Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Chapter 27

  Muriella had been wandering through the keep for a long time. She felt unsettled and could not stay still; she had not been able to rest since her husband had turned away from her last evening. She could not escape the memory of Hugh's laughter, cut off again and again by a careless wave of John's hand. Her head echoed with the sound until she thought she would go mad.

  Without quite knowing how she had gotten there, she found herself in the lower passageways. As she felt the damp mustiness of the abandoned corridors close around her, she became aware of an uneasy tension that urged her on. Peering through the dimness, she listened to the hollow thud of the packed dirt floor as she moved down unfamiliar tunnels, lit by a few torches set in the walls at random intervals. Muriella felt the shadows move around her; her hands grew clammy and her stomach tight. The walls fell back and back and she was closed tighter and tighter into her purpose, though she did not know what that was.

  As she approached the end of the corridor, she heard a sigh that penetrated the stillness like a flare of light. Stopping with her back to the wall, she crept up to a door that hung half-open. Carefully, she leaned forward to look inside the tiny chamber. Then she sucked in her breath so she would not gasp and betray her presence.

  John crouched before the window, naked, with a woman at his feet. His form loomed tall and dark, framed by the speckled light that filtered through the leaves outside the window. In her astonishment, Muriella studied his body, from his broad shoulders to his chest to his muscled thighs. She wanted to look away but could not; she was mesmerized by the hungry glitter in his eyes. It reminded her too vividly of the way he had looked the last time he came to her bed, when, for an instant, he had let fall the cloak that usually hid his desire from view. His face was shaded so his hair and beard blended with the shadows; only his eyes were clear and bright. But it was enough. In those eyes he had bared his passion—like his body—for Muriella to see.

  The woman lay gazing up at him, the light playing softly along her breasts and face. Muriella recognized the servant, Mary. Her black hair half covered her body to her knees and spilled over onto the floor beside her. John's shadow touched her skin, holding back the light from her thighs and stomach. Muriella sensed the tension in Mary from her ragged breathing, though she lay absolutely still. She was waiting.

  As Muriella watched, John laughed and his eyes glistened. Then he leaned down and, gathering the woman's hair in his hands, raised his arms before him. Her hair fell over his arms to the elbow to slip between his fingers, settling like falling feathers on Mary's skin.

  Muriella shivered. She had seen it before, but could not remember when. She shrank back farther into the shadows as her husband leaned down to nibble at Mary's earlobe, then swung his leg over to cover her trembling body with his own. The servant moaned, fastening her arms about his neck, and pulled him to her. Their legs intertwined and their lips met and clung, fierce and demanding.

  Muriella felt the coldness of the stone penetrate her skin in waves that left her shivering. Shock had forced the breath from her body and she had to struggle to get air. She should not have been surprised; she had suspected that her husband, like Colin, used other women to fulfill his physical needs. She had even been grateful. But now the knowledge of the desire that drove John was with her again, so near she could feel the heat rising from the two bodies, and she had to get away.

  She ran, finding her way blindly through the curving passageways. Gasping for air, she left the castle behind, seeking the refuge of the forest. The patterns of the leaves fell on her face; they brought to her again a sense of the moving light on Mary's body. Muriella tried to clear her mind, to soak in the green and gray of the trees and bushes until the colors obliterated the image of the little room with the speckled image of muted light.

  The sound of the river intruded on her visions, urging her to follow the soothing rumble to the shore of the loch. Here the bushes were heavy with moisture and she lost herself in their leafy protection. At the edge of the water, where the trees held back the light, Muriella breathed in the fragrant darkness. Kneeling among the wild grasses, she leaned out over the loch. Its movement calmed her, seemed to run through her head, flooding away all traces of violence. She swallowed the sound of the lapping water and felt it slide down her throat to dampen her parched insides.

  Then she saw, captured on the undulating surface, the image of John's body merging with Mary's. She would not think of that, she told herself. She would not remember the pain of seeing her husband's hands on that woman's skin. She would not think of the rippling of his muscles, which had seemed to absorb the light all around him. She would not—dared not—recall the feeling of despair that had spiraled through her body at the sight of two people filling that tiny chamber with their hunger and their need.

