With an effort, Muriella kept her face expressionless. "I don't—"
"Because we'll do it, I promise ye that. Colin is no’ the only one here with a temper, and don't ye forget it. Now come. My father's waiting."
Although she wanted to send him away, to stay where she was until the Earl was forced to come to her, Muriella knew that would be a mistake. She saw with annoyance John had not even waited to see if she would come; he had already left the room. Biting her lip to quell her anger, Muriella followed him into the hall. Confident she was behind him, he was leading her beyond the stairway to a part of the castle she had never seen.
The passageway they entered, hung with tapestries and carpeted with fine Persian rugs, was very different from the bleak rooms and endless gloomy corridors she had already passed through. But even here nothing could eradicate the chill that had settled permanently inside the thick stone walls. She noticed John's leather boots were lined with fur and he'd tossed a wolf pelt over his long saffron shirt to keep out the cold. Muriella was suddenly aware of how inadequate her own light wool gown was. Strange, she mused, that these halls should be so damp and uncomfortable when outside the sun was bright. Even the Campbell's wealth could not bring that warmth inside where it was needed.
As she shivered at a sudden draft, she saw a tapestry rippling in the gust of air. The vivid hanging depicted a battle scene in intricate detail. She stopped to examine it more closely. Though she wanted to shut out the sight of the blood and clashing swords, she could not help but marvel at the fine work. Fascinated, she ran her fingers over the fabric, admiring the tight weave.
"I told ye, my father doesn't like to wait," John said impatiently from out of the gloom.
Muriella fought back an angry response and turned away from the hanging. When John disappeared into a strange room, she followed him slowly across the threshold. The chamber was lit by several oil lamps and a roaring fire that seemed to welcome her. She shook her head in disbelief, noticing with growing surprise the patterned blue Persian rug and the carved bookshelves along the walls. So this was the library. Muriella had always loved that room at Kilravok, but it had been small and cold compared to this magnificent chamber.
She forgot the Earl as she glided toward a bookcase and ran her fingers reverently across the leather binding of the nearest manuscript. There were many like it; the browns and tans of the tooled leather books broke up the monotony of gray walls that curved up to the vaulted ceiling.
"Can ye read, lass?"
She turned toward the Earl, who sat behind a large oak desk cluttered with parchment and open books. Odd, she thought, but he did not look at all formidable. In fact, more than anything, he looked tired. The light in the room was soft; in the yellow glow of the lamps, the girl could see the resemblance to Rob. The same patchwork of tiny lines crossed the same nose and cheeks, but the eyes were harder blue and the lines of his mouth were sharper. Still, this man was not an ogre as she had made herself believe. Yet he was the one who had given the orders that changed her life.
"I asked ye if ye know how to read." His voice was curiously gentle.
"Aye. My mother taught me. At Kilravok, the library was my favorite room."
The Earl smiled to himself. He had been wary about meeting the girl because of the stories the men were circulating. Having seen her, he wanted to laugh at their simplicity. Muriella seemed normal enough. Her red hair was neatly braided and her green eyes sparkled just like any other girl's. "Tell me," he said, "would ye like to read here in the afternoons? As ye can see, there's much ye could look at."
The pleasure drained out of Muriella's face. "I can't. They don't allow me to leave my room."
The Earl frowned as he remembered Colin's account of her first morning at Kilchurn. "Aye, they told me. But 'twas yer own fault, I hear. Ye should no’ have tried to run away."
Out of the corner of her eye, Muriella could see John nodding in agreement. For a moment resentment choked her. "I didn't think 'twould hurt to see the garden. I wanted air, that's all."
Argyll regarded her doubtfully. "Didn't ye wish to flee from us then? I rather thought it might have entered yer head a time or two. From what Johnnie tells me, ye weren't too pleased when they took ye from Cawdor."
Muriella felt his cool appraisal, the expectant stillness on his weathered face, and guessed he was testing her somehow. She decided to tell the truth. "No, I wasn't pleased. I would have left here at once if there'd been a way. But ye see, I recognized even then that there was nothing—no one—to run to. Surely ye know that."
