The Highlander's Wicked Ways, page 21
I looked up at James then, meeting his concerned gaze with unwavering resolve. “If she dies,” I said, my voice breaking on the word, “she will nae die alone. If she lives, she will wake to find me here, waiting.”
James studied my face for a long moment before the tension in his shoulders eased, and he nodded once, accepting my decision without further argument.
“At least let me have food brought to ye,” he said. “And perhaps fresh clothing.”
I glanced down at my blood-stained plaid and nodded reluctantly. “Aye, I’d be grateful for that.”
As James turned to leave, a question that had been nagging at the edges of my mind suddenly surfaced.
“James,” I called, stopping him before he reached the door. “Why did ye believe her? About the ghosts, about Isabella, about all of it. Why did ye nae think her mad or manipulative as I did?”
He paused, his hand on the door latch, and turned back to face me with a small, sad smile. “Because I saw the way she looked at ye,” he said simply. “A woman does nae look at a man she means to destroy the way Murieall looked at ye.”
I found myself so choked by his words, I could do no more than nod. James inclined his head and departed, the heavy door closing behind him with a sound that echoed in the quiet chamber.
Alone once more with Murieall, I reached for her hand, drawing it into my lap, and turning my thoughts to the news James had brought.
My aunt was dead, having chosen to face her own judgment rather than mine or the clan’s. Justice of a sort had been served, though it felt hollow, incomplete. It would not bring back George or Isabella. It would not erase the years of grief and betrayal. But perhaps, if Murieall survived, it might be enough to build upon.
“Live,” I whispered, pressing her hand to my chest, where my heart beat steadily beneath. “Live, and I will spend every day proving myself worthy of yer faith in me.”
A soft moan escaped her lips, and my pulse leapt into my throat.
“Murieall?” I whispered, scarcely daring to hope. “Can ye hear me, lass?”
Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. Still, it was more response than I’d seen since she’d been wounded, and hope surged within me like a tide.
The sound of the door creaking open pulled my attention away from Murieall’s face. I turned, expecting the healer, but instead found Guinn and Bess standing in the doorway. They hesitated there, clearly uncertain of their welcome, their small faces solemn with worry.
“Come in, lasses,” I called softly, managing a smile for them despite my exhaustion.
They approached with careful steps, as if afraid that too much noise might somehow harm Murieall further. Guinn, ever the protector, kept a hand on Bess’s shoulder as they drew near the bed.
“Is she any better, Da?” Guinn asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“She made a sound just now,” I replied, unable to keep the hope from my voice.
Bess moved to the edge of the bed, her small face intense as she studied Murieall. Without hesitation, she reached out and placed her palm against Murieall’s forehead, much as the healer did when checking for fever. The gesture was so adult, so practiced, that it caught me off guard.
“I think she’s dreaming of her sister and Mama,” Bess announced with quiet certainty.
My breath caught in my throat. Four days ago, I would have dismissed such a pronouncement as childish fancy. But now, after all that had happened, after hearing Isabella’s voice myself in those desperate moments in the forest, I did not doubt that Bess might be right.
I looked back at Murieall, at the still features that had just shown their first sign of life in days. Was it possible? Were the dead speaking to her even now, in her fever dreams? Was Isabella there with her, guiding her back to us?
“She can take as long as she needs to dream,” I said, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “But then she has to come back to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Four – Murieall
I floated in a place between worlds, my body weightless yet somehow rooted. The pain that had consumed me receded like the tide, leaving behind a strange clarity I hadn’t felt in years. Sunlight dappled through ancient oaks, casting golden patterns across a glen I had known in my childhood. The heather swayed in the warm breeze, and the distant calls of birds echoed with an otherworldly resonance.
Was this death? This peaceful, beautiful place held no fear, no pain, no voices clamoring for attention in my mind.
“Ye always did prefer places with open skies,” a voice called from behind me, and my heart seized in my chest.
