Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Maclean did not move; there was nowhere he could go. When John raised his sword, the blade flashed in the splintered candlelight.

  "No!" Elizabeth screamed.

  John paused with his weapon above Maclean's shoulder, glancing back at his sister, who stood leaning heavily on the edge of the table.

  "Please!"

  Muriella turned to her sister-in-law, but Elizabeth avoided her, dodging past the corner of the table. When she came up beside John, she grasped his arm, digging her nails into his skin. "Johnnie, I beg ye, if ye've ever loved me, let him go!"

  "Ye aren't going to tell me again that 'twas no' his fault, are ye?" John spoke quietly, fiercely. "Do ye realize what he's done to ye?"

  "Aye," she answered with difficulty. "I know." She did not turn to her husband.

  "And still ye would have me set him free?" John's face darkened with fury as a new thought struck him. "Ye won't go back to him, Elizabeth, do ye hear?"

  "I know," she whispered. "I know. But I would have ye let him live."

  God in heaven, how could she ask this of him? The men would be appalled by such an act of weakness; they would snicker behind his back that Maclean had won after all. But as John looked down into his sister's eyes, he found that he could not deny her. Before he could stop to think, he tossed his sword onto the table and commanded, "Let him go!"

  The men did not move at once and John eyed them with impatience. "Put yer weapons away. I said Maclean will go free."

  As they sheathed their swords, the men stared at Maclean, who had not moved since Elizabeth first spoke. His hand still clutched the dagger at his waist; he had reached for it instinctively when John drew his weapon. Now Maclean stood frozen, considering his wife's face as if it belonged to a stranger. When she did not meet his gaze, he took a step toward her.

  "Go!" John shouted. "Get out before I change my mind and spit ye like a squealing sow!"

  Maclean fumbled with the latch on the door, then hurried from the room.

  When he had gone, Elizabeth looked up at her brother, still clinging tightly to his arm. "Thank ye, Johnnie," she said.

  John found he could not speak. He shook her hands away and strode out the door.

  When Maclean came to the head of the stairs, he paused. Below him, the Campbells stood gaping as if he were an apparition. He knew they had expected a bloody corpse; their anger at finding him alive was evident on their faces.

  Some of them had drawn their daggers from within their draped plaids. Perhaps he would not make it out of Kilchurn Castle after all.

  There was a gasp as all the men released their breaths at once. Maclean looked over his shoulder to find John standing behind him.

  "Put the daggers away," John called, his order carrying clearly through the hall. "Maclean goes free." He was not surprised at the expressions of disgust on the faces below him. He felt the same. Every muscle and nerve in his body was poised, ready to strike this man dead at his feet. But Elizabeth had chosen otherwise and he had given his word. He wondered if she would ever know how much that decision had cost him. Schooling his features into a mask of indifference, he preceded Maclean down the staircase.

  * * *

  Elizabeth stayed where John had left her, staring at the place where her husband had been a moment before. As the others filed from the room, she did not look at their faces. She knew what she would find there—shock, repulsion and pity. She had seen those things in John's eyes, too. The thought brought the pain up from her stomach and into her throat. Fleetingly, she wondered why she had agreed to the ruse at all.

  When, against all expectation, she had recovered from her illness, she had been aghast at the magnitude of her husband's betrayal. At first she had been silent, caught up in her own private cycle of horror, recounting to herself over and over the list of Lachlan's transgressions. Then she had begun to laugh, too loudly, remembering the night when he had come to her and wept. She had forgiven him his sin beforehand, she thought. Forgiven him without knowing. In the end, she had screamed at the walls, pacing the floor like a caged animal. But she had not wept.

  Then John had come to read her Colin's letter in which the Earl had planned for Maclean's ignominious death. Elizabeth had chosen to cooperate; after all, her husband had long ago forsaken his right to her loyalty. She had really believed she could make it through to the end when he lay dead at her feet. She believed it until the moment she saw him standing at the foot of the table, facing the Campbells alone. Then it had been too much for her and she had broken her resolve, destroyed John's faith in her, and insured her own inevitable misery. All so that Lachlan Maclean could go free.

