Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  “It is not like you to be sentimental, Isobel. It will do Catherine good to be away on her own, taking up the life of a woman grown. Were you not always trying to defy me, you would see that. I am, as always, doing my best for my children. This is a good match for her, within the safety of a good family.”

  “The MacNabs? I hear they are engaged in clan feuds half the time, virtually at war with their neighbors.”

  Gerald shrugged. “What Scot refrains from raiding and feuding? My old friend Randal assures me Catherine will be the gem of their household. Now go and speak to your sister, Isobel. It will make things easier for her in the long run if she makes up her mind to this match.”

  “Yes, Father,” Isobel murmured as she turned away and left the room. But beneath her breath she muttered, “Make her mind up to it? Never!”

  Chapter Three

  “Never!” Catherine Maitland wailed like a she-raven crowing on the battlefield. “I will never wed Bertram MacNab, Isobel! Will not! Cannot!”

  No surprise there, Isobel thought ruefully, sprawled upon her sister’s bed while Catherine paced the room. Neither Isobel nor her sister had made a habit of meek obedience, and at the moment Catherine looked like a wild woman—chestnut hair flying, blue eyes wide and desperate.

  She looks like me, Isobel reflected with grudging admiration.

  “Father’s mind is set,” she warned. “I offered to go in your place, but he would not hear of it.”

  That made Catherine quit pacing and stare at her sister. “You would sacrifice yourself so, for me?”

  Isobel, suddenly unable to face the look in her sister’s eyes, stared at the embroidered counterpane that covered the bed. “In an instant.”

  “Oh, Issie!” Isobel suddenly found herself enveloped in a hard hug. From earliest youth she remembered such embraces, Catherine’s strong arms clutching at her in gratitude, fear, or pure love.

  Tears rushed to her eyes, and in order to combat them she said wryly, “It is no good. MacNab insists on a virgin.”

  Catherine released her and sat back on the bed. The strangest look Isobel had ever seen came to her face.

  “Ah, well,” she said ruefully, “then the fine Bertram MacNab will not want me, either.” She concluded in a whisper, “I gave myself to Thomas three months ago.”

  Isobel gasped. Her sister had been childhood playmates with the son of their father’s bailiff, and over the past year, seeing each other secretly, their friendship must have grown into love. Gerald Maitland disapproved the friendship, saying quite openly he did not feel it appropriate. He relied heavily on his bailiff, John Hewett, but none of the man’s five sons could be considered a suitable match for either of his daughters.

  I should have seen this coming, Isobel told herself now, should have stepped in and done more to protect her, dissuade her. Though how did anyone reason with a lass so headstrong as Catherine?

  Reading Isobel’s expression, Catherine said, “There is nothing wrong in it. I love him! Should I rather save myself for some man—a stranger—I despise?”

  “Father will go mad. His reputation rides on this. And I have already let him down in this regard.”

  “Not your fault,” Catherine began, but Isobel cut her off.

  “You promised me, Cat, this relationship between you and Thomas was platonic. I confess, I expected better of him—he seems a young man of high scruples and considerable restraint.”

  “He is. In most regards.” Catherine had the grace to lower her glowing eyes. “But, Issie, we are in love!” Catherine’s flawless complexion grew rosy. “I suppose it is a blessing in disguise. Once I tell Father, that will be the last I hear of marriage with Bertram MacNab.”

  “Tell Father?” Now it was Isobel who jumped up and began pacing. “And what do you expect him to do then? Make excuses to his good friend Lord Randal? Swallow his humiliation and wish you and Thomas well? He will have the skin off Thomas’s back, for starters. I would not be surprised if he has him killed.”

  The color drained from Catherine’s face as swiftly as it had come. “No!”

  “Oh, yes, my girl. If you think Father is not serious about this match, you are much mistaken. At the very least he will deprive Thomas’s father of his living, send them away—”

  “I cannot live without Thomas! We wish to wed.”

