Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  Thinking the great buffoon a mite short of all his wits, Donall snapped, “And if I did?”

  “ ’Twould lend ease to the covenant my lady seeks to offer you.”

  “Covenant?” Now Donall knew the man was witless.

  “I will come for you sometime between the hours of vespers and compline,” the giant informed him, his voice so low Donall scarce heard him. “If you do not cooperate, your daylight hours will be made as miserable as the night ones could have been pleasurable.”

  “You spout nonsense,” Donall protested, straining his full might in a vain attempt to break free. “I’ll go nowhere with you and I want naught to do with your lady and her covenant.”

  “Aye, you will go, and you will be gentle with my lady. If you are not, I shall grind your bones to powder. The decision falls to you.” With a last sharp stare, the giant stepped back through the open doorway. “Misery or paradise,” he added, and disappeared from view.

  Miserable, indeed, and more than confused, Donall stared at the rough planks of the door the lumbering oaf had closed and locked behind him.

  What the devil had he meant about Donall being gentle with his lady? Surely not the obvious? Heat sprang to the base of his neck at the very thought, and of a sudden, his lungs seemed incapable of drawing air.

  Nay, it could not be anything so preposterous.

  Beautiful, of exceptional grace, and very likely yet to be deflowered, Isolde MacInnes would be the finest paradise.

  If such was the meaning behind the giant’s riddles, a possibility Donall highly doubted. Still, none could call him dense. His sharp wit and keen sense of perception had guided him through many a treacherous encounter.

  And the more he mulled it over, the more he came to the wildest, most absurd conclusion.

  With a sigh, he fell back against the wall and stared at his cell’s water-stained ceiling. May the saints and their entire retinue of holy men preserve him, but a trace of the wench’s scent lingered in the air.

  A mere whisper of wildflowers, but enough to tempt his senses and mock his determination to remain unmoved by her charms.

  Should his suspicions prove true.

  Donall closed his eyes and groaned. A deep, full-bodied groan straight from the very bottom of his soul. Had the giant truly said he had a choice?

  Indeed, he’d most assuredly been given a choice. The trouble was, if his instincts hadn’t failed him, he doubted he possessed the strength to make the right one.

  Chapter Two

  ISOLDE HURRIED THROUGH the gloaming, her arisaid clutched tight about her shoulders. A stiff wind whistled past her ears, its chill bite ripe with the thick tang of the sea and the damp, earthy scent of coming rain.

  She followed a narrow track through a landscape of wind-stunted trees and shrubs, a well-trodden path that hugged the sheer crags forming this end of Doon before ending in a cliff-top glade the old ones called the edge of the world.

  A notion enhanced in its eeriness by the silver birch and rowan trees surrounding the clearing, and the presence of Devorgilla, the ancient crone who dwelled there.

  Isolde struggled against the increasing strength of the gales sweeping in off the sea, eager to reach the only living soul she’d trusted with all her reasons for having the MacLean secreted to her chamber.

  Not even the ever-faithful Niels knew everything, and certainly not his shadow, Rory.

  Only the cailleach, and Isolde’s little dog, Bodo.

  And neither one of them would betray her confidences.

  Even now, Bodo displayed his devotion, his eagerness to keep her safe. He trotted along a short distance ahead of her, his tail held upright, his gait self-important. Though diminutive and still playful as a puppy, the little brown and white dog would defend her to the death if need be.

  And if he possessed such courage, who was she to harbor niggling doubts about going through with a plan to ensure a secure future for her people? Didn’t she owe them as much loyalty as wee Bodo showed her?

  Wouldn’t lasting peace be a more noble tribute to Lileas than another death?

  Wasn’t an alliance of necessity with Donall MacLean preferable to seeing her clan fade from existence?

  Isolde sent a quick glance heavenward. Bands of fast-moving clouds, deep gray and heavy with rain, stretched across the sky, stealing the early evening’s luminous light as easily as the mere thought of Donall MacLean had robbed her of her nerve.

  Determined, she continued on, but an unshakable sense of ill ease accompanied her, while doubt threatened to cloud her intentions.

