Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
As a rule, Morag didn't spend much time interacting with her maids, but she'd found Mary a comfort since she arrived at the castle.
Mary was the kind of young woman who let nothing faze her, the kind of eternally optimistic person that Morag generally avoided but usually enjoyed immensely when she ended up in their company.
Right now, as Mary helped Morag dress for the day, Morag was even more glad for Mary's chattiness than usual. As Mary talked about her current torrid affair with one of the kitchen boys, Morag was not required to answer, and so her mind was free to wander.
The problem, though, was that it kept wandering back to the same place.
As Mary spoke of the kisses she'd exchanged in secret with Georgie, Morag's sore fingers tingled with the memory of the gentle touch of Murdoch's hands on hers last night.
While Mary giggled over Georgie's promises, Morag felt the soft whisper of Murdoch's breath on her neck as his hands gently lingered on her waist and he guided her to victory.
She could not stop thinking about the night before, and the more she tried to think about anything else, the more Murdoch invaded her mind. She couldn't understand why he wouldn't leave her alone even in her imagination.
She sternly reminded herself that she hated him.
He was a liar, even if she seemed to be the only one who knew it.
He was a threat to her simply by existing.
She could not allow herself to be distracted by a quick wit and an easy smile, not when everything about him had been designed to completely destroy everything she knew.
But no matter what, he was still there, like a thorn stubbornly stuck in place that she simply could not remove.
"Mistress, what happened tae yer hands?" Mary exclaimed, cutting her story short as she raised Morag's hands in hers. "They're covered in blisters. Have ye been shootin'? What on Earth?"
Panicking slightly, Morag snatched her gloves from where they were waiting on the arm of the chair. She pulled them on her hands herself, quickly covering up the damage. Mary stepped back, staring at her with wide eyes.
"Ye mustnae speak a word of what ye just saw tae anyone, Mary," Morag said, dropping her usual haughty tone and allowing her maid to hear the desperation there. "Please. Ye must promise me."
"Miss?" Mary asked uncertainly. She had never heard Morag speak this way. "What is goin' on? Are ye all right?"
"Please," Morag said quietly. "I need ye tae keep the state of me hands and yer suspicions between only yerself and me. Naebody else can know. Especially me father. Understood?"
Mary nodded, still wide-eyed. "Aye," she agreed. "But… please remember ye can talk tae me whenever ye wish, Miss. I'm here tae be yer friend if ye want."
That unsettled Morag. Friendship was not something with which she was particularly acquainted. Feeling awkward, she simply nodded and dismissed Mary with quiet thanks, finishing getting ready on her own.
It didn't take long. She found herself drawn to the plainest clothes she dared wear—the highest bodice, the simplest fabric, and the sturdiest boots.
She had no desire to flaunt herself as her father usually wished for her, and she wanted attention diverted away from herself until she was able to gain back her footing.
She felt far too shaken on her path to be able to tread it with as much confidence as she had only days before, and she blamed Murdoch Campbell for it thoroughly.
She did not know what game he was playing, but she would be twice damned if she would just sit back and let him win.
To finish, she pulled on a pair of plain white gloves, hoping nobody questioned them.
Once she was satisfied, Morag headed out into the corridor, but was stopped almost immediately as the imposing figure of her father appeared in front of her. He had clearly been heading to barge into her chambers once more, and Morag inadvertently shrank back as she saw the look on his face.
"Are ye a kitchen wench, tae be dressed so?" Caindach snapped the moment he laid eyes on her. "Are ye a widow? A dowdy spinster? Have ye forgotten the only thing ye have left of value, lass?"
Morag kept her expression trained and contrite, but inside each word hit like a blow.
She'd known for a long time that her father's only value in her was her beauty, but a part of her, a weak, childish part she'd worked so hard to suppress, still longed for a parent who would love her.
It was pathetic, and yet the yearning never faded, no matter how many rejections she'd already faced.
Caindach waited for her to speak, but when she didn't, he scoffed and shook his head, the disappointment in his face so strong that Morag wanted to cry.
"Useless," he said. "Tell me ye havenae failed me where it matters." He looked left and right, ensuring that they were alone then demanded, "What news of the ghost son? The so-called Campbell?"