  From far away she heard the wail of the gate as it wrenched upward. Suddenly, she began to run. Unaware of her surroundings, she fled through the halls toward the door of the eastern tower. The latch was stiff, and she hit it with her knuckles again and again until her hand was covered with blood. When at last the rusted latch came loose, she pulled the door open and started up the stairs. She was heading for the window near the top of the tower. Once there, she paused, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest.

  As she tried to catch her breath, she examined the sweep of ground below the castle. It was empty. She was afraid he was already gone. Then he came into view; even from where she stood, she could see his head was not bowed. No one would ever guess he was fleeing for his life. She leaned down, gripping the windowsill, knowing she would not see him again. The last of the sunlight struck his red hair, setting it ablaze. As her husband moved into the shadows at the edge of the forest, Elizabeth knelt in the darkness with her head pressed against the unfriendly stone.

  * * *

  Muriella found her sister-in-law standing at the highest window in the eastern tower, staring in silence. The young woman approached quietly, placing her hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Elizabeth."

  "Leave me be."

  The chill of her sister-in-law’s skin shocked Muriella. "Ye must come away. Ye'll be ill again if ye don't get warm."

  "No." Elizabeth continued to stare out the window. "I won't come away, for I mislike the stairs. Mayhap I'll find another way down."

  "Elizabeth—" Muriella could not think clearly. She had spent the last hour sitting in her room, struggling against the compassion and dread, pity and repulsion that warred within her. Even Megan had been shocked into silence. Yet whatever her feelings, Muriella had known she must find Elizabeth; she was certain her sister-in-law was in need of company. But she had not expected this wooden expression, this pair of gray and lifeless eyes.

  Under her breath, she cursed John for listening to Colin. She had known how hard it would be for Elizabeth to sit and watch her husband die, had told John the Earl's plan was cruel beyond words. But he had not listened; his hatred for his enemy had been stronger than his compassion for his sister, at least until the end.

  Muriella shivered at the thought. She had wanted to stay away from that candlelit room today, but had guessed Elizabeth would need her. For her sister-in-law's sake, she had waited with the others for Maclean to arrive. Muriella tried to remember what Elizabeth had said a moment ago. Finding another way down—that was it. She grasped the ledge with cold fingers, turning to look at the ground far beneath her. "Don't talk that way!" she protested.

  Elizabeth smiled. "I meant it, little one." Leaning down, she whispered, "There are worse things than death, ye ken. Much worse."

  Muriella went rigid. "Don't," she repeated in a strangled voice. "Please come away."

  "No, not this time. Ye should have let me die, ye know. 'Twould have been best."

  "Surely ye don't believe we would want ye to do this?" Muriella gasped.

  "Wouldn't ye? Then tell me, can ye comfort me?"

  The younger woman was silent.

  "Can ye tell me ye don't pity me? That John and Duncan and the others won't turn away when I see them?"

  "Elizabeth—"

  "Tell me if ye can!"

  Muriella wanted desperately to look away from
Elizabeth's steady gaze. Drawing her breath in slowly, she said, "I can't."

  With a sigh, Elizabeth turned back to the window. "I thought ye would lie to me. Thank ye for telling the truth."

  "Ye don't understand. No matter what we feel, it doesn't mean we don't love ye. It doesn't mean—"

  "It does. It means everything. I would rather ye hate me. Ye came here to console me for my loss, didn't ye? Do ye really believe ye can save me with yer pity? 'Come away, Elizabeth, and I'll weep for ye. And when ye're gone, I'll shake my head and wonder how ye could have been so weak and foolish.'"

  "Didn't ye pity Maclean because he was one man against many? Isn't that why ye pled for him? Do ye think he cares why? 'Tis done; that's what matters."

  Elizabeth did not answer for a long time. When she spoke at last, some of the ice had melted from her voice. "Ye're right," she said. "I pitied him. I thought I wouldn't ever pity a man again, least of all my husband. But ye're wrong if ye think he doesn't care. I believe he would've wanted me to let him die. 'Tis what he's wanted from the first day I met him, but I didn't know it. Not until today. When I saw him standing there with the swords drawn all around him, I knew as if he had screamed it to me that he was grateful because I was going to end his guilt. I decided then and there that he would live. I know he'll remember, and his memories will gnaw at his insides until he goes mad. He never loved me, ye see, but he hurt me, and he won't be able to bear that."

