Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  Devorgilla pressed her lips together and stared at her black-booted feet.

  “Devorgilla,” Isolde prodded when the old woman began poking at a clump of grass with the scuffed toe of her boot. “Can you?”

  “I would know why.”

  Steely wenches.

  “Because I am asking you,” Isolde said, feeling quite bold.

  The crone glanced heavenward. “It will rain soon,” she claimed. “A fierce storm.”

  Nary a cloud marred the brilliant blue sky.

  “Lives depend on my getting a message to Balloch.” Isolde tried another tactic. “And not just Donall MacLean’s.”

  That caught the cailleach’s attention. “Whose lives?”

  “Gavin MacFie’s for one,” Isolde said, hoping to impress the crone with the urgency of her task. “And two fine horses.”

  Without batting her cloudy eyes, Devorgilla set down her basket. She planted her fists on her hips. “You’d best tell me what is amiss.”

  And Isolde did, repeating everything she’d heard in the hall that morn. When she finished, Devorgilla shook her head, then stared out across the moorland toward Dunmuir.

  “I do not like this,” she said, unwittingly repeating what one of the elders had also stated. “ ’Tis perilous ground you’ll be venturing on if you do this.”

  A fine bold lass.

  “I must.” The two words sprang from her lips. “Can you reach Balloch?

  The crone picked up her basket. “Aye, I can,” she affirmed after a long, uncomfortable moment. “What would you have him know?”

  “That I am with child,” the steely wench in her said. “I want him told I am to bear another man’s child.”

  Many hours later, Isolde stood in the vaulted passage outside Dunmuir’s chapel and listened to the resounding boom and clash of thunder. The deep rumbles, mighty enough to shake the stone floor beneath her feet, also rattled her nerves.

  Devorgilla had predicted a violent storm, and Isolde hadn’t believed her.

  Not until much later when, sometime after the hour of none, the clouds had set in, swiftly darkening the afternoon sky. Roiling thunderheads, deep gray and menacing, driven by chill, fast-moving gales racing in from the open sea.

  Just as the crone had said would happen.

  Isolde shivered and drew her woolen arisaid closer about her shoulders. May the Blessed Virgin help her if Devorgilla’s other predications came to pass. An outraged Balloch MacArthur raising a clamor would cost more fortitude than she could presently spare. Dunmuir shouldered enough grief of late without a false move of hers unleashing yet more turmoil and disaster.

  Her stomach knotting, she reached for the chapel door’s iron latch. She’d placed votive offerings at the sacred well earlier, and now she’d say her daily chants for her sister’s soul, plus a few for her own.

  For everyone’s.

  Thus determined, she let herself into the quiet dimness of the small oratory, and closed the door soundly behind her. Terror seized her at once. All the steel she’d been convincing herself she possessed fled faster than he could shoot his brows heavenward.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Someone was inside the chapel with her.

  Someone she could feel but not see. Lileas?

  Her hand pressed against her heart, she took a few backward steps until she bumped into the closed door. There she remained, and would, until she could summon enough courage to flee. Fear a cold metallic taste on her tongue, she peered into the gloom, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

  One of the elders must’ve visited the chapel, for a blaze of candles lit the side altar, the glow thrown by their flickering light not enough to dispel the murkiness, but enough to soothe her a wee bit.

  Puzzlement drew her brows together.

  She’d not known anyone else lit candles for Lileas.

  Hoping to steady her nerves, she drew in a deep breath of the stale, incenseladen air. Another scent, faint and oddly familiar, came along with the fustiness.

  A feminine yet dark note not quite blended into the chapel’s mustiness and the damp chill of wet stone. Again, the sense that she wasn’t alone sent icy shivers tumbling down her spine and lifted the fine hairs on the nape of her neck.

  Taking her lower lip between her teeth, she scanned the shadows. Something stirred, an air current or perhaps her very own nerves, but a distinct swishing noise quickly followed. Jerking her head toward the sound, Isolde screamed.

  Her dead sister, shroud-wrapped and cowled, was rising from the cold stone floor in front of the side altar!

