Warrior's Bride

by Gerri Russell

  Brahan regarded her critically. "I wanted to talk to you. You've been most unresponsive as of late. Wolf insisted I stay with you until you regained your senses. How do you feel?"

  She tried to sit up once more. "What happened?"

  "Lie still," Brahan chided. "You were poisoned."

  "Poisoned?" Her eyes widened. "How?"

  "Poisoned apples. Any idea who would want to harm you? Or why?" Suspicion hung heavy in his words.

  Only one person wished her harm, but that was her secret. Izzy shook her head. She was immediately sorry when the room swung in sickening circles before her eyes. She collapsed back against the pillows.

  "If I was poisoned, then why do I remember a priest? He said things . . . and there were people gathered around.... I vaguely recall seeing your face ... and Wolf was here. ..." She brushed her hand across the bedding at her side. "Did I receive the last rites? Am I dead and all this just a dream?"

  Brahan laughed. "It is no dream. And nay, you are not dead. You were married, nothing more."

  "Married?" The room suddenly seemed as frigid as a crisp January wind. "I never gave my consent."

  "Your consent was not needed. Mistress Rowley served as your proxy."

  She felt it then—a heaviness on the third finger of her left hand. She glanced down at the brilliant gold band dotted with sapphires that had appeared on her finger while she'd slept. "He cannot. . ."

  Brahan's gaze shifted to her hand. "He already has."

  Marriage is the evil from which springs insanity. Her mother's voice filled her mind. Sacrifice your maidenhead and you will know the full power of your gift. Visions from the light will bring you nothing but anguish. Izzy clamped her hands over her ears. It was happening already—the gradual slide into the abyss of insanity.

  "Lady Isobel?" Brahan questioned, his hostility gone. When she didn't respond, he reached for one of her hands, gently lowering it to the coverlet. The look of concern in his eyes startled her. "What is it?"

  She dropped her gaze, shielding her face, hiding the secrets she kept locked inside. "Nothing."

  He sighed. "Well, since you do not wish to talk about that, perhaps you'll talk about the stone about your neck."

  His gaze lit on her necklace—the one her mother had given her. "My necklace?"

  "Aye." Brahan scooted closer to the bedside. "Where did you get that stone?"

  "From ... my mother. It was her mother's ... before that, and her mother's before ... that." When his frown only deepened, she clamped her lips shut. Why had she revealed such personal information to him? Izzy slipped the necklace inside the bodice of her nightrail, hiding it from his view. "It is just a necklace." She struggled to sit at the edge of the bed.

  "What are you doing?" His brows knotted.

  Izzy stood despite the fact that her knees felt as though they would buckle at any moment. She could not stay in bed. Lying in bed made her feel vulnerable. Many aspects of her life might at present be out of her control, but she would never be vulnerable again. She straightened her shoulders. "I must speak with my lord Wolf."

  Brahan's brow rose in response to her demand. "The last I saw him was this morning, when he stopped by to check on you."

  Izzy's cheeks warmed at the unexpected words. "He came to see me?"

  "He has come every hour since we knew you would survive the poison."

  And yet he did not stay. Izzy took two awkward steps toward the hearth in an effort to hide her disappointment—a disappointment that made no sense. What did she care if he stayed with her or not?

  "He's speaking with the tenant farmers this morning about which fields will be sown with what crops," Brahan offered as she continued toward the warmth of the hearth.

  Standing before the fireplace, Izzy absently fingered her necklace. Wolf’s life had returned to normal, while her existence still spun wildly out of control.

  Brahan moved to stand beside her. "Tell me what you know about that stone."

  "My mother gave it to me when I was seven, just before she died."

  "May I see it?" he asked.

  She tucked the Stone deeper inside her bodice. "I haven't taken it off since she died." She had vowed never to remove it. Why was he so interested in her necklace? Her mother had never mentioned anything important about it to her. She has always hoped the Stone was of some value, in case she ever needed money. But apart from that, the necklace was a mere sentimental piece handed down through her mother's line. Or so she thought.

