Her brow furrowed slightly. “He rescued me from yer aunt’s questions. She does nae seem to like me much.”
“Aunt Magdalene takes time to warm to people,” I said, though in truth, I’d never seen her warm to anyone outside the family. “And James is a charmer with the lasses.”
“Are ye jealous?” she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice that surprised me.
I should have denied it immediately. Should have scoffed at the very idea. Instead, I said, “Aye, perhaps I was.”
Her eyes widened at my admission, and I felt an unexpected satisfaction at having surprised her. Two years I’d spent hiding behind wine and walls, letting no one close enough to see beneath the mask of laird and grieving widower. Yet here I was, revealing truths I scarcely admitted to myself.
She shifted slightly, wincing as she did so. The gash on her temple from catching Bess was still raw, a reminder of how she’d put herself in harm’s way to protect my daughter. My throat tightened at the memory.
“James told me some of what happened,” she said after a moment, her voice soft. “About Isabella.”
I tensed, my hand stilling on hers. The familiar urge to shut down, to retreat into numbness, rose within me like an old friend offering comfort. But Murieall didn’t press, didn’t demand. She simply waited, her eyes on mine, patient and somehow understanding.
“What did he tell ye?” I asked finally.
“That she was found at the bottom of a cliff. That some believe she jumped after losing your son, but ye believed someone killed her.” She paused, then added quietly, “That ye blame yerself either way.”
I closed my eyes briefly, the pain of those memories washing over me in a wave that was familiar yet surprisingly not quite as strong as recently. When I opened them again, Murieall was still watching me, her gaze steady and without judgment.
“Ye do nae have to tell me,” she said.
I nodded at that, appreciating it. But I did want to try to explain how I’d come to be this way, which surprised me. “I want ye to understand,” I said, my voice gruff.
She nodded, her free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so tender it nearly broke me. “Then I will listen.”
The torchlight flickered over us, casting long shadows on the stone walls, and outside, the wind moaned through the battlements. The old familiar ache in my chest was there, yet for the first time in years, it felt bearable, as if in speaking of the past, I might finally begin to set down the weight I’d carried alone for so long.
“She was nae always sad,” I began, the words tumbling out before I could reconsider. “Before the bairn, before everything went wrong, she was the most joyful creature I’d ever kenned.”
Murieall’s fingers tightened around mine, anchoring me as I prepared to dive into the darkest waters of my memory. And God help me, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to let her pull me from those depths, to breathe air that wasn’t tainted with grief and guilt and endless, choking regret.
I stared at our joined hands for a long moment, gathering courage like a man might gather stones to build a wall, only I was about to tear one down. “Isabella was afraid to have another bairn after Bess was born because the birth was so difficult,” I said, my voice strange to my own ears after so long avoiding speaking of her. “But she knew how much I wanted a son, and so she set her fear aside. When she finally quickened with him, her joy was great, and so was mine.” I swallowed hard against the memory.
Murieall’s fingers tightened around mine, not in judgment but in silent support. The simple gesture gave me the strength to continue.
“Uncle Gordon insisted I attend to a clan dispute. Said it could nae wait, that my presence was required to prevent bloodshed.” I exhaled slowly, the familiar bitterness rising likebile. “I rode out with twenty men, leaving Isabella heavy with child.”
I could almost see the events unfolding as I recounted them. “The bairn came while I was gone, and there were complications.” My voice caught on the word, and I had to force myself to continue. “By the time I returned, it was far too late.”
Murieall shifted closer, her free hand coming to rest lightly on my forearm. The warmth of her touch was reassuring as the past sank its claws into me.
“My son was stillborn. We had decided if Isabella had a boy to name the child George, after Isabella’s da.” It felt foreign to be speaking so openly of him. “Isabella held his lifeless body in her arms and gave him his name alone.” My throat constricted painfully. “She buried him alone, while I was arguing with strangers about grazing rights.”
I closed my eyes against the surge of self-loathing that accompanied those words. When I opened them again, Murieall’s gaze held no condemnation, only a profound understanding that somehow made it both easier and harder to continue.
“After that, she changed.” I struggled to find words adequate to describe the transformation I’d witnessed. “At first, she raged that George had been killed. She insisted that she’d heard him cry when he was born, but both Aunt Magdalen and Isabella’s chambermaid said he was stillborn. Once she accepted this, the anger departed, leaving only sadness. It was as if something vital had gone out of her, like a candle snuffed by the wind. She would sit for hours in her solar, staring at nothing. She stopped eating unless reminded. Stopped speaking unless spoken to.”
The bed creaked softly as I shifted position, though I maintained my grip on Murieall’s hand as if it were a lifeline in turbulent waters.
“The lasses tried to reach her. They brought her flowers, drawings, little trinkets they’d found. Sometimes it worked, but those moments grew rarer.” I hesitated, the next part hardest to admit. “I tried too, at first. But each time I looked at her, I saw my own failure reflected in her. So I began to find reasons to be elsewhere. More duties, more clan business, more distance.”
Shame burned in my chest at the admission. I’d abandoned her when she needed me most, just as surely as I had when our son was born. “Oddly, the last day I saw her alive, she smiled in a way I’d nae seen since we lost George. It lit her eyes, and she said she’d dreamed of George that night, and he was happy and safe. She kissed me on the cheek as I rode out for the day to see laird Munroe to try to resolve some boundary disputes brewing. She told me to be safe, and she said she was going for a walk to Pike’s Point, which is the highest cliff on our lands.”
I frowned, trying to recapture my memory of the day precisely. “I did nae think anything of it. She’d walked that cliff hundreds of times in the past alone and with the lasses and me.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the worst part of the story. “My aunt went for a walk later that day on the beach below Pike’s Point, and she found Isabella at the base. Her body…” My voice broke, and I had to pause before continuing. “Well, she was dead.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, then opened them to find Murieall’s full of tears. Her sadness for me gave me an odd sense of strength. “Everyone said she must have jumped. That her grief had finally overwhelmed her.”
“But ye did nae believe that,” Murieall prompted gently.
