The Highlander's Wicked Ways, page 17
“Nay, this is something I must do alone,” I replied.
At my uncle’s reluctant nod, I descended the dais and started toward the great hall door, but I got only a few steps before James called behind me. each step fueled by righteous anger. As I reached the doorway, James’s voice called out behind me again. “Munro! Wait!”
I didn’t slow my pace or turn to acknowledge him. My uncle’s warnings echoed in my mind. Was James part of this scheme? Had he encouraged Murieall to use Guinn and Bess? I couldn’t believe it, and yet I couldn’t fully dismiss the possibility.
The corridors passed in a blur as I made my way toward Murieall’s chamber, my fury building with each stride. She’d betrayed me in the worst possible way by using my children, by twisting their memories of their mama, by making them complicit in her lies. For that, there could be no forgiveness, no second chance. Come dawn, she would be gone from my lands, from my life, from my heart that she had somehow breached.
The sour taste of loss filled my mouth once more as I approached her chamber door. Loss of trust. Loss of hope. Loss of whatever fragile thing had been growing between us. But I shoved it aside, letting anger burn it away. Anger was safer and would give me the strength to do what I must.
I didn’t knock. My anger moved me forward, allowing for no such courtesy. My hand slammed against the heavy oak, and the door flew open with such force that it crashed against the stone wall behind it. The hinges groaned in protest as I stood in the doorway, my chest heaving with exertion and fury. The chamber was dim, lit only by a few guttering candles and the glow of a small fire in the hearth. Steam rose from the wooden tub that sat before the flames, and in it sat Murieall. Her copper hair was piled atop her head, damp tendrils framing her face. Her naked shoulders gleamed above the water’s surface, droplets catching the firelight against her pale skin.
My words died in my throat, stolen by the sight of her. Desire, unwelcome and unbidden, rushed through me with a force that momentarily overwhelmed my anger. Memories of the previous night flooded my mind—the taste of her lips, the softness of her skin beneath my hands, the way she had arched against me as if our bodies had been fashioned to fit perfectly together. My body hardened, and I hated myself for it. Hated that even now, knowing what I knew, my traitorous body still yearned for her.
She gasped, arms moving to cover herself as she pressed back against the tub’s rim. “Munro!” Her dark eyes widened.
I forced my gaze away from her to fix upon the wall behind her, unwilling to allow my desire to weaken my resolve.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice small but steady. Water sloshed against the sides to let me know she had gotten out of the tub. I kept my gaze averted to ensure she had enough time to get dressed. Clothes rustled, and then she said, “I’m dressed.”
I turned toward her and had to steel myself against the ache the sight of her caused me. She was so heartbreakingly lovely with her face flushed, and her wet, fiery strands clinging to her chest, which was barely covered by her hastily tied laces on the bodice of her gown. “What’s happened?” she asked.
“What’s happened,” I growled, “is that Guinn and Bess just informed me ye’ve been using them in yer mad schemes. Taking them through the castle and village, filling their heads with nonsense about ghosts and Isabella.”
Color drained from her face, leaving her skin ashen in the firelight. “I did nae mean to involve them,” she began. “They found me as I was—”
“I do nae care for yer excuses,” I cut her off, taking a step into the chamber. The door remained open behind me, but I paid it no mind. Let the whole castle hear if they wished. Let them know the depth of her deception. “Ye’ll be leaving tomorrow. I’ll provide ye an escort for wherever ye wish to go.”
“Munro, please,” she pleaded, “let me explain.”
“Ye can nae explain away manipulating Bess and Guinn’s grief for their mama to suit yer own purposes.” My voice rose with each word, the rage I’d momentarily lost at the sight of her naked flesh returning in full force. “Ye claimed to hear the voices of the dead, and now ye’re dragging my children into yer madness.” I paused, considering whether to confront her about Uncle Gordon’s conspiracy suggestion, but before I could, she spoke.
