by Gwyn Brodie
Drostan frowned. "At least, not yet, and I pray they catch the murdering devil soon." He glanced down the table to where his brothers sat nodding in agreement.
Ailig growled. "Hanging is too good for the beast."
Marcus chuckled and took a sip of his spiced wine.
Drostan's temper flared. "Pray tell, what is it you find so amusing, Marcus?" The table grew quiet.
"A man who cannae be caught cannae be hanged," Marcus scoffed, then returned to his meal.
Beneath the table, Drostan's hands clenched into fists. Marcus was as cold and unfeeling a bastard as ever. There was no way in hell he could sit idly by and allow Isobel to wed such a man.
THE AFTERNOON OF THE ceilidh, Isobel waited until Glena had finished tightening the laces of her new scarlet gown, then put on the matching slippers and whirled around the room. "How do I look?"
Glena clasped her hands together and smiled. "Lovely, m' lady. The color suits ye well. Now, 'tis only your hair left to be done."
"Aye." Isobel took a seat, then the maid arranged her hair atop her head with combs and a scarlet ribbon. The music would be starting soon, and she did not wish to miss a single moment of the festivities below. Drostan would be there to dance with her. The thought of being in his arms, as they twirled around the room, filled her with excitement. She smiled.
The maid chuckled. "Thinking of the lad, are ye now?"
Glena had always had an uncanny way of knowing what she was thinking, and Isobel had often wondered if perhaps the older woman possessed a bit of the sight. "Aye. I cannae wait to dance with him."
"And I cannae wait to see ye on his arm." Glena tucked a stray curl into a comb. "'Twas most kind of Lady Mackintosh to invite the entire household to join in the festivities."
She nodded. "Aye, 'twas." The sound of pipes drifted up from the great hall. Isobel rose from her seat. "I'll see you downstairs, Glena." She opened the door and headed for the stairs. By the time she stepped onto the main floor, her heart was pounding. She smoothed out her skirts, took a deep breath to steady herself, and made her way toward the great hall.
If Isobel had thought she would be the only lass vying for Drostan's attention, she was sorely mistaken. He stood to one side of the room surrounded by five young women of varying ages from a bit younger than herself, to a few years older, all dressed in their absolute best and brazenly flirting with the man.
She could blame none of them for their shameless gawking—including herself—for he was most handsome in his belted plaid, crisp white shirt, black doublet, and polished boots. His fair hair hung loosely about his shoulders, framing his attractive features. Given a chance, she could have stared at him for hours.
The Highlander in question glanced up, and his dark gaze traveled over her as intimately as if he had physically touched her. She shivered beneath his intense perusal.
"Might I have this dance, Lady Isobel?" A rough voice came from close behind her.
She jumped. "Oh, you startled me, Marcus. Aye, of course," she answered, but her heart was not in it. She stepped into his arms and instantly regretted it.
Marcus held her against his chest so tightly she could hardly breathe as they slowly danced past Drostan and his ardent admirers.
Drostan's sudden scowl was most evident to Isobel and to anyone else who was watching. 'Twas clear he was annoyed that she was dancing with Marcus. Since Marcus's arrival to Willowbrae, she had felt Drostan's dislike for him, and had recognized there was a bit of bad blood between them. Now, she could not help but wonder what had happened to cause such loathing. Not wishing to trouble Drostan any further, she stopped dancing.
Marcus frowned. "Is something amiss?"
She suddenly felt uneasy beneath Marcus's cold dark gaze. "Nay, 'tis only that I wish to join my mother for a goblet of wine, as I've suddenly become quite thirsty," she lied while forcing a smile.
"Of course." He escorted her over to where her mother sat chatting with Lady Mackintosh, then stiffly bowed and left her there.
She breathed a sigh of relief and prayed Marcus would not ask her to dance again. Something about the man made her uncomfortable—and not only because she knew Drostan detested him.
Lady Mackintosh smiled. "Lady Isobel Fraser, I'd like you to meet Lady Flora McBean." She turned to the pretty young woman seated beside her.
Isobel smiled. "I'm most pleased to meet you, Lady Flora. You must agree, Lady Mackintosh has done an excellent job of arranging tonight's festivities."
