Isolde returned her gaze to the crone. “I must know,” she said. “Is the MacLean the man you saw in the cauldron’s steam the night of Beltaine?”
The cailleach pursed her lips and reached again for the ladle. Isolde gently pushed aside the old woman’s arm. “Is he?”
“The man in my vision was the one, your soul mate,” Devorgilla hedged, dusting an invisible speck of lint off her sleeve. “And he was not that bumbling ox, Balloch,” she added, confirming Isolde’s suspicions about the crone being able to read minds.
Relief washed over Isolde upon Devorgilla’s last pronouncement, but not enough. The niggling fear that Donall the Bold might be the one was too bothersome a notion for her agitation to lessen.
“Your true soul mate is a braw man, a fine warrior,” Devorgilla continued at Isolde’s silence. Shuffling across the room to a rough wooden shelf that ran the length of one wall, she began rummaging through a jumbled assortment of clay pots, earthen bowls, and jugs.
“Images seen on the night of Beltaine do not lie, the power of the old gods should not be doubted,” the crone said, lifting a small leather flagon off the cluttered shelf.
She hobbled back to Isolde. “The man I saw was dark of hair and eyes, his muscles spoke of hard training, and he was . . . good.”
“Then he cannot be the MacLean, dark and well muscled or nay.” Isolde felt better already.
Somewhat better.
But the crone merely shrugged. “The vision did not show me the man’s face.”
“Is this the anti-attraction potion?” Isolde held up the little flagon Devorgilla had given her.
“ ’Tis what you came here for, aye,” the cailleach said, moving toward the door, then opening it wide. “Now you have it, mayhap you should be on your way. My bones tell me a storm will break soon.”
Isolde swallowed the urge to tell the crone a storm already had broken, and its fury threatened to engulf her very soul.
Instead, she called Bodo to her side, thanked the crone for the shielding infusion, and stepped into the night.
To her great dismay, she caught another of Devorgilla’s cagey little cackles as the old woman closed the door after her.
About an hour later, on the opposite side of Doon, pounding sheets of rain drenched the massive walls of Baldoon castle and jagged streaks of lightning ripped across the night sky.
A sky gone as dark as the many ells of black mourning cloth draped across the chancel and high altar of Baldoon’s private oratory.
A lone man knelt in prayer before the altar, his broad shoulders and lowered head silhouetted against the flickering light of countless lit candles.
High above him, the curved line of tall, round-topped clerestory windows sent rainbow beams of color streaming into the chapel with each new flash of lightning, but the man did not notice.
To his left and right, clustered groupings of slender, round pillars supported the vaulted ceiling and formed shadowy arcades where young boys stood, their heads lowered as they rang hand bells to ward off the demons that might attempt to torment the departed soul of the man’s late wife, Lileas MacInnes.
Deafening booms and claps of thunder repeatedly rattled the precious panes of jewel-toned glass high above the altar, and even seemed to shake the oratory’s cold stone floor, yet the grieving man prayed on, fully undisturbed by the fury outwith the sanctuary of the semicircular chapel.
A dark cloud of sorrow, thick and cloying as the incenseladen air, clung to the man who appeared to hear neither the mournful ringing of bells, the unbridled wrath of the storm, nor the repetitive clatter and scrape of scores of men sharpening their swords in the great hall just beyond the oratory’s half-opened door.
Neither did he hear the soft footfalls of the slender, raven-haired young woman who approached him from behind. “Psalm chanting and prayer will not bring her back, Iain,” the woman said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Only then did he stir, lifting his dark head as if awakening from a dream, then pushing to his feet to stare at her with eyes gone dull with sorrow. Deep vertical lines next to his lips marred his otherwise handsome face, while purplish smudges under his eyes bespoke long nights without sleep.
“Mayhap not,” he answered the woman, his deep voice weary, “but if the good Lord has any mercy, he will lend Godspeed to the men repairing our storm-damaged galley and gift us with fair weather and a safe passage to MacKinnons’ Isle.”
