Chapter Eight Murieall
I woke to darkness and confusion, my head throbbing with each beat of my heart.
Unfamiliar shadows stretched across stone walls, cast by the flickering light of a single torch in its sconce.
I blinked, trying to make sense of where I was and how I’d come to be there.
The last thing I remembered was standing at the dais in the great hall, the dead woman’s voice screaming repeatedly in my head, tell him there are liars amongst him.
I strained to think how I got here, and an image of Munro, face twisted in surprise, and rising from his seat filled my mind, and then another image of his chest, his chin, and him looking down at me. That was the last thing I could recall.
A damp cloth lay across my forehead, cool against my heated skin. I reached up to touch it, my fingers trembling slightly with lingering weakness. Heavy quilts weighed upon me, their unfamiliar scent of wood smoke and something distinctly masculine wrapping around me like invisible arms.
Someone had carried me from the great hall, then. But who? And where—
A deep, rumbling snore startled me, sending my heart galloping in my chest. I turned my head, wincing at the flare of pain the movement caused, and found myself staring at Munro’s profile in the torchlight.
He sat slumped against a mound of pillows beside me, fully clothed but clearly deeply asleep.
An empty wine goblet lay on its side near his outstretched hand, a dark stain spreading across the fur pelt that covered the bed.
A gasp escaped me as realization struck.
I was in Munro’s bedchamber, in Munro’s bed, with Munro himself beside me.
My hands flew to my body, frantically feeling for my clothing, and relief washed through me when I found the same wool gown I’d worn to supper still in place.
I exhaled a relieved breath that Munro had made no attempt to undress me.
There was honor hidden under all his pain, I was certain of it.
In slumber, the hard edges of his expression softened. The furrow between his brows remained, as if even in sleep he could not fully escape his troubles, but his mouth had relaxed from its habitual grim line.
I should have been afraid, or at least uncomfortable, to find myself in such intimate proximity to this man I barely knew.
This broken, drunken laird who’d demanded a month in his bed as payment for his protection.
Yet somehow, seeing him vulnerable in sleep, a strange compassion stirred beneath my wariness.
As I watched, a slight tremor ran through him.
He shifted in his awkward seated position, his shoulders hunching as if against a chill.
Another shiver followed, more pronounced than the first. The night air in the chamber was indeed cool, the single torch providing little warmth against the stone walls that seemed to radiate cold.
I hesitated, uncertain what to do. To leave him shivering seemed unkind, yet I was reluctant to wake him. After a brief internal debate, I reached out and gently shook his shoulder.
“Munro,” I said softly. “Ye should get properly under the covers.”
His eyes flew open, startlingly blue-grey even in the dim light. For a moment, he stared at me uncomprehending, his gaze clouded with sleep and wine. Then recognition flickered, and he blinked slowly.
“Ye fainted,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “In the hall.”
“Aye,” I replied. “I was overtired from my journey,” I lied. “Did ye carry me in here and give me a damp cloth and quilts?”
He looked away, a muscle working in his jaw. “Aye, someone had to make sure ye did nae die.” The words were harsh, but the slight color rising to his cheeks told a different story. “The lasses would nae have liked that.”
“Of course,” I murmured, oddly touched by his gruff attempt at caring. “Ye’re cold,” I added. “Ye should get under the quilts properly.”
He considered this for a moment, then nodded.
With movements made clumsy by wine and exhaustion, he stood and began to unlace his tunic.
I quickly averted my eyes, fixing my gaze on a tapestry on the far wall that depicted a hunting scene.
The sound of fabric rustling reached my ears, followed by the heavier thud of boots hitting the floor.
“Ye can look now,” he said, an unmistakable note of amusement in his voice. “I’m nae completely bare.”
I turned, my breath catching in my throat at the sight that greeted me.
Munro stood beside the bed, wearing only his braies.
Torchlight played across his broad chest, highlighting the defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. My gaze traced the ridges of his stomach before darting away, heat rising to my cheeks.
But my eyes betrayed me, drawn back to him as if by some irresistible force.