I knew that voice, though it had deepened with the years I’d lost. When I turned, the sight of her stole my breath away. Lisette stood before me, no longer the child who’d drowned while I watched from the shore, but a young woman with Mama’s height and our da’s gentle eyes. Her copper hair, so like my own, tumbled past her shoulders in waves that caught the sunlight.
“Lisette,” I whispered, her name a prayer and a plea upon my lips. “Is it truly ye?”
She smiled, displaying the gap between her front teeth I recalled from childhood. “Aye, ’tis me, sister.”
“Have I died, then?” I asked, my voice strangely steady despite the enormity of the question.
Lisette moved toward me with the grace of someone comfortable in their own skin, a confidence I’d never seen in the child she’d been. “Nae yet,” she said, reaching for my hands. Her touch was real, warm, and solid. She winked. “Though ye came perilously close.”
I clasped her fingers in mine, marveling at their substance. “I’ve missed ye,” I said, the simple truth of it making my voice break. “Every day since ye left, I’ve missed ye.”
“I ken it well,” she replied with a shake of her head. “I watched ye carry the weight of my death as if it were a burden ye could nae put down. I was glad when ye met him, and ye finally released the foolish guilt.”
She drew me into a hug. “It’s time to go back, Murieall. He waits for ye. He needs ye.” She released me and rose to her feet. “It’s nae yer time. Ye have much yet to do, many souls yet to help.’
The mist thickened around us, and Lisette’s form began to waver like a reflection on disturbed water. “Wait,” I called, reaching for her. “Do nae leave me again.”
“I’ve nae ever left ye,” she said, her voice already fading. “Ye just did nae ken how to listen for my whispers, and now ye do.”
Then she was gone, and in her place stood Morgana, silver hair flowing around her as if caught in an invisible current. Her silvery-purple eyes glinted with ancient knowledge as she regarded me with a raised brow.
“So ye’ve finally learned the truth of my gift,” she said, her voice carrying the same commanding presence I remembered from our meeting in the forest. “Though ye took yer sweet time about it.”
“Aye,” I said, rising from the log to face her properly. “I thought it a curse for a long time.”
Morgana’s laugh was rich and deep, seeming to vibrate through the misty air around us. “It was always a gift, waiting for ye to recognize it as such, but I suppose when ye can nae see something for the gift it is, it might seem a curse.” She moved closer, and I caught the scent of herbs and earth that clung to her. “The dead speak to those who will listen, but few can hear them as clearly as ye.”
“I wanted the voices gone,” I whispered, ashamed about that.
“And now?” Morgana asked, studying my face with those unnerving eyes.
“Now I understand,” I said. “The voices were nae ever the problem. My fear was the problem. My need for control.”
Morgana nodded, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Ye’ve fulfilled the terms. If ye wish me to silence the whispers, I can.”
I did not have to think about it even for a breath. I shook my head. “I choose to hear them,” I said, my voice steady and certain. “I choose to help those who need it. I choose a life without carefully laid plans.”
“And the laird?” Morgana asked, though her smile suggested she already knew my answer.
“I choose love,” I declared. “Whatever pain or joy it may bring. I choose to live, truly live, rather than merely survive.”
Morgana nodded, seemingly pleased with my response. Mist rose around us, and a tugging sensation gripped me.
“Return now,” Morgana said. “Live the life ye’ve chosen. Love the man who waits for ye.”
Warm pressure against my lips pulled me from the mists and thrust me into a body that felt leaden and afire all at once. My eyelids seemed weighted with stones, but I forced them open, blinking against the sudden intrusion of light. Munro’s face hovered above mine, so close I could count the golden flecks in his blue-grey eyes. His beard had grown fuller since I’d last seen him, and dark shadows beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless vigil. When he realized I was awake, watching him, a guttural sound escaped him that clutched at my heart more painfully than the wound in my chest.