Morag's skin tingled where Murdoch had touched her the night before and she clenched her hands into fists, ignoring the pain that flashed through her palms as a result.
Quickly, hiding her hands behind her back, she said, "I am sure that he is false, Father.
" The words spilled out before she could consider them—all she could do was tell him what he wanted to hear.
"His loyalty isnae tae our cause, I ken that much.
I just need a wee bit more time tae gather the evidence we need tae make Laird Campbell believe us. "
"A little more time?" Caindach hissed in a low, deadly whisper.
Morag recoiled, moving back a step as her father leaned closer.
"More time for this snake tae coil tighter around Campbell's throat. More time for Murdoch tae insinuate himself intae power and learn all our secrets. There is nae time, daughter. Are ye tae be forever useless?"
She did not speak, her heart constricting in her chest as she fought to keep the pain he was causing out of her face.
"Ye must not fail me. Ye willnae fail me.
After all, what's left for ye if ye do?" He looked at her in disgust. "Nae northern laird will ever wed ye after yer failure with Rolland Murray.
I will have tae keep ye until we find ye a man who'll have ye as a mistress, but if I am tae do that, ye must prove yerself useful tae me. This is yer last chance. Understood?"
Morag bit her tongue. She longed to hit back with the logic that he should be glad she hadn't married Rolland Murray—after all, wasn't he their enemy?
—but she knew that her words would fall on deaf ears.
Everything she had ever said had been dismissed by her father unless it was exactly what he wanted to hear.
That desperate, innocent part of her shattered at the thought, but she stood tall, expressionless, and proud.
She had never been anything but a pawn to him—but what her father forgot was that a pawn, if it survived to the other side of the board, could become a queen.
"I willnae fail, Father," she said, serious and unblinking. "Murdoch Campbell's secrets will be mine soon enough. Just wait and see."
Murdoch paced back and forth in front of the war room, his frustration matched only by the howling wind outside.
He'd thought his progress was good, but it wasn't good enough—he was still left out of yet another high level war meeting, and he knew that just beyond those doors, people were plotting openly to kill everyone that he had ever cared for.
He knew that he needed to be patient, but his ability to do that was running thin.
He did not have forever to keep playing this role of Murdoch, smiling and laughing with these people, when every day Christopher wilted inside him and threatened to be lost forever.
Every day was more of a challenge as the reality of his task grew more and more urgent.
Every day, his sense of who he really was was more and more under threat.
He was not and had never been built for subterfuge, and each morning when the sun rose, and he donned Murdoch's cloak, he felt like he might lose Christopher forever.
But it didn't matter. He had to keep going.
He had to get into that room. No matter what it took.
The doors opened and Murdoch hastily stepped back, moving to the window to look out at the garden and act as though he had not been practically listening at the door. The first one out was Ian, and the heir wore a knowing smirk on his face as he took in the sight of Murdoch standing there.
"Bonny view, eh?" Ian asked, walking up and nudging him lightly in the ribs. "Such a coincidence that ye should be takin' it in through this window."
"A coincidence indeed," Murdoch replied, smiling.
He didn't have to fake it. To his surprise, his relationship with Ian had been the easiest part of his time here.
His brother—because, yes, nobody could deny that this was his brother—seemed determined to live up to that title.
Talking to him was surprisingly easy. Banter flowed easily between them; they didn't talk about their past much, but it was all too easy to chat about the day to day and joke lightly about things that were going on around them.
He took in Ian's clothing and raised an eyebrow. "Ye're headed out?"
Ian grinned. Behind him, Alistair exited the room, flanked by several Campbell warriors. Alistair caught Murdoch's eye and nodded, and Murdoch nodded back.
"Accompany us tae the courtyard?" Ian asked.
Murdoch obeyed, walking beside Ian as the group made their way out.
When they arrived, there was already a flurry of activity underway as horses were led out and adorned for battle, armor, and supplies were packed into saddlebags, and men speaking in low voices.
The courtyard was a frenzy, and it felt very much like the beginning of something, thick with tension.
Around them, the wind howled, adding to the wild atmosphere.