Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Muriella's eyes filled with tears at his thoughtfulness. She had worked with the dyes for many days, trying to create just the right color for the moon and the radiant water, but had never been quite satisfied. For this tapestry especially, she wanted everything to be perfect. "How did ye know?"

  Argyll smiled at her obvious delight. "I watched ye as ye worked at choosing the colors. And I've come to know ye well enough to see when ye aren't happy."

  He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to smile up at him. "Thank ye," she murmured.

  "Ye' re welcome, lass. 'Tis the least I can do to help ye make this keep more of a home. I didn't realize how cold and empty the castle had become till ye changed it with yer woman's touch. I'm grateful for that, ye ken." His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulder before he moved away. "Besides the thread, I brought some cakes of dye Queen Margaret sent ye from her own stores. She was sore disappointed that I didn't bring ye with me this time."

  Muriella unwrapped one of the cakes, exclaiming over the deep blue color. "The Queen is kind to remember me."

  "No," the Earl murmured, "she's wise to recognize a true friend when she has so few."

  There was a hint of something in his voice that Muriella found disturbing. "'Twas a difficult trip, wasn't it?" she asked.

  Argyll ran his hand through his heavy gray beard. "Aye, but I don't wish to think of this right now. Give me a little time to enjoy being safely home." He leaned a hand against the wall, staring moodily into the lifeless ashes of the fire.

  He looked so weary, so burdened by his own unhappy thoughts, that Muriella's heart went out to him. Argyll rarely allowed her to see his sorrow, but now she could read it in every line of his face. "Shall I recite to ye?" she asked, closing the chest with care.

  Without looking up, the Earl nodded. "Aye, I'd like that. Mayhap John Barbour can keep my attention today. Naught else can."

  "'Tis to be The Bruce, then?" The epic poem told the story of one of Scotland's first true heroes, Robert the Bruce, and Argyll loved it above all others. Muriella had spent so many hours reading and then reciting it with him that she knew it by heart.

  "Ye know the part I like to hear, don't ye?"

  "Aye, I know." Muriella sat on a low stool and clasped her hands together, summoning up the familiar words and lines like old friends.

  Alas that folk who e'er were free,

  And in freedom wont for to be,

  Through their great mischance and folly

  Were treated then so wickedly

  That their foes their judges were.

  What wretchedness may man have more?

  "'Tis good to hear yer sweet voice again," the Earl murmured. "I only wish ye could do it in the Gaelic. Och, what a spell ye could weave then. But don't let me stop ye." Muriella drew a deep breath, then continued.

  Ah! freedom is a noble thing!

  Freedom makes a man to his liking.

  Freedom all solace to man gives.

  He lives at ease that freely lives!

  "'Tis true, ye know," Argyll murmured more to himself than to her, "though some don't choose to understand." Before she could begin again, he picked up the lines where she had left off.

  A noble heart may have none else,

  No other thing that may him please.

  But freedom only; for free liking

  Is yearned for o'er all other things.

  His voice faded and Muriella knew he had forgotten her for the moment. His brow was furrowed with thought, and he stared at the ashes at his feet as if they held some meaning only he could see. In the sudden stillness, she could hear his heavy breathing and her heart began to beat unsteadily.

  She was feeling oppressed by the silence when Argyll turned unexpectedly.

  "Tell me how ye're getting on with Johnnie," he said.

  She looked down, spreading her fingers across the silk covering her knees. So it was to be her husband again. That was the only subject about which she and the Earl had quarreled over the years. He was watching her closely; when she met his gaze, she saw the hard gleam in his eyes. "We manage well enough," she said at last. "Things don't change much."

  The Earl left the fireplace to seat himself across from her. "'Tis just as I thought." With his feet planted firmly on the floor and his hands gripping the carved armrests of his chair, he ceased to resemble the man she had come to love, and became instead the unbending Laird of the Clan Campbell.

  "Don't ye realize how quickly the days are slipping through our fingers? Ye're seventeen, Muriella. 'Tis long past time ye bore my son a child."

