Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Elizabeth nodded and Muriella was guided to a low wooden stool where she sat quietly. She avoided meeting Elizabeth's gaze just as Elizabeth avoided hers. The older woman spread the cream with slow, gentle motions, and Muriella found it soothing, despite her inner turmoil. Behind her, Megan tugged a comb through her hair and began to separate the strands into sections. Mary helped, giggling when they dropped a braid or hopelessly tangled the interlaced strands. Soon, even Megan was laughing as they looped and wove and arranged Muriella's thick auburn hair.

  At last both Megan and Elizabeth declared their work done. "Och, Miss Elizabeth," Megan cried, "ye've done it right enough! Ye can barely see the bruises. In the dark chapel, ye’ll no’ be able to see 'em at all."

  Now the dressing began. First, Megan shook out the kirtle of pale cream satin. When the simple shift with long fitted sleeves was in place, Elizabeth knelt at Muriella's feet, straightening the hem. The girl looked down when she felt Elizabeth's hand tremble. Her face looked furrowed with care in the light of the torches, and behind the tears, Muriella sensed a desolation that outweighed her own bewildered distress. She looked away.

  Finally, Megan lifted the green velvet from the bed. Standing on a chair, she lowered the gown over her mistress's head with great care. It slid easily over the satin.

  The velvet was warm, and Muriella realized she had been cold for some time, although Megan's face was flushed from the heat of the fire. Muriella curled her fingers within the wide sleeves, trying to speak some feeling in the numb shell of her body, but it was useless.

  At last Mary placed a wreath of wild roses on the girl's head and the two servants stepped back to admire their handiwork. The flowers rested among the many tiny braids surrounding Muriella's face, while the rest of her hair fell down her back to her knees. The deep green of the low-cut velvet gown tied with sea-green ribbons made Muriella's eyes seem huge, though the usual fire that kept them bright burned low. The broad green sleeves were folded back to reveal the tight satin sleeves of the kirtle; below her elbow, the sleeves fell almost to her hips. The skirt was so voluminous the green satin slippers were not even visible.

  As the three women stood staring, there was a knock on the door. Mary pulled it open a crack to peer out. "What is it?"

  "I wish to see Elizabeth, if ye please." It was Duncan's voice.

  Elizabeth went out into the hall, and when she returned, she held a carved wooden box. Standing in front of Muriella with it in her hands, Elizabeth felt she should kneel to the strength that kept the girl's eyes still and her small hands steady. "Yer bride gift from the groom," she said.

  Muriella stared at the box in silence. The top was intricately carved with gryphons, dragons and winged horses cavorting on their dark rosewood background. Muriella felt herself begin to sway again. She had, of course, sent the embroidered linen shirt to John quite early that morning. She had known he would send her a gift as well, but was reluctant to see what it was.

  Elizabeth waited patiently, holding the box while Muriella hesitated. She touched it first with her left hand, tracing the intricate design with her fingertips. Her half-finger looked pale against the dark wood; with sudden resolution she lifted the lid and took out what lay inside. Again she paused, struggling for breath, as she gaped at the object in her palm. It was a pendant on a thick gold chain: a carved golden flame with a ruby at its heart. As the torchlight moved above her, the flame seemed to leap in her hand.

  So, she thought, Alex had told him. The Gypsy had seen her look at the pendant and had told John she desired it. She began to breathe again, irregularly. She could not understand the ache that began deep in her chest and spread throughout her body. Or the tears that gathered in her eyes.

  Peering into her mistress' cupped palm, Megan took the pendant to fasten it about Muriella's neck. It fell against the kirtle, glimmering. The flame never seemed to lie still, but danced and flickered constantly. "Miss." Megan's voice was low with admiration. "I’ve no’ ever seen anyone so lovely."

  * * *

  The chapel at Kilchurn was barely large enough to hold all the guests. As Muriella stood in the courtyard, clinging to the Earl's arm, she could smell the scent of candles and sandalwood brushed out the door in the wake of the skirts that swept inside. She wanted to kneel and pray—in silence and alone. She felt separate from the rest of the world, yet she was aware of the flame on her chest as if it were a real one.

