When she did not pull away, John felt a rush of triumph and began to caress her more boldly. He would learn to know her with his fingertips, make her safe and familiar. Then he could banish her haunting image from his dreams. It was what he had wanted to do since he saw her standing before the fire, damp and lovely, bringing with her the refreshing fragrance of the rain. Carried away by the scent of her hair and the feel of her soft body, he caught his fingers in her curls and pulled her head back with sudden impatience.
When he felt a tremor shake her as he ran his thumb over her breast, he forgot his anger. Nothing seemed to matter but the way she trembled in his arms, the way her mouth opened to his, the longing he sensed somewhere deep within her. It was the first time she had yielded to his touch, the first time she had answered him with warmth instead of coldness. Dear God, she was a witch indeed to make him forget what had gone before. He wanted her, he realized, with an intensity that frightened him.
Fired by his own rising hunger, John slid his hand over the front of Muriella's gown. He brushed the skin at the low-cut neckline with his fingertips, then reached down to cup her breast in his open palm. Muriella felt her knees grow weak as a strange warmth grew inside her, spreading through her limbs until no part of her remained untouched. The sudden, devastating need that shook her set her head spinning, and she realized she was falling, falling down into the darkness. The water swirled at her ankles, her waist, her shoulders, cold and forbidding. She fought the rushing foam, choking and gasping in an attempt to find some air. Then her body slipped away and it was someone else who fought the sea for one last breath.
"No!" she cried, forcing the image back into the darkness. But the cold terror would not go.
Muriella began to struggle furiously against the arms that held her, while the sweat broke out on her body and the room spun madly. "Dear God, no!"
The cry was wrenched from her with a force that chilled John. Not again, he cursed under his breath. Not now. Then he looked into his wife's pallid face, saw the frenzied expression in her eyes, and realized it was not he she was fighting against. "Tell me what ye're so afraid of," he demanded, above the sound of his own ragged breathing. "Ye can't keep running forever."
Muriella's feet were made of lead. She could not escape the confusion of emotions that swirled around her, caught up in the menacing rise and fall of the water. "No!" she repeated, as if that single word could keep the Sight at bay. "I don't want to know."
John took her shoulders in his hands and forced her to look up at him. "Know what?" he demanded. "What's happening to ye?"
He found himself looking into the blank, staring eyes he remembered so well. "Ye've seen something. Tell me what it is."
She was cold, so still and cold and distant that he thought she might never come back to him. Then the trembling began. He gripped her more tightly. "Tell me," he repeated.
Muriella was lost in an angry sea, but this time it was not she who was being sucked down into the cold black depths. The pressure of John's hands on her shoulders called to her, forcing her upward, away from the vision of the figure struggling frantically through the storm-ravaged ocean. She gazed at her husband with her dark hollow eyes, her lips moved once or twice, then she reached up, pressing her palms to his chest in a wordless plea. "Elizabeth is in danger," she gasped. "The water will rise. Ye must find her!"
* * *
Richard and Andrew Campbell smiled with contentment at the pile of fish lying in the bottom of their boat. The catch had been good today, and they were pleased with themselves. They had planned to stay out all afternoon, but the sky was lowering overhead. They decided it would be prudent to return to shore.
As they rowed, Richard sang gustily, his deep voice rolling out over the choppy water.
I've heard them liltin' at the ewe's milkin',
For the Flowers o' the Forrest are a'wede awa'.
The wind was creeping inside his damp cloak. He rowed harder as the drops began to fall from overhead.
"We'd best get back to the keep before gloamin'," Andrew remarked. "Besides, the water looks none too friendly to our little boat."
Richard nodded, continuing his song with even more enthusiasm.
I ride single in my saddle,
For the Flowers o' the Forrest are a'wede awa'.
"Ye'd be likely to have yer own saddle to ride in, ye fool," Andrew chuckled, dropping one oar for a moment while he drew his hand across his brow. "But we do have the goat Sir John gave ye. Mayhap ye could saddle her and ride her to town." The image of his brother on the decrepit animal's back amused him. "Aye," he chortled, "the goat."
