She felt a flash of hope when she remembered Hugh. Perhaps her betrothed would come for her and take her back to Kilravok. Hugh is in the past, Rob had told her. Muriella shook her head in denial, but when she tried to visualize her cousin's face, she found she could not do it. In that moment she thought her misery would choke her.
Seeking escape from her thoughts, she peered at the tangled garden that rose out of the mist. The mountains were still cloaked in clinging white, but hollyhock and bracken and autumn roses shimmered as sunlight began to burn away the dew. The sky was reflected in waves of blue drifted with white in the still, still water of Loch Awe.
The loch spread outward from the castle, curving away to far beyond her sight. It was scattered with lush green islands draped in mist that wound its way through the trees and lay in swathes on the water, like fairies’ breath.
"Och, miss! Ye'll be certain to get the ague that way, ye will indeed," Megan spoke unexpectedly from behind her. "Come away and crawl back into bed while I build up the fire again. Ye must come away!" When her mistress did not move at once, Megan put her hands on her waist and tugged.
Muriella whirled, twisting free of the servant's grasp. Her finger had begun to throb again and the pain swept over her in waves. She started to fall, but Megan caught her. The two girls swayed as the room revolved before Muriella's eyes. When her vision cleared she found herself staring at the servant's troubled face.
"Miss? What is it? Can ye stand now?"
Straightening slowly, Muriella raised her injured hand to find it was covered with blood. From far away she heard Megan gasp and realized she was being guided toward the bed. Climbing in among the soft, warm furs, she stared blankly at her hand until Megan touched her arm.
"I'll have to change the bandage and try to stop the bleedin', but I'm no' certain I can do it. Sir John brought these last night, but I didn't want to wake ye." The servant dropped a pile of bandages, a dagger and a sack of herbs at Muriella's feet, then with a deep breath, reached for the injured hand. "I'm afraid I'll hurt ye," she murmured.
"Ye will." Muriella's voice sounded overloud in the still room. "But ye must, so ye'd best get on with it."
"Aye, well." Megan bit her lip nervously. "I forgot, Sir John left some wine. Mayhap 'twill help a little."
While Megan poured the wine, Muriella took the dagger in her right hand and cut the old bandage away. She did not look down at the uncovered finger, but turned instead to accept the pewter goblet the servant offered. Muriella swallowed while Megan worked. Twice she thought she would faint or be ill as the spasms of pain flashed up her arm, but with an effort she kept the blackness at bay.
At last Megan pulled the new bandage tight. While Muriella leaned back, the servant went to revive the fire. Megan dressed quickly when the flames began to creep up the blackened stones, but the heat did not stop her from shivering as she moved barefoot over the rushes. "Can I get ye some more food, miss? Or more wine?"
"Aye, a little more wine."
After Megan handed her the goblet, Muriella pulled one of the furs from the twisted pile around her and held it toward the servant. Megan gaped at her.
"Ye look cold," Muriella explained. "The fire doesn't seem to warm the room well enough."
Megan's eyes widened in surprise. She smiled shyly as she wrapped the heavy fur around her shoulders. "I never had a mistress do that before."
Muriella frowned. "Do they mistreat ye here?"
"Och, no! 'Tis just that in the kitchen ye don't have much chance to get cold, what with the big ovens and the runnin' back and forth. And even if ye did, no one would care. 'Tis different below, ye ken. The cooks aren't always in a pleasant frame of mind. They don't ever hurt me—at least, no' very often. But once they threw Davie out on his head. He had a great lump for near a week." Megan chattered until her curiosity overcame her. "They hurt ye yesterday, though, didn't they?"
"I—who?"
Megan lowered her voice as if afraid someone might overhear. "Why, the Campbells, miss. Yer finger. What did they do?"
Her mistress looked away. "'Twas no' the Campbells. 'Twas my friend, my nurse from when I was a bairn. She—" Muriella choked on the words but forced herself to go on. "She bit off my finger."
Megan gaped at her, eyes wide with horror. "But why?"
