Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  Gently, for him, he said, “Do not try to talk if it causes you pain.”

  “I must speak now, or perhaps not at all. Do you know what is the matter with me?”

  “Has Meg not said?”

  Wildly, Isobel shook her head.

  “She thinks you miscarry.” His voice sounded harsher than he would have liked. But her eyes flew to his, and clung.

  “A child? But I was not carrying—”

  “Are you sure? Meg says ’twas very early.” Seeing the look that came to her face—one of stunned grief—he gripped her fingers hard. Another wave of pain seized her, and she rode it out in obvious agony.

  Then she asked, “Am I dying? Tell me the truth.”

  “The truth? I do not know.” Before seeing her, he would have said she could survive. Women did. But now his heart stuttered with fear.

  “I must tell you—not much time.” Her fingers twisted in his, bit into his hand with painful intensity and her eyes—wide, now, and eerily blue in her white face—captured him. “If I do not tell you this now, I may never have the chance.”

  Dread blossomed in Dougal’s chest, spread upward, and closed his throat. He knew what she would say as if the words were already spoken.

  She drew a ragged breath. “I love you, Dougal MacRae—devil or not, I do not care—and I am helpless to deny! I did not ask to love you, do not understand the feeling, but my heart, poor gift that it may be, is yours.”

  “’Tis not a poor gift.” Dougal barely recognized his own voice. He reached out to smooth the skin of her brow, thinking of the many ways he had touched her these weeks past. But a declaration of passion was not what she wanted, and lust was not love. He would give much to return the words to her, but even now he could not lie.

  “I am honored,” he told her, feeling humble. “I do not warrant such feeling, nor deserve—”

  She smiled ruefully. “You do not welcome such feeling,” she corrected. “Yet I cannot help but tell you. I hope you understand.”

  “Isobel, my heart is a damaged, blackened thing. ’Twould make no worthy return for you.”

  She whispered, her strength failing, “You love only her, will always love only her. Will that truly never change? Can you give me no hope?”

  Terror gripped Dougal’s heart: she was dying right here beneath his hands, in a welter of blood.

  “Isobel—Wife—you must hang on. You must fight! There will be other bairns—”

  “Can you want my child, even though you do not want me?”

  That he could answer, and truthfully. “With all my heart! There is naught I can imagine better than an heir with your courage, strength and fire. And, Wife, I never said I did not want you. Of that you may be certain!”

  Another spasm gripped her. They endured it together. He found himself wishing he could pray, and seeking words that, to her, would make a difference.

  “Listen to me, Isobel,” he told her when the pain eased again. “I know fine ’tis a poor offer, since I cannot give you my heart, but I vow to you, everything else I am is yours. Hang on for me—fight—and we will build a life, a future together. A good life.”

  He had never before made such a promise, not to anyone, and it frightened him that he should do so now, but he gave it completely. His crippled heart aside, he was willing to live with her—and for her—all his days.

  “Will you fight, Isobel, for me?”

  She nodded.

  Behind him he heard the door open as Meg reentered the room. He bent and kissed his wife’s brow, then rose and released her fingers. Her eyes drifted closed.

  When he joined Meg at the door, she gave him a searching look.

  “What can you do for her?” he demanded. “Her strength fades! You said I must need her to live—” He gazed into his sister’s black eyes. “Well, I do. I will give whatever you ask, if you save her. Is it enough?”

  Meg nodded, and Dougal went limp with relief. Did he believe in his sister’s purported powers more than he believed in God? Yet Meg insisted the powers upon which she called were not her own, nor of the devil. He did not know, yet he clung to a slim shard of faith.

  “Leave us,” Meg said. “Wait below and think on the debt you incur—not to me but to the woman who lies there. If she lives, it will need be paid in care, loyalty, and fidelity.”

  He left the room and stumbled blindly back down the stairs, where he found Lachlan waiting for him. One glance and Lachlan looked away.

  “As grave as that, is it?” he asked awkwardly.

  Dougal reached for his cup, which proved empty. He splashed whisky into it and drank deep.