  Muriella frowned. "If 'twas for that reason—"

  "Twasn't." Elizabeth sighed. "Ye know that as well as I do." Her hands closed on the ledge until the stone dug into her palms. "I did it because he trusts me, because he's the only person who ever needed me. My father—" She broke off abruptly as she took in the shadowed landscape below. She thought she could feel Muriella shivering.

  "It frightens ye, doesn't it? My feelings for Lachlan make ye ill with fear. I'm wondering if ye're afraid for me or for yerself?"

  "Elizabeth, please."

  "Tell me, is it John?"

  Muriella did not answer.

  "Tell me!" Elizabeth began to laugh in the darkness. "Tell me and mayhap I can pity ye!"

  Her laughter echoed in the tiny room until it seemed the stones would crumble.

  "Tell m—"

  Muriella looked up to see John cross the chamber in two long strides. Without a word, he took Elizabeth in his arms, cradling her head on his shoulder, muffling her laughter in his plaid. The laughter dissolved at last into silence, then to tortured weeping. Elizabeth flung her arms about her brother's neck and sobbed without restraint.

  Chapter 33

  John rested his head in his hands. Through his fingers he could see the patterns the torchlight cast among the fresh rushes. He watched them in fascination, willing his troubled thoughts into silence.

  "Ye needn't stay with me, Johnnie."

  He looked up, startled, at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. She had not spoken since he'd brought her to her chamber and settled her on the bed. He had been relieved. He did not want to hear again the unearthly sound of her laughter. "I don't think ye should be alone," he said.

  Elizabeth smiled grimly. "'Tis over now, and I've been alone before, ye ken."

  John shook his head. "I'll stay."

  His sister shrugged in indifference. "As ye wish." After a moment, she propped herself up on her elbow, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "Tell me why ye let him go," she said.

  John blinked at her in astonishment. "Because ye asked me to."

  "I don't think so. Ye didn't really care what I wanted. Ye sought to make my husband pay for his mistakes and ye used me to do it." Her brother started to protest, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "'Tis cruel, aye, but true. Ye needn't bother to deny it."

  John shifted on his stool, remembering that Muriella had said the same when she read Colin's letter outlining the Earl's plans for Maclean. "How can ye even consider such a thing?" his wife had demanded. "How can ye treat yer sister so cruelly when she has no strength to fight ye?" She had paused, her eyes bright with anger. "Or mayhap 'tis what ye're counting on. Mayhap ye wish to punish her for her weakness. If so, ye couldn't have chosen a better way to do it."

  "Be silent!" John had told her, furious that she should challenge his decision. It was not until he stood with his sword above Maclean's head that he realized Muriella was right. He was punishing Elizabeth by forcing her to be part of this. Punishing her for loving a man she should have hated above all others.

  "Mayhap we should have found another way," he told his sister now.

  "It doesn't matter," Elizabeth said. She leaned toward him, smiling strangely. "But 'tis odd, don't ye think, that now we're both left with nothing? I don’t have my husband or my pride, and ye don't have yer revenge. 'Tis a fitting trade, don't ye think, for the life of a man like Lachlan Maclean?"

  Chilled by the careless tone of her voice, John rose, kicking his stool away. "Ye don't know what ye're saying."

  "I do," Elizabeth said. "But since ye don't wish to believe it, why don't ye just go? Ye can't keep yer nightly vigil here."

  John stared at her. How could she know that he had slept little the past three nights while he waited for Maclean to come? Had she guessed about the thoughts of Muriella that would not let him rest? Elizabeth's expression told him nothing. She closed her eyes in weariness and sank back among the furs with a sigh.

  "Please, Johnnie, go. I don't want to fight with ye. I only want a little peace. Please."

  "Shall I send Muriella to ye?" He should have thought of it before; he had watched the two women grow closer with each day that passed. Muriella's kindness had never faltered.