Frowning, Muriella tried to remember through the painful haze that cloaked her thoughts. "She said she had to mark me." Speaking with difficulty, she added, "So the Campbells couldn't bring an imposter to claim Cawdor."
Megan bit her lip until it ached, then murmured, "But miss, just think how much she must have loved ye to do such a thing. It couldn't have been easy for her."
Muriella blinked in surprise. She had never thought of that. With a sigh, she bowed her head. She could not think of it now either; thinking hurt too much.
Unnerved by the sadness in her mistress's face, Megan turned away. "Well," she said briskly, "we must find ye something to wear. We'll have to get rid of the things ye came in. I'll give the wool to the seamstress to cut up for the servants and we'll burn the others. Do ye mind?"
"No," Muriella whispered. She watched, nodding in approval as Megan scooped up the tattered clothes and dropped them into the fire. She wished she could as easily destroy everything that reminded her of yesterday. As the flames leapt up the stones, she found herself enthralled by the moving light that reached out for the bed, licked about its heavy legs, then crept away. Muriella felt caught up in the play of light and shadow.
"There!" When the last fragment of cloth had been consumed, Megan wiped her hands and turned to the chest against the far wall. Lifting the lid, she called over her shoulder, "Mayhap we can find something in here. I know Miss Elizabeth kept her things, even from when she was a bairn. Mary told me she wouldn't throw anythin' away if once she'd loved it. Now, let me see." Megan explored the inside of the chest, talking softly to herself as she pulled the clothing this way and that.
"Who is Elizabeth?" Muriella asked, remembering the overwhelming sense of another presence she had felt earlier. "This was her room, wasn't it?"
"Aye, it belonged to her before they married her to Lachlan Maclean. She's Sir John's elder sister. They were always close when they were bairns. At least, that's what Mary says. She says Sir John used to play the lute and sing while Miss Elizabeth worked her tapestry. But of course, 'twas a long time ago. They don't speak so much anymore, even when she comes to stay."
Megan's head disappeared into the chest again and she added another gown to the pile on the floor beside her. "Ah," she said at last, "here." She held up a light blue gown with a square neck and long, full sleeves. "It must have belonged to Miss Elizabeth a long time ago, 'tis so small. But it just might fit ye, miss. I don't want ye bein' tied up in one of those heavy things." She pointed to the gray and black gowns at her feet. "Too dark, with no life in them. But there! Ye don't need to listen to me. Mary never does, nor does Jenny. That's because Jenny is always listenin' for Colin, ye see. But I listen to them, ye can bet. I've learned a great many things that way."
While Megan talked, Muriella discarded the gown she had slept in, then stood still while the servant slipped the blue gown over her head.
Megan fumbled for several moments before she managed to tie the laces. Then she stepped back and smiled. "Ye look much better than ye did last night. Blue suits ye, that it does, though with those eyes, green should be yer color, don't ye think?"
Muriella was looking out the window, unaware of Megan's question. "Could ye take me to the garden? 'Tis so cold and dark in here."
Megan considered her mistress in silence. When Sir John had brought the bandages last night, Colin had been close behind him. The older brother had warned Megan that the girl might try to escape. "And if she does, I don't have to be saying what will happen to ye, gurrl," he had threatened.
But Muriella's expression was so wistful as she looked at the garden. Surely there was no slyness in her eyes. Besides, the servant had always found a perverse
delight in upsetting Colin. It was not difficult to make him angry enough that the lump for which he was so well known would rise between his brows. "We couldn't go by the front gate, that's sure," she mused. "The guards won't open for us, and they'd probably call Sir John."
"Is there no other way out?"
"Well..." Megan paused, "there’s another passageway. But ye mustn't let on I told ye."
Muriella recognized the servant's hesitation. "Ye needn't fear I'll run, for no doubt I couldn't get far before they caught me. Besides, I don't think I’d be safe at Cawdor now." The sound of those words on her own lips—and the jolt that went through her when she realized they were true—made her shudder. In sudden determination, she started for the door.