  Argyll was resplendent in a blue velvet doublet and jacket, and he wore a fine linen shirt over his trews instead of the usual saffron garment. This was a celebration indeed, and he intended to make the most of it. His pleasure was only slightly dimmed by the knowledge that Maclean had not suffered a disgrace after all, but at least Andrew Calder was dead. His act of sacrilege among the Standing Stones had increased the hatred against him, and therefore the people's approval of the Campbells. The Earl would have to be content with that for the moment.

  Although he was aware of Muriella's silent misery, the Earl chose to ignore it. He loved her dearly, but she was young and obstinate. She would learn in time to accept her marriage and all it meant. He would see to it. As he squeezed her hand, her cold fingers closed more tightly around his.

  He heard the signal he had been waiting for and started toward the open chapel doors. The ceremony had begun. Argyll and Muriella walked down the narrow aisle to the strumming of harps from the gallery above, but the girl did not hear the music. She could see John waiting with Colin at his side. The silver decoration on the wooden altar gleamed behind him, making a glittering backdrop for his thick, dark hair. The light softened his roughly carved features; even his heavy beard seemed less wild. For the first time, he actually looked handsome to her. As she came up beside him, she saw that beneath his dress plaid and velvet doublet he wore the shirt she had made for him.

  Bride and groom turned to the altar in silence, without meeting each other's eyes. Each gazed fixedly at the priest as he raised his hands and began to intone the traditional Latin phrases. They listened with heads bent, repeated the words he told them to speak, knelt and rose at the right moments, leaned down to kiss the cross of his ruby-and-pearl rosary. But the words were strangely empty, the gestures stiff and unnatural.

  When at last John took her hand, Muriella was shocked at how cold his fingers were: as cold and rigid as her own. The knowledge made her look up to meet his gaze for the first time. She had expected to find him grinning in triumph because he had finally won Cawdor for his own, but his lips were no more than a thin line, and his eyes were dark and empty. She realized then he'd meant it when he said he wanted this marriage no more than she did. For an instant, the bleakness of his expression touched her and she felt a flash of something she had never thought to feel again: pity.

  Then the priest spoke, raising his voice as he lifted his hands in benediction. "Go from me in peace as man and wife, never by others to be parted again."

  It was over.

  With her husband's arm linked through hers, Muriella left the altar. Her skin was pale, almost transparent, and the bruises had begun to show again, dark and ugly from temple to chin. She held her lips in a forced smile. But it was her eyes that shocked the guests to stillness; they glowed with a despair so plain, those who saw it felt the need to look away. John saw it too, and he too turned away.

  Suddenly the Earl was upon them, kissing his son on both cheeks and clasping his daughter-in-law in his arms. He alone, of all who stood in the chapel, had not seen the look in the girl's eyes. He alone appeared to be unconcernedly happy. Grinning, he escorted the couple to the Great Hall and up to the dais. For the occasion, the table had been covered by a linen cloth and set with the finest silver and pewter.

  "A toast!" Argyll called, lifting his tooled silver goblet from among the wreaths of white winter blossoms that decked the table. "To this day and all the blessings it has brought us. To the bride and groom!"

  Obediently, Muriella touched the rim of her goblet to John's. For a moment, their g
azes met and held. He swallowed once, then forced a smile; she answered with one of her own, but the chill in their fingers as they brushed told their own story. When the Earl drew his son and daughter-in-law closer, Muriella bent her head to take a sip of her mulled wine.

  She knew when the servants approached with the first platters of meat; the heavy smell of spice-laden beef and mutton rose in the air and clung around her shoulders. At Argyll's enthusiastic gesture toward the heaping platters, John chose the first morsel of beef, then leaned toward Muriella. She chose another, larger piece and held it up to her husband's parted lips. They ate together, accompanied by roars of approval from the crowd, but they were hardly aware of the sound. It was as if they stood alone: two strangers who shared a meal, but nothing more.

  "Come!" the Earl said. "Sit! Enjoy!"

