"The girl!" Argyll boomed unexpectedly. "Did they take the girl?" Now that he had put Duart behind him, he remembered Muriella Calder. He had left word that his brother and son should take her from Hugh Rose of Kilravok.
The Earl trembled with fury. The man had given his word and broken it without a thought. Rose had gladly taken the Campbell's aid and friendship over the years, but in the end, it had meant nothing. The glitter of Muriella Calder's gold had blinded the Laird of the Clan Rose to honor and loyalty, even wisdom.
Argyll should never have trusted him. Indeed, he never really had. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had always known this moment would come. Enemies once more. It was all he could expect, it seemed. Hugh Rose, Lachlan Maclean—they were all the same. With narrowed eyes, the Earl regarded his companion, who kept his gaze fixed between his horse's ears. "Did they bring the girl safely to Kilchurn?"
"The lass is at Kilchurn, aye," the young man muttered. "Been there a week. And many's the man who won't look upon her for fear o' the evil eye."
Argyll frowned. "They think she's a witch, do they? Well then, I must remember to tell them to keep their thoughts to themselves. But the girl is safe?"
The groom nodded. "Aye, she is safe enough."
Pressing his knees into the warm, heaving sides of his horse, the Earl urged the animal to hurry. It sounded as if there had been trouble. He hoped there had been. It would give him something to occupy his mind—anything to destroy the memory of Elizabeth kneeling with her arms outstretched toward Lachlan Maclean.
* * *
Richard Campbell leaned against the wall outside Muriella's door, which was slightly ajar. He shook his head when the regular crunch of rushes inside told him the girl was pacing again.
"Och, does the lass never stay still? She'll drive herself daft at this rate," Andrew said. He crouched a few feet away from his brother, elbows resting on his knees.
"I wouldn't be surprised if she's already daft. Wouldn't ye be if ye were pinned up in a single room for eight days together?"
"Aye, that I would. It doesn't seem like Sir John to keep her locked up this way. Or was it Sir Colin?"
"'Twas Sir Colin right enough." Richard leaned forward and lowered his voice. "And I don't think 'tis either wise or kind."
"Well, ye don't expect him to let her get away, do ye? Seems to me he's bein' most wise."
Richard regarded his brother with troubled eyes. "Aye, mayhap if she was someone else. But no' with that lass. I wouldn't cross her the way Sir Colin has, and I wish Sir John hadn't chosen me to guard her."
Andrew could not restrain a shout of laughter. "Ye're a fool, sure enough! Don't ye tell me ye believe the stories the men are whisperin' in the kitchens?" Sitting back on his heels, Andrew chuckled to himself.
With rare patience, Richard waited until his brother was quiet. "Didn't ye hear she warned Sir John about Rob Campbell?"
"Aye, and so what? Tis more likely she knew the Calders' plans than that she's a witch. Have ye never guessed a friend would fall in battle? Come, man, don't let the lass fool ye."
"She didn't tell me, but I believe it just the same."
Andrew shook his head in disbelief. He knew his brother to be courageous in battle, yet here he was trembling for fear of a young, helpless girl. "Tell me, brother, if she has the power, why hasn't she turned ye to stone? Surely she knows ye to be her jailer."
"Because"—Richard crouched to join his brother on the floor—"I haven't given her the chance. However, I don't think she wishes us all ill. Megan seems to like her well enough, and to tell ye the truth, I pity the lass, witch or no'. She's trapped."
"Aye." The laughter retreated from Andrew's blue eyes. "That she is. But I'll wager Sir Colin hasn't come near her yet, has he?"
"No. And there's a question for ye. Do ye think a normal girl would've had the courage to stand up to him that way?"
"Mayhap." Andrew drummed his fingers on the stone. "But I confess, I’ve no’ seen another do it. 'Twas a marvelous sight, wasn't it? Callen Maellach—old lump-in-brow—with nothin' to say in the face of a lassie's anger. Och! 'twas grand."
"No doubt she stopped his tongue."
"There ye go again with yer witches and yer spells. Ye're daft, ye fool."
"Mayhap," Richard said, ignoring his brothers skepticism, "but I'll wager ye’ve no’ looked into the lassie's eyes. If ye had, ye’d no’ laugh anymore."
