Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  For one fleeting and joyous moment, Isolde thought she caught a glimpse of her sister’s face. The image wavered only briefly, well concealed in the wisps of peat smoke hanging in the air, but appearing long enough for Isolde to see the pleased expression she wore.

  Long enough for her heart to catch Lileas’s softly whispered assurance that now, at last, all had been set a-right.

  And, truth tell, naught had e’er felt so . . . right.

  Ne’er had her world, their beautiful Isle of Doon, been so close to perfect.

  And if Donall kept his word, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he would, and if her clan members would but agree, as Lorne seemed to think they would, soon Doon would no longer be divided in twain, but jointly ruled.

  Shared.

  A common and loved home for MacLeans and MacInnesses.

  The alliance her father had always sought, her sister had died trying to achieve. A desired alliance that had brought her so much more than just a truce.

  A sharp, attention-demanding yap called her attention to Bodo. She glanced down, smiling at him through the moisture filming her eyes.

  The little dog trotted along beside them, the extra spring in his step and the jaunty way he held his head a clear indication he knew the champion’s role he’d played and was mighty proud.

  Savoring the accolades.

  Lorne and Evelina walked with them, too. As did Gavin and Iain. Each one of them freshly bathed. Even Bodo and Lugh. No traces remained of the slime and reek from the vaulted latrine passage, hardly a hint of the ordeal she’d been through.

  Niels and Rory, newly released by their former captive, flanked them, both men looking a mite sheepish and subdued.

  All smiled, though Iain appeared a shade less jovial than the others. Lorne’s eyes, too, held a reflective note. But even the truth of Struan’s treachery couldn’t wholly dispel the joy in Isolde’s heart.

  Couldn’t dim the triumph of the declaration about to be made.

  Regrettably most of the hall’s occupants, MacInnesses and MacArthurs alike, appeared too deep in their cups to comprehend what Donall was about to proclaim.

  Shifting in the protective embrace of his strong arms, Isolde smoothed a hand over the thick gloss of his hair, reveled in the feel of its silky coolness beneath her fingers. He carried her so well.

  So fine.

  Ne’er had she felt more secure.

  More . . . loved.

  Mayhap even cherished.

  Full content, she rested a hand lightly on the solid warmth of his shoulder as they passed the massed ranks of hard-bitten MacLean and MacKinnon warriors. The men still stood grim watch around the circumference of the torch-lit hall.

  Of her people, hardly a soul stirred. Those feasters yet awake turned glassy-eyed stares on them. Of all the revelers, MacInnesses and MacArthurs alike, some already sprawled on the rushes, mouths open and snoring loudly, while others slept with their ale-heads resting atop the trestle tables.

  A hardy few still made merry, heartily exercising their tankard arms or entertaining themselves with ever bawdier songs and ludicrously boastful tales.

  All appeared quite dull-witted, awake or slumbering. And if their glazed eyes and limp forms weren’t proof enough, the thick reek of stale ale hanging in the air betold their sorry state.

  Not that Donall cared.

  He had but one purpose.

  To lay firm and irrevocable claim to his lady.

  His mind set, he stepped onto the raised dais at the upper end of the hall. “MacInnesses!” He raised his voice to be heard above the carousing. Above the snores. “Men of Balloch MacArthur! Hear me well, all those with ears, for if you gainsay my words, I shall set loose upon you the balled might of the great houses of MacLean and MacKinnon!”

  He swept his gaze along the ranks of his men. Not a one of them, nor the MacKinnons who’d come with them, had moved. They all stood proud and tall, a formidable circle of muscle, mail, and gleaming steel. Their blades drawn in silent warning, menacing to any malcontents even with the sword tips resting benignly against the floor.

  Donall allowed himself a small stab of pride.

  Well, mayhap a large stab of pride.

  His men were at the ready, their faces steely and grimset. One nod would have them pressing their blades against every unfriendly throat in the hall before the ale-headed louts realized they’d been set upon.

