If Isabella had indeed been murdered, and I had given up searching for her killer because it was easier than fighting against the tide of disbelief, what kind of man did that make me? What kind of husband? What kind of laird?
And if Murieall truly did hear the voices of the dead, if Isabella truly had spoken to her from beyond the grave, what then? It defied all reason, all natural law. I had been raised to believe in God and His heaven, but ghosts whispering secrets to the living? That was the stuff of fireside tales told to frighten children.
The fire crackled and popped in the hearth, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. Outside, the wind moaned through the battlements, a sound that had always reminded me of souls in torment. Was Isabella’s among them? Had she been trying to reach me all this time while I closed my ears and heart to her?
The shame of it burned in my chest, spreading through my veins like poison. And beneath the shame lurked another truth, one I was even less willing to face: I wanted to believe Murieall not just about Isabella, but about everything. I wanted to believe she had come to me with pure intentions, that what had grown between us was real, not some calculated scheme.
Because in her arms, for one night, I had felt something other than grief. I had felt alive again. And God help me, I feared some part of me would accept any lie, believe any tale, if it meant keeping that feeling, keeping her.
I stared into the fire and made a decision. I would speak to James. Face-to-face with him, I felt I would sense the truth and see it. One thing I knew for certain: there was no path forward that didn’t lead through suffering.
Chapter Eighteen – Murieall
Dawn crept through the narrow window of my chamber. I hadn’t slept more than a handful of restless moments. I was kept awake by my mind replaying Munro’s accusations and my failed pleas to the guard outside my door. My body ached as if I’d been beaten, though the only blows I’d suffered were the words Munro had hurled at me and the sight of betrayal in his eyes. I rolled to my side and stared at the shadows that clung to the corners. God’s blood, how had everything gone so terribly wrong?
I pushed myself from the bed, my legs unsteady beneath me as I crossed to the window. The courtyard below was stirring with early-morning activity. Soon, Munro would come to send me away, and I would never see him again.
That thought drove me from the window to pace the confines of my prison. Seven steps to the door, seven steps back to the window, turn and repeat. My fingers raked through my hair, wincing as they caught in a tangle, and I wrestled with the same question that had plagued me all night. Why would Munro think I’d conspire with James? For what purpose? I recalled the blind rage in his eyes when he’d accused me and James of plotting against him, of trying to make him appear mad to the clan. The memory of his face, contorted with fury and pain, made my breath hitch.
I paused at the door and pressed my hand against it, hoping my attempts this morning to get Dalton to open my door, which he was assigned to guard, would yield better results than the previous night. “Dalton,” I called. “Please let me out.”
“Nay,” he bit back. “And if ye start pestering me as ye did last night, I’ll open the door and stuff yer mouth, so I do nae have to listen to ye beg.”
I scowled at the door, then pressed my forehead to it. “Isabella,” I whispered, my voice breaking on her name. “I beg of ye to speak to me, please. Munro’s sending me away this day. If there’s truth ye would have me tell him, I must ken it now, or all is lost.”
It started as a whisper in my mind, but her voice gained intensity quickly.
Speak with the chambermaid, Francine. She heard my boy cry, too. He was nae stillborn. Prove I did nae jump.
The words rang with such clarity that I gasped, my head jerking up as if I might see Isabella standing before me. The chamber remained empty of any visible presence, yet the weight of her message settled on me like a physical thing.
My mind raced with the implications. If Isabella’s son hadn’t been stillborn as Munro had been told, then who had—
A sharp knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, startling me so badly I nearly toppled over.
“Who is it?” I called, my voice still thick with emotion.
The door swung open to reveal James, his clothes travel-worn and dusty, his face grim with purpose. A glance behind him showed no sign of Dalton.
“Where’s the guard?” I asked, bewildered by his unexpected appearance.
“I told him Munro had sent me to escort ye from our stronghold, so Dalton went on to train with the others, thinking his duty here was done. What’s happened?” James asked. “I returned from border patrol a short while ago only to find the whole castle buzzing about yer impending departure.”
The words poured from me in a desperate flood. I told him of Munro’s accusations and his anger at both of us. I paused. “I donae ken why he thinks we’re conspiring against him,” I said. My fingers twined together anxiously. “He’s sending me away today. But James, Isabella spoke to me moments ago. She told me to speak with a chambermaid named Francine, who apparently heard Isabella’s bairn cry after birth.”
James’s face darkened as I spoke, his expression shifting from confusion to grim understanding. “Francine,” he murmured. “Aye, she assisted Magdalene during the birth.” His jaw tightened. “Magdalene swore the child never drew breath.”
“If the child lived,” I said slowly, the terrible realization dawning, “then Magdalene—”
“Aye,” James finished for me, his voice hard as iron. “Either killed him or felt she’d be blamed when he did nae live, so she lied that he ever drew breath.” He extended his hand toward me, his gaze intent. “Follow my lead. We need to find Francine before Munro sends ye away.”
I followed James through the corridors, my heart hammering against my ribs with each careful step. Every time we turned a corner, I tensed, expecting to meet disaster. James moved with the confidence of a man born to these walls, his shoulders drawn up, but his steps sure as he led the way. Whenever footsteps echoed from around a corner, or voices drifted toward us, he would raise his hand sharply, bringing me to a halt as we pressed against the cold stone walls, waiting for the danger to pass.
“The servants are gathered in the kitchen for their morning meal,” James whispered over his shoulder. “We should be able to reach my chambers without being seen.”
His words did little to calm my nerves. If Munro found us together now, it would only confirm his suspicions of conspiracy. I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders, as much for comfort as for warmth in the chilly morning air. The risk we tooknow was great, but the promise of justice for Isabella and her bairn drove me forward despite my fear.
James paused at the junction of two corridors, his head cocked as he listened for any sound of approach. I held my breath, straining my own ears in the silence. After a moment, he gestured for me to follow once more, and we continued our cautious progress.
