“I will escape him,” she told the deepening darkness, “or die trying.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“You do realize your wife may well be dead,” Lachlan said gloomily. “MacNab might have been forced to silence her, or she may have fought a bit too hard.”
Dougal shook his head. He had no doubt his wife would fight against her abductors, but he thought Randal MacNab must be canny enough to keep her alive for a time. Isobel had become a pawn in a dangerous game, the best weapon MacNab now had to his hand. “You forget her father is there. Surely his presence will serve to protect her?”
Even as he spoke the words, Dougal took little comfort in them. There were ways and ways of making a woman suffer. The prospect of Isobel enduring any of them turned him sick inside. But he thought he would know if Isobel no longer lived: had he not felt it the moment Aisla died, like a sword plunged into his soul?
But...he had loved Aisla; at best, he desired Isobel. It was different, was it not?
Lachlan remained unconvinced. “You may launch an all-out attack on MacNab’s keep only to recover a corpse. ’Twill be war, Dougal, and costly. You do know that?”
“My men are prepared to fight.”
“By throwing themselves against MacNab’s walls?”
“It is not the only way.” Dougal, brooding, stared into the fire. He and Lachlan stood beside the hearth in the great hall while, outside, his warriors organized for the trek to MacNab’s stronghold. “I may, instead, offer him what he wants.”
“And what is that?” Lachlan slanted a look at him.
“Single combat,” Dougal replied.
Lachlan drew a breath, and his gaze sharpened. A number of emotions chased their way, one by one, across his face. “Would you dare, after what happened the last time?” He broke off abruptly.
Dougal returned his look, unflinching. “You know nothing of what happened before, Lachlan. Nothing.” Slowly he raised his hand and touched the scar on his cheek. Deeply puckered, it made a crater of memory, regret, and shame.
He saw Lachlan’s eyes narrow and wondered again how much Lachy guessed about what had happened eight years ago. But no, even Lachy considered him a coward, rather than what he was in truth—a failure.
“You must care for Isobel a very great deal,” Lachlan ventured. “Dare I say, even, you must love her? I know how you felt for Aisla.”
From somewhere, Dougal summoned a harsh laugh. “How many times must I tell you I do not believe in love? ’Tis a fool’s pursuit! Yet would I allow that bastard to keep from me aught that is mine?” The last four words rang with conviction.
“Aye, well.” Lachlan backed off. “When do we act?”
“Tonight. By a miracle, the clouds have cleared, and the moon is out. We will bait the badger in his own den.”
Meg found him a short time later, while he donned his weapons and downed a mug of whisky. His men awaited him in the forecourt, their mounts restless beneath the moonlight.
“So,” she said as she broached him, like a ship in full sail, “you have found the courage to go after her?”
“Hold your tongue, Sister. I need none of your mettlesome opinions.”
“You shall have them anyway. I hold my tongue at the bidding of no man.”
“A sad truth! Yet I warn you, I am in no mood for your haranguing. Have you finished speaking your spells? Are the gods—or the devils—on our side?”
“Curiously, they are.” She tipped her head, and the firelight slid off the length of her unbound, black hair. “The Spirits are strong with us, this night.”
“Good. I go to discover how badly MacNab wants the return of his cattle, and whether he is willing to trade for them something I hold even more valuable. I will return with Isobel or, as our forefathers used to say, on my shield.”
“Lachlan says you mean to challenge Bertram MacNab to single combat.”
“Lachlan has a terrible great mouth.”
Meg’s lips curved in a wry smile. “He is under my enchantment, so tells me everything.”
“Poor sod!”
Meg’s dark eyes met Dougal’s grey ones. “Brother, do you have any idea how I have hated you—hated you deep and strong—for failing to go to Aisla’s rescue when she needed you? She was my dearest friend and, I dare say, the last person I have ever loved.”
“Aye?” They had that in common, then.