  With a sigh of relief, John did as his father bid him. As the endless meal progressed, he spoke to his new wife now and again to ask if she cared for salmon or sweetmeats or bread, and she saw that he had enough ale and meat to satisfy him. But as congratulations flowed into tankard after tankard of choice ale and course after course of rich food, John's senses began to dull and he did not turn to Muriella again. Instinctively he did not touch her, not even to place his hand on her arm, not even when he was so drunk he could not stand. He would never be drunk enough to forget the way she had shuddered when he put his arm around her waist to lead her to the seat of honor. He would never be drunk enough to forget the look in her eyes.

  Chapter 18

  The banquet had gone on for too long. The musicians, gathered from all over Scotland, had played too many lilting ballads on their Highland harps. Too many tankards had been refilled again and again with the thick ale, too many platters of beef and lamb and poultry had circulated through the room. The men, drunk as they always were at weddings, had begun to pull the women out to the center of the floor to dance, kicking the rushes aside as they moved. Both men and women had forgotten the bride's face in the midst of their drunkenness and flushed laughter. They clasped hands and circled the floor, their brightly colored plaids flowing behind them, their satin and velvet and brocade gowns swirling about their ankles.

  The Earl was pleased. He could see his guests were impressed by the splendor of the occasion, perhaps even a little intimidated. That was as it should be. He had given them a taste of the wealth and power at his command; he knew the memory of this day would linger, serving as a reminder that the Campbells were worthy friends—and dangerous enemies. He speared a piece of lamb with his dagger and watched the juice run down the blade. Things were going very well.

  When Muriella saw Argyll's satisfied smile, she looked away. She thought he had forgotten her, as the others seemed to have done. She realized then that although this was a wedding feast, no one was really celebrating her marriage. They were celebrating the Campbell victory over their enemies, the acquisition of one more piece of valuable land and one more stack of golden coins. She might as well have been an ornament on the wall for all the attention they paid her. Only Elizabeth seemed aware of her new sister-in-law's distress.

  Muriella could not help wondering if her marriage to Hugh would not have been different, if, on that occasion, someone—her mother or Lorna or Hugh himself—might not have smiled at her and meant it.

  She raised her head when a drunken man stumbled up to the far end of the dais, where John was speaking to a friend. "Johnnie, m'laddie," the man called, "tonight's the night and no mistake. No more serving wenches in the stable yard for ye."

  He lurched forward, grinning, and cupped his hands in the unmistakable shape of a woman's body. "Looks to be a ripe one, doesn't she?" the man whispered loudly enough for all to hear.

  Muriella's gaze was caught by the sight of John's hand clenched around the handle of his tankard. His fingers were clutching the pewter so tightly the knuckles appeared unnaturally white, the rest of the skin unnaturally red.

  His wife could not look away. The skin of his palms would be rough from the swords he had wielded, the leather belts he had beaten to softness, the arrows he had let fly.

  Those hands, clutching the pewter in a fierce grip, would later touch her in the same way, possessively, hungrily, just as Maclean had touched her once. The veins on John's hands seemed to throb beneath the sun-toughened skin. All at once she knew she was going to be ill.

  Muriella glanced at the Earl, but he was nodding in his chair, his head resting on his hand. As she rose abruptly, Elizabeth looked up at her, taking her hand for a moment. The older woman smiled in understanding of her sister-in-law's need to escape. Squeezing Elizabeth's hand in gratitude, Muriella turned and slipped around the end of the high table and out of the hall.

  The fresh, cold air outside struck her brutally after the cloying heat in the hall, but the chill made the sickness retreat. Muriella closed her eyes as the pounding of her heart slowed to normal and the blood began to move through her veins once again. She kept to the shadows, in case anyone should follow, but by the time she crept beneath the gate, she realized only Elizabeth had seen her go.

  She moved away from the towering walls of the keep, taking huge gulps of the crisp air. Then she caught a glimpse of the light from the Gypsy bonfires over the hill and heard their gay music. She could not resist. Without looking back, she found her way through the darkness toward the Gypsy camp.

  When she reached the ridge, she stopped, taking in the glorious scene before her. The circle of tents was outlined sharply by the glow from the two bonfires that burned at either end. Where the tents did not block the light, figures danced with abandon around the leaping flames. The women's skirts swung out almost straight from their bodies as they spun and dipped in the quivering firelight.

