Highland Charm: First Fantasies
Page 34
Before Muriella could respond, before she could remove her hands from Elizabeth's cold grasp, the door swung open and both women turned. They stared, frozen with shock, as John came into the room.
When Elizabeth's hands fell away, Muriella leaned forward, gripping the wooden sides of the loom for support. She was stunned by the rush of joy that flared within her at the unexpected sight of her husband. Then she remembered what he had done. Turning toward her sister-in-law, she saw the mask of indifference settle over Elizabeth's features. Muriella found her voice had left her. She could only gaze mutely from sister to brother and back again.
Just when she thought the silence would stretch between them until it shattered, Elizabeth spoke. "Where have ye been? To find my husband?"
John frowned. "Elizabeth—," he began.
"Ye needn't try to soothe me when ye don't even know if I'm hurt, Johnnie. Just tell me, is he dead?"
"Aye," he said softly.
"Where?"
"In Edinburgh."
"Do ye think the Macleans will bury him?"
Approaching with caution, John took his sister's hand.
"Ye needn't concern yerself with that. 'Tis over," he told her.
Elizabeth ignored him. "No, of course they won't. They told ye where to find him, didn't they?"
He wanted to deny it, but could not bring himself to lie. "Elizabeth, let me—"
"And did ye talk to Colin?" she pressed.
Taken aback by the question, he regarded her warily. "Aye."
"What did he say?"
John tried to look beyond his sister's cool exterior to the pain he guessed must lie beneath, but even her eyes told him nothing. "He was angry," he said, choosing his words with care.
"But what of me? I'll wager he has another wedding planned, doesn't he? Our Colin isn't one to miss a chance for a new alliance."
"Elizabeth, I know ye're upset, but—"
"I'm no' upset. Can't ye see how steady I am? Now tell me."
"Well, Colin said he thought—"
"Is there a letter?" she interrupted.
John gaped at her. Had his sister inherited Muriella's Sight? And why was she so stiff and cold when she should be weeping at the news of her husband's death?
"Give it to me," Elizabeth demanded.
For a moment, John hesitated. "Ye needn't look at it now. 'Tis too soon."
Elizabeth smiled at him pityingly. "Don't assuage yer own guilt by keeping me in suspense. I want to know who Colin has chosen for me. Someone rich, I'll wager, with enough men to give the Campbells a little more power." She turned to Muriella. "As if they don't have enough of that already."
John did not know what to say. She made it sound so calculating, so inhuman. He wanted to put the blame on Colin, but then he caught Muriella's gaze. Hadn't his own wife been sold to the Campbells in the same way—for a little power and a great deal of money?
"I want to see it now," Elizabeth repeated succinctly, as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Don't play games with me, Johnnie."
John pulled the crumpled parchment from his doublet, and placed it in his sister's open palm. This was not how he had planned this meeting on the long ride back from Edinburgh.
He watched as Elizabeth read Colin's letter quickly. Then she started to laugh. It was the one reaction he had not expected, and the sound chilled him, despite the warmth of the tiny room. He could not forget that he had heard the same unearthly laughter in the tower that day. "Please," he said, reaching for her hand. "Elizabeth."
"Don't ye find it amusing?" she asked, gasping as she rocked forward and backward. "I'm to marry Archibald Campbell of Auchinbreck." When she realized her brother and Muriella were staring at her blankly, Elizabeth drew a deep breath and explained, "Archibald Campbell—my father's name." She laughed and choked until her face was scarlet and her knuckles on the embroidery frame were white. She laughed until the letter fell from her fingers to the floor where it came to rest at John's feet.
* * *
Muriella sat by the fire in the library with a book of verses open on her lap. Though she tried to concentrate, her attention wandered and instead she found herself staring into the flames, watching the changing patterns of light.
All at once, she raised her head, every nerve in her body tingling with awareness. She knew John had entered the room, though he had not made a sound; she could feel his presence as surely as if his hand were resting on her shoulder.
"Muriella."
