"Have I? Is it so despicable to admit defeat when it stares ye in the face? To keep two hundred men alive when they could be slaughtered? Ye know as well as I that we had our chance to beat the Campbells and we lost it. If we'd struck at the funeral as we planned, we could've won. We could've caught them unaware and dragged them down. But we didn't. Ye called us away. Are ye sure ye want to accuse me of dishonor? Are ye certain 'tis not ye who is the traitor?" He did not wait for an answer, but turned on his heel and left the room.
Maclean clenched his fists convulsively. He knew Evan was not the only one who thought that way; the others were simply too afraid to say it aloud. His clan believed he had betrayed them. Failed them miserably at the very least. His nephew was right; the funeral had been their only chance and they had lost it. Running his hand through his hair, he tried to force down the nausea that climbed up his throat. Lost it because of Elizabeth. The blood pounded in his ears, deafening him.
* * *
Elizabeth had stood in the hallway, transfixed by Maclean's expression. His face had been pallid, his cheeks sunken, except where the red flamed high on his cheekbones. He had stared unseeing before him. As his anger faded, pain mangled his features.
It was not the first time she had seen that look, but never before had it been so naked or intense. Always he had come to her afterward. But it had been four years this time. He had not shared her bed since that night at Kilchurn. The night before Muriella's wedding.
Elizabeth tensed, thinking she heard footsteps in the hall, but whoever it was passed her door without stopping. She sipped her wine again, remembering that night. He had stumbled into her room at midnight, drunk. After crawling into her bed, he laid his head in her lap and blurted out the story of how he and Andrew Calder had tried to kill Muriella.
"But do ye know," he had said, gripping her hand, "I was glad when I saw her come back unharmed. I didn't want to hurt the lass, not really. Do ye believe me?" He had peered at her through the darkness, waiting anxiously for her response.
She remembered the feel of his curls beneath her fingers as she answered, "Aye, I believe ye."
"Are ye certain?" He had pulled himself up beside her so he could look into her eyes. "'Tis all right, then?"
Cupping his face in her hands, she had whispered, "'Tis all right."
He had come to her like a child asking forgiveness. Most of the time he ignored her, or hated her, but she did not think of leaving him, even when her father had begged her to. Because sometimes Maclean would place himself in her hands, as he had that night, and with his head in her lap, he would pour out his guilt. She knew she would never turn him away; she would comfort him, always, because he needed her.
"Elizabeth," he had told her that night, "I'll never hurt ye. No' the way I hurt Anne."
"Hush," she had reassured him. "'Twas no' yer fault. And I know ye won't hurt me. Hush." She had run her fingers through his hair, wrapping her other arm about his shoulders, and he was silent. As always, he believed her. He had fallen asleep with his head on her breast.
"Elizabeth?"
She was surprised after all when her husband entered the room. She had not heard the latch move. Peering toward the open door, she realized the light from the single candle on the bedside table didn't reach the shadows where he stood.
"Elizabeth, I—shall I go away?"
She found him at last through the gloom and smiled, shaking her head. She knew he would leave her if she asked him. When he came to her like this, he seemed to lose his own authority, even his ability to decide. "Come," she murmured. "Will ye have some wine?"
His sigh of relief was almost palpable. He moved toward the bed very slowly, more slowly than usual, she thought. But of course, he had never been so badly beaten before. Watching her as if she might change her mind at any minute, he turned back the covers and slid into bed.
"Ye must hate me," he said, sitting on the far side of the mattress.
"Ye know I don't," Elizabeth asserted.
He could not meet her eyes. "Evan does. Evan thinks me a fool."
Reaching out, she covered his hand with hers. His fingers were cold. "Then Evan is a fool," she said. "I love ye. Ye know that."
He turned, his eyes burning, wild. He crouched before her as if she might strike him. "No," he declared. "Ye must not love me!"
"Isn't that why ye're here, Lachlan? Because ye know exactly how I care for ye?"