  "No more questions." She fixed her gaze boldly on him. "I wish to dress. Please leave."

  The irritated set of his face told her their discussion of the necklace was not over, only temporarily forestalled.

  Before he could start up again, she hurried across the chamber to the armoire from which Mistress Rowley had taken a gown when she'd first arrived. As she plucked the elegant green gown she'd worn before from a hook, she heard the door softly close behind her. Brahan had gone. She breathed a thankful sigh as she tossed the dress over her head. Izzy quickly buttoned the sleeves and secured the ties at the back of the gown. When she'd finished, she turned toward the newly repaired door.

  At the chamber's entrance she paused, running her fingers along the freshly milled wood. She could clearly recall the noise of saws and hammers while the structure was repaired. Changes abounded all around Duthus Castle.

  Were those changes for the better, or for the worse? The verdict remained undecided.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Where is that woman?" Wolf growled to himself as he searched the great hall for signs of his wife. Brahan had informed Wolf immediately upon his return that Isobel was awake but had left her bedchamber and was somewhere in the castle without an escort. Brahan had explained that he'd thought he'd had time to select two men he trusted to guard her while she changed her clothing. But she'd dressed faster than he thought any woman could.

  Wolf stared hard at the men and women in the hall as they went about their chores. A young squire stoked the fire while a kitchen maid turned the spit of meat for the midday meal. Two other servants swept around the others who sat at the trestle tables, discussing the day's events.

  No sign of Isobel. He knew that she still remained within the castle walls, for the gates were secured and guards were posted. Even so, no one had seen her for the last several hours. And what originally began as concern and curiosity over where she had gone now approached fear.

  Wolf drew in a heavy breath. It was happening again. Despite his determination to remain aloof from yet another needy soul within his castle walls, he was slowly, inexorably being drawn in by an alluring face and a pair of bewitching brown eyes.

  Nay, his growing fascination went far beyond what his eyes could see, he admitted to himself. If only she wasn't such a combination of strength and innocence. One moment she would cast him a soulful glance where he could see the emptiness she had learned to live with, the next she would straighten her spine and challenge his beastly behavior with all the skill of a seasoned warrior. Damn, but she fascinated him.

  Wolf threw open the heavy wooden door that separated the great hall from the outside. The door jerked back on its hinges, protesting the abuse. He squared his shoulders, ready to do battle with whatever and whoever might stand between him and his bride.

  After he searched the interior of the castle for her, he explored outside. As he did he tried to push all fears of foul play from his mind. She had to be out here somewhere.

  Then he saw her. Sitting alone at the edge of the fish pond. At her side, a familiar brown puff of feathers pecked at the ground while Isobel absently tossed tiny pebbles into the water that lapped at her bare feet.

  The sky above was dotted with clouds and a cool spring breeze curled across the surface of the pond to tease the tendrils of her golden hair as they spilled across her shoulders and tumbled down her back. Despite the slight chill in the air, she appeared every inch the summer nymph—seductive, innocent, tempting ... and unharmed. Relief filled him
only to be replaced in the span of a heartbeat with rampant desire.

  As he drew near, Mistress Henny, with a bold red spot painted on her back, stopped her assault upon the ground and stared at him with a hint of reproach in her normally vacant stare.

  Isobel, however, paid him no heed. It was almost as if she were so lost in thought that she had not heard his approach.

  "Isobel?" he said. A hint of pique lingered in his voice. Why was she so careless with her own safety?

  She started. The pebbles she held in her hand scattered on the ground. "My lord?"

  He felt his face harden at her formal address. "Need you always address me so?"

  Her cheeks flushed pink, only adding to the picture of her sitting beside the water's edge, her bare and delicate feet peeking out from beneath her gown. He swallowed roughly. Something about her feet—long and slender—nearly undid him.