As she looked up at him—at his face, burnished bronze from long hours in the sun, and his eyes, touched with gold from the glow of the firelight—she felt the same rush of joy that had come to her when she first saw him that afternoon. She had seen him only briefly since, but she had felt his presence during every endless hour in the day. She smiled at him as he crossed the room to seat himself in the Earl's carved oak chair.
"I wanted to talk to ye," he said, "about Maclean."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"I want ye to know I didn't really have a choice. I had to kill him—for the pride of the Campbells and, though ye may not believe it, for Elizabeth. She wasn't truly free until her husband was dead. Ye can understand that, can't ye?"
In the back of her mind she heard again the two words, For Muriella, and knew he was not telling the whole truth; she sensed he never would. She knew too that she should have been angry he had broken his word to his sister, but all she could feel was relief. As he had said, Elizabeth was finally free of the chains that had bound her to Lachlan Maclean. Muriella looked into the dancing flames and murmured, "I understand."
"Do ye truly?" John leaned closer, considering her sculptured profile—the curve of her mouth, the gleam in her eyes, the stillness that characterized her features. All at once he wanted desperately to hold her. But he had made himself a promise he did not intend to break. For a long moment, he struggled with the urge to pull her into his arms. He was winning the battle against his own desire when she turned to look at him.
"Aye, I think I do," Muriella whispered, lips slightly parted, brows drawn together. Without thinking, she put her hand on his knee.
John's carefully constructed walls crumbled at his feet. In a single movement, he stood and drew her up against him. Her eyes were luminous, mesmerizing, but this time he felt no desire to escape their power. "Muriella," he murmured.
As she looked up, he kissed her. His lips moved gently against hers and she felt a response stirring deep within. He drew her closer while his hands moved slowly over her back. Wherever his fingers touched, her skin began to tingle, as though the fabric of her gown were no barrier at all. When he traced the outline of her mouth with the moist tip of his tongue, she shivered, first with heat, then with cold.
Longing curled through Muriella’s body at John's touch. She trembled when he slid his hand down to her breast and cupped it, stroking the nipple through the cool satin. She moaned and closed her eyes, leaning into the strength of his hand against her back. Hungry, all at once, to feel his skin with her open palm, she pushed aside his saffron shirt to find the dark, curling hair it concealed. Slowly, tenderly, she brushed her hand across his chest, seeking to know with her fingertips the taste and texture of his skin.
He held her closer and her nerves seemed to scream beneath his fingers and his mouth. John kissed the hollow of her throat, trailing his tongue over the pulse that fluttered wildly under his lips. Finally, he tugged at the strings of her gown, loosening them so he could slip his hand inside the satin to touch her bare white skin.
Colors whirled within her, hot and fevered, bright and blinding, setting her heart pounding and her head spinning. She could not control her body; she was certain the force of her passion would tear her apart. Then the vision of the deadly rising water filled her head, and she knew she would never catch her breath again. Stop! she wanted to cry. Stop! She shuddered, unable to bear the torment any longer.
John felt her shiver, and the movement broke at last through
the haze of his desire. Pulling away, he saw her staring with her blind, dark eyes and knew the specter was with them again. He closed his eyes, fighting the impulse that urged him to ignore her fear, to force her to forget the past and remember only the feel of his hands on her skin. But she was quivering, her skin so cold that the chill moved from her body to his. John released her, his breathing harsh and uneven.
Muriella swayed, lost in the rushing, swirling water, and fought her way to the surface where the promise of daylight beckoned. For a long moment, she stood trembling, not daring to open her eyes.
"What in God's name are ye so afraid of?" John demanded.
She heard the sound of his ragged voice, but the words were far away. Farther than she could reach. She opened her eyes to see him standing, fists clenched at his sides in an effort to force his hunger into pain.
Muriella tried to concentrate, to stop her shaking and turn her thoughts away from the memory of the white-foamed water, but it would not leave her.
With a muffled curse, her husband grasped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Every time I touch ye, ye retreat to a place where I can't reach ye, as if the devil himself were holding ye in his arms."
