The Highlander's Wicked Ways, page 12
At supper, I kept my eyes fixed on my trencher, pushing the food around without eating, acutely aware of Munro and how he was avoiding me just as I was him. We hadn’t spoken since we’d sat down. It was as if the afternoon’s conversation had left something sensitive and exposed between us, like skin rubbed raw from a long day’s ride. I wasn’t eager to examine the wound, and clearly, he wasn’t either.
Guinn and Bess, however, showed no such restraint. They cast knowing glances between us throughout the meal, occasionally dissolving into poorly concealed giggles. Each time, Munro cleared his throat and took another long drink from his cup, while I found some fascinating detail in the tablecloth to study.
“Ye’ve barely touched yer food,” Lady Magdalene observed, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Are ye unwell, Murieall?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, forcing myself to take a bite of the venison to prove it. “Just tired from the day’s events.”
“Indeed,” she said, her gaze flicking between Munro and me. “Word travels quickly about such dramatic events. A fall from a tree, a headlong flight across the grounds, a touching scene beneath the old oak.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How fortunate that our laird was there to comfort ye. There’s nae been such castle gossip about Muro since he courted Isabella.”
“Enough,” Munro bit out.
Heat rose to my cheeks, but before I could think how to respond, James said, “May I have the honor of a dance, Murieall?” I glanced behind me, surprised to see him standing there with his hand extended. But I was more than happy to escape Lady Magdalene, who clearly had taken a dislike of me. “Of course,” I said, perhaps too eagerly.
As I rose from my seat, my gaze inadvertently met Munro’s. His blue-gray eyes were more gray than blue at the moment. They reminded me of a sky before a storm, and he was scowling at James. Was Munro jealous that James asked me to dance? The thought sent an unwelcome thrill through me, which I quickly suppressed.
James led me to the open area where other couples were already moving to the music of pipes and drums. His hand settled at my waist, respectful but firm, as we joined the dance.
“I heard about this afternoon as well,” he said.
I snorted. “Gossip travels fast at this stronghold.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “but ’tis mostly the lasses that have stirred it to the frenzy it’s at. They can speak of little else but how brave ye were to catch Bess, and how ye and Munro had a ‘fight that was nae really a fight.’” His lips quirked in amusement. “Their words, nae mine.”
I sighed, knowing there was no point in pretense with this very watchful man. “We quarreled,” I admitted. “About life and plans and grief.”
“Ah,” James nodded, guiding me through a turn. “Heavy matters indeed. And did ye reach any conclusions in this debate?”
“Only that we disagree on much,” I replied, though even as I said it, I wondered if that was truly the case. Beneath our apparent differences, there had been a strange resonance, as if we recognized in each other a similar wound, differently dressed.
“Time is quickly running out on yer bargain with Munro,” James remarked casually, though his eyes were intent upon my face. “Do ye think ye’re any closer to making him feel again?”
The question caught me off guard. I’d been so caught up in the day-to-day tasks of caring for the lasses, in navigating my own tumultuous feelings, that I’d almost forgotten my original purpose. “I do nae ken,” I answered honestly. “He seems to care for his daughters more openly, but…”
“But that’s nae enough,” James finished for me. “Nae to truly heal him, as I said last time we talked.” He guided me through another turn, then lowered his voice. “Have ye considered what I suggested? About listening to the voices instead of fighting them?”
I tensed beneath his hand, nearly missing a step in the dance. “I’ve thought of little else since we spoke,” I confessed.
“And?”
The music swelled around us as I considered my answer. Munro’s words about the way I was living, leaving no room for joy, for possibility, came to me. “Perhaps ye’re right,” I said begrudgingly. “Perhaps I’ve been so determined to silence the dead that I’ve missed what they might be trying to tell me.”
James’s eyes lit with approval. “The voices chose ye for a reason.”
“They did nae choose me,” I muttered. “I was cursed.”
The dance ended, and James bowed over my hand. As he straightened, he said, “Mayhap ye have been looking at it incorrectly. Mayhap if ye listen, if ye help others, ye will find some peace of yer own.”
I made my way back to the high table as Jame’s words echoed in my mind. Had I been wrong to fight so hard against the curse? Could there be purpose in what I’d thus far seen only as punishment? The thought was terrifying yet strangely liberating.
As I took my seat, I decided that the next time a voice spoke to me, I would listen. I barely had time to settle this in my mind before a woman’s voice, soft and sorrowful, filled my head.
My locket lies beneath the loose stone in the far corner of the kitchen hearth. I was to pass it to my Mary as my mama passed it to me. Give it to my Mary. Ease her grief.
I froze with my goblet halfway to my lips. In the past, I would have tensed, fought to ignore the voice, pushed it away with all my mental strength. Now, I let it come, let the words wash over me, through me.
“What’s the matter, Murieall?” Bess asked from beside me.
“Nae anything, lass. I just remembered something I need to attend to. Please excuse me.”
I rose from the table, aware of Munro’s gaze upon me, but I offered no further explanation. I hurried out of the great hall to the kitchen, where some servants were busy preparing the next day’s bread. Several women looked up in surprise as I entered.