With a hint of a warning in his voice, the Earl said, "I know it well, lass, and 'tis glad I am to see ye do too. 'Twill no doubt save a lot of foolishness in the future." He paused to let the message sink in, then, satisfied he had made his point, added in a kinder tone, "But so long as ye understand, there's nothing to keep ye from roaming the keep and grounds as ye like." He looked up at John, who stood back in the shadows. "What room have ye given her?"
"Elizabeth's."
Argyll tensed at the mention of his daughter's name. Elizabeth's, was it? He would alter that soon enough. "That room was stripped when she married. There's no' a rug on the floor nor hangings on the walls. Have her moved to yer mother's chamber." Turning to Muriella, he explained, "Ye'll find it a mite more comfortable there. I see they haven't been treating ye well. But we'll remedy that, ye can be sure. Come here, lass, and show me yer skill at reading. There hasn't been a young voice here in a long time." Not since Elizabeth left, he added silently.
Surprised at the change in his tone, Muriella went to stand beside him, reaching for the book he held out to her. She was aware of John's gaze, but did not look up, though she felt his eyes upon her like a heavy hand on her shoulder. The sensation disturbed her and she struggled to keep her voice steady as she read from the yellowed page.
The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea,
They live in freedom, every one in his kind,
And I, a man, and lacketh liberty!
What shall I say, what reasons may I find
That fortune should do so?
Muriella lowered the manuscript to look at John. Her eyes blazed and he read the accusation there. He clenched his fists. Must she always be looking at him with her mistrust so clear on her face? After all, he had only done what was best for her. He had saved her from a Calder sword. What was it she had said to him? The danger was mine to face, not yers. But that was foolish. Surely she did not mean she would have stayed at Cawdor to die?
Oblivious of the looks passing between the two young people, the Earl pushed the manuscript away. "Ye have a lovely voice, lass. Do ye have the Gaelic?"
Muriella shook her head. "I have a little Latin, but no one ever taught me the Gaelic."
"Well then, ye must come here often and begin to learn it. 'Tis yer heritage, ye know. Mayhap I'll even teach ye myself. And lass"—he took her by the shoulders, drawing her toward him—"ye must remember that we brought ye here to keep ye safe, but ye shall no’ be our prisoner." He turned back to his son to add, "See that she has two men to watch her always. We don't want to tempt fate, after all. We've only just found her. 'Twould be a shame if we lost her again so soon."
Was he trying to frighten her? Muriella wondered. Or was this just another warning? She felt the determination in his grip on her shoulders, yet there was tenderness in his eyes. Concentrating on those eyes, she saw pain there too; he was suffering and did not wish to show it.
At her intent perusal, the Earl thought suddenly, vividly of Rob's loss and felt an aching emptiness in his stomach. For the second time, his eyes began to burn, and for the second time, he fought back the bleakness that swept over him. Along with his brother, all that was good in the Earl had gone. Rob had been his other side—the gentleness, the undisguised affection, the unswerving loyalty to all he loved, the simple human understanding. The hole where Rob Campbell had once stood was dark and cold now—empty.
Argyll was so shaken by the image
that his vision blurred. He was surrounded by men, yet completely, inescapably alone, as he had always known one day he would be. Only Muriella's tentative smile and the compassion in her eyes penetrated the fog around him. He focused on her face until the blackness turned to gray.
"Ye must take care," he said at last, with difficulty. "Do ye understand?"
"Aye," she told him softly.
Argyll nodded, pleased, and before he realized what he was doing, reached out to touch her hair with his fingertips. He sighed and just stopped himself from calling her Elizabeth.
"There's trouble!" Colin exclaimed from the doorway.
Argyll let his hand fall to his lap. "What is it?" he asked wearily. He had had enough trouble for one day.
His son nodded toward Muriella. "Send the girl away."
With a wave of his hand, the Earl murmured, "Ye must go now. We've business to discuss."
For a moment, Muriella had thought he would tell her of his grief, but she saw now how foolish she had been. At the sound of Colin's voice, Argyll turned toward his son as if Muriella ceased to exist in that moment. Without a word, she did as he bid her and left the room. Colin glanced after her, waiting until she was lost in the shadows before pulling the heavy door closed.