Richard tried to frown but failed miserably. "For shame, Andrew. Yonder is a sad song, ye ken. About the men killed at Flodden. Ye're to grieve when I sing it, not laugh. For shame."
"And do ye say so?" Andrew replied, shaking the raindrops out of his unruly crop of red hair. As he spoke the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the rain began to fall in earnest. "The Kelpies'll be out tonight, ye can bet," he observed in a whisper. Pulling a blanket from under the seat, he draped it over his already soaking hair.
"Now, laddie." Richard let the oars lie idle while he squinted through the downpour. "Yon rock is lookin' mighty odd. 'Tis like there's somethin' that doesn't belong there."
Andrew shook his head. "'Tis the water crept into yer noggin, man. Likely the Kelpies mean to lure us there and eat us for supper."
Richard chuckled uneasily. "I don't like it," he insisted. "Look for yerself."
Swiveling on his seat, Andrew cupped his hand over his eyes. "I believe ye're right for once," he agreed. "'Tis mighty odd. Looks like a person, ye ken?"
"Aye, just as I thought. And we'd best go see what he's doin' out there with the water risin' all around."
"Now, Richard, my boy, 'tis no' our concern. Ye know Jennie'll be waitin' our supper."
"Andrew Campbell, 'tis no natural, I tell ye. Somethin's amiss, and if we leave it, 'twill gnaw at me the night through." As he spoke, he turned the boat toward the long narrow rock that rose from the sea between the island of Mull and the shore. The tide was rising of its own and the storm had churned the water about so the rock was nearly buried. The closer the boat came, the more uneasy Richard felt.
Andrew rowed in silence, his face creased in a frown of discontent.
"By God!" Richard half rose from his seat. "'Tis a woman!"
Andrew followed his brother's gaze. As the boat drew near the dark outcropping, the brothers turned to gape at each other in disbelief. "She's chained!" Andrew blurted, his voice disappearing into the roar of the angry sea. "Chained to a rock in the middle of the channel. Holy Mother of God!"
For a moment, neither moved; then Richard began to feel under his bench until his hand closed on a heavy piece of iron. "We'll have to get her down, ye ken. We can't leave her like that."
Andrew nodded in reluctant agreement.
"If ye can hold the boat steady, I'll swing over and break the chains. Throw the rope on yonder smaller boulder. That'll keep her still enough."
While Andrew fumbled with the rope, Richard slipped into the icy water.
"Likely we'll both die of the ague," Andrew muttered.
His brother swam to the edge of the flat, jagged rock and gripped it in rigid fingers. As he stopped to catch his breath, he could feel the rusted chain beneath his hand. "'Tis old," he mumbled, "but still, it won't be easy to break." Hoisting himself out of the water, he climbed up beside the woman, who looked beyond him, her expression blank. Her hair straggled across her face and down her back. The water slid from it in sheets. Richard tried to smile reassuringly, but was too horrified to do more than grimace.
He saw that the chains circled her waist several times, then trailed down the rock. Meticulously, he followed the uneven pattern of the chain across the stone until he found the far end wrapped around a jutting piece of boulder near the waterline. It did not occur to him to speak to her; he only knew he had to work to do. Without a word, he beg
an to strike a heavily rusted link with his iron tool.
Andrew's grumbling voice came to him from the water. "Can't ye hurry, man? Would ye have us all drown while ye tinker the day awa'?"
Richard grunted in reply. He could feel the link beginning to give way and struck harder. Finally he grinned in triumph. "'Tis done," he called down to his brother.
The woman did not move while he unwound the chain from her waist. When he pulled her free, she collapsed against him, as if the rusted links had been her only support.
"There," he muttered in embarrassment. "There now. Ye'll be safe enough with us, ye will."
The woman did not respond. She followed his directions numbly, crawling along the boulder and dropping into the water alongside the boat. Richard slid down beside her, guiding her to a firm handhold on the rocking boat. "Ye'll have to help me, Andrew. We'd no' want the whole thing to tip, and she doesn't seem able to balance herself. Feverish, I think, and no wonder." He glanced back at the rock and shuddered. "What kind of person would do such to another?"
