moving her head to the right and the left just once, she hoped he would understand her silent ‘no.’ He was right again and the perception in his gaze made her shiver. She loved to dance, to get caught up in the music so the rhythm carried her outside her own small world to the infinite beauty of the world beyond and above. The same rhythm that came to her through the rush of the river and the whisper of waves on the shore of the loch. Before today she had forgotten that she loved those things, that they freed her spirit and allowed her to soar. And once she remembered, she had forgotten all the worries that had beset her since her arrival at Kilchurn.

  Until John made her remember.

  And now she was lost among memories and longing and dread and forgetting. There was magic in the night; she had always known that. She simply had not known it existed at Kilchurn. If, indeed, it did.

  As he watched the play of the torchlight over Muriella's face, John wondered at her thoughts. He knew he had struck a chord when he spoke of her dancing; she had been too surprised to hide the realization in her eyes. But he could tell he dared not push her further, though her green eyes drew him when he wanted to turn away. As he struggled to pull himself out of her gaze, he rose abruptly, sauntered toward the musicians and picked up a clareschaw. He began to play softly.

  O Lassie, is thy heart more hard

  Than mavis from the bough;

  Say must the whole creation wed,

  And ye remain to woo?

  Say has the holy lowe o'love

  Ne'er lighten'd in yer eye?

  O, if thou canst not feel this pain,

  Thou art no theme for me!

  He was singing to his betrothed, gazing at her mournfully, but his eyes belied the solemn droop of his mouth. Some of the men began to laugh.

  Praying the flush on her cheeks was not visible, Muriella rose slowly and stepped out from behind the table. Her shining braids of auburn hair fell from a single braided crown at her temples and down her back, heightening her wide green eyes, soft skin and the sweep of her cream-colored gown. The gold sleeves and skirt of the kirtle shimmered as she swayed slightly with the Gypsies’ tune. Then she met John’s eyes.

  It took all the power she had to smile archly. “If my heart is hard, my Lord, mayhap ‘tis because no man has ever wooed me. I’ve been but a child, and the light of love has escaped both my eye and my heart. Thus, though I could surely guess at yer pain,” she paused to tilt her head his way and smile, “especially yer pain—I agree most heartily that ye should seek another.”

  All at once, now that all eyes were upon her, she was certain everyone could hear the pounding of her heart as it spelled out the word bastard. Nevertheless, she smiled and curtsied formally toward her husband-to-be.

  John pursed his lips, quirked an eyebrow and strummed a discordant string of notes across his clareschaw. “Alas!” He cried to the room at large with a crooked smile. But his eyes were still.

  Muriella took a deep breath and turned back to her place at table.

  Abruptly, the musicians began to play and the sound of the deep Gypsy voices shattered the waiting stillness. Muriella bowed her head, wondering what had possessed her.

  * * *

  Much later, when most of the men had gone up to bed, the Earl found her in the library, curled on the rug with her face toward the fire. He pulled up a chair and sat down, regarding her curiously. "What made ye speak so at table.” He paused. “With some wit,” he added quietly.

  “I’d not know what came over me.”

  Silent for a long moment, he finally murmured, “’Tis best if ye no’ taunt one another before the men.”

  Muriella sat up to face him. "I don't care!"

  "Ye must care!" he insisted. "He'll be yer husband. Ye must learn to respect and obey him."

  Staring into the golden-red flames, she remained silent.

  When she did not reply at once, he snapped, "Muriella? Do ye hear? Ye'll do as I say!"

  His harsh command struck her like a blow across the face and her control finally snapped. How was it possible to care for him so much, yet feel such helpless rage at the same time? She sat up and faced him, trying to hold back the words rising to her lips, but she had not the strength. "Who gave ye the
right to decide what I should do? Ye don't even ask what I want, what I feel. To ye I'm just a game piece to be moved about at yer will."

  Though she knew it was the truth, she was shocked at the bitterness she was hurling at the one man who had shown her compassion at Kilchurn. But it was beyond her power to stop. "Tell me," she demanded, "why I should give up everything just to swell the Campbell coffers! It makes no matter to me that the King made ye my guardian. I don't owe ye anything."

  "Only yer life," Argyll said, his face flushed with rage that this girl should challenge him so. "But ye're right, yer feelings about this marriage mean nothing to me. Quite simply, ye have no choice."

  The cold finality of his tone chilled Muriella, but she would not retreat. "Ye've said ye care for me. Then why won't ye listen to what I say?"

  "I've heard enough." He gripped the arms of his chair roughly, but his voice did not waver for an instant. "The good of the clan comes first. 'Tis time ye learned that. All the weeping in the world won't change a fact so fundamental."

  Muriella leaned backward, shocked by the grim implacability of the Earl's expression.

  Argyll saw her retreat and regretted briefly the dread he saw reflected in her eyes, but he would not withdraw a word. She had to learn to accept the truth just as Elizabeth had once done; the sooner she did so, the easier it would be for her. He released the chair arms, surprised at the ache that spread through his hands. He hadn't been aware of how tightly he was gripping the polished wood.

  Muriella did not move. She looked pale suddenly, and fragile. The Earl sighed and spoke more quietly. "Johnnie's a good man, though a bit young. Ye'll marry him in less than a month, and ye'll obey him, do ye hear? Ye won't be a girl any longer."

  Ye have become a woman now, her mother had whispered. But that was before Muriella knew that Isabel had betrayed her unforgivably. The girl spoke from the protection of the shadows. "A bastard needn't follow yer rules. Mayhap yer son won't want to wed me."

  The Earl slumped forward, burying his head in his hands. The last of his anger faded when he heard the pain in her voice. "Dear God, what have they told ye?" When she did not respond, he murmured, "Lass, come here."