Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  Her father? On his way? The knowledge hit Isobel hard. She’d believed her father would never stir himself for any reason but estate business.

  “But I,” MacNab went on, his voice rich with indignation, “will not rest until she is out of this blackguard’s hands and somewhere safe.”

  “She is somewhere safe,” Dougal snarled, snapping his gaze back to Randal MacNab’s face. “In her own home. The woman is my wife.”

  “Forced into marriage, as I say!” MacNab bellowed. “The good God knows what torments he employed, to bring her to it.”

  “Enough!” The King’s captain, a handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, held up a hand, looking pained. “Since the lady in question is here, I shall inquire of her and determine just what has occurred.”

  MacNab tossed his head. “Unacceptable, sir! You know the nature of this man.” A bit wildly, he indicated Dougal. “We have appealed before to the King concerning him. Many in the district have complained. He is a devil, his sister is a witch, and he may well have employed dark arts to turn this woman’s mind. I say you cannot trust anything she tells you.”

  “I shall speak with her, and all involved parties, nonetheless.”

  Bertram MacNab, stationed at his father’s side, spoke up. “Better to take MacRae into custody. Question him in the King’s dungeons!”

  The captain gave him a sharp look. “I shall make that determination. Mistress MacRae, is it?” He gestured to Isobel. “Please, come in.”

  Dougal’s own men stood nearest the door, their hands hovering above the hilts of their swords. They parted to make way for Isobel, whose feet still felt disconnected from the rest of her, and who could feel her heart pounding so hard it made her ill. The MacRae warriors glared at her as she passed, but she saw only the expression in her husband’s eyes, hard and unwelcoming as a wall of stone. He did not want her here—he feared she would speak words that would hang him.

  But she would sooner die herself.

  Lifting her head and drawing on every bit of comportment she had ever been taught, she looked up into the captain’s face. “Am I to be given the courtesy of your name, sir?” she asked.

  He bowed smartly. “Your pardon, Mistress. Captain George MacBain, of the King’s Edinburgh regiment, at your service.”

  “Captain MacBain,” Isobel repeated graciously. “Must we conduct such private business before an audience?” She indicated MacNab and his warriors. “Surely you and I might speak alone?”

  “I will be damned,” Dougal muttered beneath his breath, but MacBain heard; his eyes swiveled to Dougal’s face and back again to Isobel’s.

  “I protest!” Randal MacNab cried. “I am here on behalf of this woman’s father. I stand her guardian in proxy.”

  The very idea turned Isobel pale. “The captain and I shall speak privately,” she declared, “or not at all.”

  She could feel the intensity of Dougal’s stare bent upon her. Did he think she would betray him? Did he truly trust her so little?

  She sent him a look in return, trying to convey assurance. He looked unconvinced. She knew how hard it was for him to trust.

  Captain MacBain made his decision. “Very well, Mistress MacRae. You and I shall speak privately.”

  Now it was Dougal who protested. “As her husband, I have a right to be present when you question her.”

  MacBain rounded on him. “A number of parties here claim rights, sir. It is my task to either validate or dismiss them. I can speak with your wife privately, or you may accompany us under guard to Edinburgh.”

  Dougal raised his head. “Then, sir, I choose to accompany you.”

  “Do not be a fool,” Isobel told him. She stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm, willing him once again to trust her. He glared his answer, a wealth of pain and doubt in his eyes.

  “Enough of this!” Randal MacNab shouted. “I must insist custody of this woman be given to me. Otherwise, Captain MacBain, the King himself shall hear of it!”

  That caused MacBain’s guards to shift uneasily. The captain shot an unfriendly look at MacNab.

  “Do as you will, sir, but I have been sent here as the King’s agent. I will gather the facts and report my findings.”

  “Facts? You expect to get those from this chit of a lass?”

  “I do. Mistress?” MacBain gestured to Isobel. Head high, her legs wobbly, she led him from the great hall and across the way into the solar.