“’Tis nae madness,” she insisted, her voice taking on a strange quiet intensity that gave me pause. “The voices are real. I hear them. I’ve been helping the ghosts find peace.”
“Stop it!” I snapped. “Ye ken what I think of yer tales of curses, witches, and ghosts. If ye think to conspire against me to steal the lairdship—”
“What?” she gasped, and the word held so much shock, so much indignation that I almost believed she had not once considered such a thing, but then I remembered how I knew she had lied straight to my face before.
“Be ready to depart on the morrow,” I bit out.
“Munro, ye must listen. Isabella—”
“Nay!” I thundered. Striding toward her and stopping so close I could see the rise and fall of her chest with each breath she took. My fingers curled in memory of touching her, which made my anger, and, yes, my jealousy, burn hotter. “Mayhap ye’d like James to accompany ye tomorrow?” I asked, looking for signs of guilt.
She sucked in a sharp breath, and she might as well have plunged a dagger in my gut. “I can explain,” she said, reaching toward me.
I stepped away, my mind reeling with the implication that James had betrayed me as well. “Ye can nae explain away treachery,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. My lungs seemed to have forgotten their purpose. I couldn’t catch a breath, and spots danced before my eyes. I blinked, and when she came into focus again, desperation filled her eyes.
“Isabella did nae jump from Pike’s Point,” she said.
I froze, every muscle in my body going rigid as if suddenly turned to stone. What new ploy was this? “What did ye say?”
“Isabella did nae jump,” Murieall repeated, each word with deliberate care. “She did nae take her own life.”
My hands curled reflexively into fists. “Was this yers or James’s idea? Did the two of ye think I’d start the search anew for her murderer? That ye could make me look mad to the clan by convincing me ye conversed with my dead wife?” I roared.
“What?” she cried out. “Munro, nay,” she said, shaking her head. “Isabella told me herself. James does nae have anything to do with any of this.”
She was so very believable, until she averted her gaze and crossed her arms over her chest. “Ye’re lying,” I said, and all the betrayal I felt made my words tremble. “James kens what yer doing.” Her gaze flew to me, plunging the dagger of betrayal deeper into my gut. “How long have ye planned this?”
She pressed her fingertips to her temples and shook her head. “Munro, nay, ye must listen.”
There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask. How had they met? Were they sleeping together? Did she feel no guilt for what she’d done to the lasses? The questions flooded my mind, battering it.
“Isabella told me to tell ye—”
I grabbed her then by the shoulder and jerked her to me. When she winced, I loosened my hold. “Nae another word,” I said, forcing each word through clenched teeth. “If ye say one more word, I’ll send ye away this night, into the dark, without escort, and yer lover will nae get a merciful end.”
Her brows dipped together, then her eyes widened, and for what seemed a thousand heartbeats, we stood face to face, before she finally nodded. I released her and stalked toward the door. I paused on the threshold. “There will be a guard at yer door, so ye can forget any ideas of stepping out of this bedchamber and going to James.”
A sharp intake of breath was the last sound I heard before I slammed her bedchamber door shut. My hands shook violently at my sides, fists clenching and unclenching as I fought for control, and then voices erupted from around the corner a moment before one of my young guards appeared.
“Dalton,” I called, motioning him to me as a desperate need to confront James coursed through me. “Stand by this door until morning. Do nae let the lass out until I send someone to retrieve her.”
“Aye, laird.”
Dalton’s reply came at my back. I was already stalking away on the hunt for my prey. I searched the great hall, his bedchamber, the solar, and the kitchens, and finally made my way to the stables. The stablemaster greeted me with a wave.
“Laird, what can I do for ye this fine night?”
“Have ye seen James?” I asked, finding pleasantries beyond me at the moment.
“Aye, he rode out on border patrol tonight. He’ll be back at first light.”
I frowned. “Border patrol?”
“Aye, Laird,” Fitzroy said. “Ye’re uncle started it two days ago.”