  “I would send to Stirling for a physician, but Meg insists there is no time. I have left Isobel in her hands.”

  “I will ride to Stirling, if you like,” Lachlan offered.

  Dougal considered it. “At the rate she loses blood, I do not doubt Meg is right. But, aye, go! I would appreciate it.”

  Lachlan got at once to his feet. “I will go as swiftly as I may.”

  Dougal reached out and grasped Lachy’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “She will survive it, man.”

  “If she lasts the next few hours, ’twill be due to Meg’s magic. I will then be in debt to my sister—a frightening enough thought.”

  “It is, that.” Lachlan could not but agree.

  He went out, leaving Dougal to brood at the fire alone, the victim of his thoughts, dark and fierce. He thought of what Isobel had said about Aisla, and the room from which she had escaped. The blood pounded in his ears. He had already lost the child Isobel carried. If he lost his wife as well, MacNab would have a heavy price to pay.

  “And you will pay it,” he said aloud to the shadowed room. “That I do vow!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “The Lady uplift thee, the Lord defend thee; strength flow to you from the winds that cleave the world, the fire that purifies us, the water that speaks to us, and the earth itself, clothed in beauty. Vigor return to thee, and may those I sue banish all harm. Awake!”

  The words drummed in Isobel’s ears, interrupting a dream of pain, and called her from the far darkness. The summons possessed power she could not deny, and she came back to her body the way one returns to a dwelling after a long absence. It felt changed, not quite as she remembered. Her limbs felt light, her flesh insubstantial. All the agony she had known was gone.

  She drew a breath that felt like the first she had taken in a long while, and opened her eyes. A face hung above her, one she remembered seeing often between the flickers of nightmare—with deep, black eyes tilted slightly at the outer corners, pale skin, and a wealth of black hair, now tumbled and untidy. Isobel knew those eyes, intent and unsparing, as well as the touch of the hands, hard and competent.

  “Meg,” she said, only it did not come out sounding so much like a word as a hoarse croak.

  Meg smiled, reached out and touched Isobel’s brow, and Isobel saw unexpected kindness in the dark eyes.

  “So,” Meg said, “we have our answer. How do you feel?”

  “Awful. Weak, and strange. Where am I?”

  “Your own chamber, safe.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “Do you not remember? No matter. You are back with us now.”

  Meg turned away, and Isobel heard her whisper, apparently to someone else in the room. Her sense of hearing seemed more acute than her other senses. The rest came in pieces that did not seem to belong to her. The bed beneath her—her own bed, yes—felt like an illusion. Pale daylight stole over the windowsill that she could just see. She felt too weak to turn her head.

  “Dougal?”

  At the name, Meg turned back to her. “He is waiting below. I will bring him, but first, have you any pain?” Meg touched Isobel’s stomach gently. “Here?”

  “Not now. Why?”

  Meg’s expression tightened. “You had a fall and have been unwell.” She turned once more to the other person in the room. “Nell, let us change these linens aga
in. We will not have her greet her husband decked in gore.”

  When the other woman leaned over her, Isobel recognized Meg’s tirewoman. Her confusion increased along with her sense of unreality. She barely felt the movement as they shifted her in the bed, stripped off her night rail, and washed her body, tussled with the linens, and dressed her again.

  “Drink this,” Meg told her then.

  Suddenly, Isobel thirsted unbearably. The contents of the cup—not water—tasted sharp and bitter but refreshed her.

  “There, now.” Meg smoothed her hair on the pillow.

  “What day is it? How long have I been ill?”

  “A while. You journeyed far. Do not think on it now. I will bring your husband.”

  Isobel heard her hurry away, heard Nell move about the chamber, then voices and more footsteps, including some that made her heart leap in her breast.

  Dougal’s face swam into view. Oddly, he too looked changed. She vaguely remembered clinging to the idea of him, the desire for him, the intense need. Yet she had never seen him like this, subdued and tentative, even the wild, black hair tamed at the nape of his neck.