The dead Earl's voice echoed deep in her memory: Ye hold yerself apart from him as if ye were made of ice and stone instead of flesh and blood.
"Why?" John demanded. "What are ye afraid of?"
His eyes, like iced fire, burned away the mist that shrouded her thoughts. She swallowed once, then whispered, "Sometimes I see things."
"What things?" When she remained silent, he shook her until her head snapped back. "Answer me, damn ye'"
"I can't."
John's fingers dug painfully into her skin. "Ye mean ye won't."
Muriella looked up at him, her terror moved too deep, too frightening to express. "No," she said. "I can't."
Her husband turned away, running his hand through his hair again. "But the vision is of me," he said to the gray stone wall. When, once again, she did not answer, he whirled to face her. "'Tis me ye fear, isn't it?"
Muriella opened her mouth to tell him it was so, but the words would not come. Never had she seen his face in her vision, yet always it was he—the touch of his hands, his fury, his tenderness—that made the water rise. She knew he was waiting for her answer, breathing harshly, his face dark with the simmering rage that held him in its grip. That, she thought, was what she feared. Or was it?
"Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me the truth."
"I don't know," his wife said. "I'm not sure."
John advanced on her, eyes blazing. "Then ye'd best think about it, hadn't ye? Ye'd best be sure before ye drive us both to madness."
"Aye," she murmured, "before 'tis too late."
Much later, Muriella pushed open her chamber door, entering the light-filled room that seemed to promise peace. Then she saw Megan standing near the bed, smiling in delight. "M'lady!" the servant gasped when she saw her mistress, "just look!"
Muriella moved toward the bed with her heart thumping against her ribs. When she stopped, her vision seemed to come and go with the pulsing of her blood. The furs were hidden under all manner of exquisite fabrics. There were gold brocades, creamy satins, violet silks and fine linens. In the center, atop all the others, was a bolt of deep blue velvet, beside it a paler blue satin. Muriella reached out to run her fingers over the velvet. It was incredibly soft, and blue—not icy, like the sea, but warm. The satin was the exact color of John's eyes.
"Where have they come from?" she asked when she found enough breath to speak.
Megan smiled. "Sir John brought them for ye from Edinburgh. All for ye."
"Tell me," she whispered, "are there any reds among them?"
"Why no, I don't think so. 'Tis strange, isn't it, since red's so popular with the ladies. Why do ye ask?"
"Because," Muriella murmured, half to herself. "Just because." Her fingers closed over the blue velvet; she brushed it over her cheek like a fleeting caress against her cool skin.
Chapter 36
"Look, I've nearly done!" Megan cried as she held up the finishing work she was doing on the kirtle for Elizabeth to wear on her wedding day.
Glancing up from her own needlework on the lilac satin gown, Muriella admired the skill with which the servant had attached the spidery French lace. "'Tis lovely, Megan. Ye can't even see the stitches, they're so tiny."
Megan's pleased smile turned to a frown as she eyed Elizabeth's slender figure. "I only hope 'twill fit ye, m'lady."
Elizabeth, who had refused to try on the fragile garment, shook her head. "It doesn't matter. 'Tis all just a game anyway." She sighed wearily. "Though I'm grateful for something to keep my hands busy." She indicated the violet silk kirtle she was making to wear beneath her wedding gown. It needed only the hem to be finished.
"'Tis more than that," Muriella said. "They might have taken away yer choice, but they can't take away yer pride." Because she believed that, she had chosen two of the finest pieces of cloth John had brought her from Edinburgh and given them to her sister-in-law as a gift. She knew the soft colors would complement Elizabeth's pale hair and gray eyes, and she was determined the other woman look her best; it would help to hide the distress she was feeling inside. Muriella bent her head, concentrating on the intricate silver leaf design she was embroidering around the square neckline of the gown.
Elizabeth gave her a little half smile. "Ye must think me ungrateful after all ye've done."
"No," Muriella said, and meant it. "I understand." Perhaps better than any other, she added silently.