  He eased his lady to her feet, then wrenched free his own sword, raised it over his head. “Word has come to me you mistreated my lady this day,” he accused the feasters, letting his darkest, most piercing stare rake each man foolish enough to meet his glare.

  Not surprisingly, an uneasy stirring rippled through the hall. Furtive whispers followed, accompanied by nervously exchanged and telling looks. A few muttered grumbles of displeasure.

  Some had the gall to glare.

  But no one challenged him.

  Pleased, he took his lady’s hand. Concentrating on his task rather than the smooth warmth of her hand in his, he threaded his fingers through hers and lifted their joined hands in an unmistakable show of unity.

  “Dare sully my betrothed again, and I shall rescind my decision to seek peace with you, you of MacInnes blood,” he shouted. “Let one MacArthur voice slander her again, and I shall fire your galley and force you to swim home.” He tossed the challenge to all present. “Speak now and let us cross swords as worthy opponents, or accept our forthcoming marriage, this alliance, and forever hold your tongues.”

  “She cannot be your betrothed.” One brave soul spoke up from the far back. “She is promised to our liege.”

  “Your liege believed thus in error,” Donall shot back, his voice deep and calm though she could feel the tension thrumming through him. “She has e’er been pledged to me.”

  “You lie!” Another MacArthur voice rose in anger.

  Donall released his lady’s hand and eased her gently behind him. Protectively behind him. He heaved a sigh, then took a long step forward, sword in hand. “She is my betrothed. Say otherwise again and be harried all the way to hell.”

  Lorne looked sharply at him, his brows raised.

  “A MacLean ne’er lies,” a slight-figured, white-haired man standing next to Lorne called out. “Our laird in particular!”

  A low, angry growling began in the far back of the crowd. It spread slowly forward, swelling and falling, as it crept the length of the hall, leaping from one crowded trestle table to the next, coming ever closer.

  Until one thin voice rang out. “What he claims is true, I swear it,” Ailbert lied, waving his walking stick in the air for emphasis. “ ’Twas her father’s last wish, whispered to me on ’is death bed, it was.”

  Isolde swallowed, then moistened her lips. She fought back the heart pushing into her throat, blinked against the salty tears gathering in her eyes.

  More of her kinsmen joined Ailbert in making similar proclamations, each one bolder than the last, until she could stay the quickening of her pulse, the swell of her emotions, no longer.

  Tears began leaking from her eyes, and when Donall drew her close, she gladly melted into his embrace. Together, they listened to the tall tales her council fabricated for Balloch MacArthur’s men.

  Promised from birth, they were!

  Aye, such was the way of it.

  Handfasted for o’er a year, and with a wee bairn growing proud to seal our alliance.

  ’Tis soon they’ll be wed.

  Ne’er seen a pair love more . . .

  “Ne’er seen a pair love more . . .” Isolde murmured the words to herself as, many hours later, she slipped from her sleeping love’s arms. Climbing down from the great fourposter, she went to peer out the opened windows.

  Naught but a peaceful morn stretched before her, reaching innocently from Doon’s shingled shores to the distant MacKinnons’ Isle.

  The breaking of a calm dawn.

  A calm peace reigned at Dunmuir, too.

  Or had since Don
all’s bold declarations.

  Since the last of her stubborn kinsmen had conceded to the wisdom of her alliance, then united in their efforts to convince the MacArthurs of its validity before stumbling off to seek their pallets.

  Since Balloch’s men had set hasty sail for home.

  Since she’d learned to trust her heart.

  Heaving a deep, satisfied sigh, a sated sigh, truth be told, she watched the pale gray-pink light tinge the eastern horizon. The new day’s luminous light set MacKinnons’ Isle aglow, too, and for once, she didn’t shudder while gazing on it.

  Its frowning cliffs and sandy bays had lost their menace now that they no longer stood between her and her true soul mate.

  No longer presented a sad and damning symbol of his guilt.

  Indeed, the sight now brought a smile to her lips.

  Had Iain MacLean’s temper not sent him there, the truth might ne’er have been exposed. And now, she had not only her love, but the alliance she’d sought for Doon, and promising new allies in the MacKinnons.