  Muriella bit her lip as she thought of Colin's wife, shut away in Castle Glamis with only her sons and daughters to keep her company. "If 'tis grandchildren ye want, Colin's Janet has given ye those."

  "Aye," Argyll agreed. "But none who can inherit Cawdor."

  Rising abruptly, Muriella turned away. So it was Cawdor he was thinking of. Always it was Cawdor. But this time he was helpless; even her father-in-law's unbounded ambition could not force her to conceive a child.

  He must know that John had not come to her bed for a long time now, but he could not know why. He could not know that, after the wedding, she had tried to accustom herself to her husband's occasional visits to her chamber, but she had never succeeded. Always, when his naked body lay next to hers, the fear came, holding her in its grip. Megan had told her it got easier with time, but she had not found it so. Then her sixteenth birthday had arrived and with it the second anniversary of their wedding. John had come to her late that night. She remembered so clearly how he had put out the torches as he entered the room, how loud his footsteps had seemed to her sensitive ears.

  He had said nothing as he climbed into bed beside her, but she knew he had been drinking; she could smell the wine on his breath. Without a word, he had buried his face in her hair, drawing the furs away from her body so it was exposed to his hungry gaze. Even in the darkness she could see the burning blue of his eyes, and the fear had moved like flame through her body.

  John bent to kiss her, his mouth hard and insistent on hers, as if he could force her to respond with the mere strength of his own need. "Muriella!" he growled. The single word demanded all she had to give: her attention, her acquiescence, the secrets of her body.

  She felt his rough beard scratching her face, her throat and breasts as he moved down, claiming every inch of her with his mouth and hands. She held her breath, praying this time his assault would not bring with it the vision that had become her nightmare. But when he entered her, the darkness blurred and the humming in her ears began. Then the water rose, cold and threatening, closing around her, filling her mouth and lungs as the waves dragged her under. She was fighting for air, clawing her way through the choking water, but she knew she would never reach the light. Mindlessly, she cried out once, then raised her hands before her to ward off the rushing white foam.

  Because the fear still clutched at her throat, she was hardly aware that John had forced her hands apart and was looking down at her through the darkness. Her heart thudded and her skin grew clammy with sweat as her husband's face came into focus. John stared at her for a moment, his eyes cutting away the protective darkness like a bright, sharp blade, then he cursed violently and swung himself off her.

  He had left the chamber without a word and had not come again to her bed. She was not quite sure why that was so, but she was grateful, for she had not seen the vision since that night. Almost, she could convince herself that it was no more than an unpleasant memory.

  "Muriella, are ye listening to me?" Argyll demanded.

  With an effort, she forced her thoughts back to the reality of the crowded library and the warning in the Earl's voice.

  "Aye," she said, "I'm listening." But she did not turn to face him.

  "Johnnie must have children," her father-in-law repeated.

  "I haven't stopped him from doing so."

  The Earl regarded her through narrowed eyes. "Mayhap not, but ye also haven't encourag
ed him. The time has come to stop yer games and grow up. I know ye hold yerself apart from him, as if ye were made of ice and stone instead of flesh and blood. But that will have to change. Ye must be a real wife to him."

  She whirled on one slippered foot. "I've told ye—"

  "Aye, ye've told me more than once. But I'm not willing to listen anymore." He saw how she retreated from him, how she struggled to control the trembling of her hands. "Tis not only for the sake of the Campbells, lass," he added more gently. "'Tis for yer sake as well. Ye don't realize it, but ye need Johnnie by ye. Ye need to depend on someone besides yerself."

  "But I have ye!"

  The Earl sighed, sinking deeper into his chair. This was partly his fault, he knew. He had taken Muriella away from Kilchurn too often, but he had sometimes wanted her with him when he made the long, lonely trip to Stirling or Edinburgh. She had been the only light on an increasingly dark horizon. The distance between himself and Elizabeth had grown greater over the years as the Macleans became more hostile to the Campbells, and John and Colin were men with their own concerns. Only Muriella seemed to need him. Only she brought him joy. Because of that he had selfishly kept her by him, even though he knew it was not wise. "I won't be here always," he told her. "I've been lucky so far in my career as a soldier, but—"

  "No! I won't listen to that kind of talk."