  He bent to retrieve the pebbles she had dropped, grateful for the distraction. "I could not find you." He handed her a pebble. She accepted it with hesitation. "Why did you leave the safety of the keep?"

  "I am not used to being indoors all the time. I felt... restless."

  "Someone has tried to kill you twice. Restless or not, you stay inside. Do you hear me?"

  She paled at his words. "Another demand?"

  Others did as he demanded. Why not her? He turned back to the water and, lining himself up with the shore, sent a pebble skimming across the water. One ... two ... three ... four. "Why are you restless?" he asked more gently.

  "How did you do that?" She jumped down from the rock on which she sat, her pert toes disappearing beneath the hem on her dress.

  "Tell me why you are bored and I shall show you how."

  The animation left her face. "It matters not."

  The catch in her voice at the end of her words went through Wolf like the thrust of a sword. He started to reach for her, then thought better of it. Touching her would only muddle his thoughts. "I want to know."

  "I..." She paused, her eyes filling with trepidation.

  "Continue," he urged, keeping his voice calm, encouraging.

  "I have no place in this castle. When I awoke, I needed to do something to make myself useful. I went out to rake the chicken yard and was shooed away by the others. I tried to help in the kitchens, but Fiona rules down there. I have tried to assist Mistress Rowley in her chores, only to be told that a lady's place is near her husband." The last word echoed with such sorrow that her pain became almost palpable. "This castle has three mistresses," she continued, "and one of us had to concede."

  "I had no idea." He turned back to the pond, and away from the misery that lay heavy on her shoulders. She was his bride and the rightful mistress here. "I shall speak to Fiona."

  "That will do nothing," she said softly.

  She was right. Only one solution could fix this problem: Fiona had to go. "Regardless of Fiona or Mistress Rowley, you are the lady of the castle and the occupants need your care."

  The arch of her brow told him she was not convinced.

  "I need your help," he said simply.

  "You do?" This time her brows arched with concern.

  "I could use your assistance with the cook to set the menus. The herbs from last season must be inventoried and new seeds planted. And I've asked the weaver to create a new tartan weave for you. A marriage gift." Her breath hitched at the last comment, but he continued, giving her no time to respond. "And Walter—he is new to the household and needs some direction." He paused. "Will you assist me?"

  She nodded, but the heaviness that surrounded her did not ease. His gut twisted in response, suddenly realizing at that moment that he would do anything to see a glimmer of a smile upon her face. He bent to retrieve two stones from the ground, handing one to her. With a slight hesitation, she accepted it. "Watch me." He aligned his body with the edge of the shore and bent slightly at the hips. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the rock hopping across the water's smooth surface ... five ... six ... seven times.

  Fascination brightened her face. "What's this called?"

  "Skipping rocks."

  "May I try?"

  The eagerness in her voice made him smile. He waved his hand at the water. "Be my guest."

  She followed his earlier example by lining herself up with the water and sent the rock out, only to have it drop with a splash through the water's surface. She frowned. "It is harder than it looks."

  "Let me show you." He slipped another stone into her hand and, standing behind her, enveloped her slight body within the shelter of his arms. The cascade of her hair, soft and silky, teased the exposed skin at his neck. Desire stole through him so quickly it robbed him of breath. At a loss for words, he reached for her, wrapping her delicate fingers within his own war-seasoned hands.

  The light scent of heather invaded his senses. He pulled her more tightly against him in response. He inhaled deeply, capturing her essence, committing it to memory.

  "What do I do now?" she asked, bringing him back to the moment.

  "Draw your hand back like this," he managed to say through the thickness that invaded his thoughts. "Then release." With a quick flick, she sent the rock out over the water. She counted each touch of the rock to the water's surface, but he barely registered the words. She half turned in his arms, revealing her face. A delighted smile pulled up the corners of her mouth, illuminating her, chasing all the shadows from her features. She should smile like that all the time.

  Wolf’s gaze fastened on her lips, and he suddenly was dying for a taste of her mouth.