Flora nodded. "Aye, I do. Such a wide variety of food and drink is unheard of."
Lady Mackintosh's cheeks pinked. "I'm most pleased you think so. Many thanks to the both of you."
Flora's attention suddenly seemed elsewhere. She rose to her feet. "Please, excuse me."
"Of course." Lady Mackintosh kept her gaze on Flora as she hurried across the room to where Drostan stood, encircled by a flock of hens.
Isobel watched Drostan escort Flora onto the dance floor, and a pang of jealousy stabbed at her heart.
Lady Mackintosh shook her head. "Even though young Flora would like naught more than to become Drostan's wife, I fear he's not interested in her at all."
Isobel sighed with relief and realized Drostan did not hold Flora close as they danced. Would he keep her at a distance as well?
Her mother frowned. "Why did you not finish the dance with Marcus, Isobel? The piper was playing one of your favorites."
Lady Mackintosh snorted. "Perhaps 'twas the man with whom she was dancing." Her blue eyes flashed. 'Twas clear she cared naught for Marcus either. Isobel's curiosity was growing in leaps and bounds.
Thankfully, she did not have to lie to her mother, for the pipes stopped playing, and Drostan chose that very moment to excuse himself from Flora and make his way across the room to where she sat, just as the piper started to play another tune.
Drostan had been unable to keep his gaze away from Isobel since the moment she had walked into the room. The scarlet dress deftly cradled her every curve, and the lowcut neckline left little to the imagination, yet he did imagine. Combs secured her mass of soft dark curls atop her head, with a ribbon woven throughout that matched her dress exactly. He yearned for the chance to press his lips against the silky skin of her neck.
He had been looking forward to holding Isobel in his arms all day and waiting to dance with her. When he had seen that miserable cur, Marcus, holding her so tightly against him, something akin to rage had come over him. Had it been jealousy, he felt? He shoved the thought aside.
Taking a seat on the bench beside Isobel, he looked over at his mother. "You've outdone yourself this time, Lady Mackintosh," he teased. "I'll not be able to go the garderobe for fear I'll find a lass on my heels."
Isobel bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Lady Mackintosh stifled a smile. "Did any of them catch your fancy?"
He sent a mock glare in his mother's direction, which made her chuckle, then turned his attention to the lovely lass beside him. "Would you like to dance, Lady Isobel."
"Aye." Isobel placed her hand in his and followed him out onto the dance floor. But the music ended, and they both enjoyed a good laugh.
Robbie and his partner, Mary, came over to where they stood. He grinned. "Lady Isobel Fraser, this is Lady Mary Cameron, the lass who's stolen my heart." The look in Robbie's dark eyes told anyone who could see that the lad was in love with Mary.
Mary looked up at Robbie with the same adoring gaze before addressing Isobel. "Please, my lady, call me Mary."
Isobel smiled. "I'm most pleased to meet you, Mary. And you may call me Isobel."
Mary nodded.
Robbie tugged at her hand. "Let's go, Mary. The music is starting up again."
Drostan slid his arm around Isobel's waist, realizing how perfectly she fit, and that was where she belonged. He glanced across the room to where Marcus stood, watching them glide around the room, his face red with rage. Drostan knew then and there that he would do whatever it took to kee
p Isobel from becoming his wife.
Isobel looked up at him and smiled, filling his heart to overflowing.
After a few more turns around the great hall, they were both breathless from dancing. Drostan drew her arm through his and led Isobel out into the gardens for a breath of fresh air—and to escape the crowd—for he selfishly wanted her, albeit for a short while, all to himself.
She pointed up at the sky. "Look, the moon is full tonight. 'Tis beautiful."
"Aye, but not so beautiful as you, lass," he whispered against her ear, before pressing his lips against her throat.
"And you, kind sir, look most handsome tonight." Her voice was strained.
He led her to a bench at the outer wall of the moon-lit garden and took a seat, gently drawing her onto his lap. "I could hardly wait to have you to myself, lass. I've thought of little else."
She took his face between her hands. "Oh, Drostan." She slowly brushed her lips across his.
Unlike any woman he had ever known, the lass could drive him mad with naught but a touch. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her with all the unbridled passion she elicited inside him.