"Well?" Argyll demanded.
"A messenger just rode in from Nairnshire with news that William Calder and his three sons have filed two legal petitions with the Precentor of Ross. The first claims that inheritance can't be passed through the female line."
"'Tis easy enough to disprove," the Earl interrupted.
Colin shrugged. "The second"—he paused, glancing at John—"the second claims they have evidence proving the girl illegitimate."
"What?" The Earl stood abruptly and brought his fist crashing down on the desktop. "What evidence?"
Smiling with satisfaction at his father's reaction, Colin pulled a chair forward and settled himself on the brocade seat. "The Precentor appears to be in league with the Calders. He won't say what the evidence is."
"Have ye given me a bastard to marry then?" John demanded.
"Quiet, boy! 'Tis some trick they've thought up among them to stop us from getting the girl's fortune. I must think what to do. And I'll need yer help, not yer anger!"
"Mayhap 'tis no' a trick. Mayhap she is a bastard." Colin's lips twisted slightly upward; the idea seemed to please him.
"Then why have they waited till now to show their evidence? They could've done it long ago."
"Mayhap," Colin said skeptically.
"I don't understand," John muttered. "William Calder chose to step down in favor of his son. Why is he fighting to keep Cawdor now?"
"He didn't know his son would die in less than four years, and the only child would be a girl. He's regretting his haste, no doubt."
"Then why hasn't he done something before this?"
The Earl leaned back in his chair. "I believe he thought he'd get Cawdor back somehow, so long as the girl was nearby. But he doesn't want to let it fall into Campbell hands. He knows we're too strong for him. He's afraid, that's all, and desperate as well."
John paced the room, brow furrowed.
"Johnnie, do ye really believe I'm so careless? Muriella is the legitimate heiress. I know her history. Don't worry, we'll fight them through the courts."
John swung to face his father. "Why don't we just kill Calder and his three sons? Ye said they're afraid of us. We are stronger. Why must we wait?"
Argyll peered at his older son, who sprawled in his chair, smirking. "Leave us, Colin."
"But—"
"Leave us."
Even Colin dared not question the quiet authority in his father's command. He rose, pushed his chair away, and strode out, slamming the heavy door behind him.
"Sit down, Johnnie. There's a thing or two ye must learn."
Unwillingly, John took Colin's chair.
"Ye need to know, boy—"
"I'm no' a boy."
"As ye wish, so long as ye listen. There are ways to get what ye want without killing, Johnnie. There's always a bargain of some kind ye can make."
His son glared down at his hands. He knew all about his father's bargains. "Ye mean like the one ye made with Donald Dubh before ye set him free to start a revolt?" He could not hide his distaste at the memory.
Argyll clenched his teeth in anger. The rebellion of 1504 again. It seemed he could not escape it today. Now even John had become his judge. "I did what I had to do. I thought ye understood that. Or don't ye wish to understand political necessity?"
"I don't see why 'twas necessary to trick yer enemies into becoming traitors."
"Ye were only a boy then. Ye didn't realize the Macleans were daily growing stronger, and they'd made it clear how willing they were to ally themselves with Donald Dubh against the crown."
John snorted in disbelief. "I was old enough to fight with the other Campbells," he reminded his father. "And are ye so sure it was King Jamie ye were concerned for? Ye would have lost a great deal if they'd succeeded in establishing Dubh as Lord of the Isles."
Argyll had not realized his son knew so much about those events five years ago. "Ye're right," the Earl said stiffly, "the Macleans were a threat to my position in the Highlands and I chose to rid myself of that threat. Is that so hard to understand?"
His son regarded him intently. "Mayhap 'tis easier to understand than 'tis to forgive."
Argyll rose, kicking his chair from behind him. "Who are ye to question my methods?" he demanded. "They succeeded, didn't they? We broke the Macleans like a dried-out twig so they couldn't challenge the clan again." He had spoken with more vehemence than he intended and had to fight to regain his composure.
John considered Argyll doubtfully. He had always admired his father—his strength, his cleverness, his wisdom. He had shared an unusual closeness with the Earl, who was often too busy to bother with his children's feelings. But he could not forget how Argyll worshipped power above all else; it made his son uneasy. "Ye may have broken them for a while," John pointed out, "but it doesn't mean they've forgotten. Ye just left Maclean. Ye must know he hates ye."