"Aye," he choked just above a whisper. Once again he seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, but finally he moved closer, sliding his arms around her waist. "Elizabeth!" he cried, "ye'll hate me in the end. Even ye!"
"No," she repeated. "Never." Drawing the covers over him, she cradled him in her arms. He was shaking.
"I killed her, ye ken. I killed my Anne."
Elizabeth flinched. So it was Anne already. Usually it was early morning before the memories of his dead betrothed began to eat away at him. "'Twas my father's men who killed her, no’ ye. Ye were only trying to protect her." How many times had she said those same words? How many more would she have to do so before he believed her?
"No, 'twas me. I told her to go. Dear God in heaven, I let her go!"
He moaned and she could feel his hot breath through her thin night rail. For a long moment he said nothing. Then, "Elizabeth," he murmured as he moved his hand over her thigh, "do ye want me tonight?"
"Aye."
He looked up as he slid his fingers beneath her gown, trailing them over the bare skin of her stomach and higher, to the curve of her breast. "Are ye certain?"
She nodded, fumbling with the strings of her night rail while his lips met hers. Her head went back and she shivered with pleasure when his moist tongue slipped between her lips. The soft, insistent pressure of his mouth, the movement of his hands upon her body, created a melting warmth inside her that spread through her limbs like the last traces of wine. Deliberately, her husband drew the gown from her shoulders, exposing her breasts, tantalizing her with the languid tracings of his fingers along her naked shoulders.
"Lachlan," she whispered huskily, "please."
He cupped her breasts in his warm palms, ran his tongue along her nipple, making tiny circles on the soft pink flesh. Sucking in her breath, Elizabeth slid down until she lay flat on the bed with her husband stretched out above her. He hovered there for a moment, not daring to breathe, then lowered his body onto hers. She closed her eyes.
All at once, his hands trembled violently, so violently that the tremors seemed to spread through the rest of his body. He dug his fingers into her back, unaware of her shudder of pain as his nails pierced her skin.
"Lachlan!" she cried. "What is it?" Elizabeth tried to push her husband away, but he was too strong and she found she could not stop him.
Maclean entered her roughly, pressing her head into the pillows, covering her mouth with his until she thought she would suffocate. For several moments he twisted above her, heaving. Then he collapsed, rolling halfway off her.
His head lay on her breast and she felt clammy where his skin touched hers. His face was wet; she realized with dismay that he was weeping.
"Elizabeth!" he shuddered. "Forgive me! I shouldn't have let ye go. She's dead, ye know. Anne's dead." He was clinging to her, his fingers bruising her flesh.
"Please," he gasped, "I beg ye, forgive me. I could do nothing else. Do ye believe me?" He looked up, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. "Please."
She hesitated, too bewildered by his behavior to find her voice. Then she realized that he needed her now more than ever. She could not fail him merely because she did not understand. Closing her arms around him, she drew her husband near. His head fell against her shoulder while the tears ran down her neck and across her chest. She reached out to touch his hair with her fingertips. "Hush," she whispered. "I love ye, Lachlan. I forgive ye."
"But Anne," he mumbled into her hair, "and ye. I betrayed ye—both of ye."
"No, ye betrayed no one. Sleep," she soothed. "Go to slee
p."
Chapter 29
The wan morning sun filtered through the windows of the solar but did not quite reach Muriella where she sat at the loom, her fingers flying. The second panel of her Loch Awe tapestry was nearly complete, and as she worked, she lost herself in the wonder of the pattern she was weaving with the soft wool thread. In the center of the panel, the blond woman knelt beside the raging stream, her mouth open in a silent cry of terror, the flowers askew on her head, her hair trailing over the water. Behind her, the valley had begun to disappear beneath the rising river; within the blue and white flow of the water, the chimerical figures of the Kelpies laughed in triumph.
As she gazed at the loom, brow furrowed, a shadow seemed to fall across the image. Something was wrong—something that had nothing to do with John or his anger or her own growing dread. The water seemed to move, to swell beneath her hands. Gasping, she snatched her fingers away. She did not want to know. At last the fabric grew still and the pounding of her heart ceased.