  Isobel stared at her sister with a mixture of pain and aggravation. “I am sure you do.” John Hewett’s youngest son had been blessed with the kind of good looks not unusual here in the borders, a direct legacy of Viking settlers many years gone. Long of limb, knit with slender strength, Thomas had hair the color of ripe corn and a smile of singular sweetness. He even possessed a sense of humor. Isobel could not say she disliked him, but that, she feared, lacked relevance in the present situation.

  “You are mad,” she told her sister in a steady whisper. “Father will send him away and ruin his family. You have to end it.”

  Defiant tears flooded Catherine’s eyes. “I cannot!”

  “My darling, I know you fancy yourself in love—”

  “It is no fancy! I cannot go to MacNab!”

  “I agree it will be difficult—”

  “More than that, it is impossible. I am carrying Thomas’s child.”

  That set Isobel back on her heels. She felt the breath rush from her lungs and a chill fill her limbs. “You cannot be. Catherine, you must be mistaken.”

  “No. I believe it happened the first time we lay together, for my visitor has not arrived three months running,” Catherine confessed in a whisper. “I do not think there can be any mistake.”

  “My God! What shall you do? Father will go wild. Nothing will keep him from flaying Thomas alive.”

  “I will keep him from it! Listen to me, Issie. Thomas and I mean to run off together. We will go north, across the border to Gretna Green, and be wed. For weeks we have talked of it. We wish to wed anyhow. The babe will just force us to act more quickly than planned.”

  “You cannot tell Father.” Gerald Maitland possessed a temper of considerable intensity. In truth, his daughters had inherited the trait, Isobel more so than Catherine. Gerald seldom unleashed his ire on his children, and when their mother was alive she had acted as a buffer between them. Yet a few incidents stood out in Isobel’s mind, youthful misdeeds Gerald had punished with a heavy hand.

  And this—this was no small misdeed. Catherine might well lose her child before Gerald finished with her.

  Isobel’s protective instincts rose in a rush. Catherine might be wrong in this, and mad to think she could get away with it, yet Isobel had to take her part.

  “And what do you suppose you will do after you are wed?” she asked incredulously. “How will you live? Certainly there is no room in the Hewetts’ little cottage.”

  “Thomas has written to his cousin in Bristol, who has just taken over his father’s shipping office and is in need of a clerk. It is a good opportunity and a real chance for us.”

  “Bristol!” Isobel’s eyes widened. It might as well be the far side of the moon instead of the far side of the country. And yes, it might be a fine opportunity for Thomas, a rare one, but scarcely the station in life that Gerald Maitland demanded for his daughter. “And you think Father will accept that?”

  “I think, by the time he catches up with us, it will be too late. Time will make it obvious I am carrying Thomas’s child. His anger will fade.”

  It would not, Isobel knew, no more than had his grief over the loss of his wife and sons.

  Catherine went on, her firm voice belying her desperate expression, “You see, this whole business of a match with MacNab has precipitated things. Thomas has been trying to save for the journey. We had hoped to go the month after next, when my condition became evident. But if Father insists I go to MacNab at once—”

  “He does.” Isobel thought furiously. “The whole of your plan will fall apart, I fear, before you ever begin—unless we are very clever.”

  Catherine’s eyes lit. “Y
ou have a plan?”

  Isobel scowled. No more than a half plan struggled into formation in her mind. Suicidally dangerous, it nevertheless might just give Catherine time to be away and wed before Gerald Maitland even knew.

  She put her head close to her sister’s. “Listen now to me—”

  ****

  Some time later, Catherine Maitland took herself before her father with submissively bowed head and defiant eyes and agreed to travel to Scotland in order to become the wife of Bertram MacNab. Gerald Maitland should, perhaps, have been more suspicious about his daughter’s sudden acquiescence. But, preoccupied with matters of his estate, he proved well satisfied to have the matter settled.

  “I am glad your sister succeeded in talking you round to a sensible point of view,” he declared. “This is a very good union that will see you well set for life. The situation in Scotland is, aye, unsettled at present, but I have faith decent landowners like MacNab will outlast the unrest and prevail against the rabble that presently infests the north.”

