Suspecting where her mistress might be, Megan had crept into the courtyard, determined she would be the one to bring Muriella back, not those reeling men. She found Duncan already there, and in silent assent they left the castle and went to the Gypsy camp.
Now, with the music pounding against her ears and the incandescent green of Muriella's eyes to reassure her, Megan danced, losing herself in the rhythmic pulse. Then she caught sight of Duncan, waiting patiently at the edge of the circle. With desperate energy, she pulled her mistress from among the dancers, breaking the pattern that had held her in its grasp.
The shock was severe. Muriella stood, breathless, and gaped at the servant in astonishment. For a full minute she did not recognize her. Then, as the music died down and her skirts ceased swinging around her legs, she remembered. The knowledge of her wedding, of what was to come, made her shudder. She grabbed Megan by the shoulders and her eyes filled with misery.
The look on her face was more than the servant could bear. Her determination wavered and she wrapped her arms around Muriella's waist, weeping. The girls rocked there, lost in their sorrow, clinging together because there was no other comfort but each other.
Duncan waited, clutching his sword. That he did not understand the source of the girls' grief did not stop him from feeling it throughout his body. But then his senses began to return. Resolutely, he moved forward. Placing one hand on Megan's shoulder, he said, "We must get back."
The girls steadied themselves but continued to cling together, unwilling to part.
"They'll send the men out soon. We mustn't let that happen." With one hand on each girl, he drew them apart.
At last Megan nodded. Without another word she took Muriella's hand and began to shove her way through the watching Gypsies. Duncan followed and the three moved out of the reach of the firelight and into the starless night.
* * *
Muriella paused in the doorway, staring at the wreckage strewn about the Great Hall. Empty dishes covered the tables and the dogs roamed the floor, sniffing among the rushes for discarded bones and meat. Only a few men still sprawled across the benches. The rest of the guests swarmed through the hall and up the stairs, searching for the missing bride. No one looked at the girl framed in the doorway.
It was the Earl who discovered her. Staggering down the stairs, he caught sight of the green velvet gown. "Aha!" he exclaimed as he pulled her into the light. "So ye're found at last!" His fingers dug into her arm and he leaned down, speaking into her ear, "Did ye mean to frighten us half out of our minds? If so, ye did a pretty thorough job of it. I promise ye, I'll not forget that."
She did not have time to respond before the guests gathered around her. The women were giggling now, all except Megan and Elizabeth.
Taking possession of John, the men moved off to allow the women to precede them up the stairs. With Megan and Elizabeth close behind her, Muriella was propelled upward, her heart pounding against her ribs. As she climbed the stairs one by one, fear lodged itself in her throat and throbbed there dully.
She saw they were leading her to a huge bedchamber hung all in crimson. The women crowded into the room, laughing and blushing, while Megan began to remove her mistress's clothes. The green velvet fell to the floor, and next came the kirtle; it fell at Muriella's feet in a gleaming pile. Megan's expression was rigid. Men shouted in the hallway, chanting obscenities, pounding on the door.
Muriella heard the voices—echoing harsh and crude against the stone—which threatened to force the door inward. She imagined the smell of drunken breath, and nausea rose in her throat. When the door began to creak open, she choked back the sickness time and again.
"Let us in!" the men roared. They no longer cared about propriety; they were Scotsmen, Highlanders, many of them, and all they wanted, just now, was one more bit of fun to remember.
Though only a man or two managed to get a glimpse inside the room, Muriella saw the avid glitter in their eyes.
Behind them would come John, her husband. No door would be strong enough to keep him out. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment, for the laughter, the lewd remarks, the cruel leers that penetrated the heavy wood, stripping her of the last of her pride. Her marriage had left her with nothing—not even her self-respect.
All at once, a man forced his way into the chamber. Before anyone could stop him, he pushed Megan aside and, turning Muriella with one hand, slapped her soundly on the behind.