“She was my opposite, to her bones—sweet and gentle, deserving of any sacrifice, the kind of woman for whom a man might well lay down his life. So why did you fail her then, yet propose to sacrifice yourself now for that red-haired Southern hoyden?”
Dougal lifted a brow. “You do not like my wife?”
“That is the second curious thing of the night—I do. I find I like Isobel enormously, if not as I did Aisla. Isobel has fire and courage, she possesses a sense of humor. Yet she is not Aisla, and it makes me wonder why you would bestir yourself for her.”
“Aisla died many years ago. Do you not think I have learned something since her death? Do you not think I am changed by her death? Besides, Isobel is my wife, as Aisla never was. I have a right to protect her.”
“Then go and get her, and this time, Brother, do not measure the cost. And should Bertram MacNab fall during the ensuing encounters, ’twill make of the world a finer place.”
Dougal nodded—’twas another point on which he and his sister agreed—and went out.
****
The wind that surged across the dark countryside and round the stones of MacNab’s keep had chased the clouds far to the east. Isobel would have preferred rain, sleet, and darkness, even if they made the descent she contemplated more dangerous. She had rifled her bed and tied the linens into long ropes of fabric she then grounded to the foot of the wooden chest beneath the window. She donned her cloak—which Bertram MacNab had torn from her and hurled into the corner when first he brought her in—with fingers that shook. She refused to hesitate long enough to contemplate her terror.
She hoped, and doubted, the hastily-constructed rope would prove long enough. Her mind, which seemed to have cleared like the sky beyond the window, told her it would likely fall short. Her true difficulty, she knew, lay in her injured shoulder, which burned with fiery pain every time she moved it. Would it fail her? Could she ignore the pain long enough to scramble down the wall to that beckoning green turf below?
And if she fell but did not die, if Bertram MacNab found her, what would he do then? Would he drag her inside, bent and broken as she might be, haul her back to this hated room to tie her to the bed and carry out his dreaded scheme of discipline?
The very idea got Isobel over the window sill and scrabbling with her toes for gaps between the outer stones. The wind seized her like cold fingers seeking to pluck her from the wall. She clutched the linen rope, and her shoulder shrieked in protest. She gasped, set her teeth, and endured.
A glance over her shoulder told her the ground looked much farther off from her new perspective. The stones, still wet from the previous bout of sleet, proved slippery, and rough enough to tear her fingers. The thought came into her head she might well slip and die.
Then anger flared again. Better to perish while attempting to escape than to suffer what Bertram MacNab threatened. She began to edge her way down the rope, pinned against the wall by the moonlight, and prayers crowded her brain. She had not attempted to pray since shortly after her mother died, when she became convinced that God, if he indeed existed, failed to listen. But now she asked fervently that no member of MacNab’s guard should come round the corner and look up, for then she was surely done.
Haste and the weakness in her right shoulder nearly caused her to fall not once but thrice. She stretched her ears, listening beyond the roar of the wind for a shout from above or below. If Bertram entered the bedchamber he would be quick to haul her back up. She heard nothing but the wind that enfolded her, and her own desperate breathing.
And then she came to the end of her rope. A terrified
look told her the distance below her feet remained greater than she had hoped—a drop of perhaps twenty feet yawned beneath her. She hung for several, endless moments, whimpering at the pain in her shoulder, toes reaching desperately for secure holds, and then she fell.
She hit hard, struck her head, and once more saw stars, as she had in the room above. But she had landed flat on her back, and the turf made a cushion. For an instant she stared up at the high window—incredibly high—that made a tiny, lit square in the wall with the linen rope dangling pale against the stones. She struggled to breathe and assess herself and then, spurred by the sharp fear of discovery, scrambled up and ran.
Before the descent, while still inside, she had tried to determine direction. She knew Dougal’s lands lay east and thought she could guess a likely path. Now panic licked at her and she merely fled, directionless, wanting to lose herself as swiftly as possible in the nearest inky darkness.