  Not once had she been too busy to answer when Elizabeth called.

  "No, she's weary. Let her rest." For the first time, Elizabeth smiled warmly, with affection.

  John shook his head. Somehow, in the past weeks, Elizabeth had become more like Muriella's sister than his own. His wife was much more than companion and friend; she and Elizabeth shared a kinship, a fragile and invisible bond.

  "She'll come if ye want her." It was true, John realized. The Muriella he knew as unapproachable, volatile, moody and changeable, had revealed—for Elizabeth—a well of infinite patience and unfailing tenderness. She gave her sister-in-law a dedication John could not, because, always, his anger and disgust held him apart.

  "I know," Elizabeth murmured. "'Tis why I don't need her now—I know how quickly she would come if I called."

  John did not answer. There was nothing he could say, though he ached at the sound of his sister's pain, which he could neither soothe nor forgive. Silently, he left Elizabeth to the warm, if lifeless, company of the firelight.

  * * *

  John stood in the library with his hands pressed against the stone. The Buik of Alexander the Grate lay open on a brocaded chair, but he had read no more than two sentences before giving it up. Tonight the firelight called him as it had so often of late, conjuring images of Muriella, her face pale and drawn with weariness, her back to him as she spoke to Megan or Mary or Jenny, yet never once let her attention stray from Elizabeth. When, he wondered, had his wife ceased to be a stranger in this keep? When had she made it her home, and the Campbells her family? And why had he never noticed before?

  He paced restlessly before the hearth, his boots making no sound on the soft Persian rug. Muriella's face was always before him—her eyes dark with dread, luminous with pleasure, bright with fierce determination. He was bewildered by her complexity, weakened by her pain, impressed by her courage and stunned by his own wildly changing reactions.

  His stomach rumbled, but the kitchen was too far away, the hallways too cold. He glanced again at the open book, but it was no use. He could not ignore the unfamiliar tenderness he felt for Muriella, the desire to cup her cheek in his open palm. It made him uneasy. This was not a straightforward battle where he could see the enemy and face him squarely. Perhaps it was not a battle at all, and there was no enemy except his own blin
dness.

  He pounded his fist on the mantel in frustration. He could feel his wife's presence, even half a castle away. He could feel her warmth, hear the tiny, insistent voice that called him, drew him toward her while it warned him away.

  In the far shadows of the room, Elizabeth's voice echoed coldly: Ye can't keep yer vigil here.

  Without a backward glance, he abandoned the fire, stepping into the dark hallway. He found his way easily enough, although there were no torches to light the path. For the third night in succession, he passed the door to his chamber and many others after it until he came to Muriella's. For the third time, he put his hand on the latch, then paused, undecided. Above all he wanted to look at her, to see her sleeping with her hair spread on the pillow. But for the third time, he left the door unopened and leaned instead against the wall, waiting for something he could not even begin to understand.

  * * *

  Megan stood beside the shuttered window, looking over her shoulder now and then to see if Muriella still slept peacefully. In the firelight her mistress's face seemed calm enough, but it would not last. Megan was sure of that. The dreams had come every night since Elizabeth had been brought to Kilchurn. Every night Muriella woke up shrieking Maclean's name in terror.

  Megan pulled her robe closer about her shoulders but did not move nearer the fire. Just now she preferred the chilly air by the window to the heat of the flames. She tried to concentrate on pleasant images that might lull her to sleep, but saw only phantoms that hovered just beyond her reach. She frowned. It was not like her to be disturbed by indefinable fears. But, she admitted to herself, there was something besides her mistress's nightmares that was making her uneasy.

  A movement from the bed shattered her reverie.

  * * *

  Muriella was dreaming of a valley, its hills scattered with wild roses and morning glories. She ran across a wide meadow, seeking the burn that rippled by somewhere out of sight. She could hear the pounding footsteps in the distance and knew that Hugh was conning, that soon he would catch her, laughing, tangling his hands in her long auburn hair. When she found the burn, it was already swelling into a river. She paused on the bank, wondering if she dared try to cross by the boulders protruding from the water, making a bridge to the other side. While she stood, undecided, a hand touched her shoulder.