Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  “Aye!” others agreed.

  Lorne slammed his fist on the tabletop. The grumblings ceased. When the silence held, he gave a satisfied nod. “Let us not besmirch our good name by denying him a dry pallet to sleep on between now and his execution. I would ask naught else.”

  “Spoken with the eloquence of a limp-wristed courtier,” someone muttered.

  A mere whisper, but enough to put the fire of self-righteousness back in Struan’s eyes. “Besmirch our good name?” He threw up his hands. “I vow you speak more like a woman than a tarse licker.”

  Isolde’s sharp intake of breath was swallowed by Lorne’s outraged roar. He pushed to his feet so quickly, his chair toppled over. His right hand, balled to a white-knuckled fist, hovered menacingly near his dirk. “Slander me thus again, and I shall kill you,” he seethed. “Kinsman or nay.”

  “Do so, and you’d sully yourself with a darker stain than taints the MacLean.” Lounging in his chair, Struan leveled an impervious stare at Lorne. “What would such a grievous sin do to your fabled sense of honor?”

  Lorne’s only response was the jerking of a muscle in his jaw.

  “You do not know?” Struan flicked his fingers. “Cast your honor to the four winds is what it’d do.”

  Dark waves of anger rolled off Lorne, but after a painfully long moment, he unclenched his hands. “I shall keep my honor until I breathe my last,” he said. “You would be wise to acquire some.”

  Pandemonium broke loose. Struan laughed. “You wax proud if you think to advise me what I ought or ought not acquire.” He waved a careless hand at the assemblage. “Nor are we a company of gentles, gathered to sing praises for the supposed valor of a roistering devil the likes of Donall MacLean.”

  Several of the council members thumped their fists on the tabletop, others stamped their aged feet. All heartily voiced their accord.

  Fickle faithless fools.

  Isolde forced a tight little smile, a contrivance, but necessary to conceal her true purpose.

  “We are here,” Struan declared, his chest swelling, “to wreak vengeance on a man Lorne would have us admire simply because, like Lorne, he wears the spurs and belt of knighthood.”

  Beside her, Isolde could sense Lorne’s ire churning inside him. Quite boldly, she slipped her hand onto his knee and squeezed. Blessedly, his tensed muscles relaxed a bit beneath her fingers.

  “Conferred knighthood does not make a man,” Struan thundered on. “The MacLean’s vestments are no longer white as befitting those claiming such ennobled privilege, but soiled red with the spilled blood of one of our own.”

  Nods and grunts of approval rippled around the table, but a few mumbles about “Archibald” could be heard as well.

  Struan sent a dark look in the direction whence the references to his brother had come. “Were Archibald here, he would not want us cozening the perpetrator of his daughter’s death.”

  Lileas’s sweet face rose up in Isolde’s mind. Her guileless blue eyes loomed troubled, her pale lips moved in wordless distress, but whatever message she hoped to convey was lost. The fleeting image was overpowered by Struan’s diatribe.

  Struan stood. “Archibald would want us to protect his remaining daughter and we shall! To the death, if the good Lord so wills it.”

  His watery blue eyes clouding with a trace of perplexity, Ailbert lifted a hand. “How shall we protect her if the MacLeans attack?”

  “Not by the bite of your blade.” Struan shook back his coarse mane of rust-colored hair. “The MacLeans will not seek to avenge a death they’ll think befell the wretch at sea.”

  “What if they wax suspicious?” Ailbert’s grizzled chin jutted forward. “Your sword arm cannot be of much better use than mine.”

  Muted laughter erupted around the table. Struan glowered. “Am I surrounded by fools? ‘How shall we protect her?’” he groused. “Why do you think we’re wedding her to MacArthur?”

  Isolde’s breath caught at the mention of the dread name, but she maintained an air of indifference. Ailbert pursed his lips, belligerence oozing out of every line in his wizened face.

  “Dinna tell me you doubt the stoutness of Balloch’s sword arm?” Struan carped at him. “The man has never been defeated.”

  “His braw arm will have to stretch a fair distance to defend these walls.” Ailbert spread his hands in emphasis.

  Isolde glanced at Lorne. He’d leaned forward and watched the exchange with growing interest.