* * *
As the Earl stalked into the Great Hall, his two sons rose to meet him. His face wore an ugly scowl and, seeing his expression, the servants hurried to fetch him ale while trying to avoid catching his attention.
"They tell me there was a battle," he called across the tables to John. "Did the Roses come after the girl?"
"No. 'Twas the Calders, and by God, Colin would keep me tied here instead of letting me go after them. The bastards!"
The Earl shook his head at his son's outburst. "Sit down and be calm, boy." Then he turned to Colin. "How many dead?"
"Twenty-seven. Among them were Rob and eight of his sons," he announced baldly.
"Dear God!" Argyll closed his eyes against the too-bright afternoon light.
"I was for going out the next day to even the score," John declared, "but Colin said no, we must wait for ye." He sat up, leaning toward his father. "Will ye let me go now?"
The Earl barely heard. His head was spinning and he did not like the feeling. He had wondered briefly, so many years ago, if leaving Muriella with the Roses was a mistake. Now he knew. He had been wrong, and the error in judgment had cost his brother's life, and his nephews'—too many. He felt physically ill at the thought. Rob and his sons were dead because of Argyll's momentary weakness, because he had seen a mother's love in Isabel Calder's eyes and had not been able to break her heart.
He felt as if a claymore had struck him across the shoulder, as if his knees might buckle at the shaking inside. He took several deep breaths and, through sheer force of will, remained standing upright, though his eyes burned and his throat felt raw. But none of that showed on his face when he met his son's accusing eyes. "We must think this out before we do aught. The Calders will be ready and waiting, I guarantee." Argyll sat back in silence.
Here was Johnnie, ready to wipe out the Calders this very afternoon if only he could get his hands on them. The boy—was he twenty already?—would have to learn about diplomacy: one subject on which the Earl was an expert. He had learned a great deal from James IV.
Opening his eyes, he motioned to a servant, who bent to unlace his boots and remove them. He ignored his sons while he downed half the ale he found sitting before him; he would not be hurried. At last he said, "Johnnie, ye'll have to wait for yer revenge, I'm afraid. 'Tis too dangerous just now. If we're lucky, the two families will kill each other off and we won't have to lift a finger. But were ye to attack now, I've a suspicion the Roses would side with the Calders against ye. We can't give ye enough men for that kind of battle. No, ye'll just have to wait."
John swept his tankard out of the way, sending it crashing to the floor in the process. "Damn ye and Colin and yer waiting. If he'd let me go at first, they’d no’ have been ready. I might have done some damage then. Anyway, the Calders have always hated the Roses, as well ye know. They’d no’ ever fight side by side."
"Men will do many uncommon things for the wealth that girl has. But that's hardly the point. Do ye realize that if ye killed a man each time ye'd a wish to, there’d no’ be a single one left to fight beside ye? Ye're to be twenty-one soon. Can't ye sit back awhile and allow us the pleasure of seeing ye reach it unharmed? There'll be plenty to do soon enough."
Colin smiled and sat back, propping his booted feet on the edge of the table. "Ye see, little brother, I know my father's wishes better than ye."
John raised his foot to the bench Colin occupied and started to push. With a restraining hand on his arm, Argyll stopped him from tipping it backwards.
"Johnnie, I have troubles enough without ye fighti
ng with yer brother. Ye remind me of Maclean sometimes, and 'tis no' a comparison I like to make. Sit down now and listen. Protecting the girl is most important." John started to interrupt but the Earl shook his head warningly. "Aye, the girl is more important than yer revenge. If ye were to go off to fight the Calders, they'd be just wise enough to send someone to make certain she never reached fourteen. If ye want Cawdor, ye have to wait."
"Can ye wait to get Uncle Rob's murderers? Or don't ye care that he died in yer cause? It seems to me ye're more concerned with securing Cawdor for the power it'll bring ye than mourning yer brother!"
Argyll rose, placed his hands wide apart on the table, leaning menacingly toward his younger son. "Ye don't care then what securing Cawdor will bring ye? I rather thought ye were looking forward to being a rich man."