  Sitting up abruptly, Muriella realized her hair had fallen over her shoulder and into the loch. She watched it float, spreading gracefully over the clear, rippled surface. Leaning forward, she shook out the auburn waves and fed them into the water. As they danced among the stones, she began to breathe in rhythm with the current. Closing her eyes, she bent down until her cheek brushed the fusion of liquid hair beneath her.

  "Kelpie."

  The voice intruded, breaking the fragile mood of the moment.

  Muriella felt someone behind her. Gingerly, she turned her head.

  "Ye're a Kelpie who's come from the water."

  As she looked up, Duncan knelt beside her. A few minutes ago he had seen her running from the castle. A single glimpse of her face had told him how distressed she was. He had not planned to follow her, but the memory of her haunted eyes had drawn him here against his will. He had stopped when he saw how she swayed towards the loch as if communicating with the spirits who dwelled there. The woven web of her hair across the water had hypnotized him, catching him up in a spell he could not resist. Unable to stop himself, he bent down. Gathering her hair in his hands, he buried his face in the dripping tendrils.

  She sprang up and away from him. "Go!" her voice rose shrilly. "Don't!"

  "Muriella." When Duncan's brown eyes met and held hers, she felt that he was looking beyond her to the little room with the light across two bodies. She stepped backwards.

  "Forgive me," he murmured. "I shouldn't have done that." Staring at her wary expression, he wanted to reassure her, to tell her he had only come to see that she was all right, but he sensed she would not hear him. Yet he had seen enough to know the loch could hold her, soothe her as he had not succeeded in doing. He sat in the grass where she had been a moment before and whispered, "Listen to the stillness."

  Muriella stood where she was, uncertain. Sensing her reluctance, the squire turned away to look into the water. "Don't go. I won't disturb ye."

  She wanted to believe him. His presence was somehow reassuring. Without another word, she sat on the bank, the wild grasses brushing her legs. The two were silent, letting the water enchant them. After a while, Duncan felt some of the tension flow out of her and knew her agitation had begun to pass.

  Muriella studied the squire thoughtfully as he shook the shoulder-length blond hair away from his face and moved his thin, lanky body to a more comfortable position. Duncan looked frail, she thought, compared to her husband's large stature, almost as if he did not belong in the same world with John. Just as she did not. She trailed her fingers in the water, welcoming the chill.

  Slowly, so gradually that neither was really aware of it, they moved closer until their hands met. Duncan twined his fingers with hers, willing his own warmth into her cold skin. Overhead the clouds grew dark and threatening and the wind rose, stirring the loch into white-capped silver waves. The leaden sky seemed to sink lower and lower, until the clouds, heavy with moisture, rested on the choppy surface of the water. When Muriella shivered, Duncan rose reluctantly. "We'd best get back before the storm breaks."

  She nodded but did not move at once. "I'll come soon. Ye go ahead."

  She l
ooked up, her eyes reflecting the turbulence of the gray green loch, and the squire knew it would do no good to argue. "till later then," he murmured.

  "Aye," she answered softly, before turning back to the loch, whose fierce beauty made her tremble with fear and admiration. She rose to her feet, drawn toward the image of a lovely face surrounded by tendrils of blond hair that curled and leapt with the movement of the water—the woman of the loch, who had once ruled this valley, whose lament for her lost happiness rose, high and piercing, from the heart of the storm.

  When the rain broke through the leaves overhead, Muriella tore herself away from the hypnotic call of Loch Awe. She had brought no cloak and was reluctant to leave the shelter of the trees, but knew she had to get back. She turned toward the castle as the rain began to fall more heavily. She hurried her step, noticing as she went the brilliant green of the dripping trees and bushes all around her.

  Finally she arrived at the courtyard and slipped beneath the creaking gate. There was no one about, so she lost no time in reaching the gaping doorway that opened onto the Great Hall.