  No fire burned here at this early hour, and only darkness showed through the windows, yet the familiar place eased her a bit. She turned and faced him. She must speak carefully now. She knew she would have but one chance to defend herself—to defend Dougal and remain with him.

  The only light in the solar came from a single torch near the door. It left MacBain’s face in obscurity, though Isobel imagined he could see hers well enough.

  “You are Catherine Maitland?” he began.

  “No. Catherine is my sister, whom my father wished sent north to wed with Bertram MacNab. My father, Gerald Maitland, and Randal MacNab are close friends. My sister, Catherine, did not wish for the marriage, as her heart was otherwise engaged. So I took her place.”

  “Without your father’s knowledge?” MacBain’s wits moved quickly.

  “Yes. My sister and I hatched the deception between us.”

  “Ah, that explains the confusion. The story that came to Stirling was muddled, talk of two women—Catherine and Isobel.”

  “I am Isobel.”

  “Where is your sister now? The message sent by your father expressed deep concern about the whereabouts of at least one of his daughters.”

  Isobel’s heart leaped. Catherine must have made good her elopement.

  “Sir, I do not know. When I left, her intention was to elope with the son of our father’s bailiff. Please, do not tell my father.”

  MacBain drew a breath. “Do you fear him? Does he use you harshly?”

  “I do not like to think what he would do, if he learned the truth.”

  “Mistress, I do not see that you can do aught but tell him. He will undoubtedly press for the truth concerning your sister, and my understanding is, he is already on his way here.”

  Isobel’s stomach clenched hard, and her knees wobbled. MacBain reached out and steadied her.

  “Is it true that Dougal MacRae snatched you on your way to Randal MacNab’s keep and coerced you into marriage?”

  Isobel shook her head. “It was not like that at all. Our coach wrecked on the road. I wandered from the wreckage, not knowing where—or to be truthful, who—I was, for a time. Dougal MacRae lent me his assistance.”

  “So he is a hero, eh?” MacBain’s voice was rife with skepticism.

  “You might say so.”

  “And why did not this hero convey at once a message to MacNab, who expected your—or, rather, your sister’s—arrival?”

  “I—I did not at once remember whence I was bound.”

  “So MacRae merely took you in, without inquiry, and married you? Are you aware that he and MacNab are old enemies and that Randal MacNab has complained of him to the King many times?”

  “All you need know, sir, is that Dougal MacRae is my husband and I wed with him by my own free will. I am content with my present situation.”

  “Why did you wed with him?” MacBain asked frankly. “A stranger to you, a suspected outlaw?”

  “He offered me shelter and protection.”

  “From what?”

  “Among other things, from Bertram MacNab. Sir, you have met him and his father. Were you a woman, would you choose to marry into that brood? I came to Scotland prepared to sacrifice much for my sister’s sake, but when it came to it... A woman has very few choices in life, sir,” she concluded truthfully. “I chose MacRae.”

  The captain remained silent for a moment, apparently thinking hard. “This wedding, then. Tell me about it. You were not forced or constrained in any way?”

  “I was not. I had time and opportunity to refuse as I w
ould. MacRae’s sister Meg, who lives here, counseled me. An itinerant priest called O’Rourke performed the rite.”

  “I have heard much of O’Rourke from MacNab. It is possible he has been defrocked.”

  “I am assured he has not.” Isobel held herself proudly. “I wished to make quite certain before going to my marriage bed that the joining was legal and binding.”

  “Ah.” For the first time, MacBain seemed uncomfortable. “And, Mistress, can you assure me the union has, indeed, been, er, consummated?”

  “It has. Repeatedly,” Isobel told him crisply, “and with great enjoyment. I am content with my marriage to my husband, Captain MacBain.”

  “Forgive me asking, but Lord Randal MacNab asserts you were, indeed, forced—”

  “He was not here, and he is wrong. Just because he and his son treat their own women badly does not mean my husband does so.”

  MacBain bowed. “Aye, Mistress.”

  Isobel extended her hand to him. “Captain, I have every wish to remain married to Dougal MacRae. Will you do your part to assure it?”

