“Mayhap they’re conspiring now to make ye seem mad,” he said, his tone now low and urgent. “Ye’ve come to me, after all,” he added. “Talking of ghosts and curses. Mayhap they are trying to prod ye to talk to others as well. Yer men when ye train. The servants. Whispers would start. People would think ye unfit to be laird.”
The suggestion was so outlandish that I nearly laughed. “James has been loyal to me since we were lads,” I protested, though my voice lacked the conviction I would have had last night. “He would nae seek to undermine me.”
“Would he nae?” Uncle Gordon countered, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “Ye’ve been distant these past years, Munro. Consumed by grief, by wine. The clan needs strong leadership, and James has been providing much of it in yer absence.” He sighed heavily, as if reluctant to continue. “It would nae be the first time a right-hand man grew tired of serving a laird he deemed unworthy, and the men respect James, are loyal to him, and the women think him honorable. He’s strong. He’s clearheaded. Much younger than me, who would be the only person even remotely capable of challenging him once he got ye out of the way.”
Images flashed through my mind of James taking command during the MacTavish raid when I’d been too drunk to lead, James settling disputes among clansmen while I brooded alone in my chamber, James bringing my daughters home, who were missed and beloved by my clan, when I couldn’t bear to look at them. The mere notion of such a betrayal made me feel sick. With a shaking hand, I grasped my wine goblet and downed the contents.
“I do nae want to believe it either, Munro,” Uncle Gordon said, the words heavy with sorrow. “But do ye remember how Laird MacPherson lost everything to his most trusted advisor? The man convinced everyone the laird was moon-touched, hearing voices and seeing spirits.”
A cold weight settled in my chest. I wanted to dismiss my uncle’s words as paranoia, as manipulation, but they burrowed into the wound Murieall’s betrayal had left, finding fertile ground in my battered trust. Was it possible? Could James and Murieall be working together to undermine me? To make the clan believe I was unfit to lead?
“I could be wrong,” Uncle Gordon said, his voice gentle now, apologetic. “I hope I am. But as someone who wants only what’s best for ye and for the clan, I would be remiss if I did nae warn ye to be careful.”
My mind churned with suspicion and doubt, replaying every interaction with James and Murieall in this new light. The solid ground I’d thought beneath my feet seemed suddenly treacherous, shifting. “I should go,” I said abruptly, setting the empty goblet down with more force than necessary. “I need to think.”
My uncle nodded. “Of course, nephew. But remember to trust yer instincts. Ye’ve always had good ones, when ye’re clear-headed enough to heed them.”
I left the solar with my uncle’s words echoing in my mind, each step heavier than the last. The betrayal of Murieall had been painful enough, but the possibility that James, my oldest friend, my brother in all but blood, might be part of it was almost more than I could bear. And yet, a voice whispered in the back of my mind, what if my uncle was right? What if I had been blind to a conspiracy forming right under my nose?
Chapter Sixteen – Murieall
I paced the length of my bedchamber, fingers pressed against my temples as if the pressure might somehow silence the chorus of pleas echoing in my mind. The voices of the dead had returned with a vengeance since I’d opened myself to them, each one desperate to be heard, to have their unfinished business attended to. Gone was the curse of hearing them; now came the responsibility of listening. And with that responsibility, I prayed, would come Isabella’s voice again, clear enough to give me the truth I needed to help Munro if he’d ever speak to me again after my confession.
The look on his face when I’d told him the truth still haunted me. Betrayal, rage, and beneath it all, a hurt so profound it had stolen my breath. He believed I’d used him, manipulated him for my own ends. And had I not? I’d come to Ross Stronghold with the sole purpose of making him feel again so that Morgana would lift my curse. I’d never intended to care for his daughters or to fall in love with him. Yet both had happened, and now I was trapped between my love for them all and my desperate need to hear Isabella’s voice once more.
“Find the dagger,” a gruff male voice whispered, louder than the others. “It lies beneath the loose floorboards in the third stall of the stables. My son needs it. Tell him his da left it for him before he rode to his death.”
I stilled my pacing, focusing on this voice. It was stronger than the others, more urgent. An older man, by the sound of it, with a burr in his speech that reminded me of the crofters who worked our lands back home.
“Who’s yer son?” I whispered back, earning only the repetition of the same plea.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. The dead were not always obliging with details. They seemed to expect me to simply know who they were speaking of, as if their concerns were as clear to me as they were to them. I would need to find this dagger and then seek out the man’s son; however, that might be accomplished.
Without giving myself time to reconsider, I moved toward the door, keenly aware that something had shifted irrevocably inside of me. Knowing Munro, loving him had changed me. It had set me free. I wanted so badly to do the same for him.
The corridor outside my chamber was mercifully empty. I hurried along it, my skirts swishing against the stone floor as I made my way toward the outer doors that would lead to the stables. My heart hammered against my ribs, not just from the exertion but from fear of encountering Munro, of seeing that coldness in his eyes again, of having him order me from his lands as he surely would eventually.
The afternoon sun was warm on my face as I stepped into the courtyard. A few servants bustled about their tasks, paying me little mind. I had nearly reached the stable doors when the patter of small feet split the silence behind me.
“Murieall! Murieall, wait!”
I tensed but forced myself to stop and turn toward Guinn and Bess. They hurried toward me, their faces flushed with exertion, their eyes bright with determination. My heart sank at the sight of them. Surely Munro had forbidden them from speaking to me by now. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him striding across the courtyard to separate his daughters from the woman who had betrayed his trust.
“Ye should nae be speaking to me, lasses,” I said softly as they reached me. “Yer da—”
“Da’s gone out riding to think,” Guinn interrupted. “He’ll nae be back until supper.”
“We missed ye this morning,” Bess added, her small hand slipping into mine with such innocent trust that my throat tightened. “Ye were nae in the great hall to break yer fast.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Is that where ye saw her da?”
They both nodded.
“Did he…” I faltered, trying to think how to ask them if they’d been ordered to stay away from me. “Did ye say anything about me to the two of ye?” I finally settled on looking between them.
“Aye,” Guinn replied. “He said ye would nae be coming to the nursery today, because ye did nae feel well.”
So, he’d not yet forbid them from seeing me. Still, he had forbidden me from talking to them. He had probably not considered that they would seek me out.