  Her smile shifted. Fascination took its place and the pulse at her temples quickened. She swayed backward as though losing her balance. He shifted her against his side, holding her tightly, unwilling to let her go. In the next beat of his heart, his lips touched hers, filling him with an unexpected thrill as liquid heat spilled through him.

  She gasped as he tunneled his fingers through her hair and cupped her head to hold it still. His tongue slipped between her parted lips. All his senses exploded at once, leaving him deaf and blind to anything but the magic of her kiss. He gave himself up to the sensations, allowing the pleasure to build, gathering inside him until he thought he would burst.

  "Sweet Mary." Wolf wrenched his mouth away from hers, his breathing ragged and fast, his desire stretched so taut, it felt as though it would rip him apart. He dragged his hands from her hair and allowed them to slide down the length of her arms, stopping at her wrists. He wanted to let her go, yet he could not quite bring himself to release her. "I... shouldn't have done that."

  "Why not?" she whispered.

  Because everything I care about my father uses against me. The reason swam through his senses, grounding him in the here and now. Forestalling an explanation, he feathered his thumbs against her wrists. Instead of soft, delicate flesh, he felt rough and callused skin.

  He stepped away from her, her wrist still clasped between his own fingers. He searched her skin. White rings encircled her flesh—scars—deep and many. "Who did this to you?"

  Her face turned pale and she tried to shrug the ends of her sleeves down over the marks. "It is nothing."

  The marks looked as though they were made by manacles. But how would she have ever been anywhere on St. Kilda to experience such a horror? "Isobel, who did this to you?"

  She dropped her gaze to the water lapping against the shore. "My father."

  His mind raced. His breath stilled in his chest at the enormity of what she'd confessed. Parents were sometimes cruel to their children—his own father was proof of that—but to keep her in irons? Then, suddenly, something clicked inside him—her fear of dark, enclosed places, her abandonment on St. Kilda, the tower. "Dear God." Emotion flooded him. He didn't know how else to convey what he felt, so he eased her against his body and held her.

  She leaned into his embrace, but the tension in her body was palpable. She felt so tiny, so vulnerable in his arms. He wrapped himself around her all the tighter. His own body sh
ook with reaction. Sympathy. Fear. And something else he dared not examine. "How did you deal with such abuse?"

  Isobel raised her head from his chest. Her eyes were not filled with the pain he had expected. Instead he saw strength and a renewed resolve. "I learned to survive."

  He brought his right hand up. The tips of his fingers brushed the curve of her cheek before he tunneled his fingers into her hair, cradling her head. "So brave." His thumb stroked the sensitive skin below her earlobe.

  "Not brave. Only determined."

  Her words whispered across his lips, their flavor mysterious and seductive. And he could resist no longer. He brought his lips to her mouth, the touch light, fleeting, and yet it made them both shudder. He could feel the tension building inside her as though she held herself back. He felt the sensation as well—the hot, needful hunger that coiled ever tighter until he could scarcely breathe.

  "Wolfie." The shriek came from behind. Wolf’s head snapped in the direction of the sound. Fiona stood not three feet away, her eyes narrowed, her color high, her nostrils flared.

  "What?" He could not keep the annoyance from his voice. His irritation only increased when Isobel stepped away, her long lashes coming down to veil the emotion in her eyes.

  Fiona rushed forward and placed her beringed fingers upon his arm. "You are needed in the keep."

  "Why?" He kept his gaze on his bride. She turned away from him now, moving back to the water's edge. She drew one bared toe through the water in an almost mournful movement. And he nearly smiled. She grieved their interruption as much as he did.

  "There are half a dozen people in the hall who all wish to speak with you. The mason wants to know about the addition of the east wing of the castle. Three traders have arrived from Orkney and wish to show their goods. Cook has a new tart that needs your approval. And the weaver needs your input about the new tartan you asked her to create."

  Wolf's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Brahan can deal with the mason and the traders. Mistress Rowley can speak with Cook and the weaver."