  The men sat around the tables engaged in noisy conversation. They had turned their backs on the huge double doors and slitted windows high in the walls, hoping to shut out thoughts of the chilling rain. Torches burned on every wall, attempting to push the darkness away. The men, who had discarded their doublets and cloaks, sat in their shirts and trews, drinking ale and shaking stray drops from their beards. Their rumbling laughter rose, dissipating as it approached the vaulted ceiling.

  As they attacked the bread and meat on the platters before them, Muriella was suddenly aware of her drenched hair and clothing. The green world fled behind her, and she jumped when someone slammed the door and barred it at her back. She wished now that she had gone to the entrance on the other side of the castle and found the way to her room in solitude.

  Unexpectedly, John loomed above her, scrutinizing the wet clothing that clung to her arms and legs, leaving puddles in the hollowed stones of the floor.

  "Ye've been caught in the rain," he observed. "Mayhap ye should go and change. Ye'll catch the ague in this drafty room."

  As she looked up at him, her stomach wrenched. "I sought the big fire," she said, turning toward the stone fireplace that swallowed up one wall of the room. John followed her—she could feel him at her back—and she wished she had stayed in the rain. The heat of the crowded room oppressed her; she felt more of a chill in the uncomfortable curiosity of the men than in the storm outside. When she paused at last, John stopped beside her. What was he waiting for? she wondered. She was afraid he might touch her and then she would scream.

  Platters and tankards were suddenly still. She could hear the dogs digging for scraps in the rushes beneath the tables. One by one, the men had abandoned their supper to stare at Muriella's long, dripping hair. Auburn in the sunlight, it now hung limp and dark to her knees. Near her face, where a few short hairs had begun to dry, the curls strayed across her forehead and fell along her cheeks.

  The men began to shuffle their feet under the tables. The mutton sat cooling before them, but they continued to watch Muriella. The flames framed her body in brilliance; the men could not pull themselves away from the sight.

  When she looked up at John, a vision of him and Mary, very bright, flashed through her mind. She stared at his bearded face, her eyes pale gray.

  John froze. Muriella was lovely and frightening, dripping, dark and flushed, and her eyes were full of some emotion he could not fathom. His wife bent toward the fire, rubbing her hands together near the flames. Her hair fell down her back in twisted tendrils that dripped rhythmically against the rushes.

  Someone whispered, "Witch—she's come from the water."

  No one moved. She held them all in a chimerical web; they worshiped her and wished her gone. Some of them remembered the sight of her four years ago by the terrible campfire, with her bloodied gown and flickering eyes. They believed, in that moment, that she was not human.

  Leaning close, John touched her shoulder. He held his breath, letting his fingers stray against her hair while he searched her face. He felt an uncomfortable tightening in his chest and found it difficult to breathe. All at once he became aware of the hush that had fallen over the hall. It was as if his wife had crushed the everyday sounds beneath her feet, replacing them with a thin shroud of silence. It was too quiet.

  "I shall starve," he bellowed, "if I don't eat soon!"

  As his voice rang through the room, the men looked away from Muriella and back to their meal. Someone belched and laughter followed. A tankard clattered on the table, then another and another. Satisfied, John turned back to his wife. She stood unmoving while the firelight enwrapped her, wavering within her eyes. Mesmerized by her gaze, he reached out to wrap his hand in her hair. The strands were cold and wet against his palm. He turned his hand upward, letting the hair spread over his callused skin.

  The water dripped from the strands, slipping between his fingers, tinged golden, then orange, then red with the reflection of the firelight. Almost like blood, Muriella thought. Then her body grew rigid. In that instant, the dream came back to her, so vivid that the colors swam before her eyes—John's laughter, the shifting sunlight, the blood that had run down his arms to the elbow. Only it had not been blood. She remembered Mary lying at her husband's feet, the way her hair had settled onto her body, falling through John's fingers with a whisper of longing. Suddenly the fear was with her again, clutching at her throat. Obsessed by the sun-striped room where Mary waited, Muriella seized her husband's free hand.

