He understood what he was—and was not—even if his bonny wife had not yet discovered it. Yet she was here, so close and warm, and his body thrummed in a way he found hard to deny.
“Tell me, Husband—Dougal,” she appealed, “how did you know what story to give MacBain, what tale to spin him—the very same I had chosen: that you rescued me from the road after the coach had wrecked?”
Dougal shook his head in the darkness. He could not quite explain how he had known what to say. He had looked at her and the words just came to him. The fey Scot in him made him ask, “Did you will me to know?”
He expected her to deny it, perhaps scoff at the idea, half Englishwoman that she was. But she whispered, “Yes. Yet, I will many things where you are concerned. Why should that particular wish prove effective?”
“I do no’ ken.” Dougal thought hard about it. A practical man, he nevertheless believed in Second Sight, messages from beyond the grave, and even visits from departed spirits. Was the transference of thought really so much more absurd? Yet the ability to pass a message from her mind to his argued some deep and fast shared connection, and that he was reluctant to warrant. After all, he had shared no such connection with Aisla, whom he had loved better than his own life.
“’Twill be a fluke,” he whispered, “a chance or coincidence.”
“You think so? Perhaps, Husband, we should test it. Can you tell what I am thinking now?”
He need not read her mind for that. Her warm body said it all, wriggling against his and conveying her desire far better than words. He slid his hands from her hair down her back, then further to cup her buttocks, drawing her closer. She opened herself to him like a flower. He longed so to plunge himself into her, it fairly unhinged his mind. Yet certain things must be said.
“Thank you for championing me this day, Wife. I confess, such defense half surprised me, given your past anger with me for—as you have repeatedly accused—making a weapon of you.”
She sighed deep in her throat and twined her arms around his neck, curling her fingers into his hair. “I no longer feel angry. Hurt, perhaps, and wishing things could be different between us, that you were not still in love with someone else—Aisla.”
At the sound of the name, pain clenched at Dougal’s heart, nearly crippling him. “I will never—never love anyone else,” he admitted, the confession torn from him.
“I know. And no woman wishes to learn she will always come second, even in her husband’s bed.”
“I desire you,” he told her—impossible to deny it in the present circumstance. “Is that not enough?”
“At some moments it is.” She brushed her lips across his lightly. “At some moments, I find it is not.”
“Which moment is this?”
“Let me warm you, Husband. Let me warm you to your heart.”
She warmed him three times before dawn. Even then, when he rose to leave her, his desire remained unspent. He eyed her where she lay in the bed, lit by the dull morning light, stark naked and drowsy, her rounded breasts and slightly parted legs a rampant temptation. What was this madness he felt for her, that refused to calm? Aye, so, he found her beautiful. But no matter how many times he accommodated her physically, he could never satisfy the longings he now suspected of occupying her heart.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, and she widened her sleepy eyes at him.
“For what?”
He shook his head. He did not want her to care for him, for his heart was a wounded and blackened thing. The devil knew, he did not deserve a woman like this.
“For continuing to use you, I suppose,” he told her wryly, “despite your forgiving heart.”
“Do you hear me complaining?” she asked. “Come back to bed, Husband, and use me sorely again.”
He smiled despite himself. “Wicked!”
“Am I not? As befits, perhaps, the wife of an infamous devil.”
“Aye.” Despite himself, his fingers tarried in the act of fastening his clothing. The tightness beneath his kilt told him he would be well able to take her again.
She sat up in the bed and her red hair swung across her breasts. “Where do you go?”
“Out to check the fortifications, one more time.”
“Would you not rather stay here? It sounds to be sleeting again.”
“I would rather stay here—temptress!” Yet he turned away, wondering whether she could possibly come to terms with what he was, and was not, able to give her.
She flopped back into the bed. “I suppose I shall just have to wait until later, then.”
****
Curse her, it proved all Dougal could think about that whole day long: the warmth of her in the bed, the promise in her eyes, and what he meant to do about it. Even as he rode his boundaries with a party of his men, enduring the stinging sleet, even as he conferred with Lachlan concerning likelihoods and possibilities, and when he weighed the odds for battle, Isobel occupied his mind.
Not even the view from his battlements, one that usually filled him with a feeling of deep possessiveness, served to distract him. Late in the afternoon, when he and Lachlan stood on the walkway of the highest tower braving the wind, his eyes caressed each fold of land, outlined in light and shadow, but his mind dreamed of caressing his wife.
“I mean to ask your sister to marry me,” Lachlan said.
“Eh?” Dougal turned and directed a stare at his friend. “Have you lost your mind entirely?”
“You know,” Lachlan looked thoughtful, “I believe I have. ’Tis the only explanation for what has come over me these last weeks, since she returned home—unless, of course, you allow for the possibility of love.”
“I do not believe in love,” Dougal said harshly.
“And I say to you again—you did, once.”
“That was a long time gone.”
“So,” Lachlan tossed his head, “you mean to tell me you will never love again?”
“Never!”
“Never is a great span of time. I should think you might find yourself tempted by that bonny wife of yours, spirited as well as beautiful.”
