Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Just as she finished the warm drink, Elizabeth moved for the first time. She twisted on the bed, dislodging the poultice and flinging aside the cloth from her forehead.

  Muriella sprang to her feet. Taking Elizabeth's hand in hers, she leaned forward, listening. Her sister-in-law moaned, running her other hand over her body at the waist. Muriella caught Megan's eye and winced. Both women had seen the bruises and abrasions made by the chains. The servant grasped Elizabeth's hand and held it tightly.

  For a long time, she rolled about, attempting to free her hands and moaning, but did not open her eyes. Then she sat up, crying, "Lachlan!"

  Muriella and Megan pushed her gently back until she lay among the pillows. This time they did not look at each other. Both knew it must have been her husband who had chained Elizabeth to the rock, yet she was calling for him.

  "Shall I bring Sir John?" Megan asked.

  "No!" Muriella said. Then, "Aye, bring him."

  When Megan had gone, Muriella poured some of the medicated wine into a goblet and held it out to Elizabeth, who lay staring up at the canopy overhead. "Elizabeth, ye must drink this."

  "Lachlan," Elizabeth moaned. "Where's Lachlan? I want him." She began to claw at the bruises through her night rail, twisting herself in the linen sheets.

  Catching Elizabeth's shoulder, Muriella held her until she was still again. Then she reached for the wine, holding the goblet close to her sister-in-law's lips. Elizabeth gaped at her blankly and Muriella realized that in her delirium, the woman did not know her. "Drink," she urged.

  Mechanically, Elizabeth raised her head to swallow some of the wine. Then she knocked the goblet from Muriella's hand. The liquid spread over the sheets, staining them red. Elizabeth began to cough and sob simultaneously while the breath rasped in her throat and sobs wracked her body, causing her to double up. And all the time she wailed her husband's name.

  Muriella did not hear John come up behind her, but all at once he reached out, clasping Elizabeth's legs. While Muriella held his sister's shoulders, John straightened her legs, then pulled the heavy furs back over her. Megan brought more wine, and although Elizabeth turned her head away again and again, the servant finally managed to get her to drink.

  When the wine was gone, John nodded once to Megan and she slipped away. Elizabeth was coughing again, gasping incoherent phrases. But at last the coughing fit passed and she fell silent.

  When John looked down at his sister, he felt a tightening in his chest. Her hair was matted; it straggled across the pillow in disorder, except where a strand or two clung to her cheek. Her eyes were yellow, then gray, then the color seemed to fade altogether. The skin was stretched over her bones so it appeared transparent but for the furious red that came and went in her cheeks. Her breathing was slow and labored and the color had been bleached from her lips. She's dying, he thought. When he looked up, Muriella was watching him, her own eyes gray in the firelight. "Has she told ye aught?" he asked.

  His wife shook her head.

  "We have to know. I'll have to ask her."

  Muriella nodded reluctantly, placing her hand on Elizabeth's forehead in a protective gesture.

  Taking both his sister's hands, John murmured, "Elizabeth, ye must tell me who did this to ye."

  Elizabeth turned her head from side to side. John was not certain she had understood him. "Elizabeth," he repeated slowly, "who?"

  "He didn't know. He couldn't have known!" his sister cried. "No, 'twas the other two."

  "What two?"

  "Strangers!" Elizabeth gasped. "Never knew them. Never!"

  "No? Are ye certain of that? Ye'd never seen them at Duart?" John persisted.

  "At Duart," Elizabeth said as if the idea were new to her. "Aye, at Duart, every day."

  John leaned down until he could feel his sister's breath on his face. "Then they were yer husband's servants, weren't they?"

  Elizabeth looked away. "Aye, they were, but Lachlan didn't know their plans. I swear it."

  John shook his head. "Do ye think," he said, "do ye really believe two servants would do such a thing without their master's consent?"

  Elizabeth was weeping. "I love him," she cried. "He wouldn't—I love him!" Her voice faded as she began to writhe again.