It was too much. The terror and helpless fury that had been building inside Muriella erupted in a moment of madness. Naked, face white with rage, she whirled and struck the man hard across the face. Surprisingly, she heard shouts of approval from the onlookers.
John, who had been forced to the front of the crowd, lunged for the man as he fled the chamber, but Colin caught his brother in a close grip, pinning his arms to his sides. "Ye wouldn't want to ruin yer wedding night, now, would ye, little brother? Besides, yer wife has done yer work for ye."
The offending guest had disappeared, and the crowd had grown quiet, stunned, for the moment, into sobriety. Clenching his teeth in fury, John wrenched himself free of his brother's grasp. His clothing had disappeared along the way and the candlelight fluttered over the sweat glistening on his chest. Muriella swallowed convulsively.
Elizabeth and Megan touched her gently. "Come to bed. 'Tis warm there, and safe from prying eyes." Rigidly, she allowed them to lead her toward the high curtained bed, to help her up, to draw the linen sheets and furs beneath her chin.
John stood facing the dwindling crowd until most of them had crept away in shame. Only then did he climb up beside his wife.
Megan and Elizabeth slipped out of the chamber quietly, trying to erase the image of Muriella's gray, drawn face, just as the Earl entered. His drunkenness seemed to have dissipated in all the excitement.
"Ye see, Johnnie," he said, "if ye just wait, ye'll eventually get what ye want." He nodded toward Muriella. "There was no' any need to hunt the Calders down till ye'd killed every last one. Simply by marrying the girl, ye've struck them a blow from which they may never recover. Don't ye forget it." Glancing at Muriella, he tried to smile, but even he could not keep up the pretense that this was a celebration for her. With a sympathetic shake of his head, he left the room, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.
Muriella sat very still. She was determined not to betray her inner torment, and so twined her fingers together and fixed her gaze on the curtains at the foot of the bed.
"I couldn't stop it, ye know," John said at last.
The sound of his voice made her shiver. "Ye could have refused to marry me. Then 'twould never have happened."
"Ye' re a fool if ye believe that. 'Twould have happened sooner or later. If no' with me, then with someone else."
Muriella turned to look at him for the first time. "But it had to be ye, didn't it? It had to be, because ye couldn't bear to lose Cawdor. Ye didn't care what I thought. Ye didn't even ask."
"Ye made yer feelings clear enough." He remembered with a fresh wave of anger how Colin and the guests had laughed into their tankards when Muriella's absence was discovered. They had been laughing at him. As he turned to his bride, his hands clenched into fists, the fur slipped down, revealing his bare chest.
With a stifled cry, Muriella shrank away from him.
"I'm not a monster," he shouted, struggling to keep his voice steady, "no matter how much ye might want to believe it."
His eyes glittered icy silver blue, like the sea before a winter storm, and Muriella could not suppress a shiver of apprehension. "I know," she said, “but please don’t touch me.”
John swung around, leaning on the carved headboard so he held her imprisoned between his two hands. "I don't think ye understand. Ye're my wife."
As he spoke, he moved closer until she could feel his breath like a warning on her cheek. She stared at him, wide-eyed, painfully aware of his naked body so close to hers, of the strength of his arms on either side of her head. Neve
rtheless, she was wholly unprepared when he tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head upward to meet his fierce kiss.
His lips pressed against hers with the heat of his anger, and though she tried to break away, he held her too tightly. For an instant she drew him closer, then pushed frantically at his chest until her fingers curled inward and she sank her nails into his flesh.
At the sudden pain, John raised his head, staring down at her through the flickering light of the torches. "It doesn't have to be this way," he said. "If ye didn't fight me at every turn—"
Muriella felt the pressure of his fingers ease a little while he hovered above her, waiting for an answer. She twisted out of his grasp, scrambling for the other side of the bed. "No!" she cried, when his fingers closed around her arm.
