Warrior's Bride

by Gerri Russell

  She had defied him once tonight. To do so again could prove foolhardy. Her gaze fell once again on the stairway leading up to the tower room. He had warned her against going up the staircase. But where else could she find the breeze she sought so desperately?

  Need overcame reason and before she could stop herself, her feet carried her up the first step, then the second. She had no desire to go into the tower. All the saints in heaven knew she did not want go into an enclosed and darkened space.

  Yet, if she wanted to feel the breeze on her face, she would have to brave the tower to reach the battlements and the fresh air beyond. Or would she find something else instead?

  Would he be in the tower? She paused to listen. No sound came from above. The night air stilled and became heavy, suffocating. She took a step closer, desperate for a breath of fresh air. One more step would take her to the door.

  Stagnant, musty air surrounded her, dulling her mind and slurring her thoughts. Only the need for fresh air gave her the strength to thrust her feet forward. A few steps more and she would find what she needed.

  It was one fact she knew about towers: They all had either an arrow slit or a doorway that led to a wall walk— an opening to wreak vengeance on anyone who dared to attack. Her own experience had taught her as much. A lurch forward brought her to the door. She grasped the latch and pushed.

  Air. She needed air. All thoughts centered on her goal. Her reward came when a wisp of fresh air brushed her cheeks. Izzy latched on to the sensation, allowing it to carry her the rest of the way into the room.

  Candlelight flickered about the room from three wall sconces that clearly illuminated two arrow slits cut in the gray stone. Her feet took over, leading her to the arrow slits, and in no time at all she drew a breath of cool, sweet air into her lungs. She sagged against the stone wall and allowed her eyes to drift shut. She drew another deep, reviving breath, suddenly feeling exhaustion overcome her.

  Two more breaths and the pounding beat of her heart lessened to a dull thud. She sagged against the stone, allowing her gaze to travel about the room. In addition to the sconces, a fire lapped at peat and logs set inside a round clay structure with an opening at the front. It looked almost like an oven, but what would an oven be doing in a tower room?

  Set against the wall near the oven structure were three baskets. One held wood, the next sand, and the last held gray ash. On the opposite side of the room a simple wooden table held various metal rods and a knife, as well as several odd metal objects twisted at different angles.

  A sudden chill chased across the nape of her neck. Were these the tools her husband used to conjure up demons from the darkness? To torture his men?

  The metal pieces looked more like tools than instruments of the dark arts. More curious than afraid, Izzy reached out to trace the tip of one of the short, thick rods. When she pulled her hand away, a fine crystalline dust covered her fingertips. The fine powder twinkled as it caught the glow of the flickering light.

  Her frown deepened as her vision blurred and her own fingers became shapeless spots of color against the yellow-gold light of the room. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision. But that only made the entire room swim before her eyes.

  "I told you never to come here." A shape separated itself from the darkness.

  Izzy blinked hard. Her vision worsened to the point that she could no longer see where one shape ended and another began. A rhythmic pounding began at her temples. "I needed air," she said thickly.

  "There are other places to go besides here."

  Heat rose to her cheeks, making the throbbing in her head worse. She tried to push herself away from the wall, to show him she was not afraid, but her stomach roiled and she doubled over instead. A stab of agony shot through her middle.

  Instantly he was at her side. "You are not well?"

  She tried to speak but could only groan a response. The next thing she knew, he swooped her off her feet. Clutching her tightly against his chest, he raced down the tower stairs. Izzy was grateful when his motion stopped. Her gaze clung to his features, desperate to keep the shapeless image of his face from fading to black. But darkness crept over her. She sucked in a gulp of air, trying to keep the closing tunnel at bay.

  Then she was moving once again. A moment later, the fire of her skin was bathed in a blissful breeze. He had taken her below stairs, to the courtyard beyond the great hall. Whispers of air caressed her face, her arms, her chest, but the darkness lingered at the edges of her vision. Pain speared her stomach. She twisted in his arms.

  "You are safe. There is no need to panic," a disembodied voice called from the inky darkness that closed in around her.