  He seated himself on the edge of the bed, and she realized he had been there before this, had gripped her fingers and cradled her hand. She gazed into his eyes—the color of the sky after storm—and gasped at what she saw.

  “Wife,” he said. Only that, but it held claiming and gladness that buoyed Isobel’s heart.

  She reached out, and he twined his fingers with hers. She realized Dougal, seldom at a loss for either words or confidence, did not know what to say.

  So she spoke. “Meg will not say what befell me.”

  “Do you not remember?”

  Isobel frowned. “I have pieces of it: being here in this bed, ill, floating in darkness and pain. But I do not understand.”

  Dougal glanced over his shoulder at his sister and the servant, who moved about gathering the used bedding and other paraphernalia.

  Meg shook her head and shooed the servant before following her. “Since she does not remember, you will have to tell her, Brother. I did my work, now you do yours.”

  He whispered a curse softly and turned back to Isobel, his expression grim.

  “What must you tell me?” Isobel asked. “What has befallen me?”

  “You suffered a fall when escaping from MacNab’s keep. Meg has been busy healing you.”

  Amazement touched Isobel, and then perplexity. “Escaped!”

  “He held you captive after snatching you from within these walls.” Dougal looked fierce. ‘I must apologize to you, Wife. You should have been safe in your own home. I failed you.”

  The look in his eyes told her he did not speak the words lightly or with ease: admitting failure of any kind nearly choked him.

  Isobel’s sluggish mind began to waken, aligning some of the pieces. “What is it you are keeping from me?”

  “Meg employed magic to heal you. It may have stolen some of your memory.”

  “But you can tell me all. What is it you refuse to say?” Isobel struggled with it. “MacNab snatched me? Why?”

  “In an effort to hurt me, of course. Do you not recall? Your father is with him.”

  “Yes.” The memories came slowly, but they came. “I was in MacNab’s stronghold… I went to my father to sue for rescue. I found him drunk. But my father never drinks to excess.”

  “Your father is securely in MacNab’s pocket.” He squeezed her fingers. “But, Wife, the courage you showed in the face of danger was remarkable. One of my warriors could not have been more valiant.”

  “I fell! I fell climbing down the wall from the window, in the dark. I ran—”

  “Aye. My men and I came upon you, exhausted and half raving, in pain.”

  Isobel recalled flames and darkness, pain that came in waves and cleaved her like a sword. “I feel so weak now.”

  “You bled much. We thought we should lose you. Lachlan rode to Stirling for a physician, who has promised to come later this morning. No sooner did Lachy return than Meg told me she thought you would survive.”

  Again, Isobel searched her husband’s eyes. “There is more? Tell me!”

  He drew a ragged breath. “When we got you here, safe, Meg realized you were miscarrying. You have lost our child.”

  “What?” Isobel felt amazement widen her eyes; her fingers spasmed in his, but he did not release them. “I did not even know I was carrying.”

  “No, it was very early. But you bled so much, we thought we must lose you also.”

  His expression—calm, almost wooden—was belied by the agony in his eyes. Isobel, beholding it, knew it must be for the child she had carried so briefly, his heir. For had he not told her, fairly, he would never love her?

  Grief rose in a towering wave, and she did not know if it was for the lost child—his child—or the fact that he valued her only for what she could, or had failed to, give him.

  “Do not look so,” he bade her, and touched her cheek gently. “’Tis hard to bear, I know, but there will be other bairns.”

  “Will there? Yet I have failed you now—”

  “Isobel, Wife—” He seemed to search hard for words. “There is no blame to you in this, no fault. All the blame lies at the feet of Randal and Bertram MacNab. They will pay for hurting you. That I do avow.”

  Isobel pulled her hand from his and covered her face. “I have failed you in the only way that matters.” she grieved. “Leave me, please!”

  He did not move. “Isobel, listen to me. We are engaged in a war, and in such, there are casualties. ’Tis a bitter thing to swallow, true. Yet, had one of my warriors fallen in a skirmish or, indeed, in attempting escape, I would not fault him but those whom I fight.”

