Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  Richard raised his head. "I must needs see to my brother's wound before the mornin's out. Can I go, m'lady?"

  It was the first time, too, that one of John's men had asked her permission, even for a thing so small. "Aye," she said in a strangled voice.

  He bowed and, with a tentative smile, left them.

  John would be pleased, Muriella thought. But John was not here, she reminded herself; he might never be again. As Richard disappeared down the passageway, she could hold back her tears no longer.

  Chapter 44

  Later, after her tears had dried and Megan had insisted she sit by the fire and eat some broth, Muriella ventured again into the hall. The chill in her blood had finally begun to dissipate, and this time her legs were strong enough to support her. The two women made their way to the library in silence.

  While Megan sewed by the light from the single window, Muriella settled in the Earl's carved chair and tried to read. She found, to her dismay, that the carefully transcribed parchment pages might as well have been written in a language she could not understand. The only words that had meaning for her were the ones John had spoken that morning while the world outside her window went mad with the fury of the storm. What, in God's name, DO ye want? If only she'd had an answer to give him.

  The rain had raged at last into silence and the clouds had parted to reveal the pale blue sky, but the freshness that rose in the wake of the storm only made Muriella's loneliness deeper. She opened the worn manuscript of John Barbour's The Bruce, tracing the familiar words with her fingertips, as if to recapture the warmth she had once shared with the Earl while they recited it together. But he was dead. Today even his memory could not reach her. She had just rested her forehead on the desktop in despair when she heard the door open. Muriella looked up to see Duncan seat himself on a stool nearby, his Highland harp in his hands. Before she could speak, he began to play, and though she leaned closer, he shook his head. "I've only come to see ye're safe."

  As he spoke, he ran his hands over the strings of the harp in a soothing rhythm. He sat on the stool in his long saffron shirt, his fair head bent forward so his hair fell into his eyes, but he did not push it away. In the sunlight, the pale strands glimmered, but she saw from Duncan's pallid skin that he’d had a restless night. Because of her. She started to speak again, but again he shook his head.

  "Some things are too difficult to say and even more difficult to hear," he told her softly.

  "But I must tell ye—"

  Without raising his head, he stopped her with a wave of his hand. "'Tis enough to say last night I did what I thought was right. 'Twas my duty to ye and to my cousin." He looked up then, his brown eyes steady. "I'm grateful to see ye here, but please don't talk, because I don't think I wish to know if ye feel differently."

  Tears threatened to betray her again. Muriella blinked them back. "Did ye think I would blame ye for saving my life?"

  The squire shrugged. "I didn't know. How could I? But it doesn't matter now, so long as ye're safe."

  "It matters," Muriella said, but he only smiled and bent to concentrate on his music once more.

  The notes rose clear, sweet and pure, weaving wordless stories in the sunlight. In spite of herself, Muriella fell under the spell of the music. As the song washed over her, she became aware of the magic Duncan's fingers created—a filmy tissue of interwoven notes that hung suspended in the air, softening reality like an undulating gauze curtain. Muriella smiled her gratitude, and when the squire looked up to meet her eyes, he seemed to understand.

  A loud knock on the door shattered the moment, and the fine, clinging notes of the song faded, so everything came once more into sharp focus.

  "Aye?" Muriella called.

  Mary opened the door and stood with her hand on the latch. "M'lady, there's someone to see ye."

  "Who?"

  "I wouldn't be knowin'. He wouldn't say. But he swore he must see ye."

  With a curious glance at Megan, who shook her head, Muriella said, "Bring him, then."

  "Aye, m'lady." Mary curtsied before leaving the room. She had not been gone long when the door opened again and Alex the Gypsy stepped over the threshold.

  "M'lady," he said, bowing.

  Muriella gaped at him. She tried to speak, but could not.

  Alex glanced quickly around the room. "Could I speak to ye alone for a time?" he asked.

  Megan rose, a half-finished shirt in her hand. "Ye don't think—," she began.

  The Gypsy interrupted her. "Ye want to help her, don't ye?"