  Izzy struggled to swallow. "Awaah abbaha," she croaked.

  "Isobel?" The voice called out of the darkness. "Isobel!"

  Pain seared her middle. This time she didn't fight it. She hurtled down into the waiting darkness.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Sweet Mary!" Wolf thundered as he strode back into the keep, up the stairs, and into his solar with his unconscious bride-to-be draped across his arms. One look at her pale cheeks and wild eyes had been enough for him to know that something was terribly wrong. Something more than her fear of enclosed spaces. Wolf tightened his arms around her.

  He stood at the battered doorway to his solar. A sense of hopelessness swamped him as he frowned down at Isobel's lifeless body. "What do I do now?" he muttered to himself.

  "My lord Wolf." Mistress Rowley's panicked voice intruded into his thoughts. He turned to see her racing toward him from the stairway. Her steps faltered when she saw Isobel in his arms. "Nay, not her as well." The older woman placed a hand upon Isobel's cheek. "She's burning up, just like Lady Fiona."

  "What did you say?"

  "Lady Fiona has been poisoned. And so has our Lady Isobel."

  "Poison?" Shock ran through him; whatever he had expected, it had not been that.

  "The healer is with Lady Fiona now. He says 'twas wolfsbane that has made her so ill."

  "But how? Who?"

  Mistress Rowley moved past him into the solar and headed for the small table that Isobel had sat near the last time he had entered. The older woman reached for a slice of apple from the half-empty plate that rested beside a book and brought it to her nose. "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. A tart apple would disguise any bitterness from the poison."

  A savage anger pulsed inside him. "She should have been safe within the walls of my castle."

  "Whoever wants her dead is determined to succeed, no matter the obstacle."

  Wolf forced his anger away. Losing control of his emotions would not help. "No one will succeed in that venture. Not here, and not with her."

  Mistress Rowley smiled. "The young miss is fortunate to have you to protect her."

  Wolf looked down at his intended bride. "I doubt she would agree." He snapped his gaze back to his housekeeper. "Quickly, bring the healer to Isobel. If anything happens to her ..."

  "Aye." Mistress Rowley turned toward the door. "I shall return shortly. In the meanwhile, place her on the bed and make her as comfortable as you can."

  Wolf laid Isobel on the tall four-poster bed at the far end of the chamber. He spread a woolen throw his mother had made for him across her body. She lay so still. So deadly still.

  His knees felt suddenly weak as he stared down at her golden hair spilling across the pale gold linens. He refused to give in to the confusion that tangled inside him. He locked his knees and stood rigid beside her. Wolfsbane. A vile and swift poison that would twist her insides into knots until she died from the pain.

  Her murderer's choice of weapon was not lost on him. Wolfsbane. A toxin that reflected his own bastardized name. Such a choice of weapon pointed all fingers at his father.

  Wolf frowned. That knowledge did more to clear the king of the crime than any other evidence. His father might be manipulative, but he was no dullard.

  Which meant only one thing: Someone else was out to harm
Isobel. And Fiona now as well. He had to determine who was behind the attacks and stop them before someone died.

  Perhaps he was already too late. Against the pale gold linens, Isobel's face appeared a ghostly gray. The darker smudges that hovered beneath her closed eyes gave her a fragility that sent a piercing stab of regret through his gut. How could he have failed her so miserably in such a short period of time?

  The sound of footsteps in the hallway ceased his dark thoughts. Mistress Rowley busted into the chamber, drawing the silver-haired healer along in her wake. "She's over here, Mortimer. Quickly. You must give her the same purgative you administered to Lady Fiona."

  Wolf stepped back, away from the bed, and allowed the healer to take his position by Isobel's side. "This antidote will work?"

  The healer grunted. "Only time will tell."

  Mistress Rowley placed her arm on his sleeve. "She's a fighter, that one. She has a better chance than most of pulling through."

  "And Fiona?" Wolf asked Mistress Rowley.

  "She had only a small bite of the apple. I watched her eat it myself. Eats like a bird, that one does. And for once it has served to her benefit."