Megan stopped her with a gentle tug at her elbow. "Do ye think I might go down to the kitchen first to get some bread and cream? Aren't ye hungry?"
Muriella was not, but she realized she had not eaten much last night. And she had been too restless to eat at Cawdor. She would make herself ill if she wasn't careful, and she sensed she would need all her strength in the days to come. "Aye," she agreed, "and see if ye can find some meat as well."
Megan smiled with relief. "That I will. Don't worry yerself, I'll be back soon."
Once beyond the door, Megan was swallowed by the gloomy shadows, and her mistress felt intensely alone in the silence left behind.
Several minutes later, with bread and meat in hand, Megan led her mistress to a door a few yards beyond the one to Muriella's chamber. "This is the way. Are ye sure ye want to go down? 'Tis dark and cold in this passage."
"I want to."
Nodding, the servant put the rest of her breakfast into one of her huge pockets and, grasping the heavy iron handle on the door, pulled with all her strength. As the door swung open, Muriella stepped back in surprise; it made no noise, and the hinges at Cawdor always squealed.
Megan glanced over her shoulder, then, taking her mistress's hand, drew her into the passage. Muriella had not thought anything could be darker than the hallway, but the light had never touched the walls that towered damp and forbidding on either side. Here the smell of stale, chilled air that filled the was intense, and the gray stone was beaded with moisture. There was no noise besides the slapping of their feet against the packed dirt floor to disturb the silence.
The girls twisted around several corners, clutching the damp stone to keep from sliding as the path cut sharply downward, before they came to another door. This one had three bars across it and a rusted bolt at its edge. Megan began to push and shove, panting as she heaved each bar back. She struggled with the bolt for a moment, then at last pushed the door open.
Muriella moved past her to stand in the sunlight, which banished the chill that lingered inside the castle walls. She gazed about her in wonder at the bracken and heather that twisted among the swaying pines and birches. Here and there sprays of white or red broke through the confusion of green and brown and silver, making their own disorderly pattern on the sloping landscape. Muriella thought it wonderful. Even the tall, brooding mountains seemed less threatening in the sunlight. The jagged sides were slashed with rushing streams that glittered silver against the unrelieved blackness. It was beautiful in a powerful and dramatic way. With a sigh, she clasped her hands before her, wincing at the unexpected pain. "'Tis lovely."
The servant considered for a moment, brow furrowed. "'Tis a bit overgrown and wild, don't ye think? I'm always afraid I'll get lost in the roses and cut myself on the thorns." She paused. "But it helps hide the path to the castle from our enemies so I suppose 'tis best. Still, I'm no' at ease."
Muriella smiled. "Ye need only take yer time and learn to know the plants. Then they can't hurt ye." Her eyes darkened as she knelt to touch a cluster of yellow roses.
Muriella’s soft smile surprised Megan. For some reason, it reminded her with sudden clarity of the look she had seen in her eyes the night before. What was it Sir John had said? Do ye think she knew? She couldn't have known. The servant shivered and, after a moment's hesitation, touched her mistress on the shoulder.
"Aye?"
Taking a deep breath, Megan said, "Last night, when ye sent me down to the Hall, Sir John said something that made me wonder—" She broke off to swallow dryly. "Ye have the Two Sights, don't ye?"
Muriella wanted to deny it—she had spent her whole life in an effort to do so—but she could not. "Aye," she murmured, "I'm afraid 'tis true."
"Afraid? But why? 'Tis a wondrous gift to know how to see the future. Ye must be blessed indeed." Megan wanted to reach out to touch Muriella again, as if she might absorb some of the magic, but she withdrew her hand when her mistress tensed and turned away.
"'Tis a curse, no’ a gift. I don't see joyful things, ye ken, only death and sorrow. And even though I know 'tis coming, I can't stop it." She took a deep breath. "It's never given me pleasure, only pain. Can ye understand that?"
Megan stood with her mouth open, hands buried in the pockets of her plain muslin gown. "No, miss, I can't."