His son's eyes widened in surprise at the caustic sting in the Earl's voice. Usually the Laird of Clan Campbell reserved that biting tone for others.
Sighing, Argyll shook his head. This was getting them nowhere. "As for my brother," he said, "I haven't forgotten him. I won't forget. But neither will I fume and fight and destroy the very thing he died for. Open yer eyes for once, Johnnie, and recognize the truth. I do care about power. 'Tis the only thing that really matters, and ye're a fool if ye believe otherwise. If ye think me hard for speaking this way, then so ye must. I can do naught else."
John shivered at the cold light of determination in his father's eyes.
"I hear the girl speaks of Uncle Rob reverently," Colin interjected.
"Mayhap he deserves our reverence, but he doesn't deserve—and I'll tell ye this just once more, Johnnie—he does not deserve for us to lose the girl now, just because ye have neither the strength nor the wisdom to wait." He paused and added, "I've had enough talk and I can see ye don't wish to hear. I'm weary and need a hot bath and fresh clothes. Then I want ye to bring the girl to me. But just now, let me be."
Chapter 6
Muriella stared out the window at the sweep of garden below, as she had done every day for the past week. From where she sat, she could see Loch Awe and the far, curving shore where the water lapped at the bank and swirled among the dappled rocks. Although she had never set foot on the fine-grained earth, she felt she knew the bank intimately. Each morning she rose and went to the window to catch her first glimpse of the water that changed with the passage of the hours from green to gray to shimmering blue. She had come to know all the permutations of those shifting colors, created by bright sunlight as it crossed the sky, whimsical white clouds, and darkly thunderous ones. Daily, she waited with anticipation for the eddies of leaves that fell from the branches above to dance in golden patterns over the water. She could not hear the rippled movement of the waves from where she sat, but she could imagine the soft, pulsing sound, and it gave her comfort. "The loch is no' pleased today," she said to Megan, who sat sewing on a stool nearby. "Come see."
The servant willingly left the gown she was stitching for Muriella's wardrobe and knelt beside the window. "What do ye mean?" she asked, perplexed, as she often was, by her mistress's strange affinity with the world beyond her window.
Muriella drew Megan forward with a hand on her shoulder, pointing to the spot where the woods retreated from the shore of the loch. "See how the water is tipped with white and how the waves come up so violently against the rocks? Not long ago the surface was clear green, but now 'tis faded to dull gray, as if the joy had left it."
Megan squinted into the afternoon light—dimmed now by cloudy shadows—and saw the water had indeed begun to roil and spit as if possessed by some unpleasant demon. The loch was usually so calm—a mirror reflecting the swift changes of the sky. She had never thought of a loch or a garden having moods as people did, but her mistress had taught her a great deal in the long hours of her confinement. She looked at Muriella and thought she saw the restless, gray green movement of the water in the other girl's eyes.
Muriella leaned out to breathe deeply as the scent of damp heather rose on the wind, intertwined with other fragrances from the garden below. "There's a touch of rosemary in the breeze, I think," she murmured, "and mayhap a little lavender. Can ye tell?"
When the servant sniffed the air, biting her lip in concentration, Muriella smiled. Thank God for Megan, she thought. Once when John had come to check on the girls, he had told the servant she need not stay in the chamber constantly, but she had chosen to do so just the same. The two girls had divided their time between watching the changes beyond their window and working on a new set of clothes for Muriella.
"My mistress can't keep wearin' Elizabeth's ill-fittin' gowns," Megan had declared that first day before John could leave and lock the door behind him. "And if we're to be here with nothin' to do, we could start a gown or two and some kirtles, couldn't we?"
John had stared at her in surprise. Megan had never been one to speak out so boldly before. But he had to admit she was right. Within the hour, Mary and Jenny had brought linen and wool, needles and fine thread.
"Thank ye for thinking of such things," Muriella had told her. "And thank ye for staying by me. 'Twould be lonely indeed without ye."
"'Tis only right, miss," Megan had explained matter-of-factly before turning to sort through the fabrics spread over the bed. Muriella had joined her, grateful for the work; it kept her mind busy and did not allow her to dwell on the dull ache that never seemed to leave her. She felt as if she were suspended in time—waiting—though she did not know what she was waiting for.