I recalled then that I’d seen something about that in the plans I’d told Uncle Gordon I would think about and let him know what I wanted to do. Irritation flared that he’d proceeded anyway, that he’d gone against my command, but that would have to wait until I dealt with James. “When he returns, send a stable boy to tell me immediately.”
“Aye, Laird,” Fitzroy said.
I made my way to my bedchamber, almost desperate to be alone, to think.
I slammed the door to my private chamber with enough force to make the iron hinges groan. My breath came in ragged gasps as if I’d run for ages rather than merely walked the short distance from the stables to my chamber. Each heartbeat pounded in my ears like a war drum, mercilessly drowning out thought. But by the time I kicked off my boots and lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, I could no longer keep all that had happened, been said, and discovered at bay. It washed over me, scalding my mind.
Murieall had said Isabella had not jumped and had not taken her own life. I knew she was lying. I knew she was conspiring with James. I’d seen her avert her gaze. I’d seen her cross her arms, but what if I was wrong? Now that I was calmer, I methodically recalled the exchange with Murieall. She had not once admitted that she and James were scheming. She had denied it, in fact, but she had seemed guilty. I knew, when I was more level-headed, that seeming guilty did not always equate to guilt.
What was I even considering? I didn’t believe in ghosts, witches, or curses, but I had believed at one time that Isabella had been murdered; I had raged against the very notion that she would take her own life. I had pointed to the bruises on her wrists and the torn cloak. I had demanded investigations, interrogations. I had been certain that someone had murdered my wife.
My uncle’s warnings rang in my ears that this was all part of some elaborate scheme to make me appear unfit to lead. Tales of ghosts and murders would certainly accomplish that if I were fool enough to believe them, to repeat them to others.
Yet what would Murieall gain from such a scheme? She had no claim to Ross lands, no stake in our clan politics, unless what she would gain was being the lady of the stronghold if James were laird. Even now, the very thought of James betraying me after all we’d shared since boyhood made my stomach clench. We had trained together, fought together, and grieved together. I had always trusted him with my life.
My head pounded with lack of answers and doubt, and a voice in the back of my mind whispered, soft yet persistent: if James had not betrayed me, if by some strangeness of the world Murieall was not lying, then I had allowed my wife’s killer to roam free as I dulled her memory with drink. The thought sent me doubling over. I staggered to the nearest chair and sank into it, the wood creaking beneath my weight. I gripped my head as the questions collided. Was that the truth of it? Was my willingness to suspect James and Murieall of conspiracy merely a shield against facing my own failure of facing something not of my world that I didn’t understand?
If Isabella had indeed been murdered, and I had given up searching for her killer because it was easier than fighting against the tide of disbelief, what kind of man did that make me? What kind of husband? What kind of laird?
And if Murieall truly did hear the voices of the dead, if Isabella truly had spoken to her from beyond the grave, what then? It defied all reason, all natural law. I had been raised to believe in God and His heaven, but ghosts whispering secrets to the living? That was the stuff of fireside tales told to frighten children.
The fire crackled and popped in the hearth, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Outside, the wind moaned through the battlements, a sound that had always reminded me of souls in torment. Was Isabella’s among them? Had she been trying to reach me all this time while I closed my ears and heart to her?
The shame of it burned in my chest, spreading through my veins like poison. And beneath the shame lurked another truth, one I was even less willing to face: I wanted to believe Murieall not just about Isabella, but about everything. I wanted to believe she had come to me with pure intentions, that what had grown between us was real, not some calculated scheme.
Because in her arms, for one night, I had felt something other than grief. I had felt alive again. And God help me, I feared some part of me would accept any lie, believe any tale, if it meant keeping that feeling, keeping her.
I stared into the fire and made a decision. I would speak to James. Face-to-face with him, I felt I would sense the truth and see it. One thing I knew for certain: there was no path forward that didn’t lead through suffering.