Scars marked his torso—a long, jagged one across his ribs, smaller nicks and cuts scattered across his skin. I was certain that each scar told a story of battles fought and survived, of a life lived hard and dangerous.
“Battle wounds,” he said, noticing my stare. “From other clans who thought us easy prey.”
He moved toward the bed, and I quickly shifted to make room for him, pressing myself against the edge of the mattress. He slid beneath the quilts with a sigh, his body bringing a wave of heat that seemed to fill the space between us despite the careful distance I maintained.
“Ye need nae fear me,” he murmured, his words slightly slurred.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The torchlight cast shadows across his face, softening the hard planes and angles, making him look younger, less burdened.
His eyes drifted closed, then a soft snore started.
But before I’d even gotten comfortable, he grunted, my eyes flew open, and he was suddenly rolling toward me.
Before I could react, his lips pressed against mine—warm, surprisingly soft, and tasting faintly of wine.
The kiss lasted only a moment, a gentle pressure that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
Then he pulled back slightly, his eyes already closing once more.
“Goodnight, Isabella,” he murmured, and immediately sank back into the deep slumber of the exhausted and drunk.
I lay frozen beside him, shock rendering me motionless. He had called me his dead wife’s name. The kiss hadn’t been meant for me at all. I should have felt offended, perhaps, or at the very least dismissed. Instead, a mixture of pity and something I dared not examine too closely rose within me.
As his breathing deepened once more into snores, I found myself unable to follow him into slumber.
I lay awake in the dark, my fingers occasionally drifting up to touch my lips where the ghost of his kiss lingered.
Guilt twisted through me as thoughts of Liam surfaced.
I was doing all of this to ultimately get back to Liam, yet I couldn’t deny the racing of my heart, thinking of Munro’s lips on mine.
It meant nothing. To him or me. My heart was racing in surprise; that was all. He had been drunk, confused, and lost in memories. And I was merely caught off guard, my senses heightened by the strange circumstances. Nothing more.
I stirred, slowly surfacing from a sleep deeper than any I’d known in years, and became aware of a weight across my waist. Munro’s arm.
During the night, he had shifted closer, his broad chest now pressed against my back, his breathing warm against my hair.
We fit together perfectly. His larger frame curled protectively around mine, a feeling at once foreign and strangely comforting.
I stilled, acutely conscious of each point where our bodies touched. The solid weight of his arm. The heat of his chest against my shoulder blades. The slight tickle of his breath at my nape. My heart quickened, though whether from alarm or something else entirely, I couldn’t say.
Moving with deliberate slowness, I lifted his arm just enough to slip out from beneath it without waking him. He mumbled something unintelligible but didn’t wake, his arm falling heavily onto the space I had occupied.
Free of his hold, I rose to my knees on the bed and looked down at him.
I found myself studying the curve of his jaw, the shadow of stubble darkening his cheeks, the way his black hair fell across his forehead, and his dark lashes resting against his skin.
Without the shield of anger and wine he wielded, he looked younger.
Vulnerable. A man who had once known happiness and might again, if only he could find his way back from the darkness that claimed him.
The quilts were gathered at his waist, and I took a moment, allowing myself to look at the rest of him that was visible.
He was built like a man who had been wielding a sword all his life.
He was all sinewy muscle. A light dusting of hair ran down his chest to disappear under the quilts, and I had the urge to lift the quilts to see where the trail led.
I shook my head at my own foolishness and slipped from the bed, wincing as my feet touched the cold stone floor.
My gown was wrinkled beyond repair, and my hair hung loose about my shoulders, but I had no desire to linger and risk Munro waking to find me watching him.
What had passed between us was best left unacknowledged in the light of day.
We had shared a bed, nothing more. If guilt gnawed at me over the phantom memory of Munro’s lips on mine, it was misplaced.
And my inquisitiveness over his body was nothing more than natural curiosity.
I’d never seen any man in a state of half-dress other than the occasional glimpse of a warrior emerging from the loch at home, but those glimpses had always been from a distance.
I had come to this place with a clear purpose to break my curse and return to Liam. One mistaken kiss changed nothing.