Megan rose to pick up the simple gray wool gown she had been laboring over so carefully. "Have I done it right this time?" she asked, holding the seam out for inspection. She had never been at her best with needle and thread, but she had learned quickly that Muriella sewed a fine, strong seam.
"Aye, 'tis much better," her mistress observed, running a finger over the tiny stitches. "Even my mother would say so."
Smiling with pleasure, Megan drew her stool closer to the window and settled down to her task once more. "Did yer mother teach ye to sew?" she asked.
Muriella nodded. "Aye, and to weave. 'Twas the only time I spent with her, really, when we sat together in the solar." The thought saddened her. She wondered if she would ever see Isabel Calder or Hugh or Lorna again. "She loved to make tapestries, ye see, and it seemed to me she never left the loom. I could no’ sit still for so long."
"Aye," Megan interjected, "I know just how ye felt. Sometimes I think my back won't ever be straight again."
"Do ye know what my mother told me when I said the same? She said she was doing the work of the fairies, weaving the patterns they'd put in her fingers with their magic. She used to sing a song that matched the rhythm of the loom as she worked the shuttle back and forth. She hypnotized me with her sweet voice, I think, till I came to love the weaving as much as she did."
Megan looked up eagerly. "Can ye sing it now?"
Muriella shook her head. "I don't remember the words. She made them up as she went along. 'Twas part of the magic."
The servant sighed in disappointment, and Muriella turned her attention back to the half-finished linen kirtle in her lap. Thus the two girls had sat for many hours in the past week, while Megan kept boredom at bay with her lively chatter. Day by day, she told her mistress all she knew of the inhabitants of Kilchurn Castle.
That was how Muriella had learned of Colin's wife, Janet, who had never set foot here, but stayed in Castle Glamis—Castle Gloom, as Megan called it—outside Edinburgh. "And wise she is, if ye ask me. 'Tis best to stay as far away from Sir Colin as ye can." Then there was the servant Jenny, who fancied herself in love with Colin and followed him about "like a wee, lonely pup." But according to Megan, Colin did not seem to mind.
Muriella had learned too about Elizabeth and her unhappy marriage to Lachlan Maclean. "She didn't go willingly, I'll tell ye that. But 'twas nothin' she could do to change her father's mind. They say she wept and refused to eat till they feared she'd starve herself to a shadow. Still, in the en
d, it didn't matter. The Laird had his way and that was that."
It sounded so simple, Muriella thought. A whole life disposed of with a few brisk words. The same, no doubt, that would seal her own fate.
"The Earl's home, I hear," Megan said now. "They say he’s no’ in a pleasant frame of mind. But ye'll be seein' that for yerself soon enough. I expect he'll be sendin' for ye."
Muriella considered the information in silence. She felt Megan was warning her, but before she could ask a question, there was a brief knock, then the door flew open and John entered the chamber.
Glancing up at his noisy entrance, Muriella caught her breath. For some reason, no matter how many times she saw him, a glimpse of his face was a shock to her. It was almost as if, so long as he was out of her sight, she could believe he was no more than a name that had no substance. But once he stood before her, she felt his presence like a gust of air that knocked the breath from her body. He stopped still in the middle of the room, staring.
My God, John thought as he caught sight of the slender girl framed by the light from the window. She looked so slight, ethereal, as if she might blow away at a sudden draft. The sunlight touched her hair and body, emphasizing her fragility and the pale translucence of her skin. She had lost weight during her week of confinement. At the moment, she did not look like an heiress to a large and important fortune. She looked, instead, like a lost child.
John smothered a flicker of pity when he remembered this child, who was not yet a woman, held his future in her hands. He felt again the resentment that she should have such power over him. "The Earl has called for ye," he said with unusual harshness. "'Tis no' wise to keep him waiting."
Dropping her linen on the stool at her feet, Muriella rose. "Shouldn't ye take the time to bind and gag me? Aren't ye afraid I'll run?"
John took a step forward, his blue eyes glinting a sharp warning. "Is that what ye intend? Do ye mean to see how far ye can push us before we find it necessary to break ye?"
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 9