She softly moaned, provoking in him a need no other woman had.
Pulling his mouth away from hers, he flicked his tongue against the soft skin of her throat, tasting the sweetness that was Isobel.
She tilted her head back to allow him better access. Her heart drummed against his mouth as his lips moved down to the soft curve of her breast. She trembled and cried out his name.
He cursed beneath his breath, then raised his head.
"Please, dinnae stop," she breathlessly begged, her eyes almost closed in the bright moonlight.
His body told him to take her—make her his, but Isobel was an innocent and deserved better than having her skirts tossed in a garden. Besides, they might get caught, then her reputation would be ruined, and he could not risk that. Drostan took a deep breath to steady himself. "We'd best get back to the others," he reluctantly whispered against her cheek, then set her on her feet.
CONCEALED FROM VIEW by a tall hedge, Marcus watched the intimate exchange between Drostan and Isobel with his teeth clenched in anger. For a time, he had thought Mackintosh would end up compromising her when instead, they had gone back inside the castle. If Marcus he could have gotten away with it, he would have murdered that Mackintosh bastard right then and there. But Marcus could wait. He was good at waiting.
Once the betrothal papers were signed, Drostan would no longer have access to the dark-haired beauty. She would be his and his alone to do with as he pleased. It had not been his idea to wed Laird Fraser's daughter, but his father's. Marcus had seen thirty-four summers and had yet to produce an heir, for his two deceased wives were unable to get with child. And as heir apparent, Marcus had to sire a son to carry on the legacy. And so, he had complied with his father's wishes—not that he minded in the least, for he could well imagine Isobel in his bed, and, in fact, already had many times.
The flash of a blue gown near the roses caught his eye. 'Twas the young woman who had been clinging to Robbie Mackintosh most of the evening—but now she was alone. Mary, he had heard her called, and such a pretty lass too. Moonlight flashed off the brooch she wore as her body swayed to the sound of the bagpipes radiating outside. He had asked her to dance at least twice that evening, but she had turned him down both times, for she only had eyes for that Mackintosh cur, and had saved him every single dance. The whore had more than likely already given herself to him—and no telling how many more. Mary, like all the others, deserved his wrath.
Marcus closed his eyes as his mind slipped back almost nineteen summers. Laird Menzies, along with his wife and fair-haired daughter, Elsa, had attended a ceilidh given by Marcus's parents. The moment his young gaze had fallen on the lass, who had seen twenty summers, she captured his heart. The Menzies arrived two weeks before the day of the festivities, and the beautiful Elsa had allowed him the freedom to kiss and touch her in the dark corners of the castle. Consumed with lust and what he thought was love, Marcus was determined to make her his wife.
On the night of the ceilidh, he watched Elsa descend the stairs in a magnificent purple gown cut to show her lush curves, and a neckline designed to draw attention to the ample breasts he had caressed the night before beneath the stairs. His breath quickened, and his heart danced as he made his way across the room.
Suddenly, she was surrounded by at least half-a-dozen men, some a few summers older than himself, and some old enough to be her da. Each vying for a dance and a chance to feel her desirable body pressed against their own.
Jealousy raged through Marcus's veins as a wealthy young laird took her hand and led her out onto the floor. Time after time, he tried to ask her to dance but was instead forced aside by another partner. Why had Elsa not saved him a dance?
A mixture of disgust and anger tore at him as she allowed Laird Davidson, a man of perhaps thirty summers, to lead her outside the castle and into the gardens. After making sure no one was watching, Marcus slipped outside and followed them to a secluded area. By the light of the moon, he saw the laird kiss her, heard her gasp as he freed her breasts from the gown, before lowering his head. He could not see what Davidson was doing but well knew. Moonlight flashed off the emerald bracelet Marcus had gifted Elsa the week before, inciting even more ire. In a matter of minutes, she lay on the ground beneath the young laird, her gown shoved up her legs, forcing Marcus to listen to her cry out as she found her pleasure with someone other than himself.
His hands fisted at his side. The lass would sorely pay for her betrayal.
A few minutes later, Laird Davidson made his way back inside the castle, while Elsa shook out her skirts and straightened her gown before returning. As she headed across the garden, Marcus stepped out of the shadows and into her path.