“May I help ye, my lady?” asked an older woman, wiping floury hands on her apron.
“I’m looking for Mary,” I said, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.
A young woman stepped forward, perhaps seventeen or eighteen summers, her face pinched with wariness. “I’m Mary,” she said with a small curtsy. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Nay,” I assured her quickly. “I…” Embarrassment rose, but I shoved it aside. “I’ve come about yer mama’s locket.”
She frowned. “How could ye possibly ken about that?”
Instead of answering, I moved toward the massive hearth at the far end of the kitchen, guided by the persistent whisper in my ear. I crouched down, ignoring the curious stares of the kitchen staff, and probed at the stones in the corner. One moved slightly beneath my touch.
“Here,” I said, working my fingers into the gap. “It’s here.” With some effort, I pried the stone loose. Behind it was a small cavity, and nestled within, gleaming dully in the firelight, was a silver locket on a tarnished chain. My heart pounded as I lifted it carefully and turned to Mary, whose eyes had grown wide with disbelief. “I believe this belongs to ye,” I said softly, holding it out to her with my trembling hands.
She approached slowly, as if in a dream, her hands trembling like mine were as she took the locket from me. “It was my mama’s,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “And before that, my grandmama’s. It went missing after my mama died last winter. I thought it was lost forever.” She looked up at me, wonder and confusion warring on her young face. “How did ye ken where to find it?”
The truth would sound mad to these people who didn’t know me or my curse. Instead, I said simply, “Someone told me where to look.”
I rose quickly and turned to leave before she asked me anymore questions, but at the kitchen door, Mary called from behind me, “Thank ye!”
I gave a nod and departed, but the happiness in her voice made me smile. For the first time since the curse began, I had used it to bring joy rather than fear, comfort rather than distress. It was a small thing, perhaps, a trinket restored to a grieving daughter, but the gratitude in Mary’s eyes had been genuine, the relief in her face palpable. Had this been Morgana’s intent all along? Not punishment, but purpose?
I wanted to be alone to think, so I made my way to my bedchamber and prepared for bed, then went to Munro’s. I sat on the massive bed, and I closed my eyes and, for the first time in three years, I opened myself fully to the voices.
They came rushing in like relentless waves—dozens, perhaps hundreds of whispered pleas, fragments of stories, names and places and secrets long buried. The sheer volume was overwhelming, pressing against my skull from the inside, each voice fighting to be heard above the others. I trembled and clutched the furs as if they might anchor me against this flood of spectral need.
Suddenly, the bed dipped. My eyes fly open to find Munro watching me, concern etched across his features. “Ye’re shivering,” he said, his voice gruff. Was he worried?
I tried to respond, but the voices were too many, too insistent. I could only shake my head, teeth chattering despite the relative warmth of the room. Munro rose and moved to a chest against the wall. He returned with additional blankets, which he placed around my shoulders with unexpected gentleness.
“Better?” he asked.
When I nodded, he said, “I’ll go fetch ye a hot drink.”
“Nay, just stay,” I managed to whisper, the words slipping out before I could consider the wisdom of the request. And surely, surely, it was not wise, for as I took in his powerful presence and reassuring gaze, my belly tightened, and yearning sprang deep in my core. I wanted this man as I had never wanted before.
Chapter Thirteen – Munro
My first instinct was to refuse her request, to mutter some excuse about duties elsewhere, to flee as I’d been fleeing for two years. But the vulnerability etched across Murieall’s face, the same face that had haunted my dreams these past nights, stirred something in me that I’d thought long dead. I hesitated, one foot already turned toward the door, the walls I’d built trembling.
“Would ye just lie here with me,” she added, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Please.”
God’s blood, but that word undid me. Please. When had anyone last asked me for something with such raw need? Not demanded as a laird, not expected as a da, just… asked. I swallowed hard, feeling the battle between habit and desire wage war within my chest.
“Aye,” I managed, the word scraping past my throat. “For a bit.”
I lowered myself onto the bed beside her, careful to keep a proper distance between us. The furs dipped beneath my weight, shifting us closer despite my intentions. Murieall lay on her side facing me, her copper hair spilling across the pillow. Her dark eyes, troubled yet somehow hopeful, held mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten.
Without thinking, I reached for her hand. Her fingers were cold, and I told myself that was why I took them between my own, not because I craved the softness of her skin against mine, not because I’d been wondering what those slender fingers would feel like trailing across my chest. Her shivering subsided at my touch.
“Better now?” I asked, my voice gruffer than I’d intended.
She nodded without offering an explanation of what was wrong, and I didn’t probe. I knew what it was like not to want to be questioned.
“I was worried,” I admitted, surprising myself, “when ye fled from the great hall.”
A flush crept up her cheeks. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Do nae apologize. I just…” I trailed off, uncertain how to express what I’d felt in that moment. Fear had spiked when she’d fled, and a surge of protective fury had driven me to find her, instead of avoiding the bedchamber like I’d been doing.