The corridor outside Munro’s chamber was empty save for a servant who hurried past with barely a glance my way. I started toward where I thought my assigned chamber might be, hoping to change my clothing before seeking out the girls, when a voice called my name.
“Murieall?”
I turned to find James approaching, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that didn’t quite hide his obvious happiness at finding me emerging from Munro’s chamber in the early morning hours. Did he think bedding me would fix what ailed his laird? I pressed my lips together on a scowl.
“How do ye fare this morning?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said, and added, “After sleeping all through the night uninterrupted by anything or anyone, I’m quite rested.”
I knew he got my message because he smiled. “I see. Verra well.” His gaze flickered toward Munro’s chamber as if he might want to further question what had occurred last night, but instead, when he looked to me once more, he said, “Ye gave us quite a fright at supper last night.”
“I’m sorry for that,” I replied, self-consciously smoothing the wrinkles of my gown.
He nodded, studying me with those shrewd eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “Ye’ve eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon. Would ye care to break yer fast with me? The lasses are still abed.”
My stomach growled in answer, and I nodded gratefully. “That would be most welcome.”
As we walked, a question burned on my tongue, demanding voice. Finally, I gathered my courage and asked what had been haunting me since I’d first stepped into Isabella’s solar.
“James, what truly happened to Munro’s wife?”
He slowed his pace, a shadow passing over his face. “Ye’ve heard something of it already, I take it?”
“Only that she died, and that he cannot bear to look upon his daughters because they remind him of her.”
James sighed and motioned me to continue walking.
“Isabella was found at the edge of the highest cliff on Ross land,” he said quietly, approaching the door of the great hall.
“Her body broken on the rocks below.” He paused and led me into the great hall, which was empty save the two of us and three servants.
They brought trenchers to our table quickly and filled our goblets, and when they departed, he took a deep breath and continued.
“Most believed she jumped, overcome with grief after losing her newborn son, but Munro refused to accept it. He insisted someone had killed her.”
A chill ran through me at his words. “And what do ye believe?”
“I believe she was a woman in deep despair,” he replied, his voice heavy with old grief. “The bairn’s death nearly destroyed her. She withdrew from everyone, even her daughters. Her eyes…” He shook his head. “They were empty, like something vital had gone out of her.”
“And Munro?”
“He spent the first year obsessively trying to find who killed her. He questioned everyone, searched for evidence, rode himself and his men to exhaustion seeking answers that were not to be found. And when he could nae sustain his rage, he collapsed into guilt.”
“Guilt?” I asked, confused.
“Aye. He blames himself, ye see. Whether she jumped or was killed, in his mind, the fault lies with him for nae being there when she birthed their son, for nae protecting her from her grief afterward.” James’s eyes clouded with memory.
“He was once a different man. He laughed easily and often, and he was a caring, devoted laird, husband, and da. Now he drinks to forget, beds women to feel something other than pain, and keeps his daughters at a distance because when he looks at them, he sees Isabella.”
I swallowed hard, thinking of the man who had held me in his sleep, who had kissed me, thinking I was his dead wife. The pain had to be unbearable for him to have retreated so completely into numbness.
“Do ye think—” I began.
Tell him there are liars amongst him. Tell him!
The voice sliced through my thoughts, sharp and sudden, making me clutch at the table. It was the same woman’s voice from last night upon the dais, with the same urgent message.
Tell him there are liars amongst him. Tell him! Tell him!
Each repetition hammered against my skull, growing louder, more insistent. I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to maintain my composure as pain bloomed behind my eyes.
TELL HIM! TELL HIM! TELL HIM!
“Murieall?” James’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are ye unwell?”
I tried to respond, but the voice drowned out all thought. My vision blurred, the great hall tilting strangely around me. I clapped my hands over my ears, though I knew it would do no good against a voice that came from within my own mind.
“Go away and do nae come back!” The words tore from my throat, raw and desperate, and then I felt a hand upon my shoulder. My first thought was that the dead were reaching for me to make me listen. “Stop!” I cried, louder than I intended, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the corridor.