"Save it, Brother. We've business to attend to."
"Aye, just as ye say."
Andrew pulled from above while his brother pushed from below until the woman lay safely beside the fish in the bottom of the boat. Richard followed her quickly, glad to be out of the icy sea.
"Shall I give her the blanket?" Andrew asked as his brother took up the oars again. "'Twill no' do her much good; the rain's soaked it through already." Nevertheless, he draped the heavy wool over her huddled form. She did not seem aware that he had done so. He would have thought she was dead if he had not seen the occasional rise and fall of her breathing. "By all the saints!" he exclaimed. "Do ye know who this be?" He shook his head distractedly. "We've gotten ourselves into a bundle of trouble this time."
Richard pulled on the oars, waiting for Andrew to calm down enough to impart his news. "Well," he said at last, "who?"
The younger man leaned forward, lowering his voice as if someone might hear. "Elizabeth Campbell Maclean, that's who."
Richard's mouth dropped open. The woman was so bedraggled that he had not recognized her. Or perhaps he had not wanted to. "Holy Mother of God!" He crossed himself, risking the loss of an oar in the turbulent water. He glanced back toward Mull, where Duart Castle was visible through wind and rain and thundering waves.
Richard shuddered. Maclean could quite easily be watching as the sea rose like a living breathing monster to consume his wife. Richard imagined he could feel the Laird of the Clan Maclean's cold gaze upon him now. The chill settled deeper into his bones as the full horror struck him. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and low. "'Tis naught but a lot of sorrow will come of this day's work, and no mistake."
The sea echoed his grim despair as it battered the walls of stone that protected Duart Castle.
Chapter 30
As the door to the Great Hall swung open, everyone turned to stare expectantly at the man who stood on the threshold. "There be a storm brewin' and it looks to be a mighty one." Adam Campbell paused when he became aware of the number of people watching him. Seeking out John where he sat near the hearth, the man added, "I thought ye should know, m'lord. 'Tis only the storm I came to warn ye about."
John ran his fingers over the strings of his harp. "Thank ye," he said. Though his tone was impassive, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth betrayed his unease.
Adam half bowed, then left the hall, swinging the door closed behind him. The men scattered through the drafty room turned away in disappointment. Their dinner had long been cleared away, but they showed no signs of leaving their seats. Now and again, one or the other glanced at Muriella, who sat with her back to the stone fireplace, then, afraid to meet her gaze, quickly looked away. They were waiting, as was John, for news of Elizabeth.
Three hours before, they had been laughing and recounting their successes against the defeated rebels, when John had come down the stairs with his wife, shouting that the men were to form groups to go in search of Elizabeth.
"Sim," he had cried, "take ten men and cross to Duart. David, ye—"
Muriella had taken his arm and he had fallen silent.
"They won't find her at Duart," she murmured. "They must look in the water."
John heard the men gasp, but it had sounded far away. He considered his wife's face for a long time before asking, "Are ye certain?"
"Aye," she said.
Sim and the others had not gone to Duart. Those who stayed behind were very conscious of Muriella's presence. They had guessed that the sudden search for Elizabeth had come about because of one of the mistress's visions, but that was something they did not wish to think about.
John and Duncan had played their harps off and on while the hours crawled by. More than once, John found himself wondering why he had chosen to stay at the keep instead of joining the men for the search. The inaction, the minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, were wearing his nerves away. But still he had not gone after the others; he did not want to leave Muriella.
To keep himself occupied, he had taken up his harp and begun to play along with his squire. At first the two had attempted cheerful songs, but soon their music began to reflect the lowering sky beyond the windows.
Muriella sat across the hearth, watching her husband as he strummed the mournful notes. When he and Duncan began to sing together, her thoughts turned back to where they had hovered for the past three hours—in the sea.
Round the old crags of Arthur's Hill,
The tearful mists are slowly creeping
As dawns the morn, so sadly still,
Dunedin's, Scotland's day of weeping.
