Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Morag Caindach was watching him again. Murdoch was growing increasingly unsettled by her presence; she seemed to be around no matter which corner he turned, always watching him, always waiting.
The suspicions of the others in the castle had relaxed somewhat over the last week, and they were all starting to treat him more and more as a Campbell and less and less as an outsider.
He still wasn't welcome in the more high-level war discussions where intense strategies were discussed, but he attended the general meetings regularly, trained with the soldiers, and no longer was escorted by guards around the castle.
His interactions with Alistair Campbell were still somewhat limited, but he and Ian talked most days, and despite his expectations, he found himself warming up considerably to the man who was his brother.
Ian, in turn, seemed to be growing pleased to have him around.
But Morag didn't trust him. Murdoch didn't know what he had to do to convince her, and nor, if he was honest, did he know why it mattered so much to him. For some reason, he desperately wanted her to either leave him alone or… well, he didn't know what.
He felt haunted by her, imagining her eyes even while she slept, his skin still prickling days later from where he'd held her after she'd fallen. She was too clever, so beautiful, and too quick. She was dangerous, and Murdoch knew that he needed to avoid her if he wanted to get through this intact.
He was still confined to his rooms at night, but he had slipped his way out of the door every night for the past three nights, and this one was no different.
He wanted to explore the Keep and find out what he could while there were few people wandering around and he could actually work in private.
As he paced along the corridors, he listened carefully for the sound of footsteps, knowing that, although he could easily make up an excuse as to why he was wandering around, the best idea would be to avoid being spotted.
And so, every time he heard so much as a sound, he would duck into a nearby room or around a corner, keeping himself hidden as best as he could.
Murdoch had been walking around for almost half an hour and had definitely gotten lost. He had no idea where he was in the castle, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever been in this section at all.
He spotted a door ahead that looked promising, but just as he approached it, it started to open.
He quickly turned back, but footsteps suddenly echoed in that direction too.
Panic flooded through him as he realized he was trapped, and he rushed forward to reach a hanging tapestry.
He pulled it back and hoped that the space behind it would be big enough for him to hide behind.
To his surprise, it opened up into not a nook, but a small, hidden corridor.
Curiosity and a desperation to hide pulled Murdoch on through it.
He couldn't turn back, after all, and he had no intention of just standing still.
He made his way through the dark tunnel mostly by feel, his heart racing, scraping his hands against the walls as he couldn't see.
Suddenly, starlight and cold washed over him, and Murdoch stumbled on soft grass beneath his feet.
Blinking to adjust his eyes, Murdoch realized that he had somehow ended up outside.
It was a small, secluded courtyard, surrounded completely by tall stone walls, with only a long rectangle of land, completely hidden by the secret entrance.
Someone else was already there, firing a bow over and over toward a target set up on the far wall, cursing in a very unladylike way under her breath with each near-miss.
The woman yelped and spun around with the loaded bow in her hands, pointing the arrow directly at Murdoch's chest, her eyes blazing.
Her long dark hair was the first thing he noted, black as ink and soft and shining as gossamer silk, braided roughly down her back as if she was unused to doing it herself.
Her eyes, green as the grass, shone with shock and determination, and her sharp expression made it clear she would have no hesitation in firing the arrow into an intruder's heart if it was the only way to protect herself.
Murdoch was struck momentarily by a memory, Aila telling him the story of Scáthach, the ancient warrior queen.
This was how he had almost imagined her in all her glory.
For a moment, he was struck breathless. But in that beat, her hands trembled, and when Murdoch looked down at them, he saw that they were red and raw.
"Ye shouldnae sneak up on a woman like this," Morag snapped, not lowering the weapon. "How did ye even find me?"
Murdoch stood still, mildly amused. She was holding the bow all wrong, and judging by the state of her hands and the arrows littered everywhere, she'd probably been here trying to train for several hours.
Morag scoffed. "Nae reply. Aye, that makes sense." She lowered the bow. "I dinnae ken why I even asked. It's yer natural habitat tae be skulkin' in the dark, sneakin' around through the shadows like the liar ye are. Everyone else might be fooled, but I'm nae."
He knew he should leave. There was nothing to be gained from standing here being berated.
And yet, when he tried to turn to go, something kept him rooted to the spot.
His eyes went from Morag's hands to her face then back again, and he sighed.
He took a few steps toward her and, before she could react, gently repositioned her hands on the bow.
"What are ye doin'?" she demanded.
"Ye're holdin' it wrong. Nae wonder ye're so sore. Support the weight here, that's it."
His fingers brushed the skin of her knuckles, and he felt a spark travel lazily through his body from the contact. He fought the urge to move closer and instead stepped back.
"Better. Though if ye're tae hit the target as ye wish, ye'll need tae fix yer stance, too."
Morag narrowed her eyes. "And how should I stand?"
He paused. "Can I touch ye? Just tae help move ye intae place."
Morag looked like she might shout at him, or maybe even attack him, then her face twisted in uncertainty. She looked between him and the target then, with a small sigh, nodded.
"But only for that, mind. Nae wanderin' hands."
"I wouldnae dream of it," he replied.
Morag turned toward the target and he moved behind her, placing one of his hands on her waist and the other cupping her elbow as he helped guide her into place.
"Move yer feet—nay, nae like that—aye, that's it. Now, line up the shot."
Morag lifted the bow and fired. The arrow flew through the air and hit the target, not close to the center but definitely within the rings. Her body tensed and, when he glimpsed the sight of her face, she was wearing a rare smile.