With a sigh, Muriella rose, smoothing out the creases in her skirt. "Have ye ever been swimming in the sea?"
"Aye, as a bairn, but I don't see—"
"Didn't ye ever feel afraid while the waves crashed around ye?"
Megan considered; her eyes widened as a memory struck her. "Aye, one day the wind came up and the water rose so high I could no’ even see the shore. I was sore afraid then, I can tell ye."
Muriella nodded. "That's how 'tis when the Sight comes to me. 'Tis as if I'm out there in the sea and the water beats against me till I can't stand upright anymore. I can feel the waves pulling at my feet, swirling about my head, choking me, and I have to fight with all my strength to keep from going under. I can kick out and wave my arms, but I can't win, because the sea is stronger. It'll drown me someday, because I’ve no' the power to stop it."
"Have ye tried?" Megan asked.
"Aye, every day of my life. And till yesterday, I thought I'd learned to shut out the knowledge I didn't want. I’d no' had a vision in a long, long time."
When her voice trailed off, the servant touched her hand, unable to conceal her impatience. "What happened then?"
Muriella crushed the petals of a rose between her fingers without knowing she did so. "The Campbells came for me."
There was such misery in her voice that Megan knew she could not question her further. But she did not really understand. "Aye, well, things are different for ye now."
With a sigh, Muriella inhaled the fragrance of the garden as if it had the power to heal her. When the smell of fear had dissipated, she asked, "Can ye take me nearer the water? I'd like to watch it move with the sun upon it."
Megan frowned and bit her lip. "We'd have to wind our way through this," she waved her hand to indicate the tangled greenery, "and I'd no' like the watchmen to see ye."
At Muriella's obvious disappointment, she sighed and took her mistress’s hand to draw her forward.
Muriella was not aware of the damp branches that scratched her skin; the water was calling, and she heard nothing else. When the two girls reached the wall surrounding the peninsula and keeping it apart from the loch, Muriella scrambled up the rough-hewn stones to perch on the uneven strip at the top.
She went very still as she gazed at Loch Awe, wandering away among the islands and the trees. The water reflected the sky and the hills of fir and pine on every side, as well as the image of her face. In the distance, she heard the slap of oars. She stared as a cloud covered the sun and the scene in the water disappeared.
Nearby, an old man rowed a small boat across the loch. In his wake, the water rolled away like swells of carved, living glass. For an instant, the sun crept from behind its mask, and was caught, reflected, in a perfect curve of water. The loch transformed the image, twirling the cloud like the long tresses of a woman's hair, and the sun became her radiant face.
Muriella strained to hear as a high sweet voice began to sing. She turned to Megan in surprise
, but the servant was silent and immobile beside her. Muriella lifted her head, the voice swelled in the wisp of a breeze, then faded into silence.
The scene was hauntingly beautiful. She felt a constriction in her chest, a heightening of all her senses, as if the wild beauty of this place were too much for her sight alone to bear. Despite the sorrow within her, she could not help but respond to the exultant voice of the wind. She leaned out, wanting to capture the moment in her open palms, but when she drew her hands close, they were empty. Her heart dragged, her breath became painful, and an unnatural silence locked her in its grasp. "Listen!" she hissed. "They're coming."
"Who's comin'?"
Muriella looked right through the servant. "They're coming."
"Do ye mean the Calders? Och! We'd best get inside!"
"No. 'Tisn't the Calders. Listen."
Megan tried to concentrate so she might understand. She twisted her fingers together, glancing twice toward the path that had brought them here, before she finally heard it. It was not the sound of an invading party. The tread of the horses was too plodding. In fact, the sound was melancholy and echoed the expression on Muriella's face. The servant took her mistress's arm beseechingly. "We must go inside, miss. We must!"
Without waiting for Megan, Muriella scrambled off the wall and started back from where they had come, feeling her way toward the castle gate. Megan followed reluctantly, her beating heart a hollow and persistent warning.
* * *
"I will go, and caution be damned!" John cried, glaring at his brother across the crowded library.
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 7