  “Do not be afraid, ’tis only me,” Lileas said, her beloved voice smoother, huskier than in life. Death had made her more voluptuous than Isolde remembered, too.

  The wraith glided toward her with fluid grace, her black shroud swirling ’round her, a dark, feminine scent wafting ahead of her to drift around Isolde like an exotic cloud.

  A rich, musky fragrance the unassuming Lileas would ne’er have favored.

  “Do not look at me as if you’ve seen a ghost, my lady,” the specter said, shoving the cowl back off her face. “ ’Tis me, Evelina.”

  Relief washed over Isolde in great waves. “On my life, but you frightened me, lady.”

  Evelina smoothed her raven tresses, then carefully adjusted the cowl’s folds around her shoulders. “I’ve told you, I am not a lady, but it warms my heart when you address me thus.” She gave Isolde a gentle smile. “ ’Tis good of you.”

  “W-whatever are you doing here?” Isolde gasped, her blood still pumping furiously. “You’re the last person I’d expected to see.”

  “In your chapel or at Dunmuir?”

  “Both,” Isolde said honestly.

  Evelina gave a little shrug. “Naught is impossible if one is discreet.” She gestured to the enveloping black mantle and hood she wore. “No one’s sensitivities were injured.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” Isolde folded her arms against the hot shame swelling in her breast. “You are welcome here. I have told you that.”

  Evelina’s smile turned rueful. “I know you have, and I honor you for it.”

  Her pulse finally back to normal, Isolde glanced at the row of candles burning on the side altar. “You lit them?”

  The older woman nodded. “Someone was kind enough to tell me you come here to pray for your sister. So I said a few prayers for her while I waited.”

  Isolde sighed. “Thank you.”

  Evelina touched her hand lightly to Isolde’s sleeve. “Many were the good things I have heard of Lileas,” she said, a wistful note creeping into her voice. “I wish I could have known her.”

  “But you did not come here to speak of my sister.”

  “Nay, I did not. I came because I must speak with you,” Evelina said, her voice rife with concern. She grasped Isolde’s hands. “Pray forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I would beg you not to send your message to Balloch MacArthur.”

  Isolde gasped in surprise. “But . . .” She let her voice trail off, too embarrassed to voice the probing questions tickling her tongue.

  The joy woman had no such compunction. “But how did I gain such privy knowledge?”

  “You know what the message is?” Discomfiture inched up Isolde’s throat.

  “Why else would I be so concerned?” Evelina released Isolde’s hands. “I came straightaway after I heard. MacArthur is a violent man.” She glanced away, but Isolde caught the way her jawline had tightened upon mentioning Balloch’s name.

  “You . . . ah . . . you know him?”

  “I knew him, yes.” Evelina looked back at her, and her beautiful dark eyes appeared dulled. “But only once. That was more than enough.”

  “I am sorry.” Isolde touched her hand to the other woman’s sleeve, much as Evelina had sought to comfort her a moment before.

  “It happened long ago and is best forgotten.” Evelina’s eyes gleamed with a hint of moisture. “But I thank you for caring.”

  “You did
n’t say how you learned of my message?”

  Evelina’s gentle smile returned. “How do you think old Devorgilla thought to speed your tidings clear to MacArthur’s distant isle?”

  “You?” Isolde stared at her, then recalled Evelina telling her Gavin MacFie kept her supplied with provisions. “But Sir Gavin—”

  “Aye, Sir Gavin is hindered.” Evelina waved a dismissive hand when Isolde made to protest. “There are other, shall we say, former friends who look after my needs. Any one of them would be gladful to help me deliver a missive.”

  She fixed Isolde with a piercing look. “ ’Tis I who would rather not be entrusted with the task.” Moving away, she took to pacing in front of the side altar, the hem of her cloak rustling about her ankles like a shifting black cloud.

  A storm cloud.

  She lifted a hand in supplication, then let it fall. “Sending such tidings to a man like Balloch will have naught but the gravest consequences for you.”

  Isolde clasped her hands before her. She could not let the other woman sway her. “Nor do I like voicing falsehoods, but if I do not, he will send his man to arrange our betrothal within the month. I cannot allow that to happen.”