She could not so easily escape her own thoughts. She had dreamt of Hugh again last night, had teased him, run from him, and finally, fallen laughing into his arms. But when she awoke to the watery dawn, the laughter had died in her. Now her own words sounded in her head again and again. Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye!
Muriella closed her eyes to shut out the memory, but it would not go. She should not have said it, she knew, but she had been powerless in that moment. She had wanted to hurt John as much as he had hurt her. She rested her fingers on the lacery of colored threads. Surely it was fear and anger that had made her speak, not the dull ache of betrayal. And yet—
"Megan?" she said.
The servant raised her head from the gown she was hemming. "Aye?" Her gaze was full of compassion and concern.
"I must go to him."
Megan blinked at Muriella in astonishment. She had seen the thunderous expression on Sir John's face this morning, heard the vehemence with which he cursed at any small annoyance, and the servant knew without a doubt that his wife was the cause. As the evening passed, while Megan cooled the fierce redness of Muriella's cheek with a wet cloth, her mistress had told her of the confrontation in the hall. The servant shivered even now, with the warmth of the fire at her back, when she remembered the words Muriella had spoken. "I don't think 'twould be wise just now. He isn't in a pleasant frame o' mind."
"No," Muriella agreed, "nor is he likely to be. But he's my husband and I can't avoid him forever."
Megan could not argue with that, but still she was uneasy. "What will ye say?"
Focusing once again on the colors of the tapestry, Muriella considered her answer. The humiliation she had felt when John struck her before the men had been deep, but sometime during the night it had slipped away. She had realized eventually that she had left her husband with no other choice. "I don't know," she told Megan. "I only know I have to go."
"Well then, go ye must." But as her mistress rose, smoothed out her pale green gown, and started for the door, Megan closed her eyes and crossed herself in a silent prayer.
In the music room, John slouched down, one leg slung over the arm of a bowed chair. His casual posture belied the turbulence inside him. He strummed a clareschaw sporadically, but the notes were harsh and discordant to his sensitive ears. He stared into the cold, gray ashes of the lifeless fire that bore no resemblance to the blaze in the Great Hall the day before. That fire had burned too bright and hot, illuminating Muriella with brilliance, searing her shouted curse into the ancient stone.
John gripped the harp too tightly, nearly snapping a fragile string. He’d had to strike her. She had left him no choice. Had she shrieked such things at him in private, he might have let them pass, but not in the Great Hall with everyone watching.
"Ye did the right thing," Duncan had admitted reluctantly later, when John sat morose and silent in his chamber. The right thing. Yes.
Why then could he still feel the sting in his hand, sharp as an accusation?
He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the awful silence filled with the sound of Muriella's ringing curse. He remembered too her flushed face and glittering eyes, the long wet hair he had wrapped around his palm. The night before, such thoughts had made his anger flare hotly, dangerously. But now he had had time to think, and what should have been rage had turned to confusion.
Muriella had behaved like a madwoman, but since the rain had gone, and with it the darkness, John had begun to wonder why. He could hear clearly the rasp of her ragged breath, see the unnatural color in her cheeks. She had been deeply overwrought before she entered the keep. What could have happened to make her so distraught, to force her into betraying her pain by shouting foolish threats and demands?
The questions had been haunting him the night through; his righteous anger had been no defense against them. Like it or not, he was troubled by her distress. He raked his fingers across the strings of the clareschaw, making a cacophony of strident notes that did not cover the rustle of skirts.
John turned to stare in astonishment at his wife, who hovered just inside the door. He had not expected to see her today, was shocked to realize from her white braided fingers and wary expression that she had sought him out. She was pale this morning; the flush of yesterday's fire had left her cheeks. In spite of himself, John wanted to speak softly, to ask her what was wrong. But there were things he must make clear.
"So," he said with difficulty, "ye've come after all."