  "Aye, but—"

  "Well, I can do it. Ye can't. But ye must leave us alone."

  At last Muriella recovered her voice. "Please, do as he says."

  Megan wanted to protest, but the sight of Muriella's face stopped the words in her mouth. There was a new light burning in her mistress's eyes. This man's arrival had distracted Muriella from her depression for the time being. "If 'tis what ye wish." But she was clearly reluctant to go.

  Alex put his hand on Megan's shoulder. "Yer mistress will be safe with me."

  Suddenly she remembered where she had heard that melodic voice before. She looked into Alex's eyes for the first time in four years and, instinctively, she trusted him. It was strange it should be so, she thought, but she did not stop to wonder why as she left the room.

  When, at Muriella's nod, the squire rose to follow, she said softly, "Thank ye, Duncan, for everything."

  With an uneasy smile, he nodded and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  While she tried to collect her wits, Muriella considered the Gypsy in silence. Alex had not changed much in the past four years. His weathered face was the same, aged beyond his years by day after day of sun and toil and the weight of his special knowledge. His clareschaw was slung over his shoulder as always. Just as she remembered, his silver hair and beard curled over the shoulders of his green-and-gold Gypsy shirt.

  "Ye've been gone a long time," she said at last.

  "Too long, it seems."

  She grasped the carved arms of her chair. "I don't understand."

  "I think ye do," Alex said quietly.

  She had forgotten the power of his eyes that changed from green to gray and back again in the path of the shifting sunlight. She wanted to look away but could not. "Why have ye come back?" Muriella asked.

  Alex seated himself unhurriedly on the stool Duncan had abandoned. "Because ye need me," he said, brushing a strand of hair back from his seamed face.

  She did not bother to tell him it was not so; she knew he would see the truth in her eyes. "How did ye know?"

  He smiled. "Ye asked me that once before, I think. My answer is the same now: I dreamed of ye last night."

  "But—"

  "Our camp isn't far from here," he interrupted. "As I also told ye, people talk to the Gypsies. I know yer husband has left Kilchurn. I know too that ye tried to take yer life. So, I came."

  Muriella took a deep breath. "Why should ye care about that? I'm not yer concern."

  "Somehow ye've become my concern, though why that should be I can't say. Mayhap 'tis because of the burden we share." He leaned closer, reaching out to brush her furrowed brow with his fingertips. "Because of this"—his fingers traced the hollows of her cheeks—"and this"—the rigid line of her mouth—"and this"—and came to rest on her eyelids as they had done four long years ago.

  Muriella sat for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the feather light touch of the Gypsy's fingertips on her lids. She remembered so clearly that distant afternoon when she had known for the first time that another understood her pain, because Alex had felt it too. Then he drew away. She opened her eyes to find him regarding her intently.

  "'Tis because of that," he said, "that ye'll tell me what happened yesterday to make ye seek the comfort of the river."

  His searching gaze held her immobile, though she fought to free herself from its power. Against her will, she murmured, "It started, I think, when my husband received a packe
t of letters from Cawdor. I knew something was amiss, but he didn't tell me what it was. He didn't come to me at all." That was not what she wanted to say, but the words spilled out, welling up from a place the Gypsy had uncovered with a single, telling glance. She laced her fingers together in her lap. "But the real beginning was the dream."

  "Aye," Alex mused. "So I should have guessed." His hands resting on his knees, he leaned forward—waiting.

  "I'd had it before, but 'twas no' the same. My cousin Hugh and I were young again at Kilravok, and happy, before I'd ever heard the name of Campbell. Always in the end, we fell together, laughing, but this time when I turned to him, I saw only his blackened death mask. 'Twas a warning, ye see." She swallowed, wishing the Gypsy would look away for even an instant, but his steady gaze did not waver. "My husband killed Hugh yesterday."

  Considering her in silence, Alex finally shook his head.

  "'Twas only for that? Ye hadn't even seen the man since ye left Cawdor."

