Chapter Seven Munro
I stalked across the training field, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
The afternoon sun beat down on my neck, but the heat in my blood had nothing to do with the weather.
Young warriors scattered from my path, their practice swords lowering as they caught sight of my face.
I barely noticed them. My gaze had fixed on James, who stood instructing a group of lads on proper shield positioning, as if he hadn’t deliberately disobeyed my orders regarding Murieall and my daughters.
“Good,” James was saying to a gangly boy of perhaps fourteen summers. “Now, hold yer shield higher to protect—”
“A word,” I growled, stepping into the circle of apprentice warriors.
James glanced up, his expression shifting from surprise to carefully constructed innocence. “Can it wait, Laird? I’m in the middle of—”
“Nay, it can nae.” I turned to the lads. “Training’s done for the day.”
They exchanged nervous glances before bowing hastily and retreating. James sighed and handed his practice sword to a nearby soldier.
“What troubles ye, Munro?”
“Ye ken verra well what troubles me,” I said, keeping my voice low but sharp. “I asked ye to show Murieall around the castle with the lasses. Instead, I find her running through the corridors playing tag with my daughters, crashing into me like some wild thing.”
James’s brows lifted. “Ye ran into her? Literally?”
I ignored the question. “Ye were supposed to stay with them.”
“I was needed here,” James said, gesturing to the training field. “These lads require instruction if they’re to become proper warriors. I simply told the lasses to play with her. It seemed a fine way for them to become acquainted.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do nae take me for a fool. Ye did it deliberately, hoping to create some… some connection.”
James sighed and reached for two practice swords from a nearby rack. He tossed one to me, which I caught reflexively.
“If ye’re going to rage at me, we might as well get some training in while ye do it,” he said. “The men will respect ye more seeing ye with a sword in yer hand than a wine cup.”
The barb struck true, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Instead, I stepped into the center of the trampled earth, testing the weight of the practice sword.
It had been too long since I’d trained properly.
The wooden hilt felt strange in my hand after so many months of clutching nothing but goblets.
James took his position across from me, his stance easy and confident. We’d trained together since we were boys, and he knew my style as well as his own. But he didn’t know the depth of the rage that now fueled me, the frustration that had been building since Isabella’s death.
I lunged without warning, my blade arcing toward his shoulder. He parried just in time, the clash of steel ringing across the training yard. Surprise flickered across his face at the ferocity of my attack.
“Quit meddling in my affairs,” I snarled, circling him. “I did nae allow Murieall to stay here for anything but a brief distraction.”
“A distraction that ye put in charge of yer daughters,” James countered, deflecting another blow with a grunt of effort.
I pressed forward, my movements sharper and less controlled than they should have been. Each stroke was fueled by the anger that constantly simmered beneath my skin these days. James met my aggression with steady defense, letting me wear myself out.
“She told me her tale,” I said between blows, “about a witch and a magical goblet. About stealing it and being cursed.”
“And?” James asked, sidestepping a particularly vicious swing.
I advanced, sweat beginning to trickle down my back. “And I think she may be mad. She grew strange in Isabella’s solar, clutching her head as if in pain.”
The memory of Murieall’s sudden pallor, the way she’d swayed on her feet, made me hesitate. James seized the opportunity, darting forward to land a light tap against my ribs. In a real fight, I’d be bleeding out.
“Ye’re distracted,” James observed, stepping back. “Is it the lass who distracts ye?”
“Are ye listening to me? I’m saying she may be mad,” I repeated, resuming my stance. “I do nae have any interest in keening her beyond our bargain. I may nae even take her to my bed.”
James lowered his sword slightly, studying my face with an intensity I found uncomfortable. “If ye truly think she’s mad, I’ll send her away this night.”
I opened my mouth to agree, but something stopped me.
The memory of my hand on Murieall’s arm flooded back unbidden.
My fingers curled around the hilt of my sword as I recalled the warmth of her skin through the coarse fabric of her sleeve.
I could see perfectly the way she’d looked up at me with those dark eyes full of something I couldn’t name.
And the scent of her, heather and rain and something uniquely her own, clung to me.