“Oh, aye, I am tempted by her, all right.” Dougal laughed harshly. “But not into the trap of love. I know my own mind, Lachy, and ’tis made up.”
“Ah. I hope your sister is not equally stubborn. I have been trying to get her in my bed, but,” he added frankly, “though she will kiss and cuddle and tease, she will no’ commit to the act.”
“My sister, cuddle?” Dougal echoed incredulously. “Impossible!”
Lachlan grinned. “Grope and fondle, then. She has had her hands up my kilt more than once.”
“Spare my ears!” Dougal cried in agony.
“I thought if I offered her marriage—a better marriage than she last endured—with a man sincere in his affections—”
“You?” Dougal howled. “Sincere? The world must be ending.”
“I am desperate here, man. She has fair enchanted me. I would say or do anything!”
“The cry of man since the beginning of time. But, Lachy, that does no’ make you sincere.”
“I ken that, fine. Do you suppose Meg can tell?”
“I think it likely, since my sister is no fool.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Lachy admitted ruefully, “and wise to keep yourself free of all ties and so save yourself. ’Tis no fun, this, finding yourself at the mercy of—”
“Wait.” Dougal laid a hand on his friend’s arm, silencing him, and narrowed his eyes in an attempt to peer through the gathered gloom. “What is that?”
“Where?”
“There, in amongst the trees, and in the folds of the land. They are out there, Lachlan.”
“Who—?”
“But why did my guards fail to come and warn me?” Dougal felt a chill race up his spine, closely followed by a surge of anger. “Come on!”
“By the devil’s horns, Dougal, I do not—”
“MacNab has us surrounded,” Dougal shouted. “’Tis war now
, and certain!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“How many of your men are dead?” Isobel asked her husband, trying to sound calmer than she felt. Dougal and Lachlan had come in just at dark and she had gleaned the details of their situation in pieces: MacNab haunting their borders, lurking not quite beyond sight, attacking when he could and withdrawing again when Dougal himself rode out. The guard Dougal had assigned to patrol the perimeter had been slaughtered, the message clear.
She had never seen anyone wear the look now on her husband’s face, grim, stark, and blank with anger, enough to justify his name. He had not expected an attack so swift or stealthy. Unable to sit still, he paced before the fire in the great hall while Lachlan sat silent with his head in his hands, and Isobel, with Meg at her side, stood by.
“Four,” he answered in a voice rough with emotion. “Every man I sent out on this last patrol—their horses, as well.”
Meg swore bitterly, and her brother glanced at her. “Aye,” Dougal said, “he needs to pay. He will pay.”
Lachlan raised his head. “Aye,” he agreed in turn. “But MacNab has made his position evident, has he no’? Not a man comes or goes until your wife’s father arrives and this matter is settled. You do not ride out, I do not go home. You cannot even send a message to the King.”
“As if I would appeal to that trumped-up bastard!” Dougal fairly shouted the words, his rage overflowing. “I take care of my own troubles and fight my own battles.”
“And how are you doing at that, Brother?” Meg asked nastily. “MacNab has you in a slip knot. If you ride out with a band of men to meet him fairly, at arms, he will melt away and you will find no enemy.”
“At least that may keep the villain clear of my borders.” Dougal looked at Lachlan. “We will ride out at dawn—until then, let him freeze his balls off in the cold. I have fallen men to honor, and clansfolk to comfort.”
Isobel whispered, “What comfort can you give them?”
Dougal’s profile grew hard as iron. “All a laird has to offer—his vow to provide for them so long as I am able.”
A chill of apprehension snaked its way up Isobel’s spine. “Might you lose your lands over this? Could you lose everything?”
All three of them stared at her. Dougal pivoted on his heel to face her. “No one takes my lands!” he declared. “I may lose my honor, my standing, my head, but MacRae lands, where MacRae blood has been spilled, will remain. ’Tis a sacred trust.”
Isobel nodded. She had thought her father obsessed with the lands he oversaw in Yorkshire, lands that had come to him as her Scottish mother’s dowry, no doubt a throw-away entitlement on her maternal grandfather’s part. For, as she had come to see upon acquaintance with her husband, Scotsmen did not part with Scottish lands. The Yorkshire holding, profitable as it might be, had never belonged to her grandfather’s ancestors and was not tied to him by blood.
Looking at her husband now, Isobel saw MacNab might as well steal his limbs as deprive him of his lands—or emasculate him. Isobel needed to understand his feelings, and how deep they ran.
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes. “There is another solution.”
Impatient and enraged, Dougal barely acknowledged her. “Aye? How is that?”
“I could give MacNab what he wants, what he says he wants, that is, and stop this horror where it stands, before any more blood is shed.”
“You?” Dougal’s smoke-grey eyes narrowed in an unfriendly way. “Again, how?”
“By handing myself over to him.” The words sounded bolder and far braver than Isobel felt. In truth, the very idea sickened her and made her heart beat high up in her throat. Yet she found she would be willing to do even this, for his sake.
Meg gasped, and Lachlan’s head swiveled toward Isobel violently. But Isobel barely spared a glance for them. She continued to gaze into her husband’s eyes, looking for something she failed to see. Acknowledgement? Gratitude? Affection? Isobel’s heart clenched in disappointment.