“And if He is wise, He will send more storms such as this so you have no choice but to await Donall’s and Gavin’s return before you set forth on such a foolhardy mission.” The woman braced her hands on her hips and lifted her chin in a clear gesture of defiance.
“Foolhardy mission?” The man’s face darkened. “Now is not the time to rile me, Amicia. Sister or nay.”
Undaunted, she stared back at him, her own face coloring. “Setting sail now, with Donall gone, and upon a hastily repaired vessel, is foolish.”
“Avenging my wife’s murder is foolish?” The man grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her from the chapel. Keeping a firm hold on her, he drew her through the throng of men until they stood in the very middle of Baldoon Castle’s vast great hall.
With a broad sweep of his arm, he indicated the chaos of activity all around them. “Every man and lad o’er the age of ten-and-four who calls himself a MacLean is ready to bear arms against the foul perpetrators of my lady wife’s death. You alone object.”
The woman yanked her arm from his grasp and drew a deep breath. “I, too, would see Lileas avenged. But I will not stand silent when your grief and anger drives you to set sail in a ship that could sink and cost me not only you, my brother, but all these kinsmen you mean to take with you!”
Iain MacLean pressed his lips together, the slight jerking of a muscle in his jaw saying more than any heated words could have.
“Donall would tell you so, too,” Amicia pressed. “Why do you think he and Gavin meant to join the MacInnesses on their journey to the mainland rather than wait until our own galley has been made seaworthy again?”
When Iain remained silent, Amicia stepped forward to stand directly before him. “We have no proof the MacKinnons are responsible for Lileas’s death. Mayhap the storm that damaged our ship did damage to theirs as well?”
She tilted her head to the side, her eyes pleading. “Can you not wait until Donall’s return to seek your revenge?”
“It will be months before our brother has finished his business in Glasgow,” he spoke at last. With a tired smile, an exceedingly grim one, he rested his hands on Amicia’s shoulders. “As for the MacKinnons, who but they could have done the deed? Our clans have e’er been at odds, and they’ve no fondness for the MacInnesses either.”
“But the ship—”
“The voyage to MacKinnons’ Isle is not hazardous or long,” her brother cut in. “I promise you we shall not set forth until the galley’s hull has been fully and soundly repaired.”
The woman drew back her shoulders and made to protest, but Iain silenced her by placing two fingers over her lips. “ ’Tis well I know that retaliation will not bring Lileas back to me, but I cannot rest until I know her murderer is cold in his grave.”
Amicia gave a little sigh, and her shoulders sagged. “There is naught I can say to stay you?” Iain shook his head.
“Then may God watch o’er you,” she said, blinking to hide the sudden brightness in her eyes. “ ’Tis said He takes special care of fools,” she added under her breath, but the softly spoken words were lost in a crash of thunder and the din of men making ready for war.
Chapter Three
THEY’D CHAINED HIM to her bed.
Her cheeks flaming, Isolde quickly pulled shut the door she’d just opened. Too stunned for words, she stood staring at the two kinsmen guarding her bedchamber.
A keening wind whistled ’round the curving tower wall, and thunder rumbled in the distance, an unceasing series of deep, resounding booms. Somewhere, a loose window shutte
r slammed repeatedly against the stone masonry of one of Dunmuir’s towers, and that noise, too, she heard.
Even the muffled rise and fall of the wind-whipped sea came to her ears, familiar and clear despite the thick walling and the loud fury of the storm.
But none of the night’s clamor could match the wild roar of her own blood pulsing madly in her ears. Nor could aught erase the image of Donall the Bold’s splendor.
Even though the closed door separated them, she still saw him standing there, fury sparking in his dark eyes. His black hair gleamed, damp from his bath. The broad expanse of his bare chest, hard-planed, imposing, and tensed in agitation. His shoulders broad and powerful-looking.
He was taller than she’d realized, his face more noble and handsomely formed than the dim light in his dungeon cell had revealed. Bathed and well groomed, he bore an even more striking resemblance to the dream man she’d glimpsed on the night of Beltaine.