“Murieall,” he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips. His hands trembled as they framed my face, rough palms against my cheeks with a gentleness that belied their strength. “Ye’re awake. Truly awake.”
I tried to speak, but my throat was parched, my voice a feeble croak that died before it could form words. Munro immediately reached for a goblet beside the bed, cradling my head with one hand as he brought water to my lips with the other. The cool liquid soothed my throat, though even the small movement sent lances of pain radiating from my chest.
As the water revived me, I became more aware of my surroundings. Stone walls enclosed us in what must be the healing chamber, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and poultices. A fire burned in the hearth across the room, casting dancing shadows over the sparse furnishings. Bandages wrapped tight around my midsection beneath the thin shift I wore, the slight pressure a constant reminder of Gordon’s blade.
“How long have I been asleep?” I managed, my voice a whisper.
“Four days,” he answered, setting the goblet aside but keeping his hand beneath my head, as if he feared I might slip away if he released me entirely. “For four days I feared I might lose ye.”
His eyes shone with unshed tears, and I marveled at the openness there. He was no longer trying to hide behind walls of anger or indifference. This was the true Munro, the man I had glimpsed in rare moments with me and his daughters, the man Isabella had loved.
“Gordon?” I asked, memories of the forest flashing through my mind—the dagger, the confession, the terrible moment of understanding.
“Dead,” Munro said, his jaw tightening briefly before softening once more. “I threw my dirk. It struck him in the neck.” He swallowed hard. “As he fell, he still clutched his dagger—” His voice broke, unable to finish.
“I remember,” I whispered, sparing him from having to say more. “And Magdalene?”
“Took her own life in the dungeon,” he replied, his thumb tracing gentle circles against my temple.
“Muno, I must tell ye what Gordon told me.”
Sadness filled his eyes, then a flash of anger. “Ye already did, lass. Ye mumbled the entire tale in yer sleep. I ken Magdalene took George’s life,” Munro said, his voice shaking with his emotions. “I ken of my uncle’s anger over nae getting the lairdship. Him and Aunt Magdalene plotting. Magdalene pushing Isabella from the cliff because Isabella heard the truth. And I ken they had every intention of taking the lairdship from me still. They were nurturing my grief and guilt to that end.”
I closed my eyes briefly, absorbing this information. So much death, so much pain, all stemming from ambition and jealousy. When I opened my eyes again, Munro was watching me with such intensity it took my breath away.
“I love ye, Murieall,” he said, running his thumb across my lower lip. “I thought I’d lost ye before I could tell ye. Before I could beg yer forgiveness for doubting ye, for nae believing ye.” His calloused fingers stroked my cheek now with gentle reverence. “I was blind with fear and suspicion. I let my aunt and uncle poison my mind against ye, against James, against the truth.”
The fervent declaration sent warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with fever. In my dream, Lisette had told me it was time to truly love, and here Munro was offering his heart to me without reservation. My carefully ordered world had crumbled, and in its place stood something far more precious, far more terrifying, and exhilarating.
“I heard her,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Isabella. In the forest, when ye were wounded. She spoke to me, told me she had saved yer life, and now I must give ye the one ye deserve.” He found my hand and squeezed it as his gaze filled with hope. “The one we both deserve.”
I raised my hand to touch his face, ignoring the screaming protest of muscles too long unused. My fingers trembled as they met his warm skin.
“I love ye too,” I whispered, the words simple yet carrying the weight of every moment, every choice that had led us here. “I came here to make ye feel, nae ever even considering that I needed to learn to feel as well.”
Munro pressed a kiss to my palm, sending shivers cascading through me. “Ye changed everything,” he said. “Ye brought my lasses back to me. Ye gave me the truth about Isabella and George. Ye made me a laird again, nae just in name but in truth.”
The memory of my dream floated through my mind. I had chosen to keep hearing the ghosts, to embrace the uncertainty of a life without carefully laid plans. Now I had to tell Munro of my choice.