The realization struck me then that I could not recall the scent of any woman I’d bedded since Isabella died.
Not one. Yet this woman I’d barely touched had imprinted herself on my senses.
“Munro?” James prompted, his expression curious.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Nay,” I said finally. “She can stay. The lasses seem to like her well enough.”
James nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I could see he wanted to say more, to press his advantage, but he wisely held his tongue.
I lowered my sword, suddenly exhausted. The rage that had fueled me moments before had ebbed, leaving me hollow. “But check on her during the day,” I added. “See that all is well with her and the lasses.”
“Aye,” James agreed so easily and quickly that I suspected I’d somehow been manipulated, but I knew well he’d never admit to it.
We sparred for a few more passes, but my heart was no longer in it. My mind kept drifting back to Murieall, to the strange tale she’d told me, and to the way my daughters had looked at her with hopeful eyes.
“What have ye heard of this witch?” I asked, finally sheathing my practice sword. “This Morgana.”
James wiped sweat from his brow, considering. “There was a warrior who passed through our lands in the spring,” James said. “Jerold MacDonald. He spoke of his laird, Colin MacDonald, who wed a lass with the gift of sight. Jerold claimed the gift was bestowed by none other than the witch Morgana.”
“And what did this ‘gift of sight’ entail?” I asked, my tone making my skepticism clear.
“The lass could see events before they happened. Nae everything, mind ye, just flashes here and there. According to Jerold, she foresaw an ambush planned against her husband, and her warnings helped him defeat his enemies.”
“A conveniently unprovable tale,” I said.
James shrugged. “Jerold seemed convinced. He said his laird believes it.”
I grunted. “Magic and curses do nae belong in the world of men.”
“There’s something else,” James said, his expression serious now.
“What?”
“Do ye remember when Isabella travelled to the MacLeod stronghold to visit her childhood friend, and ye had me accompany her?”
“Aye,” I nodded. “Why?”
“Well,” James said, looking past me for a moment as if thinking back to that time. “We came upon a woman in the woods who was giving birth,” James said. “She had long silver hair and strange colored eyes that were a mixture of silver and purple.”
“Go on,” I said, intrigued despite myself.
“She was screaming. The birth was nae going well. The weather was terrible. I remember it well because it was snowing and the temperature was dropping. Isabella insisted we stop to help the woman, and I tried to convince her to let me first take her to the MacDonald stronghold to get her out of the elements, but she would nae hear of it.”
I smiled at that. “Nae, she always did put others first.” My words made me frown.
The truth about my wife was one of the very reasons I still had a hard time believing she would have taken her own life, even though I knew she’d grown melancholy over the loss of our son.
The Isabella I had known would not have left Bess and Guinn, and me, knowing the pain it would cause us, but I was to believe her mind had changed. Everyone said so.
“We stayed, we helped the woman to a cave, and that cave seemed to give her strength to bring the child, a lass, into the world. Isabella wrapped the bairn in her plaid, which she took off, and when she handed the bairn to the woman, I remember the woman’s eyes glowed, and she told Isabella that one day, in the future, she would repay her kindness. ”
“Why is this the first time I’ve heard this tale?”
James shrugged. “I do nae ken why Isabella did nae tell ye. I simply did nae give it another thought until this moment.”
“So why do ye tell me now?”
“Well,” James said, clasping me on the shoulder, “because the witch Morgana is said to live in the Dark Woods near the MacLeod stronghold, and I believe now, ’twas the witch that Isabella and I aided.”
“Well, if this Morgana is a witch, and she owed my wife a favor, she certainly did nae deliver it, now did she?” I bit out, irritated that I’d stood here listening to such nonsense, and annoyed that James’s words had stirred something in me. Not belief, precisely, but doubt.
Before James could respond, the supper horn rang.
I shrugged his hand off, but not with the anger I’d possessed when I’d come to find him.
We had made a step toward reconciliation.
“Go fetch Murieall and the lasses for the evening meal,” I ordered, suddenly eager to be away from James and his tales.
“As ye wish,” he replied with a small bow that held just enough mockery to irritate me.