  She’d spent hours, whole nights, searching for a solution. She’d mulled over every minute detail . . . even questioning Evelina, Doon’s own joy woman, about the art of seduction!

  Quickly, before her cheeks could flame, she pushed aside all thought of her clandestine meetings with Evelina, a woman most womenfolk of Doon, MacInnes and MacLean alike, pretended didn’t exist.

  To Isolde’s amazement, she’d even found herself liking her. But she rather doubted Evelina’s claim she no longer plied her lurid trade, having supposedly given her heart to a mysterious benefactor she refused to name.

  “Owwwwwwww . . .” Isolde grabbed her ankle and glared at the offending root stretching across the path. “By the bridge of St. Ninian’s nose,” she vowed, hopping on one foot. “May his manhood wither and fall off, indeed.”

  She frowned at the throbbing in her big toe.

  It was his fault.

  Had she not been dwelling on him, and the art of seduction, she wouldn’t have slammed her foot into the exposed root.

  Bodo bounded back to her, jaws open, a quizzical look in his golden-brown eyes, his perplexed expression all the more endearing for the crooked set of his teeth.

  The way he gazed up at her thawed a bit of the frost that had settled ’round her heart since hearing Donall the Bold’s insults. Forgetting the dull ache in her foot, she scooped the little dog into her arms for a fierce hug.

  “You wouldn’t compare me to a she-goat, would you, Bodo?” she whispered into his smooth fur, deftly ignoring the tiny voice of reason that reminded her the MacLean had not exactly stated she was a she-goat.

  His insulting sentiments slighted her all the same.

  Another hot spring of irritation welled deep within her and she hugged Bodo tight, taking comfort in the feel of his cold little nose pressing against her neck, before she set him on the path.

  He scampered ahead, and eager to reach her destination, Isolde cast another wary glance at the ever-darkening sky and made to follow him.

  But not before she pulled a small leather flagon from within the folds of her skirts and hurriedly removed its stopper. With a grimace, she held her nose and swallowed the remaining drops of Devorgilla’s anti-attraction potion.

  A great shudder tore through her as the foul-tasting infusion burned its way down her throat, but heedless of the potion’s questionable taste, she meant to ask for more.

  Enemy or nay, she would have to have been cloudy-eyed like Devorgilla herself not to have noticed the MacLean’s fine form and bonnie face.

  And the man had been well grimed and reeking.

  The impact of his good looks once bathed and properly groomed didn’t bear thinking upon.

  Worse, his resemblance to the shadowy figure she’d dreamed of after placing sprigs of yarrow beneath her pillow on the night of Beltaine presented an even more disturbing aspect.

  She was not looking forward to facing him again.

  Yet face him and more, she must.

  Much more.

  Setting her lips in a grim line of determination, she picked up her skirts and hurried on. She caught up to Bodo at the edge of the circular glade Devorgilla called home.

  Feeling half the fool for the chill skipping up and down her spine, Isolde crossed herself before she stepped into the clearing. Doing so was like surrendering oneself into a parallel yet unseen world.

  The mysterious realm of the wee folk, the sidhe.


  A world where the Old Religion still held sway, and the crone, Devorgilla, reigned supreme, heeding not whoe’er bore the title of MacInnes chieftain, but the ancient ones who served the Goddess.

  Bodo’s ears lifted, his hackles rising. He peered into the clearing . . . a strange place lit by an eerie silvery light despite the encroaching darkness.

  A place where no wind blew, though the approaching storm raged all around them. Even the wispy column of smoke rising from Devorgilla’s thatched cottage rose in a straight, bluish-gray line.

  Low rumbles sounded in Bodo’s chest, and Isolde reached down to touch him. “Do not fret, precious,” she said. “The cailleach would ne’er harm either one of us.”

  Bodo ceased growling, but glanced up at her, his eyes white-rimmed and doubtful. Nevertheless, he trotted along beside her, his short, sturdy legs moving quickly over the grass as he sought to keep pace with her longer strides.

  As always, a heavy silence cloaked the glade. Devorgilla’s thick-walled cottage perched very close to the edge of the cliff. Fishnet weighted down by stones held the rough thatch roofing in place, and as in the glade itself, a luminous silvery light seemed to shimmer up, down, and around the humble dwelling’s whitewashed walls.