“I do nae have plans anymore,” I told him, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pain that still coursed through my body. “I had my life so carefully plotted before I came here. But now I only plan to love ye, if ye’ll have me.”
His eyes widened, and then a smile bloomed across his face, transforming his features with joy. “If I’ll have ye?” he repeated, his voice tender with amusement. “Murieall Buchannan, I plan to make ye my wife, if ye’ll have me.”
The proposal, so direct and unhesitating, brought tears to my eyes. He was offering me love with all its uncertainty and promise.
“Aye,” I whispered, without hesitation. “I will.”
Epilogue – Muireall
A sennight later
I stood in the stone chapel, my heart fluttering as the scent of heather garlands and beeswax candles filled my lungs. Sunlight streamed through the narrow windows, casting golden beams across the worn flagstones at my feet. The cream-colored gown I wore, with its delicate embroidered thistles trailing down the bodice, rustled softly as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Never in all my careful planning had I imagined myself here, about to wed a man I loved with all my heart. My life had been forever altered by whispers from beyond the grave.
The whispers came again now, a gentle chorus that no longer frightened me but instead felt like a comforting presence at my back. I closed my eyes briefly, allowing the voices to wash over me. Some spoke words I couldn’t quite catch; others simply hummed with approval.
“Are ye nervous?” Guinn whispered beside me, her small hand slipping into mine. She looked so beautiful in her green gown.
I squeezed her fingers gently. “Aye, a wee bit,” I admitted. “But ’tis a good kind of nervous.”
Bess, standing on my other side, looked up at me with solemn eyes. “Da says his heart might burst from happiness.”
My throat tightened at her words. These lasses, who had first welcomed me when their da could not, had become as dear to me as if they were my own flesh and blood. I bent down, mindful of my gown, and pressed a kiss to Bess’s forehead. “I feel mine could burst as well,” I whispered.
The doors at the back of the chapel creaked open, and I straightened, my breath catching in my chest. Munro stood framed in the doorway, the sun behind him casting his tall figure in dramatic silhouette. He wore his finest plaid, draped over one shoulder and secured with a silver brooch bearing the Ross crest. His dark hair still dripped from a swim in the loch and curled around his neck. He filled the space and commanded attention.
Our gazes locked across the chapel, and the rest of the world seemed to fade away. The voices of the dead receded to a gentle murmur as Munro began his walk toward me, his steps measured and deliberate. Emotions played across his face—pride, wonder, and a vulnerability that few ever saw beneath his warrior’s exterior. My heart swelled with love so fierce it nearly stole my breath.
“Murieall,” he said, my name a caress on his lips as he reached us.
I placed my hand in his, gathering comfort from the strength in his fingers as they closed around mine.
“Ye take my breath, lass,” he said, as the priest stepped forward.
Father William cleared his throat and began. “Who stands as witness for Murieall Buchannan?”
“We do, Father,” my parents and Bruce said from the right of me.
I glanced at them and smiled, my heart swelling with happiness again to see them here for the wedding, so clearly glad for me.
“And who stands for the—”
“James does, Father,” Munro interrupted. “Now get on with it. I want to make the lass mine now.”
Laughter filled the chapel, and I grinned at Muro’s impatience. I felt the same way.
Father William scowled at Munro but immediately launched into the ceremony. The traditional words washed over me as Munro and I stood facing each other, hands joined, and suddenly Lisette’s voice was in my head.
Be happy, sister. Live without fear.
I smiled at her words and then blinked at the sudden pressure on my hands. I looked at Munro and found him grinning at me. “’Tis yer turn to say the words, lass.”
I bit my lip that I’d missed his words while listening to Lisette, but at Munro’s chuckle, I was certain he knew and understood.
My heart pounded as my eyes held his. “I give to ye my vow, my body, my life. I will stand beside ye in joy and sorrow. In sickness and in health until death parts us,” I said.