Her mind painted pictures of Elizabeth being tossed about in the waves, her hair streaming over the gray green water, her body wrapped in chains. Once John had held Muriella by the shoulders, asking, "Will she die?" His wife had answered, "I don't know."
Far murmurs from the city rise,
Of wild distraction, mingled cries
Of wailing and of fear.
Outside the storm was rising; she could hear the rain falling in the courtyard, pounding on the cobblestones. The wind raced above the castle, screaming across to the sea.
Frequent and fast the war-bell tolls,
And up the misty mountain rolls
Its burthen on the ear,
O'er ferny hollow, loch and lea
Replying to the moaning sea.
The water was roiling, crashing against the cliff at the foot of the keep where the seabirds cried their warning. From the heart of Duart, Muriella sensed a bewildered grief that betrayed itself through strangled moans, but that was not Elizabeth. The song ended and Muriella forced her thoughts back to the reality of cold stone all around. She leaned forward to find John watching her. As they stared at each other, afraid to speak, they heard noises in the courtyard.
Dropping his harp, John leapt from his place to move toward the entryway. Muriella was not far behind. As the door opened for the second time, Richard and Andrew came into the hall with a long, gray burden in their arms. Both were sodden to the skin. When Richard saw John, he said, "We heard ye're lookin' for yer sister, m'lord. Andrew and me, we found her."
John and Muriella stared at the bundle the men carried. Elizabeth was wrapped in a blanket so only her hair was visible; it fell, dripping, from one end. John focused on Richard's sallow face, framed by dark red hair. "Is she dead?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"Och no!" His hair clinging like seaweed to his freckled face, Andrew answered before his brother could speak. "At least, no' yet. But she's gey ill, or so Richard tells me."
His older brother nodded. "'Twas a terrible thing the two of us saw. Thought we were daft or bewitched. But no, there she was for all the world to see, chained to a rock in the channel."
"What!" The single word seemed to fill the hall before John clenched his jaw shut.
When she saw how her husband's cheeks flushed red, how dangerously his eyes glittered, Muriella forced he
rself into action. She moved forward, turning back the blanket so she could see Elizabeth's face. Pressing her cheek against her sister-in-law's forehead, she drew a deep breath of concern. She turned to call for servants and found Megan and Mary at her elbow. Glancing at John, she told him, "She's feverish. We'd best put her to bed."
"Aye," her husband agreed. "Take her!"
Megan and Mary lifted Elizabeth's unconscious form from the two men. With Muriella following, the three women began to move across the hall to the stairs.
As they went, Richard declared behind them, "The water was risin', ye ken. If we'd been a bit later—"
* * *
For the next several hours, Muriella was busy sponging the salt and seaweed from Elizabeth's body, placing cool cloths on her forehead, and attempting to pour warm wine down her throat. She had long ago despaired of getting rid of the smell of fish that clung to Elizabeth's hair. Muriella had dismissed Mary as soon as her sister-in-law lay shivering on the bed. Now Megan worked beside her, alternately building up the fire and bending over the table to mix herbs together and stir them into the wine. Despite all their efforts, Elizabeth remained unconscious and unmoving.
"She's very ill, m'lady," Megan whispered, as if already in the presence of the dead.
Muriella nodded absently. "Aye, help me with the poultice, can ye?"
Megan lifted the reeking cloth from the bowl while Muriella opened Elizabeth's night rail and held it aside. When the poultice was in place, she stood staring at her sister-in-law's face. A moment ago it had been deep red and the sweat had stood along her forehead, dripping down into her hair, but now the skin was chalk white and clammy cool.
"M'lady, ye'd best sit down for a bit. There's nothing more ye can do just now."
Her mistress pulled a chair near the bed and sank into it, but did not remove her gaze from Elizabeth's face. The woman's mouth was open; Muriella could hear her breath as it struggled up from her throat and over her parched lips. Sometimes Elizabeth would gasp and choke, but then her breathing would settle again. Muriella was painfully aware of the increasing sound of congestion in her sister-in-law's chest. As she listened in dread, the smell of Megan's herbs began to make her head ache. When the servant placed a glass of wine in her hand, Muriella drank it wordlessly.
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 29