  Near the dancers were the musicians: the flutist, the lutist, and one man blowing on the pipes. Several men with deep bass voices sang enthusiastically, but the words were indistinguishable. Those Gypsies who stood between the girl and the fire were no more than silhouettes against the brilliant flames, but now and then she would catch a glimpse of a ruddy face lit by the orange glow, or a cascade of dark hair against pale, gleaming skin.

  Muriella was entranced. The Gypsies, she thought, did not need wine and ale to help them find their pleasure. Back in the Great Hall, the couples staggered in broken circles, oblivious to their surroundings. But the Gypsies circled their bonfires in fluid motion, dipping and revolving with infinite grace. Neither were they aware of their surroundings, but that was because they were caught up in their private frenzy, sheltered by their strange magic. To them, the world was no more than the fire, the music, and their own bodies, awake to every flicker of flame and song.

  Muriella scrambled down the hill, her sleeves billowing behind her. As she ran toward the center of the camp, the Gypsy men turned to stare as if she were an apparition. The firelight moved across her, catching the gleam of her eyes and outlining the bruises along her cheek, but even that could not spoil the beauty of her face in that moment. One man reached out to pull her down beside him, but she slipped away before he could catch her. She was looking for Alex.

  She found him sprawled on the ground beside the musicians, his clareschaw lying at his side. His gaze was fixed on the dancers and his voice rose and fell in time to the pulsing music. As she came near, Muriella saw that his hair looked even grayer in the fitful light; despite the elation all around, his expression was full of sorrow.

  The girl knelt, taking his hand in hers. "Ye're grieving," she whispered.

  He turned to look at her, then did not move for some time, slowly absorbing the sight of her face. At last he slid his hand from between her fingers and nodded. "I should send ye back," he murmured, "but I find this time I can't do it."

  "Why can't ye?" Muriella asked, locking her arms around her legs.

  The Gypsy looked beyond her into the light of the fire. "Just now, ye can only think of those who might comfort ye. But ye'll learn, in time, that ye have a great ability to comfort others. There are depths
in ye that ye don't yet comprehend."

  While Muriella considered this in silence, Alex looked with concern at the bruises along her cheek. Now and then, a wisp of auburn hair trailed over the discolored skin; somehow it made her seem terribly fragile. Yet for once the shadows were gone from her face and she looked peaceful, even relaxed. In that moment, she reminded him of a woman long dreamt of but never seen. A woman who would haunt him indefinitely, leaving him always unfulfilled. The girl would find a difficult path ahead of her, he knew, and tonight was her last night of freedom—if indeed she had ever known freedom at all. "Ye must dance, lass!" Alex cried.

  Muriella nodded, then smiled in delight. "Aye, to dance!" She rose, stood nearby for a moment, watching the dancers rotate; then she bent to touch his cheek. By the time he reached up to the place where her hand had rested, she was gone, a part of the glittering circle made fantastic by the firelight.

  The velvet swirled about her legs, and she was drawn into the dance regardless of her will. She circled slowly at first, aware of her own strangeness in the face of the lighthearted Gypsy girls, but as the song swept her up, she lost all sense of those around her. The music rushed through her blood and she moved without thinking, in perfect time. She could do nothing else; she was wrapped in the spell of the light and the songs. Her wedding night might have been many miles away, her-bridegroom a nightmare she had created. Only the dance was real. Only the sensations that shook her body from head to toe and left her laughing.

  When Megan broke into the circle, interrupting the flow of the music, Muriella refused to answer the call of responsibility or the reality of the keep just over the hill. Grasping the servant's hand, she drew her along in the dance.

  Eyes wide with concern, Megan found herself whirling with her mistress through the firelight. Somehow, she could not pull away. When she saw the exaltation on Muriella's face, she forgot, for the moment, the turmoil at the castle, the drunken search for the bride who had disappeared. She forgot the Earl, bellowing that Muriella must be found, his voice louder with each word, as if by increasing the volume he would increase the chances of finding the girl. She forgot Colin with his crude jokes, laughing at his brother's misfortune. But she did not forget John, standing like stone at the head of the table, his face stricken, repeating again and again, "She's gone. I knew she must go."