Muriella swallowed dryly. Now that she was here, now that John's stark blue eyes were fixed upon her, she could not find her voice. "Aye," she croaked.
Frowning, her husband looked away to regard the cold ashes in the fireplace. He was touched by her uncertainty and could not let her see it. With an effort of will, he turned with a face of stone. "Ye won't speak to me that way before the men. Not ever again, do ye understand?" He said what he must say, not what he wished to say. He could not allow her to challenge him, defy him, even curse him. The men would lose their respect for him as quickly as he lost his own. Nor could he let her frighten them with her predictions of disaster. They were too willing to believe.
Muriella did not answer, but the little color that remained had fled her cheeks, leaving them sallow. Against all reason, John wanted to drop the clarecshaw—and his stern demeanor—and hold her. He wanted to take the darkness from her eyes, to understand. He rose stiffly, eyes on her pallid face.
When he spoke again, his voice was gruff, but he could not bring the coldness back. "Listen to me. Ye're my wife and must do as I say."
Muriella knew he was right, but that did not stop the rush of helpless anger. John leaned closer, put his hands on her shoulders. Though she could feel his cool breath on her cheek, she did not lower her eyes or back away. She had come to make things right, but she did not know how, and John's searching gaze did not make it any easier.
"Do ye hear me?"
"I hear." She licked dry lips. "I didn't mean—what I said. 'Twill no’ happen again." They were the hardest words she had ever spoken.
John released her abruptly. He had expected her to scream at him, to fight, to deny what he knew to be true. Her acquiescence unnerved him, made him regret yet again that he could not simply take her in his arms and comfort her. Even if she had not intended to curse him, she had done so. Not for a moment, since she'd left him the day before, had he escaped the image of her arresting face. She had hovered in the light of the torches, in the shadows, in the deepest part of night, taunting him, always just beyond his reach. "Why did ye do it?" he asked softly. "Whatever were ye thinking of?"
Then, as now, she had been thinking of how her husband looked in the shadows with the light playing over his body. She had been thinking of Mary, with her long black hair, who lay moaning at his feet. Muriella bit her lip until she thought the blood would come. She turned away so John would not see her face.
"Are ye ashamed to look at me?" he asked.
She whirl
ed. "No! I've already seen enough," she cried. "I saw ye!"
Her husband stared at her in astonishment. "Ye saw what? I don't understand."
She closed her mouth, determined not to say more, but it didn't matter. John had remembered something. Mary thought she heard someone in the hall yesterday. He had taken her to the deserted tunnels because it added spice to their lovemaking and because he did not believe, like Colin, in flaunting his women before all who cared to watch. He had laughed at her nervous assertion that someone was nearby. No one went into those passageways anymore, he had told her. No one but his wife, it appeared.
"'Tis unfortunate," he said. "I took her there so ye wouldn't see."
Now he pitied her; she could hear it in his voice. She wanted to move away, but he had taken her hand. Was he waiting for her forgiveness? No. He was sorry she had seen it, not sorry it had happened.
"Let me go!" she demanded.
John's eyes widened. He had hurt her; he could see that. But how? Surely she didn't care that he had other women. She had made it clear enough that she did not want him. But that had been a long time ago. He met her gaze and held it, leaning forward until he could feel the warmth of her body beneath his hands. She was driving him mad; she would give him no peace. Overcome by a need so fierce it burned away the memory of the terror he had once seen in her eyes, he slipped his arms around his wife to draw her close. Before she could turn her head away, he kissed her.
For a moment she stood still, shocked by the heat of his lips on hers, by the pressure of his arms around her waist. She tried to cry out, but he slipped his tongue between her lips, circling the moist inside of her mouth until he forced the breath from her body. She was too surprised to be afraid, and when she put her hands on his chest to push him away, her fingers curved inward, seeking instinctively the dark hair beneath his saffron shirt. Her heart was beating quickly and more quickly; she could feel his hands on her back, drawing her closer while his lips demanded a response.
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 28