  "What else can be done to help Isobel? Name it and it shall be done." He did not bother to disguise the growing desperation in his voice.

  Mistress Rowley's brows drew together in thought. " 'Tis not my place to tell you what to do."

  "And when has that ever stopped you?"

  Her severe expression softened before becoming sullen. "You might not like my suggestion."

  He glanced at the bed, at the healer as he forced a cup of milky white liquid past Isobel's unresponsive lips. "If I did not want your opinion, Mistress Rowley, I would not have asked. Pray tell me, what else might I do for her?"

  "Foil whoever is trying to harm her. Do the thing they are trying to stop and marry her now, then flee from here together."

  Of all the advice he had expected, it had not been that. He clenched his fists. "I shall not run from my battles."

  Mistress Rowley looked Wolf directly in the eye. "Honor and pride. You and your father carry the same fatal flaws. Neither of you will submit to retreat."

  He acknowledged her words with a slight nod. She had never been one to fear his anger. For that he was truly grateful—which was why he listened to her now, why he allowed her to say things to him that no one else would dare. "There is no retreat until I am dead."

  "Must it come to that extreme before you heed the warnings?"

  Wolf shifted his gaze back to the bed. The healer had rolled Isobel to her side, awaiting the effects of the purgative. "If she makes it through this attempt, no one will get close enough to her to harm her again."

  "How can you guarantee such a thing?"

  "My men will protect her."

  Mistress Rowley frowned. "Only your men?"

  Wolf pushed the hair back from his temple in a futile attempt to disguise his frustration. "What more can I do?"

  "Protect her with marriage vows. Then you will have no reason to leave her side."

  "I cannot argue."

  Mistress Rowley's eyes widened. "You agree?"

  He nodded.

  "Then I suggest you send for the priest as soon as she recovers," the housekeeper said with a note of triumph in her voice.

  "There is no need for her to recover in order for us to finish what my father started."

  Mistress Rowley nodded her approval. Any further communication was cut short by the retching sounds that filled the chamber. Isobel flailed upon the bed, fighting the effects of the healer's potion. The process seemed to take forever, until finally she settled back against the bed cushions, her eyes closed, her face ashen.

  "Who would try to kill her?" Wolf wondered aloud. "She was a recluse on a remote isle. The girl is no one of importance. The threats must stem from her connection to me. But what?"

  He rubbed at his temples, as if doing so would clear his thoughts. The idea that formed there took hold, refusing to go away, regardless of the risk. There was one way to find the answers he sought. "Where is Brahan?"

  "You sent him to attend Lady Fiona," Mistress Rowley reminded Wolf.

  "Bring him back to me. I have need of his services."

  Desperation did odd things to desperate men. As little as he liked the idea of using the Seer's Stone, it seemed he had no other choice. Wolf would have his answers by any means available if such knowledge could keep Isobel safe.

  His men might think him a beast at times, but he was also known as a fierce defender of the innocent. And Isobel was truly an innocent in all that had happened to her so far.

  "Then call for the priest." Just saying the words brought a strange twist to the center of his chest. "He will either perform a marriage or offer extreme unction this eve." Both possibilities existed. At the thought Wolf’s emotions veered crazily between hope and despair.

  A wedding or a funeral. Only time would reveal which service would prevail.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "She will survive the poison." Brahan removed the Seer's Stone from his forehead and snapped his eyes open, breaking the connection to the images that danced across his mind.

  Wolf stopped pacing, his face a savage mask. "You are certain?"

  "Aye. There is no distortion in the image." Brahan glanced at the bed where Isobel lay. The pale and lifeless form on the bed would soon shift, and color would once again flood her cheeks. The image had been so clear, more clear than any vision ever before.

  He took a step closer to Isobel. The Stone in his hand grew warmer. He took another step, then another, until he found himself at the foot of her bed. The Seer's Stone glowed an iridescent red, yet it did not burn his skin. The warmth brought a certain comfort to his hand and to his soul, as if it was meant to be near this woman.