  “You have my word, Mistress. But in truth I can do little besides report back to higher authorities in Edinburgh. This I shall do faithfully.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Indeed, Mistress, you would do well to speak with your husband, if you wish to stay married to him. If he does not curb his activities, I can assure you he will be hauled away, and you may well end a widow.”

  Isobel raised her hands to her lips. “I understand.”

  “And now, Mistress, I must go speak with your husband. It has been a pleasure meeting wi’ you.”

  He turned smartly and marched back to the great hall, Isobel following, where MacNab and MacRae were, predictably, more angry. Things had grown heated indeed, and more than one man’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

  They broke off and stared as MacBain and Isobel entered the chamber. Isobel saw Dougal narrow his eyes and set himself, a man expecting a fight.

  But it was to Randal MacNab the captain spoke first. “Sire, I find myself satisfied this woman has not been constrained into marriage. I shall report my findings—”

  “What!” MacNab’s bellow tore through the hall. “How can this be? The blackguard snatched her off the road, held her here in secret, procured a drunken priest—”

  “Mistress MacRae assures me she married by her own volition, sir, and is satisfied with the union.”

  Randal MacNab’s face grew dusky with rage. “Well, aye, she may say that. The bastard will have enchanted her in some way.”

  “Enchanted her?” Dougal lifted a brow and smiled nastily. “Am I now supposed to be a purveyor of the dark arts?”

  “Aye, like your sister. Everyone knows what she is, and the fate that befell her husband. And they do no’ call you Diabhal Dubh for naught.”

  Captain MacBain stiffened. “I am no’ here to deal with superstition. MacRae, your wife has spoken and attested to the validity of your marriage.”

  “Aye.” Dougal shot a quick look at Isobel, which she failed to interpret. “You will see, only, that I obeyed the decree of my King, who bade me wed, settle, and get my house in order.”

  MacBain smiled tightly. “Aye, sir, and I need only confirm one thing concerning how Mistress Isobel MacRae came to be in your household. She has given me an account—yet I need verify it with your own.”

  No fool, the good captain, Isobel thought, her stomach muscles clenching again. He suspected Isobel might have spun him a tale and thought still to catch Dougal out, here before everyone.

  And Randal MacNab, like a wolf scenting blood, went silent, gestured to Bertram, and the room went suddenly still.

  Isobel knew she could not speak, not even to hint to her husband what path her story had taken. Fools that they were, they should have established a likely tale before it came to this. Now, Dougal might well be caught and, if MacBain had reason to suspect, hauled off to answer for his crimes.

  Dougal, eyes still narrowed and head thrown back, had never appeared more dangerous. He looked once at Isobel, a searching glance during which she tried to convey—wordlessly, by magic if need be—the tale she had told MacBain. Because she now knew, to the depth of her soul, were this man to be hanged she might as well end her own life, for she could not exist without him.

  Dark grey and mystical as smoke, his eyes met hers before returning to the captain’s.

  “Ah,” he said, “you will be referring to the rescue, when her coach overturned. I happened to be out riding that evening and found her unconscious on the side of the road. I had no idea her companions had ended in the ravine, nor did I know at first who she was. I believe her own wits were addled for a time. When I did learn the truth—”

  Randal MacNab, no longer able to control himself, interrupted, “When you learned the truth, you did not, as might any reasonable man, inquire round the district about a lost lady of quality, nor let it be known she had been found. Instead, you decided to ruin and then marry her, no doubt thinking her father’s lands must be worth something to you?”

  “It did not happen that way.” Isobel spoke in a clear voice that failed to disguise her anger, and glared at MacNab as she stepped to Dougal’s side. “How dare you so insult me?” Ignoring the irony inherent in speaking the words, she went on, “How dare you imply I would submit to any man before marriage?”

  “He is a devil,” Bertram MacNab responded, “who has ruined good women before you, Mistress Maitland.”

  “Mistress MacRae,” Isobel corrected him haughtily. “And I quite think this has gone on long enough. Sir,” she turned to Captain MacBain, “we have answered your questions fairly.”