Her senses reeling, Isolde stared at the door’s solid wooden planking, but saw instead the two images. The man conjured by the yarrow’s magic and Donall the Bold, both emblazoned across her consciousness and merged into one.
She also saw the heavy chain hanging between her bed and a single iron band around one of his ankles.
Niels and Rory had chained Donall MacLean to one of her bedposts and sheer black anger emanated from every glorious inch of him.
Praise be, he’d wrapped those inches in a bedsheet, thus sparing her an even greater shock.
Not that she hadn’t already seen that part of him, brief though the glimpse had been.
If all went in accordance with her plan, she’d soon have to become far more intimate with him than merely peering at the majesty of his form.
His naked form.
At the moment, though, she found herself not yet ready to face him in any form. And the memory of her sister’s form, still and lifeless, damned her for the unexpected thrill of excitement that had thundered through her upon glimpsing the MacLean’s magnificence.
Isolde struggled to calm herself. Daunting or nay, she would not allow his manly graces to unnerve her. Circumstances compelled her to deal with him, and the sooner she got on with what must be done, the sooner she could rid herself of him.
She turned to the taller of the two men guarding her door. “Why is he bound to my bed?” Faith, but her heart still drummed against her ribs. “And why isn’t he clothed?”
Niels, her cousin, had the good grace to look embarrassed. “He’s less likely to attempt an escape if he’s chained.”
“But why is he unclothed?” Isolde persisted. “Did you purpose to vex him by leaving him thus?”
A flicker of guilt in Niels’s light green eyes answered her. “And if he takes out his vexation on me?” She looked between her cousin and Rory. As with Niels, a look of discomfiture passed over Rory’s face and he avoided her eyes, gazing instead at the floor.
Isolde pressed a hand to her breast, still struggling to regain her composure. “His fury came at me in waves when I opened the door. I am half afeared to do so again.”
Niels straightened to his full height and patted the broadsword hanging at his side. “You’ve naught to fear, he will not lay a hand . . .” he started, then broke off, his face coloring. “I mean,” he began again, his fair complexion flushing a brighter red with every word, “he is not armed. He will not dare harm you knowing we stand guard outside your chamber.”
“Think you he would harm me were you not here?” Isolde fought to keep the blush from her own cheeks.
Niels slid a sideways glance at Rory, but the other man only made a noncommittal grunt and shrugged his burly shoulders. An uncomfortable silence welled up between them until Isolde’s cousin finally said, “I warned the whoreson I’d grind his bones to powder if he isn’t gentle with you.”
“Lower your voice, will you?” Isolde admonished him, mortification stinging her cheeks, her battle against blushing instantly lost. Every inch of her blazed with the heat of ten fast-burning fires.
Fires fueled as much by her own agitation at being in such a position as by the meaning behind her cousin’s words.
“Answer me, Niels. Do you believe he would hurt me?” She lifted her chin and set her face into her best imitation of what she thought of as her da’s laird’s look.
The stern expression her late father had oft used to intimidate those who sought to defy him. As Niels meant to flout her now, if the stubborn set of his jaw was any indication.
She peered deep into his eyes and tried not to blink. “Well?”
Her da’s old trick must’ve worked, for she’d only stared at him a few moments before he blew out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Nay, I doubt he would from what I’ve heard and seen of him.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Isolde said, the firmness of her voice amazing her. “For I doubt I could go through with what I must do, knowing someone lingered outside the door.”
Niels gaped at her. “You cannot think to dally with him without us close at hand?”
“Did you not just say you do not believe he would do me ill?”
Looking more uncomfortable than ever, Niels rubbed the back of his neck. Isolde seized her advantage. “I am not asking you to leave, merely to stand out of hearing range. I cannot be expected to—”
“ ’Tis dangerous in other ways,” Rory broke in. “What if someone comes looking for you? If we are not here—”
“But you will be,” she cut him off, “at least close enough to take up your positions should anyone approach.” Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “This is difficult enough without having the two of you within hearing range.”