  Aye, looking at the isle made her smile.

  But not as much as thinking about the things she and Donall had done after finally slipping away from the ruckus in the hall.

  Thinking about the things he did to her heart.

  Thinking about the babe she hoped would soon grow and thrive inside her. Smoothing her hand down her flat abdomen, she sighed.

  And hoped.

  Prayed that dream, too, would soon come true.

  “Ne’er seen a pair love more,” she said again, a mere whisper, caught and carried off by a gentle salt breeze as soon as the words had left her lips.

  But no less true, no less powerful, no matter where the fickle wind carried them, for she held the knowledge in her heart, knew it to be true.

  “And if you finally know the truth of my love for you, Isolde of Dunmuir,” came a rich, deep voice behind her, “I would know once more if you shall truly have me?”

  Her heart filled to brimming, she turned, half expecting him to be lounging against the bedpost, his bedpost, his arms crossed o’er his bonnie chest, one of his slow, sensual smiles spreading across his handsome face.

  But he surprised her.

  Donall the Bold, proud laird of the great Clan MacLean, knelt half-bent on one knee in the center of her bedchamber. He held his hands extended, palms out, in humble supplication.

  Supplication to her.

  “Well? Will you be my lady wife? Make an honest man of me after I pressed irrevocable claim on you before all and sundry?” His love for her shone true and bold in the depths of his deep brown eyes. “I warn you, I shall remain on bended knee until you answer me.”

  His lips curved into the wicked smile she so loved. “I swear to you I shall not move until you speak the answer I desire.”

  Her heart melting, the answer he wanted dancing on the tip of her tongue, she came forward and took his hands. Tilting her head to the side, she pretended to consider. “And if I have a condition?”

  His dark eyes began to smolder. “Name it.”

  “I want kisses,” she said. Her pulse quickening, she looked deep into his liquid brown eyes, dared him to laugh.

  “Knight’s kisses.”

  His brow lifted. “You wish to be kissed as a knight kisses?”

  She nodded, unable to stop the heat stealing onto her cheeks.

  His smile deepened. “That, sweeting, can be easily arranged,” he vowed, and stood.

  He took her by the shoulders, turning the tables on her by peering deep into her eyes. “You shall have as many knight’s kisses as you desire,” he promised, leaning forward to place a light one on her freckle.

  “I shall rain knightly kisses on you every night for the rest of our lives, my lady,” he said, and winked at her. “Every conceivable kind of them.”

  Then he took her hand and led her back to the great four-poster bed, eager to prove the truth of his words.

  Epilogue

  ON A BRILLIANT sun-washed afternoon a little over two months later, several gaily festooned galleys rode anchor before the glistening black islet known as the Lady Rock. ’Twas a fine summer’s day, blessed with a calm and sparkling sea, a warm and gentle wind, and a brilliantly blue sky marred by naught but a few fleecy white clouds.

  Two of the galleys flew double banners: the MacLean banner and the MacInnes one. The third ship, a borrowed MacLean galley, bore the MacKinnon insignia.

  And each vessel held members of all three clans.

  Something Isolde had insisted upon in honor of the day.

  In honor of an alliance long sought, almost lost, and so wondrously sealed this day.

  And a glorious one it was.

  A perfect day to celebrate a wedding.

  The joyous union of clans MacLean and MacInnes.

  The marriage of Donall the Bold, proud laird of the great MacLean clan, to his love, Isolde MacInnes.

  And to celebrate the wee new life she suspected she carried so sweetly beneath her heart.

  All fine reasons to bless the Lady Rock as well, to cleanse the tidal rock of its dark and dismal past by tossing votive offerings onto the deceptively well-mannered waves lapping benignly at its black and jagged edges.

  Something the celebrants aboard the three galleys did with great enthusiasm.

  Each clansmen or friend standing at the rails had been given a goodly share of small oatcakes and flowers to toss upon the waves. Not a single participant hadn’t been presented with a flask of fine heather ale to pour upon the rock itself.

  Potent measures to banish the Lady Rock’s evil for once and all time.