  “Will you travel with me to Scotland, Father?” Catherine peered at him from beneath her lashes.

  Sir Gerald grunted. “I regret I cannot. Affairs here demand my presence. But we will arrange a visit for the New Year, perhaps in the spring. By then you may have glad news to share with me. MacNab is very eager for an heir.”

  “Yes, Father.” It was now October, and the idea of a six-month separation should have been devastating. Catherine tried to look crushed.

  “As I say, Daughter, you will be in good hands. Your husband will inherit a significant holding in Central Scotland and is a favorite of the King. You should be grateful.”

  “I do realize that, Father. When will I be sent?”

  “You will leave a week hence. You must begin your preparations.”

  “Yes, Father, I will.”

  “Good girl.” Such praise, rare enough from Gerald’s lips, should have made Catherine smile. Strangely, her lips turned down instead.

  “May I go now, Father?”

  “Certainly.”

  Catherine padded away in her soft slippers and climbed the stone stairs to the room she and Isobel would share this night.

  “Well?” Isobel asked as Catherine climbed into the bed.

  “You were right.” Swiftly, Catherine burrowed into the warmth of her sister’s presence. “Father professes himself too busy to accompany me on my wedding journey.”

  Isobel snorted. “When has he not been too busy for us, since Mother died? All to the good. When do you leave?”

  “A week, only.”

  “Ah, it is short time for planning. Never mind. He will send his most trusted retainers for the journey, and they know us very well. This will take some care. I am thinking you shall have to affect a cold and remain swathed in your wraps the while.”

  “He will send a maid.”

  “He will. Bethan, most like. She can be bought.”

  “Think you so?”

  “Bought and kept in Scotland, after. She need not return to face Father’s wrath.”

  Catherine shivered. “Can we fool the MacNabs?”

  “I see no difficulty there. Bertram and his father have not laid eyes on us since we were children, and besides, we are as like as may be in appearance. And it does not matter, does it? If the ruse is discovered, it will be too late for them to do much about it. You and Thomas will be long gone.”

  “And you will take the brunt of everyone’s anger, all round.” Catherine threw a protective arm over her sister. “It is too much! I cannot let you!”

  Isobel lay silent in her sister’s fierce embrace a long moment and then said, “Cat, you are closer to me than anyone in this world. Dearer to me! I would give my very life for you. Besides, do you know what my future will be, if I stay here, a fixture of Father’s house, always shamed and shunned?”

  “Never say you wish to go and wed MacNab?”

  “I am not eager to wed him, no. But to go from here might be a fine thing. By the time our ruse is discovered, Bertram MacNab and I may well have come to terms.” She breathed softly into the darkness of the room. “There is scarcely a man on this earth I cannot tame.”

  “I believe you are right. And I almost feel sorry for Bertram MacNab.”

  Chapter Four

  “I almost feel sorry for Bertram MacNab,” said the Devil Black in a tone that indicated he felt no such thing, “finding his bonny bride stolen away beneath his long, skinny nose.”

  “You are assuming she will be bonny,” said Lachlan MacElwain, hiking his coat up round his ears. Another foul night full of snaking wind and wet surrounded them, containing demons that played on the mind.

  But Dougal MacRae rarely suffered from those kinds of demons.

  He laughed. “You must admit, Lachy, ’twill be worth a bit to see his reaction when the news reaches him that his betrothed has been snatched on the road not ten miles from his door.”

  “This plan is accursed,” Lachlan stated dolefully, “and you are mad. I always suspected it. Now I am sure.”

  Dougal laughed, and his laughter contained genuine mirth. “Come, Lachy! Was it not yourself told me to obey the King’s command and find myself a bride?”

  “Not like this. And not some milk-white, simpering miss of MacNab’s choosing.”

  “You underestimate the fine Bertram. She is no doubt an heiress.”

  “No doubt.” Lachy agreed. “And well bred. She will swoon at the sight of your black countenance.”

  “Do you think so?” Dougal smiled, amused.

  “Tell me this is but a wicked game—you will hold her a while and then leave it be.”