  Even the warm glow of lit candles, visible through two unshuttered windows, cast more of an otherworldly air than a welcoming one.

  But Isolde knew she was welcome.

  As the crone was always welcome at Dunmuir, her skills and wisdom appreciated, her person and property e’er assured of what protection the current MacInnes chieftain could offer her. And Isolde secretly suspected the cailleach had outlived more MacInnes lairds than just her da and his before him.

  “You’ve naught to fear,” Isolde reassured Bodo before she lifted her hand to rap upon the door. Never would she admit her own nerves were strung as taut as her little dog’s appeared to be, nor that her so calm-sounding voice was meant to lend comfort to herself as well.

  But unlike Bodo, Devorgilla and her enchanted glen were not the cause of her agitation.

  Nay, the cause of her tension lay naked and bound in Dunmuir’s dungeon.

  Or, and a much more disturbing image, perchance even now, sitting in a washtub, having the grime scrubbed from his flesh in preparation for being hauled abovestairs to her chamber and the service she hoped to induce him to perform there.

  The very thought sent a flood of heat spilling through her, and made her heart spurt into a faster beat.

  Straightening her back against the madness she’d taken upon herself, she raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before she could.

  The cailleach’s tricolored cat, Mab, slipped through the opening, rubbing herself against Isolde’s legs before sauntering off into the shadows without so much as a sideways glance at Bodo, who snarled his displeasure at the feline’s familiarity toward his mistress.

  “Welcome, lassie, have yourself in,” the crone greeted her, a wealth of wisdom and compassion in her cloudy eyes.

  Isolde swept past her into the low-ceilinged interior, Bodo hard on her heels. The cottage’s tidy homeyness quickly unraveled what tenuous hold she’d kept on her nerves.

  “You must give me more of the potion.” The words came out in a rush and the desperation in her voice only unsettled her more. “I would know what you think of him. Is he the one? Pray tell me he is not.”

  Rather than answer her, the cailleach carefully closed the door and turned around with excruciating slowness.

  A deliberate slowness Isolde suspected had naught to do with the natural limitations of the diminutive Devorgilla’s age-bent bones.

  “I must know. He—” she began, but the crone silenced her with one sage look.

  “So many wants, my child,” Devorgilla said, her voice annoyingly calm. “And such irritation thrumming through you. By the grace of the Mother, I vow I can hear the racing of your heart.”

  “You do not understand . . .” Isolde let her objection trail off when the cailleach lifted one straggly brow.

  Ignoring Isolde’s agitation, Devorgilla turned her attention to a dark-haired lad of about nine years who sat on a bench against the far wall, stuffing moss and ferns into a worn bed pallet. “Lugh, fetch a cup of heather ale for the lady Isolde, and a fresh bone for her dog. Then be gone with you for a while. The lady and I have matters to discuss not fit for your young ears.”

  The lad set aside his work and stood, a red stain coloring his cheeks. He gave Isolde a shy glance and a nod, then pushed aside a hanging partition of woven straw not far from where he’d been sitting, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  Isolde listened to him moving about in the small larder that opened off the cottage’s main room, and tried to ignore the hunger-stirring aroma of smoked ham and dried beef wafting out from behind the straw mat.

  She had more serious issues to deal with than the rumblings of her empty stomach.

  The partition moved again, and Lugh returned with a filled-to-the-brim cup of heather-scented ale for Isolde, and a good-sized bone for Bodo. His mistress momentarily forgotten, the little dog dashed forward and snatched the bone from the lad’s fingers.

  A stew bone with a nice portion of meat still clinging to it. Isolde’s mouth watered at the sight, and she swallowed back the near overpowering urge to ask the crone’s great-great-grandson to fetch her a spot of victuals as well.

  As if reading Isolde’s mind, Devorgilla laid a gnarled hand on Isolde’s arm. “Would you like a bowl of rabbit stew?” Her hazy-eyed gaze went to the bubbling cauldron suspended over the central hearth fire. “I’ve some fresh bread almost finished,” she added, glancing toward the circular bake-oven protruding from the thickness of the opposite wall.