  "No, but I'd lost something precious just the same. In all the years since I've come to Kilchurn, 'twas my only dream untouched by fear. And now that dream too has become a nightmare. I couldn't bear to lose Hugh that way."

  The Gypsy moved closer as, unblinking, he said softly, "The Hugh in yer dream was a child. People change."

  "I can't believe he could change so much. I don't want to believe it."

  Thoughtfully, Alex ran his fingers through his heavy beard, catching them in the tangled strands. "Is that why ye tried to end yer life—because Sir John had taken yer childhood friend from ye?"

  "No," she whispered.

  "Then why?"

  "Hugh's death—somehow it made me realize—" She stopped, but his gaze burned into her, exacting the truth regardless of her will. "I realized how much I—care for my husband."

  Alex leaned back, sighing deeply. His eyes lost some of their luminous intensity. "I see."

  Released from his spell at last, Muriella looked away. "This time I don't think ye do."

  The Gypsy frowned. "Do ye know why Sir John killed Hugh?" His hair had fallen into his face again and he pushed it back impatiently. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now."

  "But it does. Mayhap the reason ye fear yer husband is because ye don't understand him well enough."

  Muriella stiffened. "I didn't say I fear him."

  "Didn't ye?" Alex murmured, "I thought ye did." The Gypsy reached out to raise her chin with one callused finger. "My child, ye can't understand yer husband till ye know the truth—unclouded by doubt or fear or the memory of a once-pleasant dream. Ye said there were some letters from Cawdor. Mayhap if ye read them, 'twould help ye see things more clearly."

  "Mayhap," Muriella replied warily. "But I don't know where they are. And I don't think—"

  "Aye?" the Gypsy murmured. "What don't ye think?"

  Once again she tried desperately to look away, but the light in his eyes had captured her and would not set her free. "I don't think I want to know."

  Smiling grimly, Alex drew away from her. "And that, above all, is why ye must know."

  Chapter 45

  A short time later, Alex entered the library again. "Here they are."

  Muriella surveyed the packet he had thrown onto the desk, but did not reach out to take it. "How did ye get them?"

  "Duncan helped me find 'em among Sir John's papers."

  "Why would he do such a thing?" she asked, half to herself. "Surely he knows John would be angry."

  Alex shrugged. "He didn't like it, but I told him how important 'twas for ye to see 'em."

  "Do ye think he understood?"

  The Gypsy shook his head. "No, but he tried. Ye're lucky to have such a friend."

  Muriella thought of all the gifts of song the squire had given her—and one gift more. "I know."

  "Would ye have me stay while ye read?"

  She noticed the strained energy that had characterized him earlier had gone. Now he did not seem at all intimidating, only very, very tired. "No," she said. "'Tis best if I'm alone, I think."

  "As ye wish. But I'll be nearby."

  "Thank ye."

  "Ye may no' wish to thank me when ye've seen 'em." Before she could respond, he slipped out, closing the door without a sound.

  For several minutes, Muriella sat staring at the square of faded yellow against the dark leather cover of a manuscript. She waved her hand over the folded parchment as if to make it disappear into the shimmering sunlight. What, in God's name, are ye so afraid off John had asked her once. What indeed? With sudden resolution, she pulled the ribbon loose, spilling the letters onto the desktop. Gently, she spread the parchment open.

  "John Campbell, Lord of Lorne, Thane of Cawdor," it read.

  My lord,

  Yer enquiries surprised me, for I thought that matter had been settled in yer father's time. 'Tis true enough that Hugh Rose has been spreading the rumors far and wide, and mayhap the people fear him enough to believe him. Or mayhap when he stands above them with his sword poised and ready to strike, they tell him only what he wants to hear. But even that won't give him the power to bring the case to light again. There can be no question of illegal proceedings, for all concerned signed fully attested legal documents. Ye need not bother further with Rose's slanders against yer wife's name, for yer right to Cawdor is unquestioned.

  But I warn ye, when The Devil Afire sees that his rumors aren't succeeding, he'll resort to the sword soon enough. Still, if as ye say, ye intend to come here soon, I believe yer presence will do a great deal toward keeping the outlaw in line.