  “What fool twaddle is that?” someone asked. “Balloch has sworn to bring a whole company of warriors to man Dunmuir’s ramparts.”

  Isolde’s hand clenched on Lorne’s knee.

  “And so he will,” Struan declared, reclaiming his seat. He lifted his tankard to his lips but paused in mid-sip when Ailbert rapped his walking crook against the table edge.

  “By the devil!” he railed, spewing ale foam onto the table. “What ails you now, Ailbert?”

  “I would know how we are to defend our lady,” Ailbert piped, his reedy voice glazed with self-importance. “MacArthur will bring neither his own nor his men’s might to defend us.”

  Struan slammed down his tankard. “What prattle-monger has been filling your head with such tripe?”

  “More than one.” Ailbert met Struan’s glare. “ ’Tis claimed he’d be wise to keep his strength at home. His father will want all his men to guard their own holdings.”

  “From whom?” Struan’s brows lifted. “Their isle is so remote, there’s hardly any would care to claim it.”

  Ailbert drew back his bony shoulders. “The Sassenachs would.”

  Something flashed in Struan’s eyes, and whatever it was, it lifted the fine hairs on the back of Isolde’s neck. Her uncle appeared riled, but not surprised by Ailbert’s comments.

  “The English?” Struan snorted. “ ’Tis bleating like an old goat, you are—full of stuff and nonsense. Edward of England signed a treaty two years ago. He will not be harrying our waters.”

  Ailbert shook his head. “The Treaty o’ Northampton was signed before Robert Bruce died. Times are perilous now.”

  “Perilous for you if you do not cease spouting such drivel,” Struan snarled.

  Ailbert raised his walking crook in the air. “’Tis the God’s truth. My sword skills may not be what they once were, but I’ve still got my wits.” He lowered his stick. “All of ’em!”

  “Could have fooled me,” Struan muttered.

  Lorne expelled a long breath. “Ailbert speaks the truth. Many claim Edward Balliol would seek English aid to wrest the Scottish throne from young David’s tender hands.”

  “Aye, and Edward the Third is granting him that support, and much of it,” someone else tossed out. “The young English king is said to have his grandfather’s success at arms. He’ll prove a greater threat than his loose-hipped sire should he turn his attentions northward.”

  Ailbert puffed out his chest. “The MacArthur will want his men atop his own walls. Each last one o’ them, most especially his son.”

  Lorne placed his hand on Isolde’s shoulder. “Balloch has vowed to live here and reinforce Dunmuir.”

  A speculative gleam entered Struan’s heavy-browed eyes. “If such tidings be true, should we not accommodate our lady’s future husband in these perilous times?”

  Isolde could feel the blood draining from her face. Surely Struan would not suggest she live with Balloch on his isle?

  Not that she intended to live with him at all.

  Lorne’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “What are you suggesting, Struan?”

  “Only that, a suggestion,” he said, stroking his chin. “Mayhap our lady should reside at Balloch’s holding after they’ve wed? He can better defend his father’s walls, she is removed from marauding MacLeans, and we gain prestige by impressing on the MacArthurs what congenial allies we are.”

  He paused to draw a breath. “Once the Sassenach threat has passed, the happy twain can return to Dunmuir.”

  Stunned s
urprise held Isolde’s protest firmly in her throat. Blessedly, Lorne spoke for her. Fixing an accusatory stare on Struan, he said, “Ne’er have I heard a more unblessed pack of fool ideas. The lady Isolde belongs here.”

  As one, the council sided with Lorne.

  Startlingly unperturbed, Struan shrugged. “As the council deems,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “It was only a consideration.”

  “And so I wish it to remain.” Isolde found her voice at last. “I also wish Donall the Bold to remain in Gavin Mac-Fie’s cell. I care not what is done to him days,” she lied, “but I want him granted the respect a worthy man of the sword deserves. Friend or foe, doomed to die or nay.”

  She pushed to her feet. “Such is the way of our Isles, how my father would have ruled, and”—she lifted her chin—“how I rule.”

  Her authority asserted, her gaze flicked from Struan’s tight-lipped countenance to each of the other council members. Some gaped, some grinned. Ailbert tittered. All save her uncle had a spark of admiration in their eyes.

  Admiration she didn’t deserve.