"Show me again," she said.
It wasn't a request, and he didn't take it as one, instead following her order.
Something about her was so commanding that he thought that if she said it in the right tone, she could lead armies to battle.
He was bolder with his guidance this time, and she was more yielding to his touch, allowing him to position her perfectly for the next shot.
This one hit so close to the center that they both groaned when they realized the near miss.
They tried again, and again, and then, eventually, the arrow hit home.
Murdoch cheered, and Morag grinned widely.
She spun around to face him, and for a moment Murdoch thought she might hug him.
But as soon as their eyes met, her expression turned cold once more, and she looked away as quickly as she could.
"You're a fool," she said. "Do ye ken that? It's a foolish man who takes time out tae train his enemy."
"Ye're nae me enemy, remember? We're on the same side," Murdoch told her.
Her eyes flashed in annoyance at his teasing, and it brought a red tinge to her cheeks that was unaccountably appealing. He wanted to raise his fingers and brush the skin of her cheek to feel its warmth, or whether it really felt as soft as a petal as it seemed.
"Ye do ken what side ye're on, dinnae ye?"
She snorted. "We'll see how many smart remarks ye can make when me arrow is through yer neck."
"Please. It will take several years and several more miracles before ye're able tae land a hit upon me. Some people are better suited for sharp words than weapons, Miss Caindach, and it seems like ye are one of them," Murdoch replied.
The verbal parry had been intended as a lighthearted barb to continue their banter.
Despite that, it seemed to hit more painfully and accurately than any arrow, and Morag paled, her body stiffening as she took a step back from him.
Her eyes widened, and she looked remarkably wounded for just a second before rage flooded back over her features.
"Ye've nae idea what ye're talkin' about," she hissed. "Dinnae ye dare ever underestimate me."
"Morag—"
But she stormed past him toward the secret entrance and disappeared back into the Keep, never once looking back.
Christopher stood there in the middle of the courtyard, surprised and not only a little bothered by what had just happened.
He was not here to make friends, and in fact he had gleefully antagonized Morag when they first met, but for her to leave so upset because of something he said felt…
wrong. After all, he hadn't even intended to be hurtful.
For some reason he could not understand, he wished that she had stayed.
He walked over and picked up the bow that Morag had abandoned on the ground, picking it up and aiming at the target.
If he had still been Christopher, he would have told her about how he used to get frustrated watching Elsie excel while he fell behind, and how it had taken years before he felt competent.
He might have described the time that he and Arran had an archery competition as children that ended when an arrow accidentally got lodged in Arran's favorite wooden training shield.
He might have even told her how patient Aila was whenever he failed, or how encouraging Lachlan was in guiding him to the weapons that suited him best. If he was still Christopher, he'd race after Morag and apologize, explaining himself and making sure that she wasn't upset.
But he'd left Christopher behind, and Murdoch could not care about the feelings of a woman who had nothing to offer. And so he simply released the string and watched as the arrow flew through the air, landing directly in the center of the target.
Straight for the kill.
"Elsie's younger than me. How come she does it so well? She's better with the horses, better with the bow—what's the point?" fifteen-year-old Christopher asked, stamping his foot on the ground with frustration. "I'm supposed tae be better."
"Ye're both better at different things, Chrissy. Dinnae be daft. I'm only barely competent with a bow meself, why are ye lettin' it worry ye?" Arran asked.
He was only a few months older than Christopher at most, but ever since they first met—even when he was ill—Christopher had looked up to Arran as an older brother.
Though he loved Lachlan and Aila and knew that he could always go to them for advice, there was something special about the bond he had with Arran.
Christopher shrugged. "It's just annoyin'. Ye're the heir, and she's the prodigy daughter. I dinnae ken where I fit. I dinnae ken how I'm ever gonnae make the kind of contribution tae this family that I want tae."
Arran shook his head. "Do ye think Elsie could have done what ye did for that horse of yers, Beatha?
Nay. Elsie can tame the wildest of steeds, but ye're the one who can pull life from darkness.
Elsie can fire an arrow into the centre of a target with her eyes closed, but ye can heft a polearm against any oncomin' enemy if ye need.
We each have our own roles, Christopher, and ye shouldnae let yerself forget it. "
"But what am I?" Christopher asked, sinking into his chair.
"Ye're a Kincaid. Just like Elsie. Just like me. Just like wee Cassie." Arran put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "The past is the past, brother. Never forget it. And always remember who ye are."
In the present, Murdoch lay on his back in a bed in Campbell Castle, staring up at the ceiling, those words from Arran all the way in the past echoing in his head. A woman's voice intertwined with them, another gentle soothing tone from his distant past who had once told him the very same thing.
Remember who you are.
Fenella Campbell, his mother, had said it even as she'd granted her son a new name and a new life.
Arran Kincaid had said it as he tried to assure his brother that there was a place for him.
And now, in fewer words, Alistair and Ian Campbell were saying it over and over again, trying to get their lost family back at last.
But how could Murdoch remember who he was when he'd never really known in the first place?
Inexplicably, Morag Caindach's prideful face swam into his mind.
She saw through him. She was not fooled by Murdoch, not even in the slightest, and even though her constant scorn wasn't exactly pleasant, it was strangely relieving.
What would she see if he showed himself fully?
If he wore no mask at all, what would Morag see?
Would she still allow him to touch her waist and change her stance, or would she fire an arrow directly into his heart?
And, if Murdoch looked in the mirror… what would he see there?
Part of him despaired that he might never know.
Part of him, even stronger, feared that one day he might.