  "Ye'd best get used to the idea," Argyll snapped, "because we go to war with England within the month. I've only come home to gather the men and see that my affairs are in order."

  "War?" she gasped. "But why? Have the English attacked the borders again?"

  "No," he said wearily. He had not meant to tell her this way, but perhaps it was best after all. "There are many reasons. King Henry has never taken Jamie seriously and our king's vanity has been battered once too often, it seems." He shook his head, releasing his grip on the arms of his chair. "Ye won't believe what decided him in the end. 'Twas a love letter from the French queen." He glared at Muriella as if she might try to deny it. "She fears Henry will attack France soon, and she told King Jamie 'twould no' be chivalrous to leave her at England's mercy. So, we go to battle."

  "For a woman's pride? Only that?"

  "I advised the King against it, and others with me, but he won't be swayed."

  Muriella's heart began to pound. "If ye think he's wrong, why can't ye refuse to join him?"

  "Don't ever suggest such a thing to me!" Argyll cried. "'Tis not only a woman's pride that's at stake now. 'Tis Scotland's pride. And that I'll fight for. I wouldn't ever stain the name of Campbell by hiding like a coward in my keep. What I do, I do because I must—for honor. If the clan loses that, they lose everything I've fought for."

  He paused to take a long, deep breath. "In a week we leave to join the King. 'Tis likely I'll be away a long time, and ye'll have to turn to Johnnie when I'm gone."

  "He isn't going with ye?"

  "No," the Earl told her, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He had no strength left to argue or explain. "This time when I go to war, I go alone."

  * * *

  "Why?" John demanded furiously. "Surely ye've lost yer mind!"

  The Earl, who sat where Muriella had left him two hours since, schooled his features with difficulty. "Because I want ye here. Ye and Colin can help gather the men, but neither one of ye will go with the army this time."

  His son was staggered by the Earl's calm announcement.

  Ever since he was thirteen years old he had been at his father's side in battle. "Do ye think we've grown lazy in the use of our swords? That we aren't skilled enough—"

  "Don't be a fool, Johnnie!" Argyll snapped in annoyance. "I know full well ye and Colin are two of the best fighters in Scotland. Ye wouldn't be my sons else. But nevertheless, ye'll stay behind."

  John ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "I don't understand."

  "No, nor can I expect ye to. But the fact remains that I've a feeling about this war. The King isn't always as wise as he should be, and 'tis not the time to pick a quarrel."

  He could not argue with the Earl's knowledge of politics, but John knew a thing or two about tactics. "If the time is wrong, isn't that all the more reason to make our army as strong as possible? Shouldn't we bring all the men we can?"

  Argyll shook his head. John had grown up a great deal in the past four years, but he was still overeager to get himself killed. "Johnnie, ye must trust me. I won't be shorting the King, ye can bet on that, but I want my sons at Kilchurn. Think about this, for example. Would it be wise just now to leave the castle at Maclean's mercy without protection from either ye or Colin?"

  It was true that the Macleans had been restless of late, but that was not reason enough for Argyll's reluctance.

  "Besides," the Earl added softly, "there's yer wife to consider."

  John rose, suddenly uncomfortable under his father's probing gaze. Planting himself before the cold hearth, he stared at the blackened stones. "I don't see what Muriella has to do—"

  "Don't ye? Think for a minute. What if ye went off heedlessly and were killed fighting the King's cause? What do ye suppose would happen to Cawdor?"

  "I hadn't considered that."

  "Well, mayhap 'tis time ye did. Old William Calder still has two sons living, and then there's Muriella's cousin, Hugh Rose. He hasn't married yet, I hear. No doubt he'd be happy to take Muriella back, so long as her dowry was Cawdor."

  "The Campbells are strong enough to protect her," John muttered.

