Chapter twenty-five
I returned to Ross stronghold at dusk, boots caked with mud and my plaid damp from a constant drizzle.
I’d not bothered to rest on the ride or to tend my wound properly, though by the time I passed under the main gate, it was more of a nuisance than a real hurt.
What ached worse was under my ribs. The pain there had gone dull, but I suspected it would be with me until my dying day.
A stableboy came running to take the reins as I slid from the saddle, my legs nearly buckling. I steadied myself with one hand on the horse’s wet flank and looked at the lad. “Is Munro here?”
“Aye. He’s in the solar with Lady Murieall.”
I trudged through the inner courtyard and made my way into the castle.
Servants gawked at me in the hall, and I suspected it was less my travel-worn state than my expression.
I could feel my jaw clenching and my eyes burning from my sleepless journey.
I ignored their stares and climbed the main stairs to the solar, following the sound of laughter.
The solar door stood ajar, a wedge of golden light spilling out into the passage.
I pushed it wider and stopped on the threshold.
Munro and Murieall sat close together before the hearth.
A wine jug sat on the table beside them.
Murieall’s head was tipped back, mid-laugh, her face bright with amusement.
Munro’s large hand rested easily on her knee, and his gaze was one I’d only ever seen on his face when he looked at her.
It was a mixture of reverence, devotion, and fierce tenderness.
I understood it now in a way I never had before.
For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
The sight of them so comfortable and at ease with each other called up images I had tried for two days to bury of Katreine riding beside me, caring for me, hunting with me, and ultimately beneath me as our bodies joined.
I stood there, and it was as if I could see two lives unfolding before me.
One that belonged to them, filled with the quiet, constant warmth of each other’s company, and another I’d dreamed of, with Katreine at my side, laughter on her lips, her golden eyes catching firelight, her hand sliding into mine as if we’d been made to fit together.
I saw her curled by a hearth in a room like this, our feet tangled under a bench, both of us half-drunk on wine and each other.
I saw us out in the summer grass, the two of us lying side by side, arms touching, staring at the stars until we could no longer hold back the urge to turn and kiss.
I saw us in the dark before dawn, her hair splayed over my arm, the hush of her breath on my neck, waking and knowing with a certainty that she would always choose me. Instead, I stood here alone.
My chest felt hollow and scraped raw. I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me with more force than I’d meant to.
Munro turned first, sweeping his gaze over me. He didn’t speak at once, but I saw his nostrils flare as he studied me. “Ye look as if the king set hounds on ye and ye barely outran them,” he said, his voice gruff yet warm. “Come in, ye clot-heid, and sit by the fire before ye freeze solid.”
I crossed the room and dropped onto the bench opposite them, close enough to catch the hearth’s warmth but as far as I could get from the comfort of their togetherness.
There was a jug of wine on the table, two goblets, and the remnants of a meat pie.
I took the jug and filled a fresh cup for myself, though my trembling hand made the wine slosh over the edge.
Murieall set her own cup down and looked at me, her expression a mix of seriousness and deep concern.
“Did ye find the healer?” she asked, her tone softer than Munro’s. “Did the king reward ye for it, as he said he would?”
“I found her,” I said, my voice rough from disuse. “I lost her. I did nae gain any prizes, only misery.”
Before I could say another word, Murieall’s eyes went wide. “By the gods,” she breathed. “The healer stole yer heart.”
I didn’t confirm or deny it, but the look that passed between Munro and Murieall told me they knew the truth I hadn’t spoken.
Murieall reached across the space between us and closed her hand around my wrist. Her fingers were warm, her grip firm. “Tell us,” she said. “Mayhap we can help.”
I shook my head. “I doubt that verra much.”
Munro leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady on mine.
“Let us try,” he said, his voice blunt yet warm.
“We are yer family, James. Ye are a Ross. Ye are one of us, ye bloody clot-heid.” His mouth curled in a half-smile.
“If ye would only accept it in yer thick skull, yer life would be so much simpler.”
Murieall nodded. “Aye. Family is nae only that which ye were born into, James. It can also be that which ye make and those who want to love ye.”
Something in my head clicked. God’s blood.
All my life, I’d been seeking belonging, a place to call my own, and it had been here all along, waiting for me to see and accept it.
I’d let unthinking words from jealous men eat at me and set me on an unfulfilling path.