  He executed a bow and signaled to his men. “Thank you, Mistress, for your patience.”

  “Do not be deceived!” Randal MacNab howled. He turned his glare from MacBain to Isobel. “And you, lass, just wait until your father arrives. I thought to get you away out of here and spare him this distress, but you will answer to him, and he will not be so easily deceived.”

  Isobel’s heart sank in dismay, but she kept her head high. “I shall, of course, be pleased to welcome my father into my new home.” Shocking, how well she now lied. Her life had, in fact, become unimaginable, the one consistency her feelings for the man who stood, like a rock, at her side.

  And it was to Dougal that MacNab directed his parting words, in a sneer.

  “This is no’ over, MacRae. Do not think you have escaped judgment. I will not rest until you hang!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Tell me MacNab can’t really carry out that threat he made—tell me he cannot assure that you are hanged.”

  The whispered plea came suddenly out of the darkness, issuing from the woman who lay, obviously sleepless, beside Dougal. He twitched in response. Since the departure of their unwanted guests, Isobel had barely spoken to him. He had spent a large part of the intervening time riding and tramping his borders and battlements, making sure the guard stood strong. Only in the wee hours had he retreated, ducking the icy wind outside to crawl into her warm bed.

  “You should be asleep,” he said softly. He wanted only to lie here and absorb the wondrous heat of her without thought or question. The devil knew he felt unready to contemplate what had happened earlier.

  “I know, but my thoughts will not be still.” She stirred restlessly, and the scent of her came to him, subtle and seductive. Despite his bone-deep weariness and his set intentions, his body responded to her nearness involuntarily.

  “Husband, where have you been? I had begun to suppose you meant to forsake my bed this night.”

  Dougal shook his head. That he would not—could not—do. He had spent every night since his marriage with her, even those when, out of stubbornness, he did not touch her. He could not explain why he should so torture himself, save he felt caught, and never more deeply than now.

  “I was busy seeing to our defenses,” he told her. “I do not ken what is coming, but I can sense
something. I know MacNab. He will no’ back down. Once your father arrives, he may launch an all-out attack. Tell me, is your father a warlike man?”

  “Warlike?” She seemed to muse upon it. “Not at all. He is stern, upright, demanding, and commanding. He believes there is a clear division between right and wrong—”

  “Does he believe it strongly enough to accept MacNab’s offer of arms? For you know, he will offer.”

  “I am not sure. Nor can I imagine what must be in my father’s mind right now, learning it was I and not Catherine who came north. He will be furious with both of us. He does not take well to deception.”

  “Few men do.” Dougal fought the desire to stroke her arm. He knew how she would feel: soft and supple, enough to distract him even from the problems at hand.

  “If they do come to your gates seeking battle, my father and MacNab together, what shall you do?”

  Dougal answered without hesitation, “Give it to them.”

  “Would it not be better and easier for you just to hand me over?”

  That did make him turn toward her in the bed. “I have never yet done things the easy way, and you are my wife. You told MacBain you want to stay with me.”

  “I did.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  He heard her breath catch in the darkness. “It is.”

  “You are certain? Before this comes to bloodshed—for I declare it to you now, Isobel, if you wish to be with me, I will fight to the death to keep you here.”

  “Must we speak of death?” All at once, she was in his arms, burrowing into him strongly and then wrapping her arms around him, tight. “By heaven, you are chilled to the bone.”

  “The wind outside is keen as a knife.” Without his permission, his fingers buried themselves in her hair. “And, aye, I fear we must speak of death. For I warn you, it will come if this trouble I sense rushes in upon us.”

  “Just so long as you, Husband, remain safe,” she breathed, her lips but a whisper from his.

  Did she truly care? Could she care? Or were these just woman’s words, meant to cajole and manipulate? She did not want to return to her father, that was clear, nor did she wish to go to MacNab. Perhaps she just found him, the Devil Black, a less horrific alternative—which, in itself, held a ludicrous irony. She hoped he would defend her, when he had failed to protect the only woman he had ever loved.