"Aye," he muttered, pinning her down with his calloused palms on her bare shoulders. He raised his head to gaze at her white slender body, freed at last from the hindrance of furs and sheets. She had ceased her struggles, and lay rigid and unresponsive beneath his hands. This was not what he wanted, but he knew she would give him nothing more. Infuriated by the cold, blank expression in her eyes, he kissed her again, bruisingly.
Muriella's vision blurred; she felt the blood in her throat would choke her. He drew her beneath him so the weight of his body pressed her down and down into the mattress, where she could not escape from the touch of his skin or the harsh demands of his mouth on hers. From somewhere deep within, the water began to hiss and churn until it rose inside her head, white, cold, and furious, drowning out everything but the sound of her fear. She tried to cry out, but he swallowed her cries with his hungry lips.
A fine sheen of sweat covered his body. She felt its clammy coolness on her skin, penetrating her pores so even her insides were tainted by his touch. Then, with a groan, he entered her, pausing for an instant when she gasped in pain.
He looked up, and Muriella, released at last from the pressure of his lips, turned her head away as she fought back the illness that rose in her throat. He rocked against her, his hands buried in her thick, tangled hair. With each thrust, the pain became greater, until it merged with the rushing water to swamp her senses. Just when she was certain she could bear no more, he ceased his assault and collapsed beside her.
Her heart dragged, as if it could not bear the strain anymore. Quivering, her palms cold with sweat, her head spinning into the unfriendly darkness, Muriella rolled over and, drawing her knees to her chest, retreated to the farthest corner of the bed.
When his breath began to come more easily, John turned to look at his wife. She lay curled at the edge of the bed, so near that he thought she might tumble to the floor at any minute. She was shivering, her arms wrapped protectively over her breasts. "Muriella—"
He reached for her but she shuddered and pulled away. She was cold, as cold as the gray stone walls around them. He could not bear the sight of her small trembling body. He shut his eyes and turned away.
Muriella did not move, but lay as she would for many hours, staring blindly at the blank face of the door.
* * *
When she awoke, the torches had burned themselves out and the morning light was just beginning to push its way through the shutters. Someone had covered her with a heavy fur and she huddled beneath it, unwilling to turn and face her husband. When at last she glanced up, she realized the bed was empty. Her racing heart slowed to normal. As she looked over the remnants of the night before—her gown on the chest, her kirtle glimmering among the rushes—she knew she had to get away. Groping through the half darkness, she picked up the kirtle and threw it over her head. Then she went to the door to look outside. She guessed that because of the celebration the night before, the guests would sleep until late in the morning. She did not know where John might be, but prayed she would not meet him.
Muriella slipped through the sleeping castle like a wraith, her bare feet making no sound on the stone floors. When she reached the Great Hall, she was surprised to discover the door hanging open, forgotten in the excitement. Gathering her skirt about her, she stepped out into the dawn.
It did not take long to reach the hill behind which the Gypsy camp was hidden. Arriving at the top, breathless and exhausted, she stared in disbelief at the scene before her. The Gypsies had gone. The tents had been pulled down during the night, the wagons packed and the fires put out. The only sign they had ever been were the two blackened holes where the bonfires had burned.
Muriella was stunned. She looked up and down the valley again, hoping for a sign that they would return, but there was none. They had gone, every one of them, and Alex had gone with them, leaving her behind. While back at the castle, her husband was waiting. Muriella sat down on the barren hilltop and wept.
PART 2
1513-1514
Chapter 19
The shutters had been thrown back to admit the breeze, and the scent of summer flowers drifted through the wide windows of the solar. Muriella looked up from the loom to breathe deeply, enjoying the fragrance of lavender and roses that wafted up from the garden.
"The air should be lovely today," Megan observed. She knelt beside a finished tapestry, binding the last of the bright silken threads. "Shall we ride down the loch when ye've done?"