I set the goblet down on the table and covered my face with both hands, my shoulders bowing under the weight of all I had lost and all I had nearly thrown away.
“I’ve been a fool,” I said, my words muffled by my palms. “Chasing things I did nae need when everything I needed was already here.” I dropped my hands to my knees and looked up at them, my voice steadying. “Her name is Katreine Wallace. I found her among the Summer Walkers.”
At Murieall’s sharp breath, I flicked my gaze to her and arched my eyebrows in question.
“Go on with yer tale,” she said, but I knew something had bothered her. She reached out and grasped Munro’s hand.
But I did as she bid and told them everything, in fits and starts.
I relayed how I’d lied to Katreiene about my purpose, how I’d finally told her the truth about the prizes I stood to gain by delivering her to the king, how she’d grown guarded and distant after that, how Conn had taken her from me on the road, and how, when I’d finally caught up to her at the king’s court, I’d learned she was the lost heir of Laird Wallace and that she had renewed an old betrothal to a man named Alec Buchanan.
As I spoke, Murieall’s face drained of color, and Munro’s lips parted in surprise. I stopped mid-sentence, now surer than I was when I’d started that something was most definitely amiss.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, looking between them.
Murieall leaned forward, her gaze intent on my face. “Describe her to me.”
I frowned, puzzled by the urgency in her voice, but I answered anyway.
“Tall. Slender. Long brown hair streaked with red. Mostly gold eyes with flecks of brown.” I paused, searching for words that would do her justice.
“High cheekbones. Glorious, husky laugh. And she has a cluster of freckles on her right shoulder in the shape of a star.”
“How many summers would ye say she is?” Murieall asked.
“She’s twenty-five summer,” I answered. “It was discussed in the king’s solar.”
Murieall exchanged a look with Munro, then turned back to me. “Her skin, is it unlined with the youth of her years?”
“Aye,” I said, growing impatient at the strange question. “Why? Do ye feel ye ken her somehow?” She was younger than Murieall and me, for that matter, by a good many summers.
“Aye,” Murieall said quietly. “I do.”
The simple confirmation sent a jolt through me. I sat forward, my fatigue forgotten in the sudden surge of energy. “How do ye ken her?” I asked when Murieall did not immediately give an explanation.
Murieall folded her hands in her lap, her voice measured. “Ye will recall that when I came here, I was cursed.”
“Ye ken I do,” I replied. I’d believed Murieall had heard the voices of the dead before Munro. “What of it?”
“Katreine Wallace was—” Murieall shook her head, “is one of my best friends.” Murieall now reached out and grasped my hand. “If ye’ll recall my story of how I was cursed, I was with my three best friends. We each made a wish.”
I felt my eyes narrow and my frown deepen. “Are ye saying—”
“Aye,” Murieall interrupted.
Now I shook my head in disbelief. “But I had assumed that ye and yer friends were near the same age.”
Murieall smiled. “We are.”
I was missing something she was trying to tell me. “But then, that would mean—”
“God’s blood, James,” Murieall muttered. “I ken it’s hard to believe, but Katreine was with me. She made a wish and was also cursed. She can nae age, and apparently the curse is still in place.”
I gawked at her, and she gave my hand a squeeze.
Katreine is not twenty-five summers, James. She just looks it. She is locked in place from the day we were in the Dark Forest and made our wishes. She is my age.
“God’s blood,” I muttered.
Murieall glared at me, and I let out a desperate chuckle. “I do nae mean it as it sounded. ’Tis just a lot to learn.”
“I forgive ye,” she said with a smirk.
“Ye look twenty-five summers to me, my bonnie bride,” Munro said, and Murieall grinned at her husband.
For a long moment, I could not speak as I tried to think, but my thoughts felt stuck in mud, and slowly, ever so slowly, I dragged memories up from the depths of years gone by of how Murieall was cursed and why. “The magical goblet,” I said.
Murieall nodded.
“And the witch that cursed ye—”
“Morgana,” Murieall whispered, as if saying her name too loudly might conjure her to us.
“I’ve met her. Well, of a sort,” I quickly corrected, my mind turning over what I’d learned, trying to grapple with and accept it.
“I heard her around me at the cave where I took Katreine.” I had so many questions, but the one pressing on me most was about Katreine’s wish. “What was her wish? Do ye ken?”