  The Earl shook his head in despair. It seemed his son was as blind as his young wife. "Without an heir, Johnnie, they'd have no right. Ye'd do well to remember that before ye rush off to war. The Campbells come before yer pride or yer lust for battle."

  John clenched and unclenched his hands until his fingers began to ache. His father did not know what he was asking. He did not know about the night when John had last gone to his wife's bed. It had been nearly two years ago, but the memory was still painfully vivid. He had been drunk, John remembered, and Colin had been taunting him, as he so often did, about how little John would be without Muriella's inheritance. Like a fool, he had let his brother's gibes rankle, and had gone to his wife in anger.

  He had put out the torch before joining her, because he did not want to see the fear she could never quite hide at his approach. She was more withdrawn than usual that night, and her silence only fueled his rage. He kissed her harshly, and though the warmth of her body teased him—just out of reach—her lips remained as cool as the night air.

  "Muriella!" he growled, demanding what he knew she could not give. Then he felt her stiffen beneath him. The cold rigidity of her body at last penetrated his wine-fogged brain and he paused. He saw her raise her hands before her face as if to ward off the devil himself. For a moment the rage rushed through his body, blinding him to everything but his own frustration. Roughly, he forced her hands apart. "Look at me!" he wanted to cry. "I'm a man, not a monster!"

  But the words never left his mouth. As the pale blur of her face came into focus, he saw that her eyes were blank and still and her skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She stared through him as if he were not even there, as if the sudden trembling of her body came, not from the pressure of his naked skin on hers, but from the presence of a force he could neither see nor understand. The Sight was with her, he realized, and more real to her, just then, than his fury or his pain or his hungry body.

  He froze at the realization, while an unnatural stillness wrapped him in its grasp. Muriella began to shudder violently. As the blankness left her eyes, they were filled with an expression of such terror that it burned his desire to ashes in an instant. Too appalled to speak, he pulled away from her and left without a word.

  He had not been to Muriella's bed since. There were women enough who welcomed his caresses, who did not shudder at his touch. He had never had joy of his wife, nor she of him. In the end her fear had proved stronger than his need. Yet, though he no longer lay with her, sometimes
she flitted through his dreams, strange and wraithlike, beckoning, luring him toward disaster. But he could tell his father none of these things.

  The Earl watched his son as he struggled with his thoughts. Something was wrong, but he sensed John would not tell him what it was. For the first time in his life, the Earl of Argyll felt helpless. "Muriella needs ye, Johnnie," he said at last, "whether she admits it or no'."

  "Ye don't know her as well as ye think if ye believe that."

  "But ye don't know her at all," Argyll murmured.

  "Aye, well, she seems happy enough as she is."

  "Mayhap, and mayhap not. But this ye cannot argue. I'm going off to war within the week. She's come to depend on me, Johnnie. Now it will have to be ye she turns to. I know I can count on ye to keep her safe, but will ye see, too, that she's cared for?"

  John looked up. "She's my wife," he said. "I haven't any choice."

  It was not exactly the answer the Earl had been hoping for. "Colin has a wife too, but that doesn't seem to concern him overmuch."

  "I've told ye before, I'm not like Colin."

  Argyll leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. "Ye say that as if ye're proud of the fact, but 'tis not always such a good thing. As I've told ye before, Colin is the kind of leader this clan needs."

  "The men don't like him," John pointed out obstinately.

  "But they fear him, and 'tis that very fear which gives him his greatest strength." As he considered the rigid line of John's back and the angle of his head, framed by gray, lifeless stone, Argyll inhaled sharply. He realized with a shock that though John was still guided by his heart and his rage instead of his head—or perhaps it was because of that—this son had come to mean a great deal to him. For some strange reason, John had given him hope. But that did not—could not—change the facts. "And ye might think of this, Johnnie," he added quietly. "Colin is no doubt happier than ye, because he doesn't rage at things he cannot change."

  John turned to face his father, fingers hooked in the wide leather of his belt. "I'd rather rage than feel my blood turn slowly and surely to ice, and no matter how often ye call me a fool, that won't change."