  “And you purport to avoid this man’s coming by sending word to Balloch you carry another man’s child?” Evelina’s beautiful face mirrored her concern. “Lady, he shall be livid. Naught would bring him here faster. Balloch MacArthur is a proud man.”

  Isolde glanced at the place where her sister’s body had lain, her heart aching at the memory of Lileas waxen and silent. The image forever etched in her mind. Poor, sweettempered Lileas had looked as if she merely slept and would awaken any moment.

  But she hadn’t, and would no more.

  And her death had set Isolde’s own life on a course she’d fast lost control of. Sighing, she pressed the tips of her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. Heavy silence filled the chapel, its weight pushing hard on her shoulders.

  A tangible burden, thick, cloying, and interspersed only with the deep rumbling of thunder and the pounding of her own heart.

  At last, she opened her eyes and met Evelina’s troubled gaze. “His pride is my sole hope,” she conceded. “The elders plan to execute Donall MacLean on or around the Summer Solstice.” Isolde’s blood ran cold at the thought. “He and I have not yet . . . there is not enough time for me to . . . t-to truly become . . .”

  She let her words die and began pacing just as Evelina had done moments before, her footsteps tapping loudly on the stone-flagged floor.

  “It is my hope, if Balloch is told I swell with another man’s seed, his pride will stay his tongue.” She paused before the altar, absently smoothing wrinkles in the black cloth still draped there in Lileas’s honor. “I am certain he will forfeit the betrothal once such word reaches him.”

  “I see.” Evelina’s tone was anything but encouraging.

  “But you do not share my conviction his pride will keep him away?” Isolde kept her gaze trained on the altar cloth and the flickering candles.

  “No, I do not,” Evelina said, confirming what Isolde had expected her to say.

  Isolde turned back to her. “Will you still see the message delivered?”

  Evelina paused a long moment before she nodded. “If you so wish, aye.”

  “I do,” Isolde said, wishing she hadn’t seen the shadow that had crossed the other woman’s face as she’d uttered the two words.

  “Then so be it,” Evelina said, and came to stand before her. Though her dark eyes were sorely troubled, she managed one of her gentle smiles.

  The sight of it tugged at Isolde’s heart. Hot moisture jabbed into the backs of her eyes. Blinking, she reached for Evelina’s hand. “I thank you,” she said. “Someday I shall repay your kindness.”

  Evelina’s own eyes gleamed then, and she glanced away as if embarrassed by showing emotion. “You already have,” she murmured. “A thousandfold.”

  But her quiet dignity soon returned, and she pulled her hand from Isolde’s grasp to retrieve a small leather pouch from the folds of her cloak. She handed it to Isolde. “This is the blush of rose I mentioned to you. Use it as I advised, and you should be able to hasten your progress with the MacLean.”

  Blush of rose.

  Isolde’s fingers closed around the little pouch. She could feel the small jar it contained. Vermilion. Red-tinted goose fat scented with rose.

  A whore’s paint to be dabbed on one’s nipples.

  A sure way of striking powerful lust into any man’s loins, Evelina had promised when they’d discussed the myriad methods Isolde could employ to seduce Donall the Bold.

  Blush of rose.

  Just the feel of the tiny container in her hand made her blush scarlet.

  “You must use it,” Evelina encouraged. “Especially now.”

  Isolde swallowed thickly, but nodded.

  Evelina placed the back of her hand against Isolde’s hot cheek. “The sooner he succumbs, the better your chances, my lady.”

  And if I succumb?

  The words echoed boldly in Isolde’s heart, loud and frightful as the cracking thunder renting the night. As if she’d heard them, too, Evelina arched an elegant black brow. “If you well please him, you might find he pleases you as well.”

  Embarrassed, Isolde shifted her feet. Her face, her entire being, grew warmer by the minute. Soon, she’d be glowing brighter than a well-dipped resin torch.

  Evelina drew a deep breath.

  “I must go,” she said, taking her hand from Isolde’s cheek. She made to move away, but Isolde caught her arm.

  “You cannot leave in this storm. Stay the night here, I will order a meal and—”

  “Thank you, but I have already been offered a fine pallet for the night, and even a hearty repast,” Evelina said, an odd catch in her voice. “I wish you well with the MacLean,” she added, then made for the door.