  She was an imposter whose fibbing tongue boasted more forks than the devil’s own.

  Quickly, before they noticed, she excused herself and exited the hall, Bodo scampering after her.

  Bodo, and her pack of lies.

  She did care what happened to Donall the Bold.

  And she did not want him kept in Sir Gavin’s cell.

  She wanted him with her.

  “You’ve a visitor.”

  Something about Rory’s tone gave Donall a niggling notion just who the visitor was.

  Who he hoped the visitor might be.

  His eyes snapped open, the sleep he’d been chasing forgotten. The pock-faced guardsman filled the threshold, his feet pressing against the doorjambs, his meaty arms folded. He wore a scowl darker than the crack of the devil’s arse.

  Donall frowned, too.

  ’Twas easy enough to do, giddy as he was just knowing he’d see her again any moment. Giddified elation at the mere sniff of a wench’s swishing skirts was a frightful enough state to vex any man.

  A powerful urge to see Rory vexed as well assailed him, so he folded his arms behind his head and fixed the oaf with an impertinent stare. “Pray, who can it be?” he pretended to puzzle. “A priest to fumigate the cell with smoke of myrrh or a well-skilled henwife with her basket of charms and incantations?”

  Donall could feel Gavin’s sidelong stare, but couldn’t have swiped the taunts from his tongue if the sainted Holy Mother herself asked him to. Watching the whore-dog bastard Rory sputter and fidget provided too costly an entertainment to easily relinquish.

  “I regret to tell you, neither are welcome,” Donall called to him. “Myrrh makes Gavin sneeze, and I ceased believing in the dubious talents of self-professed wise women at the ripe age of four.”

  Rory’s hand flew to his sword. “Ingrate MacLean whoreson,” he hissed.

  Donall crossed his ankles and flashed his most winning smile.

  “Step aside, Rory.” Her voice, soft and smooth as sweet cream, came from behind the lout. “I cannot enter if you would block the door.”

  Donall’s heart leaped, knocking against his fool ribs with all the abandon of a callow youth mooning after the first doe-eyed, long-limbed lass to cast a coy smile his way.

  By the warts on my grandmother’s nose, I ne’er thought I’d see the day . . . Donall thought he heard Gavin mumble beside him, but his friend’s words had as much a chance of stealing his attention as Donall did of slipping his foot out of the cold band of iron cuffed ’round his ankle.

  She was slipping past Rory, and everything else in Donall’s field of vision, and consciousness, faded. He hadn’t seen her in a full four days, and though he’d half convinced himself she couldn’t possibly be as fair as his fantasies painted her, he now saw he’d gravely erred.

  Isolde MacInnes was even more fetching than his most wild imaginings.

  “Lady,” he said in greeting and pushed to his feet.

  Gavin stood as well. “Gavin MacFie, my lady,” he said, bowing respectfully. “I’d humbly offer you my devoted services, but”—he shrugged good-naturedly—“I fear I am in no position to be of use to you.”

  “Sir Gavin,” she acknowledged, inclining her head. “Your name carries many badges of honor, and I regret we meet under these . . . circumstances.”

  “Sir Donall.” She scarce looked at him.

  The slight bit hard and deep.

  The fool lopsided grin spreading across Gavin’s face bit deeper. Donall shot the wretch a dark look, but Gavin was oblivious, wholly captivated by Isolde of Dunmuir’s beauty and grace.

  Donall frowned. He wouldn’t be surprised if his gaping friend’s eyes didn’t soon glaze over, so thunderstruck did he stare at the wench.

  She appeared oblivious, too.

  Of Donall’s rising irritation at being ignored, and even of having won Gavin’s devotion with a smattering of flattery and a single glance from her amber-flecked eyes.

  Without a further word, she headed for the small window opening, her black skirts swirling, her wildflower scent light and precious in the musty confines of the cell.

  She stood looking out the window, her shoulders straight, her back proud. Her quiet dignity stirred his heart almost more than her lithesome form roused his blood. She held her hands clasped behind her, and Donall’s gaze clung to the sight of them.

  The memory of those slender fingers pressed against his chest, kneading his shoulders, then sifting through his hair during their shared kiss, sent shards of white-hot desire spiraling through him. His loins tightened with burning need.