"Aye," her mistress agreed, turning her attention back to her task. The Earl had hired an artist the winter before to paint the sketch of this new tapestry. Now, with the huge piece of painted linen secured from behind, Muriella was transferring the design to the vertical threads of the loom with charcoal. When she and Mary began the weaving, they would have a pattern to follow.
Muriella gazed through the tightly secured wool threads, which could not obscure the bright colors of the painting. She was pleased with the first panel in a tapestry that, when finished, would tell the story of the legend of Loch Awe. She had wanted to capture the magic in color and thread ever since she first heard Alex tell the story nearly four years before, and now, at last, it was becoming a reality. Bending closer, she traced the outline of a tumble of rocks at the edge of a stream.
"M'lady?"
She turned to the servant Jenny, who had been working beside Megan on the hanging they had cut from the loom that morning. "The edges are bound. Must we start with the finishin' now?"
Muriella shook her head. She could see Jenny was bored with the work, and her needlework suffered when she grew restless. "No. 'Tis enough for today. We'll all begin sewing the slits between the colors tomorrow. 'Twill go faster with many hands."
"Then may I go?" Jenny's eyes brightened at the prospect of escape. She rose, straightening her stiff knees with difficulty.
"Aye, as ye wish."
Without bothering to curtsy, the servant left the room. Before the door had closed behind her, Mary stepped over the threshold. "The Laird is askin' for ye, m'lady," she said.
"Thank ye, Mary," Muriella put down her charcoal. Turning to Megan, she said, "Ye can do what ye like for a time. I'm only grateful that ye're more patient than Jenny."
"Och!" Megan scoffed. "A mad dog is more patient than that one. 'Tis no' such a virtue, after all."
"Mayhap not when ye put it that way, but I thank ye just the same."
A flush of color crept up Megan's cheeks. She bent to busy herself with the loom to hide her pleasure. "Ye don't want to keep the Earl waitin'," she said.
"No." Muriella smoothed out her rose silk gown and kirtle, which had become crumpled as she knelt before the loom. Then she crossed the room and stepped into the hall. She moved through the curving stone passageways toward the library, noting with pleasure that the narrow corridors were almost warm; summer had finally made its way inside the thick stone walls of the keep. Even the walls themselves were vibrant with color, so the empty hall seemed less grim and forbidding. The hangings she and the servants had woven in the past four years kept out some of the chill and disguised the unevenness of the rough stone beneath. With the two looms the Earl had had built soon after her wedding, she had created several ta
pestries that hid the mottled stone behind brightly woven scenes from the poems and legends she loved.
Muriella stopped on the threshold of the library to smooth back the few red curling hairs that had come loose from her heavy braid. She frowned when she saw the Earl was seated before the empty fireplace, eyes closed, head resting against the back of his carved chair. His face was deeply lined and his thick beard seemed grayer than she remembered. His expression was grim, almost despondent. He had been away only three months, but he looked much older, as if years had passed since he'd last closed his eyes in his own keep.
"Is there trouble at court?" she asked softly as she came into the room.
Argyll opened his eyes with a start. "Ah, Muriella. 'Tis glad to see ye, I am, lass. I swear ye grow lovelier every time." Smiling with pleasure, he took her hands and held them tightly.
She noticed he had not answered her question. "We missed ye while ye were away."
His grip on her hands increased for a moment before he released her. "And I ye." He sighed, then shook his head to clear away the lingering chill of a bad dream. "Ye'll not be surprised to learn that I brought ye something from Stirling. 'Tis in the little chest by the hearth."
Muriella left him reluctantly and went to kneel beside the carved oak chest. Lifting the lid, she found several huge spools of silver and gold thread. "Oh!" she breathed. "They're lovely."
The Earl looked over her shoulder as she took a strand of fine thread and rubbed it reverently between her thumb and forefinger. "I thought ye could use it in yer hanging of Loch Awe. Silver for the moon and gold for the path of the light across the water."
Highland Charm: First Fantasies Page 20