Niels reached to touch her arm, but lowered his hand when she backed way. “ ’Tis for your own good,” he said. “We don’t think any harm will befall you, but we cannot risk the chance.”
Yet you’d see me betrothed to a man I revile?
Balloch MacArthur’s coarse face rose up in her mind, an image even more unappealing than the thought of facing an unclothed Donall the Bold in her bedchamber.
Turning aside, she stared down the shadow-filled passageway. As gloomy as the ill-lit corridor and the yawning stairwell beyond, so bleak would her life be as Balloch MacArthur’s bride.
Isolde shuddered.
If she meant to rid herself of Balloch, she had no choice but to lie with the MacLean. Balloch, a brutish man, dull of wit but exceedingly proud, would surely extricate himself from a betrothal if she told him she carried another man’s child.
And she’d have to conceive and give birth to that child if she hoped to forge an irrefutable bond between her dwindling and weakened clan and the powerful MacLeans.
A bond she saw as her clan’s sole chance of survival.
Her resolve strengthened, she turned back to face her cousin and Rory. “Rory, you are about the same size as the MacLean. I bid you to fetch him something to wear. I’ve ordered a meal brought to my chamber, and I will not sup with a naked man sitting across from me.”
Rory blinked. “We were told he is to have naught but table scraps, and he was divested of his garb apurpose. The council gave ord—”
“And so have I,” Isolde overrode his objections. She paused to gather her courage. Ne’er had she been so assertive. “Would you seek to make me more uncomfortable with this situation than I already am?”
“Nay, my lady, ’tis only—” Rory began, but she silenced him with a pointed look.
“You may stand guard at the top of the stairwell. I will not have you lurking outside my door.” Her tone dared them to deny her wishes. “And if the MacLean proves he can abstain from insults and is not rough with me, I want him unchained from my bed. That, too, I find unsettling.”
Both men stared, twin looks of incredulity on their faces. So much so, Isolde felt a wee twinge of guilt. Even after two years, she was not yet comfortable exerting her authority as chieftain, but the gravity of her present predicament gave her no choice but to do s
o.
Without further objections, both men nodded and moved away. Isolde winced at the injured looks they’d given her. Niels and Rory were among the few able-armed men left beneath her roof. But an audience of listeners during her . . . encounters . . . with Donall the Bold would only heighten her ill ease.
The silence returned, a deafening quiet so loud she could hear the rainwater coursing down the castle stonework. Silence loomed on the far side of her closed bedchamber door, too.
A strange silence, for she suddenly realized that in her haste to exit the room, she’d unwittingly shut in poor Bodo.
Her little dog was inside the room with the MacLean. And Bodo wasn’t barking.
Bodo!
All else forgotten, she pushed open the door and rushed inside. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight before her. The MacLean knelt beside her bed, his handsome face relaxed and smiling as he rubbed Bodo’s belly.
The wee dog lay sprawled on his back, completely at ease, whilst he trailed the backs of his fingers down Bodo’s white-furred tummy.
And the little traitor appeared to enjoy the man’s touch. As if only now becoming aware she’d just burst into the room, fully prepared to rescue him from the MacLean’s clutches, Bodo turned his head to stare at her. Jaws open, and tongue lolling out one side of his mouth, he appeared to be laughing at her.
But attuned to her emotions as he always seemed to be, his comical expression quickly changed to one of contrition. He leaped up at once, shook himself, then scrambled across the rush-strewn floor to his bed by the hearth. Looking duly chastised, he circled a few times, then curled up in a ball, his back to the room’s two occupants.
Isolde returned her gaze to the MacLean, only to find he, too, stared at the dog, a shadow of a smile still playing across his too-sensuous lips.
As if he knew the instant she glanced his way, he pushed to his feet and turned toward her, the look on his handsome face so compelling she couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it.
His gaze flickered briefly to Bodo. “I could see you well content, too, my lady,” he drawled.
Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01] Page 4