Chapter Twenty-Three – Munro
I vaulted from my saddle before my horse had fully stopped, my boots striking the forest floor with a dull thud that matched the desperate pounding of my heart. My uncle’s mount stood just ahead, its flanks still heaving from a hard ride. The sight confirmed what James and I had suspected. My uncle had brought Murieall here, to the dense woods that bordered our lands to the east. To a place where screams would go unheard, where a body might lie undiscovered for days, perhaps forever. I glanced over my shoulder to see James riding hard toward me, but I didn’t wait.
I drew my dagger from my belt, the familiar weight of it offering little comfort against the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. Rage at my uncle’s betrayal. Shame at my own blindness. Terror at what might befall Murieall if I arrived too late. Astonishment that the dead spoke amongst us.
I forced myself to breathe. To think. To move as the warrior I’d been trained to be rather than the frantic, desperate man I felt myself becoming. Wild pursuit would serve neither of us. I needed stealth. Precision. The patience of a predator.
The forest welcomed me into its shadows with eerie quiet. No birds sang in the branches above. No creatures rustled in the undergrowth. Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath, as if the very woods knew something terrible was unfolding within their bounds. I moved forward, placing each foot with deliberate care, avoiding fallen branches and dry leaves that might announce my approach—every sense strained for some sign, some sound that would guide me to Murieall.
All the while, my mind churned with the revelations that had shattered the foundations of my world. My son had lived and had cried. And I, fool that I was, had let grief blind me to the vipers I’d harbored in my own home. Had nearly sent Murieall to her death rather than believe what my heart had known to be true—that she was no liar, no manipulator, but a woman blessed or cursed with a gift I could not comprehend.
My blood froze in my veins at the sight of my uncle straddling Murieall, her copper hair splayed across the forest floor like spilled wine, her face contorted with desperate fear. The sun caught the blade of a dagger in my uncle’s raised hand, transforming the steel into a shard of terrible light.
Bile rose in my throat. A snarl threatened to tear from my lips, but I swallowed it back, knowing that a single sound might drive my uncle to plunge that blade into Murieall’s heart before I could reach them. I couldn’t charge and risk alerting him to my presence until I was close enough to strike with certainty.
I kept to the shadows of the ancient trees, moving with the stealth that had saved my life in countless skirmishes and battles. Each step brought me closer, yet the distance between us still yawned like an abyss. I could hear their voices now, carried on the still air.
“Magdalene pushed Isabella off the cliff,” Murieall said.
At this revelation, black fury swallowed me, and my grip tightened on my dagger until my fingers pulsed.
“Aye,” my uncle said. “I caught her, but I knew if she told Munro what she’d heard, he would believe her about George and put Magdalen to death. So ye see, Murieall, I do nae want to kill ye. I have to.”
I would kill him, and then I would hang my aunt. Every instinct screamed at me to rush forward, to end this now, but the warrior in me knew better. One wrong move, one moment ofcarelessness, and my dagger might find Murieall instead of my uncle, or I might be too slow to prevent his strike.
Six paces now. Five. The muscles in my legs coiled tight as bowstrings, ready to propel me forward.
“Isabella!”
Murieall’s scream echoed all around me. I froze, my wife’s name hanging in the air between us like a ghost itself. For one terrible, endless moment, I couldn’t move. I was caught between the past and the present, between grief and hope, between the woman I had lost and the woman I might yet save.
Then something within me broke free. With a roar that tore from the depths of my soul, I threw the dagger. My uncle’s head whipped toward me, his eyes widening with shock as my dagger struck him in the side of the neck, and then he fell forward toward Murieall. But the dagger—his dagger—was still clutched in his hand.
“Nay,” I bellowed, racing forward toward them and reaching them just as my uncle fell on top of Murieall.
She moaned as I jerked my uncle’s limp body off her. Blood was already seeping across the material of her gown right above her heart, where my uncle’s dagger had plunged into her.
“’Tis going to be all right,” I said, as I sought out her gaze, but her eyelashes were already fluttering shut, and then her head lolled to the right. She would live. She had to live. The dagger looked to be lodged close to her heart, but not in it. With shaking hands, I gripped the dagger and pulled it out as gently as I could, then ripped off my plaid to press it against the flow of blood.
“Hang on,” I whispered to her as I gathered her in my arms. “Ye will live!” I commanded, standing, prepared to run with her to my horse, but there was no need. James was galloping toward me, leading my horse beside him.
I pressed a kiss to her forehead, willing my lifeforce into hers. “I love ye, lass,” I said. “I love ye. I love ye. Please, please—”
Something stirred near my ear—a soft sound which grew louder.
I saved her life. Now ye must give her the one she deserves. Ye both deserve.
“Isabella,” I breathed, as a warm breeze washed over me for an instant before fleeing to make way for the cold air once more. And the only sound that remained was the pounding of my heart in my ears.
I gripped Murieall tighter against my chest, her blood warm and sticky through my fingers as I dashed toward James and the horses. Every jolt, every stride sent a new wave of crimson gushing from her wound. The world narrowed to the frantic rhythm of my heart, the uneven hitch of her breath, and the desperate plea echoing through my mind like a prayer.Hold on. Please, hold on.
James reached us in a flurry of hooves and dust, his face pale but resolute as he took in the sight of Murieall’s limp form. “Give her to me,” he demanded, but I shook my head, unwilling to relinquish my hold on her.
“I’ll ride with her,” I growled, my voice barely recognizable. “Ye must go ahead. Alert the healer. Tell her to prepare—” My throat constricted, but James understood.
He quickly aided me in getting Murieall onto my saddle, and then, as I mounted behind her, James turned his horse and galloped away, toward the stronghold.
Within a breath, I urged my destrier faster as I clutched Murieall. “Ye must live,” I begged her, pressing my lips to her head that was against my chest. “Please, please, ye can nae leave the lasses and me.”