  Gavin stared, too, and Donall couldn’t decide if his fingers itched more to throttle his friend’s gawking neck, or to undo the two long braids hanging down Isolde’s back.

  Thick, satiny-looking, and glossed to a deep golden sheen by the torchlight, she hadn’t coiled them ’round her ears in the ramshorn style she seemed to favor, but had let them swing free, their tips just grazing her hips.

  “Saints a-mercy,” Gavin whispered beside him, and clapped a hand roughly over his heart.

  Donall scowled at him.

  Any moment, the smitten knave would be on his knee reciting a love sonnet if Donall didn’t soon intercede.

  And so he did.

  Promptly.

  By jabbing his fingers into Gavin’s ribs.

  Unfazed, Gavin sidestepped Donall’s reach, and continued to gape. It was a merry wonder his tongue didn’t loll from his grinning lips!

  Donall cleared his throat. “To what honor may I credit your visit, fair lady?” He leaned against the wall and affected a most unimpressed, casual pose, should she turn to face him . . . as he sorely hoped she would.

  “Mayhap to discuss the merits of . . . enlightenment?” he added when she paid no heed to his first, more courtly, attempt at catching her attention.

  Gavin shot him a look of rabid astonishment—for he now knew exactly what sort of “enlightenment” Donall had shared with her—and was no doubt amazed he’d have the cheek to utter the word in his presence.

  His cheek stunned Donall, too. But her sheer proximity did strange things to his senses, and her silence frustrated him beyond all bounds, soundly chasing his chivalry out the window. Leaving behind naught but a raw urge to rile a reaction out of her.

  She turned around. “I came to see Sir Gavin, not you.”

  Donall’s heart seemed to lurch to an abrupt, jerky halt, and the hot pumping in his loins instantly cooled. “Sir Gavin?”

  She averted her gaze. “Truth be told, I did not think you’d be here. I thou—”

  “You thought I’d be off undergoing some new and devious form of agony at the hands of your two henchmen?” he finished for her, a new kind of heat surging through him.

  The heat of anger.

  “Well . . . aye,” she possessed the boldness to confirm. “I wanted to speak to Sir Gavin about . . . about your brothe
r.”

  “My brother? You wish to speak to Gavin about my brother?” She nodded, then turned back to the window.

  She couldn’t look at him.

  She’d almost fled back abovestairs when she saw he was shirtless. The last time she’d seen his bare chest, it’d been grimed with dirt from his first cell’s muck-covered floor. Smeared so darkly, she’d scarce been able to discern where he began and that cell’s murky shadows ended.

  The sight of his naked chest free of grime, its well-muscled expanse cast a-glow by the torch flames, his sheer magnificence of form almost too overpowering to bear, taxed her composure more sorely than she could control.

  Control, and voice the questions she must ask.

  So she kept her back to them both, thus shielding herself from his dark beauty, his darker temper, and the strange way he made her feel.

  Instead, she stared at the other source of her ill ease. Its looming presence devoured convictions she’d ne’er doubted, and left crumbs of meddlesome doubt in their place. A dark mass rising low above the horizon to taunt her:

  MacKinnons’ Isle.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MacKinnons’ Isle.

  Its rugged coast gentled by distance, its stern-faced cliffs softened by the luminous glow of a Hebridean gloaming, the MacKinnon holding appeared scarce more threatening than a dark, elongated lump on the far horizon.

  But the onerous burden it betokened for Isolde lay so near she tasted its foulness with each indrawn breath.

  A taste more bitter than the lingering vestiges of Devorgilla’s anti-attraction potion yet clinging to her tongue. Praise the saints, the crone had upped its potency.

  Sadly, it still did not seem to work.

  Or mayhap Donall the Bold’s bare chest was simply too bonnie?

  Isolde expelled a sigh. She’d simply pay no heed to his braw form or the pleasant flutters pulsing low in her belly since seeing him thus displayed. She’d keep her attention riveted on the one thing incapable of stirring her senses.

  Stirring those senses.

  She wet her lips with the tip of her potion-flavored tongue. “Have either of you looked out this window?” she asked, a chill working through her, blowing its icy breath on each corner of warmth the MacLean and his hard-muscled chest had kindled inside her. “Do you ken what lies on yon horizon?”