  A delicious smell drifted past the seams of the oven’s closed iron-plate door, but Isolde ignored that temptation, too. “The ale will do,” she said simply, accepting the cup Lugh offered her. “I thank you,” she added with a forced smile for the lad. “And for giving Bodo a bone as well.”

  Lugh’s cheeks flamed a deeper red and the corners of his mouth lifted in a hesitant smile before he turned away to head back to the bench and his unfinished task.

  “Ho, laddie.” Devorgilla shuffled after him, moving her hands in a flapping motion that underscored her resemblance to an oversized, black-garbed bird. “Out with you now.” She urged him toward the door. “I’m a-thinking you ought gather a bit more moss and ferns for your sleeping pallet.”

  Without further protest, he took the basket Devorgilla handed him, and let himself out of the cottage. Isolde’s heart twisted for the lad. He’d scarce uttered a word since his mother died of fever some years past, but as much affection as she bore him, she had other, heavier problems weighing on her mind.

  She waited until Devorgilla hobbled away from the door, but the moment the crone paused at the central hearth and reached for a long-handled ladle to stir the simmering stew, Isolde’s patience snapped.

  “He compared me to a she-goat,” she railed. “Claimed he’d rather see his manroot wither and fall off before he’d deign to bed me.”

  Devorgilla shot a sharp glance her way. “He already knows what you would have of him?”

  “Nay, he knows naught . . . as yet.” Warmth crept into Isolde’s cheeks. “He simply meant to hurl nastiness at me.”

  Seemingly unperturbed by Isolde’s outburst, the crone dipped the ladle into the cauldron and began to stir the aromatic stew. A cloud of fragrant steam rose to encircle her grizzled head, and to Isolde’s ire, she imagined she heard the old woman snicker.

  “There is naught amusing in such insults,” Isolde said, hoping her voice disguised the sound of her stomach growling in reaction to the delicious-smelling stew.

  “ ’Tis not amused I am, but intrigued.” Devorgilla glanced at her, a cagey expression on her wizened face. “Why do you wish more of the potion if he vexes you so? Riled as you are, I would think you’d have no need of my anti-attraction infusion?”


  Isolde ignored the crone’s questions and asked a few of her own. The same ones she’d posed upon arriving. “I know you went to see him. Is he the one? The man you glimpsed in the cauldron’s steam?”

  Devorgilla cast Isolde another of her impish looks, then waved her hand through the steam drifting up from her stew. “Would that he appear now so you could see him yourself. Then you’d ken the answer without asking me.”

  “But I am asking you.”

  “Such things cannot be rushed.” The crone returned the ladle to the tabletop. “Ofttimes the answers we seek are already deep within our own hearts, if we’ll but look.”

  “I have looked. At him. And I did not like what I saw.” Isolde blew out a frustrated breath. “Nor did I care for what he said.”

  A tiny chuckle, nay, more a cackle, escaped the crone’s lips, and her hunched shoulders trembled with what Isolde highly suspected to be mirth.

  “I told you, there is nary a thread of humor in his slurs,” Isolde said, relieved her great respect for Devorgilla kept her tone from revealing the depth of her indignation.

  The cackling ceased and Devorgilla peered hard at Isolde. As ever, she seemed to hear Isolde’s unspoken words as clearly as the spoken ones.

  “How many men do you suppose would keep a civil tongue under such circumstances?” Isolde glanced up at the smoke-blackened ceiling rafters rather than give the crone a scathing look.

  Devorgilla was right.

  Donall the Bold’s slights were born of his outrage at awakening bound and chained to a dungeon wall, and not truly directed at her.

  But after seeing him, she preferred anger to acknowledging the way her heart had skipped a beat upon noticing his resemblance to the man she’d dreamed of on the night of Beltaine.

  Would that she hadn’t placed the yarrow sprigs under her pillow!

  But she’d wanted to see if the herb’s magic would conjure her true soul mate.

  A man she’d hoped to recognize as anyone but Balloch MacArthur, the man the clan elders meant to name as her betrothed.

  Now, may the Holy Apostles stay her by, she was sorely afeared the man in her dream, her soul mate, might be her worst enemy, Donall MacLean.