Elizabeth looked away, afraid the compassion in Muriella's eyes might break the fragile barrier that held back a torrent of unshed tears.
For a moment, a hush fell over the three women. Then the door burst open.
"As ye can see," Colin announced, "I've come for the wedding!"
While Muriella plied her needle with unnecessary force, Elizabeth regarded her brother coldly. He was smiling, his face flushed from the ride from Edinburgh and his own high good humor. He approached his sister, blue eyes sparkling. "Elizabeth, I've brought yer groom. He awaits ye in the library."
Elizabeth rose but did not move toward the door.
"Have ye nothing to say, girl? Can't ye greet yer brother properly?"
Her expression wooden, Elizabeth came forward, brushing her cool lips over the Earl's cheek. "Welcome back," she added as an afterthought.
Colin grasped her by the shoulders. "Ye won't make trouble for me over this marriage, ye understand?"
"I don't waste time fighting battles I've already lost," his sister assured him icily.
The Earl's nostrils flared as the famous lump began to rise between his brows. "'Tis a splendid match I've arranged for ye with a wealthy and respected man. 'Tis miracle enough that any man should want ye after what happened before. Ye didn't even give Maclean children, and a barren woman isn't much in demand. If ye had a grain of sense in yer head, ye wouldn't want to fight it."
Elizabeth merely stared at him in silence until he shifted uneasily under her regard. The blank look in her eyes disturbed him. She might as well have been looking at an empty wall.
"Well then," Argyll grunted at last, "if ye won't talk to me, go see to yer groom. He's waiting."
"As ye wish," she replied, sweeping him a deep curtsy.
While her head was lowered and he could not see her eyes, the Earl addressed her again. "Are ye really no' grateful, Elizabeth? Won't ye thank me?"
She rose, smiling stiffly, and moved away. As she pulled the door open, she turned back to face Colin once more. "May ye rot in hell," she said softly, her smile fixed and unwavering. Then she was gone.
* * *
"We won't ever be ready in time," Megan groaned, glancing in dismay at Elizabeth, who wore only a robe and was seated on a stool with her hands lying motionless in her lap. The servant turned to Muriella. "She's to be married within the hour and we haven't even begun her hair. Mary said she'd be he
re early to help. Where is she?"
"Here, m'lady," Mary panted as she pushed the heavy oak door closed behind her. "I'm very sorry to be so long, but Jenny didn't wake me this mornin'." With an apologetic look at Muriella, she leaned against the door to catch her breath. "I didn't even have time to bind my hair."
Muriella considered Mary's flushed cheeks, glowing eyes, and the disheveled black hair that fell, unbound, below her waist. A painfully vivid memory stirred—of a tiny chamber full of dappled sunlight across two bodies. She felt the color rising in her cheeks.
"I'm truly sorry," Mary repeated, uneasy at Muriella's continued silence. "Can ye forgive me, m'lady?"
"Aye," Muriella said at last. "It couldn't be helped. But we'd best get started now, and quickly."
"As ye say." Mary breathed a sigh of relief, bent her knees briefly, and moved toward the bed where Elizabeth's wedding clothes lay.
The bride, who had not murmured a word since she'd come to Muriella's chamber that morning, rose from her stool and let her hands fall to her sides as Megan slipped the high-necked kirtle over her head. The long, tight sleeves clung to her wrists and the skirt fell in soft violet folds to the floor, but Elizabeth seemed unaware of the feel of the silk against her skin.
"Och, m'lady, the gown is so lovely," Mary said, lifting the lilac satin reverently from among the furs on the bed. She ran her fingers over the design of silver leaves Muriella had embroidered around the square neck with such care. "I haven't ever seen anythin' like it." Eyes shining with admiration, she loosened the laces and lifted the gown over Elizabeth's head.
"The color is perfect," Megan declared. She folded back the wide sleeves that fell to a point at Elizabeth's knees. "We'd best begin on her hair," the servant murmured at the bride's continued silence. "I need ye to help with the braids, Mary. I haven't enough hands of my own."