  Her own offerings tossed, and the wee pewter flask she held empty, Isolde leaned against the rail of the MacLean galley and stared across the short distance to where her husband stood talking with Niels and Rory at the rail of the somewhat smaller MacInnes ship.

  Lorne and his own new wife, Evelina, stood near them, but the couple appeared more caught up in themselves than in the blessing ceremony. As she watched them, Isolde smiled in pleased approval.

  Donall caught her gaze and flashed her one of his devastating smiles, lifted his hand. His dark eyes gleamed with wicked promise and just looking at him set her heart a-flutter, did unspeakably delicious things to the pit of her belly.

  A sense of utter contentment washed through her, swelling her heart with enough love for him to last through this lifetime and well beyond. She could scarce wait until the galleys returned to shore, until the wedding feast planned for later had unfolded and spent its glory.

  Until they could slip away, alone at last, and enjoy all the wicked things he’d vowed to do to her to make their wedding night unforgettable.

  Holding fast to the rail, Isolde breathed in the brisk sea air, indulging her imagination . . . until a familiar bark and an equally familiar cackle disturbed her silent reverie.

  She whirled around to see the cailleach making her shuffling way across the galley’s gently rocking deck. Bodo frolicked in circles around her, undaunted by the slight tossing of the sea, much more interested in the rolled and twisted length of brown cloth clasped tight between his crooked teeth.

  Her husband’s shirt.

  The tunic he’d made into a toy for Bodo.

  One of the many things he’d done that should have alerted her to his good character, would have alerted her had her doubting heart not stood in the way.

  “He is a wise one,” Devorgilla said, watching the little dog run off in search of a more agreeable playmate than herself. “He knew well afore you,” she added, stepping up to Isolde at the rail.

  “Knew what?” Isolde glanced down at the tiny, blackclad woman. “What did Bodo know?”

  Devorgilla cackled, her wizened features wreathing in a smile. “What I knew all along as well . . . that Donall MacLean was your true soul mate.”

  “The man you saw in the cauldron’s steam?” Isolde asked, though she already knew the answer.

  The crone nodded, her self-important
glee barely contained. “Aye, that is the way of it.”

  Turning away from Isolde, she appeared to stare across the waves to where Donall watched them from the other galley. Or would have stared at him were her eyes not so clouded.

  Swallowing her pique that Devorgilla had harbored that particular secret so long, Isolde asked the other question burning in her mind. “And if you knew he was the one, why did you give me an anti-attraction potion?” she prodded. “Or a love potion . . . whatever the foul brew was?”

  Devorgilla cackled again. “I gave you neither,” she said simply, her ancient gaze still on the other galley.

  “Neither?” Isolde peered hard at her.

  Devorgilla sighed. A low, sweet sigh that—for a moment—could have been made by a much younger woman.

  A lass, even.

  “Would such a braw man watch me with that kind of fire in his eyes, and were I a few years younger, I vow I’d climb o’er this rail and swim to his bonnie side.”

  Isolde started, gave the old woman a sharp look, the crone’s cryptic words about the potion momentarily forgotten. “How can you tell if he’s a-watching me or nay? Surely you cannot see that far?”

  “Ah, lass, but I can,” Devorgilla said, tearing her gaze away from Isolde’s husband at last. She peered up at Isolde, and the new light in her once-clouded eyes, their surprising clarity, could not be denied. “I’ve been experimenting with a potion to cure blindness.”

  “To cure blindness?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a wonder potion and works against all manner of blindness.” The crone smiled. “ ’Tis the same potion I gave you.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Isolde’s arms and a rapid chill streaked down her spine. “The same potion you gave me?” She was gaping now, totally flummoxed. “You admit you’ve been lying to me all this time?”

  “Not lying, lass. Helping.” Devorgilla cast another quick glance at the other galley. “I once told you, we are oft given not what we ask for, but what we need.”

  A smile began to curve Isolde’s lips as she understood. “And what I did I need?”

  “A cure.” Devorgilla’s newly clear eyes danced with mischief. “A cure against blindness of the heart.”