What she did see was a flare of rage so bright it seared her. “You wish to leave me?” he roared. “Despite all you said? Now that he looks to prove victorious, would you rather throw in your lot with my fiercest enemy?”
“No!”
He reached out with one arm and cleared the table beside which they stood, sweeping it of cups, bottles, papers, and a candle that flared before going out.
“You decide your chances look better with MacNab, is that it? You look to abandon the ship I sail? You believe I shall be bested—again?”
“No, I—” Isobel’s heart fluttered, and she struggled for words in the face of what she now saw flare in his eyes.
He lowered his voice to an edge of danger, cutting as a blade. “Or is it you would simply prefer his bed to mine?”
Isobel reacted without thought and lashed out, intending to strike him. He caught her wrist before she could land the blow, and held her tight.
“So it is to be that way, is it? By how many means will you punish me?”
“You misunderstand me,” Isobel cried, not even attempting to struggle against his bruising grasp. “But you will not listen, stubborn savage that you are.”
He sneered into her face, “I am not in the mood to listen.”
“I can see that.” From the corner of her eye, Isobel saw Meg grab Lachlan’s sleeve, pull him to his feet and tow him from the room. Save for the guard who doubtless waited outside the door, she and her husband were alone.
“Can we not speak reasonably?” she appealed. “Can we not try?”
He swore and released her, turning away to the fire, giving her his back. “If you wish to leave me, do it,” he growled.
“I do not wish to leave you.” How could she tell him she wanted anything before that, and given the choice would sooner die than go to MacNab?
“If you wish to leave me go,” he repeated, “but I will never see you released to MacNab. Go to your father if you must—or to hell—but I will fight to the death before I see you in that animal’s hands.”
“Why will you not listen?” She walked round him and stared up into his face. “Much as you would deny MacNab the victory of gaining possession of me, I deny the possibility of you losing your lands and all you hold dear, just to keep me. These lands are your life’s blood, while you have not known me a month. Rather would I act to put an end to this conflict.”
“You cannot. The devil himself could not resolve what lies between MacNab and me. Is that what you truly think, that I would steal victory from MacNab by keeping you?”
“Yes.”
He searched her face. “Nay, Wife, but I would spare you the agony, torture, and abuse that befalls any female who comes to his—or his cur of a son’s—hands.”
“Aisla,” she said.
Pain flickered in his eyes. “Aye, Aisla.”
“What did he do to her? She was Bertram’s wi—”
“I do not wish to speak of it.”
“No.” The echoes of his pain gripped Isobel’s heart. “Yet the love you once felt for her finds its reflection in the hate you feel now for MacNab. Judging by the depth of your hatred, your love must have been deep indeed.”
Dougal fairly howled, “I have said I do not wish to speak of it!”
“And I say we must, since what you felt then affects us now. I am caught in this. Do you not think I have a right to know exactly what MacNab did to Aisla—and thence to you—that killed your ability to love?”
Dougal became very still, like the surface of the ocean before a storm. Like the ocean, Isobel could feel currents stirring, violent and terrifying. When he glared at her, she saw vicious rejection in his eyes.
“Love is a lie,” he told her, “a fool’s cruel delusion. It is weakness rather than strength, a myth that begets vulnerability. A claim of love changes nothing. It saves nothing! And I do not want to hear the word spoken between these walls again.”
“Then perhaps I should leave you. Maybe when my father arrives I sho
uld pack up the nothing with which I came and just leave with him. Because I will not live with a man who supposes he can tell me how to speak, think, and feel.”
Dougal’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Surely you did not expect me to love you.”
Isobel took the blow without flinching, at least outwardly. “Of course not. It is a ridiculous premise. What, after all, is there about me to love? And why should my life take such a turn, in a direction it never before headed? Obviously I am not worthy of any such fine emotion. I might as well slink home behind my father and live out my days in disgraced obscurity.”
He took a step nearer her, lifted one hand toward her face but stopped short of touching her. “You deserve better than a lie, Isobel. I value you—the devil knows, I desire you! I admire your courage and would be glad to see you bear my sons. But I cannot offer you more than that. Should there not at least be honesty between us?”
Isobel’s heart, struggling beneath her breast, admitted she did not want him to lie. She wished the words to tumble from his lips, soft declarations and promises. Yet this man would never give her that, and she began to see his harsh demeanor revealed a stark honor.
If she told him how she felt, confessed the wild, tumultuous feeling possessing her, he would scoff, call her deluded, declare her feelings unfounded. And she could not bear the pain of that—not now, and possibly not ever.
For the first time, her eyes dropped from his. “Honesty.” She repeated the word as if she fathomed not its meaning.
“Aye.” His hand at last touched her cheek, cupped it almost tenderly, sending through her a shiver of involuntary response. Traitorous flesh, that wanted him so! “’Tis all I can offer you, Isobel—that and my promise, as your husband, to hold to you and no other.”
“So, you offer your disbelief in love to me, alone. It is a grand compliment!” She drew a ragged breath. “You speak over and over again of honesty, yet you refuse to say, honestly, what happened between you and MacNab.”
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