“Nay.” The certainty in my voice surprised me, given I had decided to accept it as truth. “I could nae believe she would leave the lasses, though she held them at arm’s length then. She loved them fiercely. I would catch her, staring at them when they were near, and I could see the love in her gaze.”
“Mayhap she fell by accident,” Murieall suggested.
I shook my head. “She knew better than to walk near the edge. The dirt close to the ledge was prone to give way.” I hesitated, the details I’d obsessed over for months coming into sharp focus once more. “There were bruises on her wrists, as if someone had grabbed her. And her cloak was found twenty paces from where she must have jumped.”
Murieall’s eyes widened slightly. “Did others see these things?”
“Aunt Magdalene pointed out that Isabella had a habit of clutching at her own wrists in nervousness, which was true. And Uncle Gordon said she must have taken her cloak off as she walked, before she decided to jump, but the day was freezing, and her cloak was torn, as if there had been a struggle.” My jaw clenched with the same helpless feeling that had hammered at me since her death. “Everyone but me believed she took her own life in a moment of madness, even James, and James is always on my side.”
“And then ye set out to try to uncover the truth,” she said.
“Aye. But my land was well guarded, and nae anyone unusual was seen upon it that day, and I questioned my own clansmen over and over. There were no leads, and eventually—” I shrugged, drowning in old familiar helplessness.
“Ye could nae bear it anymore,” Murieall said simply. “The weight of nae knowing, the guilt.”
“Aye.” The admission felt like setting down a heavy log I’d carried for too long. “All I’d had was a burning belief that she’d loved the lasses and me too much to jump, and I had to accept it was nae so.” I clenched my teeth against the throbbing guilt. “I failed her twice over—first in life, then in death. And in my shame, I failed my daughters as well, because every time I looked at them, I saw her eyes, her smile.” I exhaled slowly. “I could nae bear their forgiveness when I deserved only their hatred.”
“Children do nae hate easily,” Murieall said, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. “They love even when it hurts. Even when the one they love is nae perfect.”
The simple truth of her words pierced me like an arrow. I’d been so wrapped in my own guilt that I’d never considered the possibility that Guinn and Bess might love me despite my failings and might need my love even if it came from damaged hands.
I became aware of a strange lightness in my chest. My breathing came easier, too, and the knot that had lived in my throat for two years whenever I thought of Isabella loosened, not gone but no longer choking.
I studied Murieall’s face in the flickering torchlight. Compassion softened her features, but there was no pity in her gaze, only understanding. It struck me then how rare that was to be seen clearly, with all my failures and weaknesses laid bare, and not be found wanting.
In that moment, looking at her dark eyes bright with unshed tears, at her copper hair spilling across my pillow, at her hand still holding mine as if it were something precious, I realized with startling clarity that my desire for her was not merely physical. It was not a distraction from pain or a means to momentary oblivion. It was something deeper and truer. It was a yearning not just for the comfort of a warm body but for the particular solace that was Murieall herself.
The realization should have terrified me. Instead, it washed through me like a cleansing tide.
I couldn’t say which of us moved first. One moment we were facing each other, the weight of my confession hanging between us, and the next I was leaning toward her, drawn by an inexorable force. My hand released hers to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her silken hair. She gasped, asound so soft I felt it rather than heard it, and then my lips were on hers, gentle at first, a question rather than a demand.
For the space of a heartbeat, Murieall went still beneath my touch, and I feared I’d misread everything between us. But then her mouth softened against mine, her lips parting on a sigh that seemed to echo through me. Her hand came up to rest against my chest, not pushing me away but anchoring herself as she leaned into me, returning the kiss with a hunger that matched my own.
This was nothing like the empty embraces I’d sought these past two years. Those had been acts of forgetting, desperate attempts to numb my pain for a few hours. Her lips moving against mine, her breath mingling with my own, was remembering what it felt like to truly want someone else, to need another person not just with my body but with whatever remained of my battered heart.
I deepened the kiss, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, feeling the warmth of her response. Her hand slid up to my shoulder, fingers digging into muscle as if to ensure I wouldn’t pull away. As if I could. The heather scent of her hair filled my senses, familiar now from the nights she’d spent in my bed, yet somehow more intoxicating than any wine I’d ever drunk.
“Murieall,” I murmured against her lips, her name like a prayer I hadn’t known I needed.
She answered by pressing closer, her body arching toward mine in a way that sent heat coursing through my veins. I slid my arm around her waist, drawing her against me until the rapid beat of her heart thumped through the layers of our clothing. The slight weight of her, the softness of her curves against the hard planes of my body, ignited something primal within me, a need I’d thought long dead.
I explored the delicate line of her spine, the gentle swell of her hip, the long column of her neck. She shivered beneath mytouch, a small tremor that only increased my desire to feel more of her, all of her. My fingers found the laces at the back of her gown and began to work them loose with an urgency that made my movements clumsy.
I finally managed to loosen the laces enough to slip my hand inside her gown and find the thin shift beneath. The heat of her skin through the delicate fabric was like touching fire, and I heard myself groan with the pleasure of it. My other hand cupped her face, tilting it up so I could claim her mouth once more in a kiss that released the chains on my hunger.
The quilts rustled beneath us as we moved together on the bed, her hands now as busy as mine, exploring the breadth of my shoulders, the muscles of my back, leaving trails of fire wherever she touched. Our breathing grew heavier in the quiet chamber, punctuated by soft sounds of pleasure neither of us seemed able to suppress.
I shifted, moving to cover her body with my own, wanting and needing to be closer still. The weight of me pressed her into the mattress, and she seemed to welcome it, her legs parting to cradle my hips, her arms pulling me down to her. The intimacy of the position, even fully clothed, sent a jolt of desire through me so intense it was almost painful.
My fingers worked at the laces of her gown with renewed determination, loosening them enough that I could ease the fabric from her shoulders. The sight of her pale skin in the torchlight, the gentle curve where her neck met her shoulder, the rise of her breasts still covered by her shift but clearly visible now, was almost more than I could bear. I bent to press my lips to her collarbone, to trace the line of it with my tongue, to taste the saltiness of her skin.
Her head fell back, throat exposed, a silent offering that drove my desire higher. My hand found the curve of her breast through her shift, thumb brushing over the hardened peak,drawing a gasp from her. I wanted to tear away the remaining barriers between us, to feel her skin against mine, to lose myself in her warmth and forget everything else. But I paused, drawing back just enough to look into her eyes. I needed to know she wanted this, too.
Her face was flushed, her lips swollen from my kisses, her dark eyes heavy-lidded with desire. She was achingly beautiful, and I wanted her with an intensity that gripped me like a vice.
“I’ll stop if ye want me to,” I said, my voice rough with restraint.
She studied my face for a long moment, searching for something, mayhap truth? The air between us thickened with possibility, with choice, with the secrets I’d revealed, and the tenderness she had shown me.