She ran hunched over, wracked with pain and afraid to pause. The moon spotted her shadow before her and she knew how visible she must be. Surely MacNab had men on patrol and the odds of failing to meet one now were poor indeed.
She never paused until she reached a stand of dark pines, where she fell to her hands and knees, her lungs pumping like leaky bellows. Her heart, beating double time, cried for mercy, and her shoulder roared at her so fiercely she almost missed another pain stabbing deep inside her belly, low and relentless.
What now? she wondered, as she fought her way to her feet, once she had breath enough to stand. Did MacNab’s warriors ride these woods? Would she hear approaching horses, with the wind soughing in the trees? She blinked as phantom rays of moonlight flickered between the branches. If she chose the wrong direction now, the mistake could prove fatal. She might wander miles into unknown country, or back into MacNab’s hands. Yet staying here might prove just as deadly.
The next minutes and hours proved a confusing nightmare as she dodged trees, boulders and fallen limbs, following nothing more than blind instinct. In her mind she carried a picture of her husband’s face—guarded, shadowed, the magical grey eyes half-veiled—and it was that which drew her. When at last she reached a narrow track, cutting like a sword blade across the dark turf, she followed that also, too close to exhaustion to fight her way any further beneath the trees.
In the end, the wind betrayed her; she did not hear the party of mounted men coming up behind until it was too late. At the last moment she whirled and saw the cluster of riders looming over her, nothing more than black shapes silhouetted against the moon.
A number of images flashed across her mind: being dragged back to MacNab’s keep, the dreadful chamber where Aisla had suffered before her, the fourposter bed, scarred by pain.
She turned about and ran, knowing she had no real chance and that a mounted man could bring her down the way a fox ran down a hare. The track made a narrow gleam of moonlight; she lifted her skirts and pounded along it.
A cry came from behind her, almost lost in a gust of wind. She heard the fierce rhythm of hoofbeats, stumbled and almost fell, picked herself up somehow, and thought she heard her name on the cold air.
“Isobel!”
Something other than pain, fear, or exhaustion made her hesitate then. She half spun just as the rider reached her. His arm came down, snatched her from the ground, and swung her onto the horse before him. The arm felt like iron. An instant’s terror convulsed her before she went suddenly still. She knew that touch, hard as it might be. More, she knew the scent of him and the profile just visible beneath the plaid he wore.
“Isobel,” he repeated her name and pushed the plaid back from his hair, onto his shoulders. Wild, black locks streamed loose in the wind and grey eyes, glittering like the moonlight, stared into hers.
“By all that is holy,” he exclaimed, which seemed an amazing thing for a devil to say, “how came you here?”
Isobel began to tremble, which did not prevent her from pressing closer, burrowing into the warmth and strength of him. She clutched his plaid as a drowning woman might a thin curl of rope.
His arms drew her in closer. They hurt, but she reveled in this ache.
“I escaped,” she said brokenly. “I was trying to come to you.”
His hands, gentle now, caressed her, stroked her back, her hair. “And MacNab?” he began.
“Hunting me.” She shivered. “He will be hunting me by now.”
“He will not have you,” Dougal vowed. “That I swear, on my life.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Your wife is in a bad way,” Meg said flatly, but with sympathy in her eyes. “She may be dying, I cannot tell.”
Dougal, who once more sat with Lachlan in the great hall, choked on the mouthful of whisky he had just taken and looked at his sister, stricken. He leaped to his feet without intention.
“Eh? But her injuries did not seem so great. Her shoulder—” Isobel had cried out when he lifted her down from his horse, in the courtyard.
“’Tis not her shoulder,” Meg interrupted him. “There is somewhat amiss inside. She bleeds profusely.”
Dougal felt the color drain from his face. “What did that bastard do to her? She swore to me he did not rape her.”
Meg shrugged. “Were I to venture a guess, I would say she is miscarrying—at a very early stage. I just thought you should know.”
