He reached for me then, and I jerked back instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. His fingers brushed against mine, then circled my wrist in a vice grip. His hands were cold as death, making my skin crawl. I tried to jerk free once more, but it was futile. He was much stronger than I was. With a hard pull toward him, I was sliding off the horse, heart racing. The world tilted, then righted as my feet hit the ground, and I searched frantically for an escape. In that moment, an odd warmth washed over me. The horse neighed and kicked up, as if spooked. Gordon released me to grab the horse’s reins, and then, as clear as if she stood beside me, Isabella’s voice whispered in my ear.
Run.
Panic knifed through me, and I bolted toward the woods.
Chapter Twenty-One – Munro
James and I crashed to the floor with him on top of me, but my rage gave me the edge. I shoved him off me and rolled on top of him, pinning him to the floor. “Traitor!” I spat, driving my fist into his ribs. The impact sent pain shooting up my arm, but I welcomed it, channeled it into more strength for the next strike. “I trusted ye above all others!”
James twisted beneath me, blocking my next punch and shoving hard against my chest. “Ye damned fool!” he snarled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Their lies blind ye!”
I grabbed his tunic in both hands, slamming him back against the floorboards. “I saw ye with my own eyes,” I growled, my voice raw with betrayal. “Ye and Murieall, conspiring, embracing—”
He bucked beneath me with surprising strength, throwing me off balance just enough to roll us both. Suddenly, I was beneath him, his forearm pressed against my throat, not enough to choke but enough to hold me still. His face hovered above mine, a vein pulsing furiously by his right eye and his jaw set.
“Listen to me, ye stubborn arse,” he panted, his weight bearing down on me. “I told ye, Murieall nearly collapsed. I caught her before she hit the floor, nae anything more.”
I struggled against his hold, unwilling to hear his excuses. “More lies,” I spat. “Ye expect me to believe in ghosts now? In voices from beyond the grave?”
“Believe what ye will about ghosts,” James shot back, “but believe this—yer son was nae stillborn! Magdalene lied!”
I froze beneath him, the air leaving my lungs in a rush as if a horse had kicked me. “What did ye just say?” I whispered, the rage momentarily eclipsed by shock.
“George lived,” James said, his voice dropping lower but no less intense. “He drew breath. He cried.”
The implications crashed through me, terrible and overwhelming. If my son had lived, if he had drawn breath and cried… My mind shied away from the thought, unable to bear it. It couldn’t be true.
With a roar of renewed rage, I heaved upward, throwing James off me. He crashed into the nearby table, sending a candlestick clattering to the floor. I was on him in an instant, my hands finding his throat, fury and grief making me blind to all else.
“Ye lie!” I shouted, fingers tightening. “Ye dare speak of George—”
James’s hands clawed at mine, his face reddening.
“Stop, Da! They will tell ye about Murieall!”
The small voice cut through my fury, and I glanced up and flinched.
Bess stood there, her small face pale but determined, her eyes wide with fear and resolution. Beside her, Guinn clutched her sister’s hand, her expression equally resolute. But they were not alone. My hands slid from James’s neck as I stared, unable to move.
Behind my daughters stood a small crowd of five people. Fergus, the stable master. Nessa from the kitchens, wringing her apron in her hands. The widow from the village edge. The fisherman’s son. And Mairi, who used to work in the kitchens before her age, made it impossible.
I slowly got to my feet, and I took them in. “What’s this?” I demanded, my voice hoarse from shouting. “What are ye alldoing here?” I asked, as James pushed himself to his feet, one hand rubbing his throat where my fingers had left red marks.
“They’ve come to tell ye what Murieall did,” Guinn said.
“What she did,” I echoed, glancing from face to face, finding no answer in their grave expressions.
Guinn stepped forward, her small chin lifted in a gesture so like her mama’s that my heart clenched painfully. “Murieall hears the dead, Da,” she said, her voice steady despite her obvious fear. “She’s been helping people.”
I shook my head, unable to process her words. “Guinn, that’s enough—”
“Nay, ’tis nae enough,” my daughter interrupted, surprising me with her boldness. “Ye need to listen. We all need ye to listen now.”
James got to his feet, his presence no longer enraging me but confusing me further. “Let them speak, Munro,” he urged softly. “For once in yer life, just listen.”
I looked at the gathered group, and the intense expressions on their faces made the hairs on my arms stand on end. “What would ye have me hear?” I asked, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. Not the voice of a laird, but of a man lost and uncertain.
Bess reached for my hand, her small fingers curling around mine with surprising strength. “They all have stories, Da,” she said. “About how Murieall helped them. About messages from people who are gone.”