Chapter Eighteen – Murieall
Dawn crept through the narrow window of my chamber. I hadn’t slept more than a handful of restless moments. I was kept awake by my mind replaying Munro’s accusations and my failed pleas to the guard outside my door. My body ached as if I’d been beaten, though the only blows I’d suffered were the words Munro had hurled at me and the sight of betrayal in his eyes. I rolled to my side and stared at the shadows that clung to the corners. God’s blood, how had everything gone so terribly wrong?
I pushed myself from the bed, my legs unsteady beneath me as I crossed to the window. The courtyard below was stirring with early-morning activity. Soon, Munro would come to send me away, and I would never see him again.
That thought drove me from the window to pace the confines of my prison. Seven steps to the door, seven steps back to the window, turn and repeat. My fingers raked through my hair, wincing as they caught in a tangle, and I wrestled with the same question that had plagued me all night. Why would Munro think I’d conspire with James? For what purpose? I recalled the blind rage in his eyes when he’d accused me and James of plotting against him, of trying to make him appear mad to the clan. The memory of his face, contorted with fury and pain, made my breath hitch.
I paused at the door and pressed my hand against it, hoping my attempts this morning to get Dalton to open my door, which he was assigned to guard, would yield better results than the previous night. “Dalton,” I called. “Please let me out.”
“Nay,” he bit back. “And if ye start pestering me as ye did last night, I’ll open the door and stuff yer mouth, so I do nae have to listen to ye beg.”
I scowled at the door, then pressed my forehead to it. “Isabella,” I whispered, my voice breaking on her name. “I beg of ye to speak to me, please. Munro’s sending me away this day. If there’s truth ye would have me tell him, I must ken it now, or all is lost.”
It started as a whisper in my mind, but her voice gained intensity quickly.
Speak with the chambermaid, Francine. She heard my boy cry, too. He was nae stillborn. Prove I did nae jump.
The words rang with such clarity that I gasped, my head jerking up as if I might see Isabella standing before me. The chamber remained empty of any visible presence, yet the weight of her message settled on me like a physical thing.
My mind raced with the implications. If Isabella’s son hadn’t been stillborn as Munro had been told, then who had—
A sharp knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, startling me so badly I nearly toppled over.
“Who is it?” I called, my voice still thick with emotion.
The door swung open to reveal James, his clothes travel-worn and dusty, his face grim with purpose. A glance behind him showed no sign of Dalton.
“Where’s the guard?” I asked, bewildered by his unexpected appearance.
“I told him Munro had sent me to escort ye from our stronghold, so Dalton went on to train with the others, thinking his duty here was done. What’s happened?” James asked. “I returned from border patrol a short while ago only to find the whole castle buzzing about yer impending departure.”
The words poured from me in a desperate flood. I told him of Munro’s accusations and his anger at both of us. I paused. “I do nae ken why he thinks we’re conspiring against him,” I said. My fingers twined together anxiously. “He’s sending me away today. But James, Isabella spoke to me moments ago. She told me to speak with a chambermaid named Francine, who apparently heard Isabella’s bairn cry after birth.”
James’s face darkened as I spoke, his expression shifting from confusion to grim understanding. “Francine,” he murmured. “Aye, she assisted Magdalene during the birth.” His jaw tightened. “Magdalene swore the child never drew breath.”
“If the child lived,” I said slowly, the terrible realization dawning, “then Magdalene—”
“Aye,” James finished for me, his voice hard as iron. “Either killed him or felt she’d be blamed when he did nae live, so she lied that he ever drew breath.” He extended his hand toward me, his gaze intent. “Follow my lead. We need to find Francine before Munro sends ye away.”
I followed James through the corridors, my heart hammering against my ribs with each careful step. Every time we turned a corner, I tensed, expecting to meet disaster. James moved with the confidence of a man born to these walls, his shoulders drawn up, but his steps sure as he led the way. Whenever footsteps echoed from around a corner, or voices drifted toward us, he would raise his hand sharply, bringing me to a halt as we pressed against the cold stone walls, waiting for the danger to pass.
“The servants are gathered in the kitchen for their morning meal,” James whispered over his shoulder. “We should be able to reach my chambers without being seen.”
