Chapter Eleven Munro
I blocked James’s overhead strike with my shield, the impact jarring up my arm and into my shoulder.
Sweat trickled down my back as I countered with a swing that would have opened his gut had we been using real steel instead of practice blades.
The grueling sparring provided a momentary respite from the thoughts that had plagued me these past seven nights.
I hadn’t slept properly since Murieall’s arrival at my gates, yet somehow I felt more alert, more alive than I had in months.
“Ye’re quicker today,” he commented, deflecting my thrust with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Ye must be getting proper rest now that ye’ve a warm body in yer bed.” His tone was deliberately casual, but the glint in his eye told me he was probing for something.
I faltered mid-strike, my rhythm broken by his words. “What are ye implying?” I demanded, narrowly avoiding his counterblow.
“Ye look better,” he said, circling me with the fluid grace of a man who’d been training with a sword since he could walk. “Ye look less haggard, and the shadows beneath yer eyes are fading, and I’ve noticed ye’re nae drinking as much wine.”
I lowered my practice sword, breath coming hard. “I clearly have nae given ye enough duties to attend to if ye have so much time to keep watch upon me.”
James chuckled at that. “Break to quench our thirst?”
“Aye,” I agreed, pulled out my water pouch, and drank greedily as I thought about what James had said.
The truth was I’d deliberately stayed away from my chambers until I was certain Murieall would be asleep, and I rose before dawn to avoid her waking.
And when I did sleep, dreams of her haunted me.
I dreamed of touching her, kissing her, pleasuring her, and each morning, I did wake feeling rested, though I was certain I was getting less rest now than before she’d come.
I was drinking less, which was good, but I suspected James was partly right in that having her in my bed at night was comforting. I didn’t like that one bit.
“Let’s get back to practice,” I urged, wanting the sweet respite of moments ago.
James shrugged, adopting a defensive stance. “As ye wish.”
We resumed our sparring, but my concentration had shattered.
Every thrust and parry was mechanical now, my mind racing with unbidden memories.
Yesterday at dawn, I went to the mews to check on a new falcon only to find Murieall already there, explaining to my daughters how the bird’s wings caught the air.
The day before, she’d been in the stables during the hour I always rode alone, helping Bess onto a gentle mare while Guinn watched with envy.
And three days past, I’d sought solitude at my private swimming spot at the loch, only to discover the three of them skipping stones across the water’s glassy surface.
Each time, Murieall had greeted me with those dark, soulful eyes, as if she’d been expecting me. Each time, she’d gone out of her way to get me to interact with the lasses. And each time, I’d retreated, muttering excuses about forgotten duties elsewhere.
The pattern was suddenly, blindingly clear.
These weren’t chance encounters. They were too perfectly timed, too neatly arranged to be coincidental.
I’d been manipulated, herded like livestock into these ‘accidental’ meetings by none other than the man standing before me with a wooden sword and an increasingly smug expression, and Murieall had been his accomplice.
“Ye’ve been setting me up,” I said, lowering my weapon once more.
James blinked, the picture of innocence. “Whatever do ye mean?”
“Do nae play the fool with me,” I growled. “The mews. The stables. The loch. Ye’ve been telling Murieall where I’d be.”
A thin smile spread across his face, neither confirming nor denying my accusation. “Is it such a crime for a da to encounter his daughters? For a laird to cross paths with a guest in his own home?”
“Stop interfering, James. I mean it.”
“I’m just trying to help ye find yer way back from the darkness,” he said, shoving the tip of his practice sword into the dirt.
“I did nae ask for yer help,” I growled. “And I do nae need it.”
“Do nae ye?” he countered quietly. “Look at yerself. Ye’re running from a slip of a woman and two wee lasses as if they carry the plague. Ye’re plotting yer movements through yer own castle like a thief to avoid a chance encounter with the verra people ye should be protecting.”
His words struck too close to the truth. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way no physical sparring could achieve. With a curse, I hurled my practice sword to the ground. It hit the packed earth with a dull thud that perfectly matched the hollow feeling spreading through my chest.
“We’re done here,” I spat, turning away from him.
“Aye, for today,” James called after me. “But ye can nae run forever, my friend. Nae even from yerself.”
I didn’t honor him with a response, merely stalked away from the training field, my boots crushing the dewy grass beneath them. Sweat cooled on my brow in the morning air, but the heat of anger, and something else, something I refused to name, continued to burn through my veins.
As I neared the castle walls, I heard James call out behind me. “Ye need to talk to her, Munro! If nae for yer sake, then for the lasses!”
