Chapter Fourteen Murieall #2
“Morning,” I replied, my heart already aching with what I knew must come.
The truth could not be held back. I could not put it off.
I could not lie with him another hour, another day, pretending that what had grown between us was untainted by secrets and bargains.
I loved him. The thought made me warm and grateful and scared.
The weight of my deception pressed upon me like a physical thing, growing heavier with each moment I remained silent.
And there was Isabella’s voice to consider.
She had spoken to me. She had told me, I fully believed, to tell him of the liars around him.
Was it about her death? Something else? I didn’t know, but I did know he deserved the truth.
“Munro,” I began, sitting up and drawing the sheet around my naked body as if it could protect me from the fallout of what I had to say. “There’s something I must tell ye.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, brow furrowing slightly at my tone. “What troubles ye, lass?”
I took a deep breath, searching for the right words, though I knew there were none that would soften what I must reveal. “I have nae been entirely truthful with ye about why I came here.”
His expression shifted, wariness creeping in where contentment had been. “Go on.”
“I did nae come to ye seeking protection from the witch and my curse.”
He sat up fully now, the furs pooling around his waist. “Then why did ye come to me?” he asked, a muscle now twitching near his jaw.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, not to flinch away from the growing coldness I saw there. “To break my curse,” I blurted.
His frown deepened. “Explain yerself.”
“Right before I came here, I went back to Morgana, begging her to lift the curse I told ye about.”
“I do nae believe—”
“I ken ye do nae believe in witches and curses, but both are real,” I rushed out, desperate to stop him from interrupting me before I lost the nerve to tell the entire truth. “Morgana agreed to lift my curse, but with a condition.” I swallowed hard. “I was to come to ye and make ye feel again.”
“Make me feel again,” he repeated, his voice flat. “What does that mean exactly?”
“She said ye had survived by nae feeling anything, by numbing yerself with wine and women. That if I could break through that, make ye care again about yer daughters and life, and…” I faltered at his stone-cold expression.
I took a deep breath for courage. “She said if I succeeded, she would lift the curse, and I could return to my clan and wed the man I was betrothed to before the curse drove his parents to break our match.”
Some dark emotion flickered across his face at the mention of my betrothal, but he quickly masked it. He moved away from me slightly, his body no longer touching mine.
“So last night,” he said, each word precise and cutting, “was that part of yer plan to ‘make me feel’? To complete this bargain with yer witch?”
“Nay!” I protested, reaching for him, but he shifted further away. “What happened between us was real,” I rushed to assure him. “I never planned—”
“But convenient nonetheless,” he interrupted, throwing back the furs and rising from the bed, his back to me as he reached for his discarded clothing.
“Ye came here under false pretenses, with a task to complete, and now ye’ve done so.
Is that why ye’re telling me this now? Because ye’ve succeeded and are ready to return to yer betrothed? ”
“That’s nae fair,” I said, my voice catching. “I came here with a purpose, aye, but what’s grown between us—”
“What’s grown between us is a lie,” he snapped, pulling on his tunic with quick, angry movements. “Ye used me, manipulated me, all to break some curse I do nae even believe exists. But that hardly matters since ye believe it!”
“It does exist!” I insisted, clutching the covers tighter.
“The voices of the dead are real! I hear them constantly, though I’ve tried to ignore them.
Recently, I’ve begun to listen, and—” I hesitated, knowing what I was about to say would likely be the final blow, yet unable to keep the truth from him any longer. “I’ve heard Isabella.”
He went completely still, his shoulders rigid beneath his half-laced tunic. When he turned to face me, his expression made me shrink back against the pillows.
“Ye dare,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper yet somehow more frightening than if he’d shouted. “Ye dare speak her name, claim to hear her voice, use my dead wife to further yer scheme?”
“It’s nae a scheme,” I pleaded. “I’m trying to tell ye the truth.”
“Truth?” he barked out a harsh laugh. “From the woman who came to my home with lies on her lips? Ye do nae hear the dead, Murieall. Ye’re either mad or a liar, and I care nae which it is.