  John stared, too appalled to speak, afraid he might choke on the revulsion that had lodged in his throat. His hands opened and closed convulsively about Elizabeth's neck. For an instant, he wanted to crush her voice with the weight of his fists so he need never again hear her anguished cry—I love him!

  Muriella saw John clench and unclench his hands. Too frightened to think clearly, she leapt in front of him so her body shielded Elizabeth from his gaze. "No!" she cried, pounding her fists against his chest. "Leave her be!"

  Gradually, John became aware of the pain in his chest, of the weight of his wife's body pressed against his. As Muriella's face came into focus, the blood ceased its fierce pounding in his head and the tension began to drain out of him. He could not look at Elizabeth's face, gray and bloodless on the pale linen sheets; he could not bear to. Grasping Muriella's flailing fists in his hands, he tried to move her aside, but she would not go.

  "I told ye to leave her be!"

  "Listen to me," John said. "I won't hurt her. My sister is safe now," he added, "from all of us." Then, releasing his wife, he turned to leave the room.

  All at once, Muriella was too weak to stand. She sighed raggedly as she sank onto the bed next to her sister-in-law. Reaching out to touch the other woman's cheek, she saw how her fingers shook and drew them back within the folds of her gown. Elizabeth's eyes were once again dark with fever. Perhaps, in her delirium, she had not seen the way her brother's hands hovered threateningly above her. Perhaps she had not seen the violence in his eyes. Muriella could only pray it was so.

  When her body stopped shaking at last, she rose, found the cloth Elizabeth had tossed aside, and dipped it in a basin of cool water. Gently, she pressed the cloth to her sister-in-law's forehead, then her flushed cheeks and throat. Muriella knew Elizabeth was not aware of her ministrations, but she had to do something. She had to try to keep her sister-in-law alive, though she feared it was already too late.

  She forgot about the passage of time or the chill of the room or the aches in her own limbs as she sponged Elizabeth's body again and again. Muriella moved from the basin to the bed and back again, stopping only to replace the poultice, straighten the crumpled sheets, or give Elizabeth a sip of wine. She heard someone enter the room behind her, but assumed it was Megan and did not look up from her self-imposed task.

  "Muriella."

  She stiffened at the sound of John's voice.

  "Ye look too weary to stand anymore. Ye'd best sit down for a bit."

  "Not till the fever breaks," she told him, glancing over her shoulder at her husband where he leaned against the wall. He looked weary too, as if he needed the support of the stone to hold him upright, but she could not think about that now. She had just rinsed the cloth in her hand, but already it had grown warm from the heat that raged through Elizabeth's body. With a sigh, she dipped it in the water and began her task all over again.

  John watched his wife work tirelessly until exhaustion drained the color from her face. He wanted to help, but sensed she would not let him near. He wondered, as he watched her push the damp hair back from Elizabeth's eyes, if she was not wise. Yet something held him there—watching, waiting, helpless in the face of his sister's pain.

  He contemplated his wife's competent, gentle hands as she pressed cool cloths to Elizabeth's forehead. She worked intently, giving her kindness and the last of her own dwindling strength.

  Muriella moved more and more slowly, dragging her feet through the scattered rushes. Her breathing became labored and she began to think that to lift her arms once more would be an agony too great to bear. When she stumbled, John was beside her in an instant, supporting her sagging shoulders with the strength of his arm. "Ye must stop. There are servants to do this. Beside
s, she doesn't even know ye're here."

  With an effort, his wife straightened. "She knows," Muriella told him softly, "but even if she didn't, I'd stay. If I can't save her, then I can't, but I don't mean to let her die, even if 'tis what ye wish."

  Appalled, John turned her to face him. "Ye can't believe that."

  "Are ye forgetting so soon? I saw how ye looked at her. I know—"

  "'Twas only a momentary madness," he said grimly. "She's a Campbell, and my sister; I don't wish her ill."

  Muriella heard the pain in his voice and knew he spoke the truth. "Please," she said wearily, "I must see to her." When she tried to move away, her knees buckled and she started to fall.