I lengthened my stride, pretending not to hear, though his words echoed in my mind with each footfall.
The lasses. My daughters. I’d kept at arm’s length because their very existence reminded me of my greatest failure.
Looking into their eyes meant facing the truth that I’d been drowning in wine for two years.
Isabella was gone, and no amount of rage or vengeance or guilt could bring her back.
And now there was Murieall, with her quiet strength and gentle ways, bringing joy to my girls, caring for them, protecting them.
Murieall, who slept in my bed yet remained as untouched as the day she arrived, though God knew my dreams told a different tale.
Murieall, who was temporary, who would leave when our bargain was complete, taking with her whatever fragile peace she’d managed to create.
A sound cut through my brooding thoughts.
It was high, sweet laughter that carried on the breeze.
I faltered mid-stride, my head turning toward the source as if pulled by an invisible thread.
There, at the edge of the woods where the castle grounds gave way to ancient oaks, stood Murieall with Bess and Guinn.
My step slowed, then stopped altogether as I watched them from a distance.
Guinn stood with her hands on her hips and her right hip cocked out just as Isabella used to do.
The site sent a sharp pain through me. Guinn’s face was tilted upward, attention fixed on the branches above.
I followed her gaze and felt my heart seize in my chest. Bess was halfway up a massive oak, her small body perched precariously on a limb that seemed far too high for her seven summers.
“Be careful!” Guinn called up to her sister. “That branch does nae look strong enough to hold ye!”
“I can see the falcon’s nest!” Bess replied. Her excitement was clear in her tone. “Just a bit higher…”
Murieall stood beneath the tree, her face a mixture of concern and forced calm. “Ye’ve gone high enough, Bess,” she called. “Come down now, lass.”
The branch beneath Bess’s feet cracked. The sharp sound pierced my heart. Her small body twisted in the air as she lost her footing, arms flailing wildly, searching for anything to grab onto. Her high, terrified scream sliced through me, shredding me.
“Bess!” I shouted, my voice tearing from my throat as I surged into motion.
But Murieall was already moving. She lunged forward with outstretched arms, positioning herself beneath my falling child.
Bess crashed into her, the impact driving them backward.
Murieall’s foot caught on an exposed root, and she went down hard, twisting to cushion Bess’s fall with her own body.
Her head struck a log with a sickening sound that carried across the clearing.
I ran as I’d never run before, my heart pounding with a fear I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long time.
Bess’s terrified, hiccupping sobs reached me first. Then I saw the blood trickling down Murieall’s temple, a bright crimson ribbon against her pale skin.
She was sitting up, holding Bess against her chest, murmuring soothing words despite her obvious pain.
I dropped to my knees in the damp grass beside them and reached for Bess with shaking hands.
When she pressed herself more firmly against Murieall and hid her tear-streaked face in Murieall’s shoulder, something shattered inside of me.
I had done this. I had pushed my daughters away for so long that now, in a moment of fear, she turned not to me for comfort but to a woman she’d known barely a sennight.
My gut clenched with the newfound knowledge.
“Shh, lass,” Murieall whispered, stroking Bess’s head with a gentle hand. Murieall’s eyes met mine, dark and steady despite the blood now seeping from the cut on her forehead. “Do nae fear yer da, lass. He would die to keep ye safe.”
The truth of her words sent me reeling. I would die for my daughters. I would face any enemy, any danger, any threat to keep them from harm. And yet I had failed them in the most fundamental way. I had withdrawn my love, my presence, my very self from their lives when they needed me most.
For the first time since Isabella’s death, I saw my mistake with perfect clarity.
I had thought to protect myself from pain by closing off my heart, but in doing so, I had inflicted a deeper wound on my children than any I sought to avoid.
They had lost their mama and then, through my own cowardice, they had lost me as well.
Could I be braver for them? I wanted to. A warm touch on my cheek startled me. I blinked at Murieall’s arm outstretched toward me, her palm cupping my hand.
“Are ye all right?”
The yearning that shot through me to grasp what she might offer, comfort, passion, connection, was so intense, so frightening, that my gut knotted, and my chest ached.
I brushed her hand away. I didn’t want to feel for a woman again.
My children, however, were a different matter.
I narrowed my eyes purposely, seeing her own widen in response.
One thought strummed through my mind—protect yerself, push her away.
“Why were ye and the lasses nae in the solar sewing as ye have done every single day at this time? Why are ye out here of here allowing my daughter to climb dangerously?” I demanded, my tone purposely harsh.
I expected protestations from her; what I got was tears.