"Aye," the Earl agreed reluctantly, "the man's memory is long and vivid. And I suspect he'd do anything to get back at me. I sometimes wonder if he won't use Elizabeth—" He stopped when he realized what he was saying. "Ye've changed the subject, Johnnie. My sins aren't important. What I want to discuss is yer temper. 'Tis that which threatens our welfare just now."
"But ye were the one who taught me how to fight for what I want. Don't ye remember?"
The Earl nodded, seating himself again so he could look his son in the eye. "Aye, that I do." He had known from the beginning that as a second son, John would have to struggle for everything he wanted. Things had come much easier for Colin merely because he was his father's heir. So Argyll had goaded and encouraged and forced his second son to be strong on his own. He had learned early to fight with vigor and determination. It was strange, the Earl mused, that John should also have grown close to his mother and Elizabeth. Perhaps it was their influence that had taught him to feel things as deeply as he did. But now it was time for him to begin to control his wayward emotions and learn wisdom as well. "Just the same, there are times when ye forget yerself, when ye act without thinking."
Leaning forward, John demanded, "Would ye have me be like Colin, then—cold and calculating, with no feeling at all?"
Argyll narrowed his eyes in displeasure. "Colin is what he has to be to survive," he snapped. "There's no room for foolish emotion in a man meant to lead the Clan Campbell. It weakens yer judgment when ye need it most, and 'tis no' a risk either yer brother or I can afford to take. Ye can't blame Colin for that." Rubbing his forehead to dissipate a persistent pain, the Earl looked away. Argyll was glad his younger son was different. He liked to think John was more like Rob—caring, and strong as iron underneath.
But Rob was dead. The Earl had actually forgotten for a moment. The rush of grief he felt shocked him with its int
ensity, made him more certain of what he was saying. John had been ruled by his heart long enough. "I wouldn't have ye follow in yer brother's footsteps, as well ye know. But nevertheless, ye must begin to control yer anger and impatience. Otherwise, they may well be yer undoing."
"Mayhap." John was unconvinced. He stood in order to end the conversation before it went any further. He had heard enough lectures for one day. He started to leave the room, aware all the time of his father's disapproving gaze on his back. When he reached the door, the Earl's commanding voice stopped him.
"Don't forget what I've said," the Earl warned. "And one last thing. We need time in order to do this wedding properly. Everyone in the Highlands is waiting for it, and we must show them what we're capable of. The ceremony is set for Muriella's fourteenth birthday in February. Ye've several months to keep her safe, and I warn ye, 'twill no' be easy. Until then, she's always in danger. Don't forget that, and don't relax, ever."
Chapter 7
Lachlan Maclean stared at the letter in his hand. He read the message over a second time before tossing the parchment onto the table, then threw back his head and laughed. The laughter ended too abruptly as Maclean turned toward the fire, running his hand through his thick red curls. "Argyll would have me for a guest when he secures his latest possession."
The men seated around the table shifted uncomfortably, unnerved by Maclean's brief laughter. They knew he was most dangerous when he laughed that way—harshly and without real humor. The clan members looked at the discarded letter in curiosity but no one attempted to pick it up.
Aware of their unease, although he could not see their faces, their laird motioned toward the parchment. "Read it. Argyll’d no’ be sending me state secrets. 'Tis only an invitation to John Campbell's wedding."
Maclean's nephew Evan, who sat nearest the head of the table, reached for the letter, then pushed back his bench so he could see his uncle's face. "What will ye do?"
"I’d not be knowing." Seating himself in the carved armchair at the head of the table, Maclean looked at the anxious faces of the men before him. "'Twould be a shame to miss a Campbell wedding. If naught else, the Earl knows how to make a celebration to remember. But"—he paused when a new thought struck him—"I'm no' the man to jump when Argyll whistles. And I've no wish to see him crow over the wealth that girl brings with her. I'll stay at Duart." With a flourish, he took the parchment from Evan and crumpled it in his fist.
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 10