  Isobel did not speak. Other memories now streamed in upon her, the way water gushes from a broken ewer: the dreadful room at MacNab’s keep; the cruelty and anticipation in Bertram MacNab’s eyes; the marks left by the deep bite of rope on the posts of the bed. She knew, now, exactly what had befallen the woman her husband loved. She would have to tell him. But not now. She could not bear it yet.

  “Leave me,” she begged again, unwilling to look into his eyes.

  “Not until I know you are all right.”

  Isobel, convinced she would never again claim that state, turned her face away.

  Just then she heard a rap at the door, followed by the voice of one of Dougal’s warriors. “My Laird! The bastard MacNab waits below with your Lady Wife’s father, asking to speak wi’ you.”

  Isobel felt Dougal stiffen. Just as when they lay together in passion, it seemed she could sense the emotions moving through him—rage and now, strangely, regret.

  “Do no’ fear,” he told her. “I will deal with him, and speak with your father as he deserves. Be well, Wife. I will return.”

  He removed himself from the room like a thundercloud rolling before a strong wind. Isobel felt relief, overwhelming sadness, and bone-deep exhaustion.

  Meg came in, so quietly Isobel barely knew she was there, and interrupted the tears that had claimed her patient.

  “There now,” she said, never one for softness. “Did it go badly with my brother, then? He never blamed you for this?”

  “He did not.” Isobel wished only to go on weeping. “But I will need to tell him… He loves her still.”

  “Her?” Meg frowned.

  “Aisla. I remember... I know, now, what she suffered while in MacNab’s hands. He threatened to treat me the same. If I tell him, Dougal will never let go of his feelings for her.”

  “Do not think on it now. There will be time for talking when you have regained your strength. You need to sleep, and so heal.”

  “I am afraid to sleep, and dream.”

  Meg touched her brow. “You will not dream. I shall stay here with you, if you like.”

  “Thank you. You are good to me.”

  “Sleep, Isobel. The physician is on his way. When he comes, will you see him?”

  �
��Can he tell me if I will conceive again?”

  “No one can tell that.”

  “Then I do not want him. I want only you, Meg—no one but you.”

  “So be it,” Meg said, and it sounded, to Isobel’s ears, like a promise. “I will keep you safe.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “What goes on between my wife and sister?” Dougal asked Lachlan, even though he doubted Lachy had a fit answer. “They formed some mysterious bond while Isobel was ill, and now they seem nearly as close as Meg and Aisla were. Meg fights for Isobel like a she-wolf defending her cubs. I cannot get near my own wife.”

  To Dougal, it seemed all he had done these many days past was fight. Aye, so, and he had no quarrel with that—the anger inside him desired expression with the sword or any other weapon that might come to hand.

  Three weeks had passed since Isobel’s miscarriage, since what Dougal thought of as his final declaration of war with MacNab. By any account, his wife should be regaining her strength and her health. Dougal had spent most of the intervening time out riding his borders in the blustery cold, stealing MacNab’s cattle and setting fire to his outbuildings. He had also, in no uncertain terms, repulsed not one but three visits from Isobel’s father, the first in Randal MacNab’s company on the day after she miscarried.

  “You allowed this to happen to her,” he accused, staring Gerald Maitland in the eye. “As far as I am concerned, you are no longer Isobel’s father, and I will die before I see her in your hands. As for you,” to MacNab, himself, “the next time you darken my door—you or that misshapen demon you call a son—I will see you dead!”

  After that, Gerald Maitland came alone, to be turned away with alacrity. A period of filthy weather ensued, and Maitland did not show his face again. Dougal did not know, and little cared, if he remained at MacNab’s keep or had returned home to Yorkshire.

  What did worry him was his wife’s state, both mental and physical. She languished in her room, took little to eat, and worst of all refused to see him.

  “What has Meg told you?” he asked an uncharacteristically quiet Lachlan now. “I know you are sleeping with her—’tis the talk of the household.”