The same fury I’d felt this morning when I thought James had upset her. And the strange, knotted heat in my gut when I’d watched him lead her in the dance earlier tonight. Her hand in his, her smile directed at him. That had been jealousy, pure and simple, a feeling I’d not experienced since courting Isabella.
God help me, but I was falling under this woman’s spell.
The thought should have sent me bolting from the room. Instead, I remained, my thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand while the torchlight painted shadows across the delicate planes of her face. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t like Isabella at all—Isabella had been all golden light and laughter, while Murieall was dark waters and quiet strength. Different, yet equally captivating.
“Ye looked like ye were enjoying yerself tonight,” I said, the words coming out more accusing than I’d intended. “Dancing with James.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “He rescued me from yer aunt’s questions. She does nae seem to like me much.”
“Aunt Magdalene takes time to warm to people,” I said, though in truth, I’d never seen her warm to anyone outside the family. “And James is a charmer with the lasses.”
“Are ye jealous?” she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice that surprised me.
I should have denied it immediately. Should have scoffed at the very idea. Instead, I said, “Aye, perhaps I was.”
Her eyes widened at my admission, and I felt an unexpected satisfaction at having surprised her. Two years I’d spent hiding behind wine and walls, letting no one close enough to see beneath the mask of laird and grieving widower. Yet here I was, revealing truths I scarcely admitted to myself.
She shifted slightly, wincing as she did so. The gash on her temple from catching Bess was still raw, a reminder of how she’d put herself in harm’s way to protect my daughter. My throat tightened at the memory.
“James told me some of what happened,” she said after a moment, her voice soft. “About Isabella.”
I tensed, my hand stilling on hers. The familiar urge to shut down, to retreat into numbness, rose within me like an old friend offering comfort. But Murieall didn’t press, didn’t demand. She simply waited, her eyes on mine, patient and somehow understanding.
“What did he tell ye?” I asked finally.
“That she was found at the bottom of a cliff. That some believe she jumped after losing your son, but ye believed someone killed her.” She paused, then added quietly, “That ye blame yerself either way.”
I closed my eyes briefly, the pain of those memories washing over me in a wave that was familiar yet surprisingly not quite as strong as recently. When I opened them again, Murieall was still watching me, her gaze steady and without judgment.
“Ye do nae have to tell me,” she said.
I nodded at that, appreciating it. But I did want to try to explain how I’d come to be this way, which surprised me. “I want ye to understand,” I said, my voice gruff.
She nodded, her free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so tender it nearly broke me. “Then I will listen.”
The torchlight flickered over us, casting long shadows on the stone walls, and outside, the wind moaned through the battlements. The old familiar ache in my chest was there, yet for the first time in years, it felt bearable, as if in speaking of the past, I might finally begin to set down the weight I’d carried alone for so long.
“She was nae always sad,” I began, the words tumbling out before I could reconsider. “Before the bairn, before everything went wrong, she was the most joyful creature I’d ever kenned.”
Murieall’s fingers tightened around mine, anchoring me as I prepared to dive into the darkest waters of my memory. And God help me, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to let her pull me from those depths, to breathe air that wasn’t tainted with grief and guilt and endless, choking regret.
I stared at our joined hands for a long moment, gathering courage like a man might gather stones to build a wall, only I was about to tear one down. “Isabella was afraid to have another bairn after Bess was born because the birth was so difficult,” I said, my voice strange to my own ears after so long avoiding speaking of her. “But she knew how much I wanted a son, and so she set her fear aside. When she finally quickened with him, her joy was great, and so was mine.” I swallowed hard against the memory.
Murieall’s fingers tightened around mine, not in judgment but in silent support. The simple gesture gave me the strength to continue.
“Uncle Gordon insisted I attend to a clan dispute. Said it could nae wait, that my presence was required to prevent bloodshed.” I exhaled slowly, the familiar bitterness rising like bile. “I rode out with twenty men, leaving Isabella heavy with child.”
I could almost see the events unfolding as I recounted them. “The bairn came while I was gone, and there were complications.” My voice caught on the word, and I had to force myself to continue. “By the time I returned, it was far too late.”
Murieall shifted closer, her free hand coming to rest lightly on my forearm. The warmth of her touch was reassuring as the past sank its claws into me.
“My son was stillborn. We had decided if Isabella had a boy to name the child George, after Isabella’s da.” It felt foreign to be speaking so openly of him. “Isabella held his lifeless body in her arms and gave him his name alone.” My throat constricted painfully. “She buried him alone, while I was arguing with strangers about grazing rights.”
I closed my eyes against the surge of self-loathing that accompanied those words. When I opened them again, Murieall’s gaze held no condemnation, only a profound understanding that somehow made it both easier and harder to continue.
“After that, she changed.” I struggled to find words adequate to describe the transformation I’d witnessed. “At first, she raged that George had been killed. She insisted that she’d heard him cry when he was born, but both Aunt Magdalen and Isabella’s chambermaid said he was stillborn. Once she accepted this, the anger departed, leaving only sadness. It was as if something vital had gone out of her, like a candle snuffed by the wind. She would sit for hours in her solar, staring at nothing. She stopped eating unless reminded. Stopped speaking unless spoken to.”