She inhaled sharply, splaying her hand across her chest. "Marcus, you frightened me."
He forced a smile. "I saw what you did with that laird."
"W-w-what exactly did you see?" she asked nervously.
"Everything, Elsa, everything."
She stroked Marcus's cheek. "Please, dinnae tell anyone. I've kenned Laird Davidson for some time, and he's asked me to marry him."
He roughly shoved her hand away. "What did you tell him?"
She snorted. "Aye. What else would I have said? He's a laird of great wealth, and I very much care for him. He's to speak with my father on the morrow concerning the marriage."
Marcus brushed his knuckles down the silky skin of her throat. "You used me, Elsa, with no thought of what you were doing to me. I intended to ask for your hand, as well."
She chuckled. "Marcus, you've only seen eighteen summers, much too young to wed. Besides, you're the heir apparent and will be for many years. Laird Davidson has already received his inheritance."
Blinded by rage, he gripped her throat with all his strength.
Gasping for air, she clawed at his hands.
Marcus growled and squeezed harder, relishing the power he felt as the life drained from Elsa's body.
She collapsed against him.
He turned her loose.
She fell to the ground and moved no more.
He felt no remorse that he had killed her. She deserved no less, and he had received great pleasure in the taking of her life. He removed the bracelet from her wrist and hid it inside his doublet. Giddy with exhilaration, he slipped back inside. Six months later, they hanged the wealthy Laird Davidson for Elsa's murder.
In the gardens at Willowbrae, Marcus shook his head to clear away the past, which of late seemed more like the present. He silently stole across the yard and watched Mary take a seat on the bench near the postern gate. Perfect. From where she sat, he could quickly subdue her, then carry her out through the gate. As luck would have it, upon his arrival, he had stolen a key so as he might come and go as he pleased without anyone knowing it. His heart pounding with excitement and anticipation, he removed it from his sporran to hav
e it when he needed it and took a step toward her, then came to a sudden stop as Robbie Mackintosh bolted across the garden and slid onto the bench, eliciting a squeal from her, followed by much kissing.
With his plans for the evening interrupted, Marcus clenched his fists at his sides until the nails dug into his palms as he made his way back to the ceilidh. Damn the Mackintoshes—every last one of them.
Chapter Seven
Four days later, with Isobel foremost on his mind, Drostan walked down to the stables to give Eachann an apple he had taken while breaking his fast. The stallion loved them, and he often brought him one when they were in season.
"Morn, lad." Bern walked toward him. "The supply wagon arrived a short while ago, and the driver said another lass was found murdered."
Drostan frowned. "Where?"
"Inverness."
"Inverness? Do you ken who she was?"
"Aye. Lady Flora McBean."
Even though the day was warm, a chill crawled up Drostan's spine. Flora had visited Willowbrae many times over the years with her parents. In fact, she and her family had been guests at the ceilidh four days earlier, when he had danced with her. She was a sweet, lovely lass with big dark eyes, but he had never taken a fancy to her as his mother had hoped he would.
Inverness was but a couple of hours ride from Willowbrae. Where was Isobel? A moment of panic seized him, and then he remembered she had gone with their mothers and his sisters to the gardens once they finished with their meal. With death now nigh upon their doorstep, Drostan would need to check their defenses, see that all the gates and portcullis were locked, and have Ian, his good friend and head of the guards, speak with his men about making sure no one sneaked inside the walls. And he needed to keep a closer eye on Isobel as well. She had a mind of her own. He went to gardens—just to be certain Isobel was where she was supposed to be.
Drostan found her on her knees beside a bed of bluebells and foxgloves, with Cait on one side and Earie on the other. Isobel smiled when she saw him, and as always, his heart lunged against his chest. Since the arrival of the Andersons, their time together had consisted of a few brief encounters in an alcove or the gardens, where they would kiss until they were both breathless before going their separate ways with no one the wiser. To add to his unease, Marcus had been hovering around Isobel like an annoying fly, keeping Drostan always on edge. He still had not come up with an idea on how to stop the betrothal, but he would—he had no choice, and neither did Isobel.