“My child?” Dougal swayed on his feet. “She carried my child? She never said.”
“Likely she did not know,” Meg told him tersely. “She seems baffled, now, as to what is amiss, but cries out with the pain.”
Dougal stood like a man struck and stared at his sister. His child, the heir he so desperately needed to secure his lands. And Isobel...
“I thought you might wish to see her,” Meg said dryly, “before it is too late.”
Lachlan surged to his feet and clasped Dougal’s shoulder. “Go, man!”
All the way up the worn, stone stairs, Dougal’s thoughts hollered. Men lost their wives in childbed, he knew—it was a fact of life. Yet this could be laid directly at MacNab’s door, another thing the bastard had taken from him, and bitterness burned in his chest.
“Women lose bairns,” he said, “and do not die of it.”
Meg glanced back at him. “She bleeds too heavily. If she dies, ’tis that will take her.”
Dougal’s throat closed. “There must be somewhat you can do—women’s medicine?”
“I am no physician.”
“Send for one! I will send Lachy.”
“Is there a physician in the district? I cannot bring one to mind.”
“In Stirling—”
“Aye, send Lachy if you will, but I doubt ’twill be quick enough.”
They reached the top of the stairs. Dougal seized his sister’s elbow and gazed into her eyes. “Somewhat else, then. Magic. There must be spells, you will know them. Save her, Meg, and you will never want for anything so long as I live.”
One of her brows quirked. “A bargain? Now, brother, you speak my language—’tis how I live, that. But I do not know if I have the ability.”
“They call you ‘witch,’ do they not?”
Meg tossed her head in scorn. “Ignorant folk use meaningless words. There is a power, Brother, but I do not possess it. It must be sued from one far more elevated than I.”
Dougal studied her hard. “The devil?”
Meg laughed. “And what sympathy might he have for the plight of women? He is but a construct of the priests, a boogie man meant to frighten. I deal with a far older power, the one that makes the doe to run before the hunter, and puts the trees in leaf.”
“Can it save Isobel?”
“It can.”
“Will it?”
“Well, now, that would depend very much on your reasons.”
“She is too young to die so.” Too full of life, and passion.
“You have to need her to live,” Meg told him mercilessly. “And, for the right cause—not because you want a child
out of her, or because you do not want MacNab to win in this. You must care for her, herself.”
Dougal nodded. Leave it to Meg to demand the one thing he could not give—his heart, that blackened, damaged stone incapable of what Isobel required.
He pushed past Meg and through the door of his wife’s chamber. The smell of blood assailed his nostrils, raw and intense. He knew then a battle took place in this chamber, as grave as on any killing ground.
A woman from the kitchens sat beside the bed. She rose when she saw him and stepped away, but Dougal barely noticed her. His eyes were all for Isobel.
She lay sprawled like a man in death, her face devoid of color and her eyes narrowed in pain. Dougal had seen warriors who wore that same look as they gazed beyond this world to the next, whence they traveled. Fear—real fear—seized him, and he knew Meg had not brought him a whit too soon.
“Isobel.” He went forward and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand. She turned those distant eyes on him, and he wondered what she saw in his face—rage? Grief? Terror?
“Husband.” Her lips moved feverishly, and the words came in gasps, “I do not know what ails me. I climbed down from MacNab’s prison—I fell part of the way.”
“Did you fall hard?” He wanted desperately to touch her but feared causing more hurt. He reached out and brushed the tangled hair from her brow. Could such a fall bring about a miscarriage?
“Very hard.” Pain gripped her, and she writhed in agony. When the wave passed, her eyes sought his again. “The chamber in which I was held—my prison—was that of another before me—your love.”
“My love?”
“Aisla, she whom you love. The only woman ever you will.” The words hung between them, indisputable. Dougal wanted desperately to refute them but could not. He looked round, but both Meg and the serving woman had gone; he and Isobel were alone.
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