  John caught her in his arms and carried her to the low chest against the wall. Seating himself with his back to the cold stone, he settled his wife in his lap. "When ye've rested," he said. "'Twill no' help Elizabeth if ye make yerself ill too."

  "Ye don't understand," she whispered. "'Tis all my fault."

  John stared at her, bewildered. "How—" Then he remembered. Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye! With his hand under her chin he forced her to meet his eyes. "No, Muriella. Even ye don't have that kind of power."

  How could he be so certain, Muriella thought, when he had never felt the force of the Sight that destroyed in an instant her strength and her will? Yet she wanted to believe him, wanted to abandon her fears, her remorse, and give herself to the slow, rhythmic beating of his heart. When she rubbed her arms to start the blood flowing through her limbs again, John drew her closer, running his hands over her body, hoping his warmth would chase away the chill from her skin. For a long time he was silent while she sat tensely, staring into the fire across the room.

  The smell of herbs and wine hung heavy in the air. Muriella breathed the fumes and felt them running through her blood. She could not seem to move; the rise and fall of her husband's breath was so soothing. At last she succumbed to her exhaustion and rested her head on John's shoulder. His circling touch warmed her, frightened her, disturbed her, but she was tired. Too tired to break away.

  Drawn by a need she could not explain, she looked up at John's face. Its harsh lines had been softened by his own weariness and the firelight that dimmed the bright blue of his eyes. She reached up to touch the springy, dark curls of his beard, and he smiled. Muriella trailed her fingers down his throat to his shoulder, rested her palm above the hypnotic pulse of his heart. Could this man with the comforting hands be the same one who had stood above his sister with murder in his eyes? Before she had a chance to grasp the thought, it swirled away, absorbed by the mist that clouded her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she let the mist enfold her until she drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  Lachlan Maclean spread the parchment on the table, pressing out the creases with careful fingers. Pulling the lamp closer, he stared at the letters until they ceased roving across the page and fell into words and sentences. "31 January, 1514," he read aloud for the third time. With a great deal of resolution, he forced himself to read further.

  Lachlan Maclean

  Laird of the Clan Maclean

  My Lord,

  Yer wife Elizabeth died yesterday, early in the morning. She was delirious with fever for three days before her passing. Her body lies in state at Kilchurn, where she will be buried in one week's time.

  Sir John Campbell of Lorne,

  Thane of Cawdor

  Maclean rose stiffly, found the steps carved from stone and made his way to the battlements of Duart, the letter clutched in his hand. The wind rose howling and shook him to the bone, twisting his plaid about his shoulders. He stared blindly downward at the deep blue bay, at the mainland, where the force of the wind tortured thick groves of trees. Beneath him, the walls of the castle seemed to be a mere continuation of the stone beneath. Steep castle walls and jagged cliffs towered in sullen contrast to the peaceful heart of the bay. Far below, the waves thrummed ceaselessly against unforgiving stone. Maclean breathed in the throbbing rhythm.

  Thus had he stood on the day Elizabeth left him, thus had he heard the wind scream and moan and whip the sea into a frenzy. The long narrow boulder had been obscured by the storm, but still he had imagined he could see her face.

  "Elizabeth is dead!" he shouted into the sky. She was gone and he was finally free. The debt he owed his old enemy Argyll had been paid in full. Maclean laughed until the tears ran down his face, until he leaned against the cold gray parapet, his head fell forward, and he wept.

  Chapter 31

  Twelve Campbell men awaited Maclean at the top of Glen Ara, among them, Richard and Andrew. None of the twelve were armed. It was late afternoon and the sun struck through the leaves, glistening where it met the rain-soaked grass. The trees circled the low, flat area where the Campbells stood; the leaves were so thick they formed a solid ceiling overhead. Some of the men had thrown themselves on the ground. They sprawled in the shade, chewing on blades of grass.

  Andrew nudged his brother. "Are ye certain Maclean wanted to claim the body? Seems daft to me. He's walkin' right into our arms. But then, he won't come anyway."