  “Release her to MacNab, you mean?”

  “Aye, so.” A particularly fierce gust of wind buffeted them where they sat their horses by the side of the dark road. “Or do you mean to extract a ransom from him? That is your plan, eh?”

  “And what of the King’s desires for my future? Am I to thumb my nose at our lord and liege?”

  Lachlan snorted.

  “I suppose I shall just have to make my mind up after I see the wench. If she proves a beauty, or not too hideous, I may need to sample her before sending her on to him.”

  “Ruin her, do you mean? A pallid, fragile, English maiden? You would not.”

  “It could be she is no maiden.”

  “No chance of that. Highborn lords who deal in wives insist upon their purity. MacNab will have your head.”

  “I would like to see him try.”

  “By any road, she is doubtless ugly as the bottom of an empty tankard. Such brides usually are.”

  “True. A beautiful bride is a rare enough thing.” The thought cast Dougal into a mood blacker than the night.

  He remained silent until Lachlan spoke again. “They are late. I thought your man said they left the inn at three this afternoon?”

  “Our roads are not what English coachmen are used to. Hark, now!” Dougal cocked his head. “Don your mask, Lachy. And go canny.”

  Borne on the gusts of wind, and intermittent, came the sound of a carriage climbing up the hill. Dougal MacRae eased his sword from its scabbard, feeling a surge of energy flood his veins.

  He had done this a hundred times—played bandit, a role that was, aye, in his blood—waylaid travelers on the road and neighbors in their own drawing rooms. But never for such stakes as this. He’d stolen his share of cattle and horses, but a bride? Never.

  An unholy grin split his dark face as he eased his horse out into the road and raised the sword high.

  No need for shouted commands—the silhouette of him there in the road, stark and threatening, had the coachman hauling on the reins almost before Lachy took the place at Dougal’s side.

  Everything went abruptly silent. The creaking of the coach springs ceased; the horses rolled their eyes but held their ground. Only the coachman’s soft, heartfelt curse competed with the gusting wind.

  “Drop it,” Dougal said, his casual tone belying the excitement racing t
hrough him. The second man on the box had drawn a sword. “Throw it into the road!”

  Neither the coachman nor the guard moved. Dougal urged his horse closer and poised the point of his blade at the coachman’s throat. “Now.”

  The guard’s sword clattered as it hit the road.

  “Come now,” Dougal urged. “Any other weapons as well, if you value your lives.”

  Lachlan, well enough versed in his role by now, rode round to the back of the coach, where Dougal heard him order a second guard to surrender his weapons. “Welcome to the festivities! Divest yourself of any weapons, and your life shall be spared.” A knife and dagger followed the man’s sword into the road.

  The coach door flew open and a lass, only dimly seen in the weak light, leaned out. “Daniel? What is going on? Why have we stopped? Are we—? Oh!” She caught sight of Dougal, black as sin, sitting his equally black horse. He heard the breath catch in her throat. For a score of heartbeats he waited for her to scream, wail, sob, or perhaps swoon, which in her present position would deposit her in the road. She was, after all, a gently born English miss.

  Instead, she swung the door wide. He saw her skirts thrash as she scrambled down, without benefit of steps or assistance, to face him.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  She looked tall standing in the road, and he could not see her face clearly in the gloom. Her voice surprised him. It shared little with those of any English ladies he had encountered in the past and held a strange lilt, as well as an edge that might slice granite. Her coach had been halted on a strange road at dusk by two armed bandits but, by all that was holy, she did not sound afraid.

  Dougal’s lips curved in a grudging smile. “This, lady, is a robbery.”

  “Yes?” She glanced over her shoulder into the coach, where someone had begun to shriek. “Well, I must say you have terrible judgment. We have virtually nothing to steal.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. I really hate to disappoint you, Sir Bandit, but I am on a wedding journey, and my dowry was sent ahead last week. You should have intercepted that courier.”

  “I see,” said Dougal, feeling amusement race through him in the wake of the excitement, a strange sensation.