  Her hand on the latch, she paused and looked back. “Never forget, the road to the greatest happiness is sometimes fraught with peril and ofttimes the longest we must traverse.” Her words sailed straight at Isolde’s heart, as she’d no doubt intended.

  As if she knew they’d found their target, she gave Isolde one last little smile. “Know, too, my lady, the rewards we reap at journey’s end are worth more than a king’s ransom.”

  That said, she stepped out the door and closed it soundly behind her.

  Donall grunted as the largest wave yet slammed into his ribs. “Christ’s wounds!” he swore, blinking hard against the stinging wetness in his eyes. “Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” he cursed again as an even greater roller crashed over him.

  Sputtering, he tossed his head in a vain effort to clear his vision. Not that he cared to see how much higher the tide had risen since the storm’s full fury had broke about an hour before.

  Lashing rain slanted sideways through the ruined broch’s sea entrance. Cold and hard as steel pellets, the blinding sheets of rain sliced into him with a force to rival the waves sweeping into the dungeon with ever greater ferocity.

  Squinting, he glanced out at the open sea and saw . . . naught. Only blackness. Roiling, surging water, and jagged bolts of lightning slashing across the angry night sky.

  Summoning all his might, he clung to the cold, wet chain stretched taut above his head. Using his shoulder and arm muscles, he heaved himself above the tossing waves. Screwing his eyes shut against the bite of the salt water, he prayed to all his patron saints.

  And a few others as well.

  If the lightning didn’t soon claim him, the furious surf would. Either way, if the wench’s two buffoons didn’t soon haul him out of this hellhole, he’d not have to send prayers heavenward much longer. He’d be able to make his felicitations in person.

  Fetch him down.

  The three words boomed in the darkness. Strong, commanding, and sweet in Donall’s ears.

  Too sweet.

  For they were promptly swallowed by the roar of the sea and the fierce how
l of the wind. A figment of his imagination or mayhap the taunt of a sea sprite, eager to claim yet another mortal man’s fast-approaching demise.

  “Make haste!” the voice came again, oddly familiar, though not belonging to the two dolt-headed guardsmen.

  But, of a certainty, a human voice.

  Not a sea siren lusting to pull him into her watery clutches.

  “See to it. Now!” the voice commanded, and Donall muttered a prayer of thanks.

  He’d make his felicitations to the revered saints at a later date . . . one more suitable to his inclinations.

  Hoping his relief didn’t show, he craned his neck toward the voice and opened his burning eyes to narrow slits. Three male figures moved about on the sea ledge. The two buffoons, and another man. He couldn’t make out the third clearly enough to discern his identity.

  They’d thrust torches into the wall brackets, and the sputtering flames leaped and danced in the wind, casting an orange-red glow on the dungeon’s rough, wet walls, and o’er themselves as well.

  Three firedrakes risen from the depths of hell itself, but looking sweeter than heaven’s holiest host of angels as two of them hurried down the steep flight of steps, then plunged into the surf, making straight for him.

  And he’d be damned if he’d say thank you. Not to them.

  Fixing his features into a mask of indifference, Donall awaited their approach.

  “Don’t try to look grateful, you whoreson bastard,” Rory groused the instant he reached his side. Glowering fiercely, the lout thrust his arms below the foam-capped waves, grumbling to himself as he fumbled to free Donall’s chain from the weights that had held him aloft since daybreak.

  The giant slogged up to them a moment later. He, too, glared at Donall. “It would seem you have more than one friend abovestairs,” he said, and wrapped his great arms around Donall’s waist, catching him just as the chain gave way, thus saving Donall from plunging beneath the waves.

  “I’d rather push your ugly face under the water than haul you out of here,” Niels swore, grabbing Donall’s upper arm in a fierce hold the same instant Rory seized his other arm.

  Together, they dragged him through the surf and up the slick stone steps to the ledge. Still holding fast to his arms, they drew him before the third man. He handed Donall a coarse drying cloth, then swirled a warm, woolen blanket around Donall’s shoulders.