  Andrew had been saying the same thing for three days now. Ignoring him, Richard shifted his blue and green plaid beneath him. Despite its protection, he could feel the dampness seeping through from the ground. "He'll come," he told his younger brother. "Mayhap because he can't help himself."

  "What do ye mean?"

  "Mayhap if the curse is still upon him..." Richard let his voice trail off suggestively.

  This time, Andrew did not laugh at his brother's superstition. He too had heard Sir John's wife curse the Campbells; less than a day later, he and his brother had found Elizabeth chained to the rock. He could not deny what he'd seen with his own eyes. Andrew shivered uncontrollably, though the day was mild and warm.

  Just then, Adam Campbell stepped out of the trees. "Maclean!" he exclaimed.

  The men looked up in astonishment. Pulling his brother to his feet, Richard nodded grimly. "Ye see."

  The Campbells formed two rows of six and stood silent, waiting. When Maclean came from among the trees, they saw immediately that his sword hung at his side and his dagger at his belt. A long look passed among them. He had come armed to the funeral supper. All was not as it should be.

  As Maclean walked down the center of the aisle they had formed, the Campbells began to move behind him. The Laird of the Clan Maclean pulled nervously at his red-and-green plaid, draping it farther over his shoulder. They were unarmed, he thought. It was not like the Campbells. Most likely they had their daggers hidden in the tops of their boots. It wouldn't surprise him if he discovered a knife in his back. The Campbells had always been cowards.

  As they crossed the last hill and the castle came into sight, Maclean wondered once more what insanity had driven him to come here today. For certainly it was insane. He was armed, it was true, but he was one man—one man among a hundred Campbells, and every one of them his enemy. The group paused while the huge iron gate creaked upward. Maclean took a deep breath. He was doing it for Elizabeth, he told himself. He would take her back to Duart and bury her next to Anne.

  As he passed through the courtyard, he noticed there was no one about. The place was silent. Too silent. He stopped when he came to the doors that opened onto the Great Hall. Behind him, he could hear the gate closing, dropping with a final thud against the stones.

  One of the men moved forward to push open the massive oak doors. The hinges made no sound. Maclean blinked as he stepped inside. For a moment he was blinded by the change from bright sunlight to cool shadow, then his vision began to clear and he saw that the Campbells stood all around him, watching his passage in grim silence. He noted that none of them wore swords. Nevertheless, their hatred of him was palpable. It followed him as he climbed the stairs, turning to the right then the left as the man before him instructed.

  "In here, m'lord," Richard said, indicating a door at the end of a hallway. Then he ste
pped back into the shadows.

  Maclean placed his hands on the latch. As his fingers closed around it, he believed his heart was beating so loudly those inside could surely hear it. Except for Elizabeth. She would hear nothing but silence. Blessed silence. He pressed the latch until the door swung open.

  The hallway had been dark compared to the room he now entered. Torches burned along the walls and there were candles placed at intervals down the long table that dominated the room. Maclean did not wish to look directly at the bier. Instead, he glanced down the walls on either side of the table. They were lined with Campbell portraits. Beneath each portrait flickered a small candle. Beneath each candle stood a live Campbell in full-dress uniform. Maclean noted the regular gleam of metal at each man's waist. Each had a sword, each a dagger. Each stared before him, looking neither to right nor left, and each had his hand poised above the hilt of his sword.

  Maclean swallowed noisily, looking at last down the center of the table. To the left stood Muriella, frozen in time, her face a gray mask. To the right stood John with a dangerous brilliance in his eyes. And at the head of the table sat Elizabeth, staring at her husband unblinking across the hundred candles that separated them.

  Chapter 32

  Maclean drew in his breath with infinite care. So, he thought, the Campbells were not so foolish after all. He could hear the whisper of metal on metal as the men unsheathed their swords.

  "Welcome, my lord." John's mocking voice echoed off the walls, covering the sound of the rising blades on both sides of the table. He removed his hand from his sister's shoulder and started the long walk to the other end of the room where Maclean stood waiting. By the time John reached his brother-in-law, he and all the other Campbells held their swords in their hands. "Welcome," John repeated, "and farewell."