  "Let me go!" she shrieked, though it was she who held him now.

  John released her. "Muriella," he said sharply with a sidelong glance at the men.

  Under his warning gaze, Muriella's fear gave way to anger. "Would ye have me be silent? Do ye think ye can command me so easily? Don't ye know it doesn't take words to curse ye? I can do it with my eyes alone. Look at me!" she cried. "Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye!"

  A hush fell over the hall as her words echoed against the stone, then faded into silence. This time she had gone too far. In the suffocating stillness left behind, John raised his hand and struck his wife full across the face. He acted without thinking, from a deeply engrained instinct for self-preservation that had taken root in him at birth.

  Muriella's knees threatened to give way beneath her. Her head rang with the force of the blow while the pain burned over her cheek, freeing her from the madness that had overwhelmed her for a moment.

  "Go," John said with dangerous calm.

  The rage hovered, glittering, in his eyes, daring her to defy him. She did not speak again, but turned, hands clenched in the folds of her skirt, and crossed the endless hall while a hundred watching eyes bored into her. She stared at the rush-strewn floor beneath her feet, knowing that if she once looked up to meet those gleaming eyes, she would not find compassion or even pity in their depths, but only a grim and chilly triumph.

  Chapter 28

  Elizabeth Campbell Maclean listened as the last sounds of night crept through Duart Castle. Pulling the furs over her lap, she settled against the headboard. She was waiting. She sensed her husband would come to her soon, although he had not done so for a long time.

  She believed Lachlan needed her tonight. For the past month she had watched as he paced before the fire in the library, trying to pretend he was not waiting for Evan to return from Edinburgh. But Elizabeth had known. She knew, although he had not told her so, that her husband's nephew had gone to treat with the new regents to settle the terms of the peace between the rebels and crown. Once again the Macleans had fought a losing battle to restore the Lordship of the Isles to their own, and once again they were suing for peace.

  It had been a hopeless cause from the beginning; even Elizabeth had known that. She also knew that her husband had insisted upon sending a list of demands to Huntly, Angus and Arran, the Queen Mother's new advisors. The Macleans were the
vanquished in this rebellion, yet at Lachlan's instigation, they were demanding reparation from the crown.

  Elizabeth reached for the wine on the chest beside the bed. She swallowed slowly, feeling the liquid slide down her throat. She hoped it would still the rapid beating of her heart. Evan had come back today. Lachlan and his nephew had disappeared into the library, while Elizabeth waited in the hall. Neither had noticed her; it would have made no difference if they had. What they had to discuss was meant only for the ears of men.

  * * *

  Inside the library, Maclean had faced his nephew warily, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Evan to speak. "Well, what's the news, man? What said Huntly to my demands?"

  Evan was silent for several moments. He had been dreading this interview since the day he left Edinburgh. No, it had been long before that, since the day he left Duart with Maclean's preposterous list in his pocket. "What do ye think he said? He laughed and threw them in the fire."

  "What? Did he dare? He won't laugh again, I'll tell ye that," Maclean grunted.

  "Uncle, ye must stop pretending now. 'Tis over. There's naught we can do. With the others, Arran and Huntly were generous. But from the Macleans they required submission without condition."

  "Are they mad?" Maclean stalked up and down, trying to control his rage. "Did ye kill them where they stood?"

  Evan shook his head. "No. Nor did I want to. Don't ye see that we've lost everything? With Argyll hovering at our backs, we're helpless. Ye'll have to admit it sometime."

  "No!" His uncle stood perfectly still in the center of the room. "I won't admit that ever, do ye hear? How could ye give them what they want without a fight?"

  "Because we've nothing left to fight with," Evan snapped. "Can't ye see that? 'Tis over, Uncle. The Campbells have finally beaten us for good."

  Maclean's eyes were smoldering, his face flushed with anger. "Ye're wrong, ye traitor. Ye've dishonored the Macleans."