  "What are you doing to the Stone, Brahan?" Wolf asked.

  Brahan took a step back from the bed. The Stone grew cooler. A step closer to the bed made it heat up once again. "I'm not doing anything. It's her."

  Wolf’s gaze fixed on Isobel's silent form. It was then that he saw something there he had not seen before. Fine leather cording encircled her neck, connected to a small, iridescent red stone nestled within leather-laced net.

  He strode to her bedside and gently lifted the glowing stone from where it rested against her warm flesh. The heat of the stone warmed his fingers. "She wears a stone as well. Are there two Seer's Stones? Or is this something else entirely?" He looked to Brahan's temple, to the lock of white hair that increased in size after each use of the Stone. Except this time the patch of white remained the same, no worse, no better. "What does it mean?"

  Brahan shook his head. "I've never heard of two Seer's Stones, but her stone responding to mine must mean something. The Seer's Stone has never acted like this before."

  "Can you still see the things that have yet to be?"

  Brahan nodded. "Her stone is helping to clarify the visions. I wonder how."

  Wolf set the stone back against her skin. "We will figure that out later. Right now, I must know who is trying to harm her."

  "And so you shall." Brahan closed his eyes and placed the Stone against his forehead. Prisms of light swirled before his mind's eye. Colors mixed and melded through space and time as they tried to form into images of things to come and things that had already been.

  "Who is trying to kill her?" Wolf’s voice invaded like a breeze rattling the leaves of a tree.

  Brahan waited, focusing his energy on the visions, going deeper into the trance, until all sound faded and only the steady beat of his own heart remained. "I see a tall, willowy woman cloaked in black speaking to a younger woman—a serving woman—from your own kitchen. Nay, the image is gone now. The images are clearer than before, but they are moving so quickly, it's hard to hold on to them, to see everything I need to see." Brahan tried to slow down the images without success.

  "Just focus on what you can," came Wolf's voice.

  "I see two tartans. One
is red and green like that of the Stewart clan. The other I do not recognize, but it is blue and green and black." Brahan concentrated harder, trying to pull the meaning from the image. "Both tartans lie in the middle of a clearing—nay, a field of battle. They are coiled together and bathed in blood." His instincts told him to pull back, away from the vision that developed. Instead he forced his vision to go on.

  "I see an older man wrapped in the other tartan. He carries something in his hand. I cannot tell what it is—a light, a torch, I don't know."

  "That's enough, Brahan. You've told me all I need to know." The words came from outside the cocoon of shadows and light that surrounded him—disjointed, unnatural.

  "There is more. I can feel it. I must go on." The light changed, shifted, forming yet another image. "Brilliant lights, of all colors, fill a room. It's like walking into a rainbow. In the center of the room I see a woman. It is Lady Isobel. She's holding a sword. At least I think it is a sword. It is long and pointed and glitters, yet it does not look like steel. There is a man there, too, but I cannot see who it is. His face is in shadow. His side of the chamber is dark, so dark and cold. Something separates the light from the dark ... a bridge ... a chasm ... the image is unclear. But I sense it is that thing that will determine Isobel's destiny. The man isn't trying to kill her; he wants something from her. It is those who get in his way whom he wants to harm."

  Brahan could feel his heart pound against the wall of his chest, each pulse more painful than the last, until he found it difficult to breathe. "It is ... you the man is after. He will kill you .. .just as my last premonition about you revealed."

  "Come back, Brahan. Your hair is once again turning white as the visions take their toll. Come back, now."

  Brahan concentrated all the harder despite the dangers of using the Stone. He knew the Stone revealed the future by tapping into the life force of the seer. He never minded that sacrifice if it meant helping others. In an effort to go further, he directed all his energy to the Stone. Tranquil white light filled the space in his mind. From within the brilliance, a female figure emerged. A halo of heather wreathed her golden hair. "Lady Isobel... She awaits her destiny—that of either a bride ... or a corpse." Brahan shivered violently at the image, feeling as though ice suddenly flowed in his veins.