” He yanked on his boots, movements jerky with anger.
“Ye used me. Ye used my daughters. Ye used my grief. For what? To break some imaginary curse by some imaginary witch to wed some man who cast ye aside at the first sign of trouble?”
“Please,” I begged, tears burning my eyes. “Ye must believe me.”
“Believe ye?” he said, astonishment clear in his tone. “I’ll nae ever believe another word that falls from yer lips again.” He moved so close to me that we were a mere hairsbreadth apart. “Ye wanted me to feel again,” he seethed. “I feel. I feel disgust, anger, and betrayal.”
He rose, turned sharply away, strode to the door, and shoved it open.
He paused on the threshold but did not glance back.
“Whatever bargain we had is done. Do nae come to my bedchamber tonight. And as for the lasses, ye stay away from them. I’ll decide what to do with ye when I can think straight once more. ”
The door slammed behind him with such force that the torch flames guttered in their sconces.
I sat frozen in the bed we’d shared, the covers clutched to my chest, tears streaming unchecked down my face.
In the sudden silence, all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart, and a curious emptiness where the voices of the dead, so loud last night, were silent.
The chamber felt suddenly vast and cold without Munro’s presence, as if he’d taken all the warmth with him when he slammed the door.
I sat motionless among the tangled blankets, the imprint of his body still visible beside me, my skin bearing the memory of his touch.
Tears rolled unchecked down my cheeks, dropping onto the furs, each one a silent testament to what I’d just lost. No, what I’d thrown away with both hands.
I’d known from the beginning that telling him would likely end whatever tenuous connection we’d formed, yet I’d done it anyway.
For honor? For truth? The reasons seemed hollow now in the face of his rage and pain.
“Fool,” I whispered to myself, the word catching on a sob. “Ye damned fool.”
I forced myself to move, to leave the bed where we’d found such brief joy.
My legs trembled as I stood, the cold air raising goosebumps on my naked skin.
I reached for my discarded shift and gown, my hands shaking so badly I could barely manage the laces.
Twice I had to stop, pressing my palms against my eyes to stem the fresh flow of tears.
“What did ye expect?” I muttered, yanking at a stubborn knot in my laces. “That he would understand? That he would believe ye?” My voice rose with each question, sharp with self-recrimination. “That he would forgive yer lies and take ye in his arms again?”
The empty room offered no answers, only the echo of my own bitter words. I gave up on the laces halfway, leaving them loose as I paced the length of the chamber, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. Each step was punctuated by a new recrimination.
“Ye should have told him from the beginning.” Slap. “Ye should nae have come here at all.” Slap. “Ye should have stayed with yer own clan, accepted yer fate.” Slap.
But even as I berated myself, I knew I could not truly regret coming.
For all the pain of this moment, there had been joy too in helping Bess and Guinn, in watching Munro begin to reconnect with his daughters, in the way he’d looked at me last night as if I were something precious rather than cursed.
And now it was all ash. He didn’t want me in his bed. He did not want me near his daughters. He would likely send me away, and I loved him. Losing him was worse than any curse.
I sank onto a chest against the wall, burying my face in my hands. “What am I to do?” I whispered to the empty room. No sounds came, and that scared me the most. Was my curse broken? I didn’t want it to be that way, because I wanted to talk to Isabella about Munro. “Isabella!” I cried out.
No answer came. The silence was complete.
And as my desolation intensified, so did the belated faith that the curse had never been a punishment.
It was a gift, a responsibility, and I had been careless with it.
The thought was so startling that I caught my breath.
I had helped one ghost. In all the hundreds who had tried to reach me, I’d aided one.
A certainty burrowed into my bones. I had to listen to them all. Help them all. To hear Isabella, to get her truth for Munro, I had to listen to them all to prove I was worthy. “I’m listening,” I whispered into the silence. “I will help ye. I will help ye all.”
A dozen voices erupted at once, a cacophony of pleas that I vowed to answer one by one.