  Yer obedient servant,

  Robert, Precentor of Ross

  Muriella's vision blurred, though whether with tears or confusion, she was not certain. Laying the letter aside, she chose another.

  My lord,

  There's been much unrest between the Calders and Roses of late. The old feud is stronger now than it has been in many years; the young Hugh Rose has seen to that. He's been heard to say more than once that ye cheated him out of his rightful fortune by stealing his bride. I won't repeat the foul things he's been saying about yer wife (though there are others less delicate than I). But I'll tell ye this: I don't think she will be safe at Cawdor so long as Hugh Rose lives. Nor will ye.

  The outlaw will never forget the humiliation ye gave him last October. By showing him mercy, ye only fed his rage. His right arm is useless since the blow from yer blade, but he makes no secret of the fact that he's been working with his left. From what I hear, his hatred of ye gives him more strength than a normal man. He is feared as much now as he was before. He says when he's ready, he'll come for ye and yer wife. I warn ye, he isn't to be trifled with. 'Tis a dangerous situation here till he's been dealt with. If ye're coming indeed, I pray 'twill be soon, for I mislike the smell in the air.

  Ever yer servant,

  Archie Campbell Cawdor Castle

  Muriella gripped the parchment in cold fingers. She could no longer deny how much the Hugh she had known had changed. It seemed this time John's rage had been justified, and it had been as much for her sake as for his—perhaps even more. Have a little faith, Alex had told her once. She should have listened. Dropping the crumpled page, she reached for the last letter.

  Dear Cousin,

  I've spoken to a great many people in the past few weeks, just as ye bid me. It's taken time, for, as ye instructed, I've taken care that no one will repeat my questions after ye and yer wife arrive at Cawdor. I believe that, other than the threat from Hugh Rose, 'tis safe to bring her. The servants at the castle don't appear to listen to Rose's rumors. The few who wonder if the rumors are true tell me they don't care, for they hate the Calders with a passion and the Roses as much. The two families have caused a lot of bloodshed with their constant feuding, and those who are neither Calder nor Rose wish yer wife the victory.

  As for the other matter, I had to ask a great many more questions with a great deal more care, for I knew the Roses held the secret if any did. I'm afraid ye'll be
disappointed at my news, for there is nothing definite, as Isabel Calder has been dead this past month. I believe she was the only one who knew for certain. But one of her sisters, Glenna, seemed particularly troubled by my interest, so I pressed her. After many hours, she finally told me she was aware, all those years ago, that her sister loved a man besides her husband. She did not know whether Isabel had "known" the man, nor did she know his identity. Apparently, Isabel Calder was very discreet. But Glenna did say that, on her deathbed, her sister said something that made her believe the man must have been a Gypsy. As the Gypsies come and go so irregularly, I don't believe 'twould be possible to trace one nameless man. I advise ye to let it rest. For even if, after years of searching, we were to find him, 'twould not answer the one question Isabel alone could have answered.

  Yer loyal cousin,

  David Campbell

  The air in the library was warm, but Muriella's hands were icy cold. How could it be that no one had told her about Isabel's death? She conjured up the image of her mother bent over the loom, fingers flying, singing the songs she created as she worked. Muriella remembered how Isabel had so often kept boredom at bay with her talk of magic and the Kelpies and the wonder to be found in the patterns of colored thread. But now her mother was gone and Muriella had never really had a chance to know her. She closed her eyes against overwhelming grief and regret. But there was something more. "...the man must have been a Gypsy." Her eyes widened. People in trouble sometimes seek out the Gypsies, so yer mother came to me, Alex had told her. “Dear God in heaven.” Somehow ye've become my concern. Mayhap 'tis because of the burden we share, he had added.

  Her fingers curled inward until the nails dug into the skin of her palms. Ye see, lass, he had whispered once in his melodic voice, that ye aren't alone.

  As the sound of that voice faded into silence, Muriella found she could not move. Outside the door, Alex was waiting.