Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  “So unfair!” Tears flooded Catherine’s eyes. “What did we do that was so wrong, except love?”

  “I am sorry,” Isobel murmured, heartfelt. She could scarcely believe the plans she and Catherine had hatched together so innocently had caused such devastation.

  “Your father is a bailiff?” Dougal asked Thomas. “And, what work can you do?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I was promised a place in Bristol as a clerk. I and my two older brothers were taught to read and write, but Father also brought us up learning to run the estate.”

  “Fine, that, and I can use you. It is as my wife says, however. We are at war with a neighbor. MacNab is a treacherous bastard who has captured the ear of the King and speaks poison of me. I should like naught better than to see both Randal and Bertram MacNab dead. I mean to achieve it if I can. I am known in the district as the Devil Black MacRae.” He paused to drink from his cup. “If any of that daunts you, then, aye, you had better take a day’s rest and be on your way. For things here are ugly now, and bound to grow still uglier.”

  Thomas’s face, usually so open and sunny, looked guarded. The bailiff’s lad, Isobel thought, had changed; a man appeared to have emerged in his stead. He said, “I shall be glad of the place. And I shall fight whomever necessary to keep my wife safe.”

  Dougal did not smile, but he did extend a hand. “Then, man, we are of exactly one mind.”

  Later, in the privacy of Isobel’s bedchamber, the two sisters exchanged whispers and further confidences. Isobel knew Dougal was out riding his borders. She had no idea where Thomas might be—perhaps finding remedy for his exhaustion in sleep. She knew her own healing, as so often in the past, lay in confessing her thoughts to her sister and trading accounts of hardships. Sleepless, they spoke long into the night, and Isobel was hard put to tell which of them had the harsher tale. Catherine clung to Isobel and wept over the account of her sister’s miscarriage, and shuddered at her depictions of Bertram MacNab.

  “To think what I so narrowly escaped! And, you, also! But, your husband—is he in grave trouble over this business with the King?”

  “I hope not. Losing his lands would kill him. And should I lose him,” Isobel added simply, “it will kill me.”

  “You love him!” Catherine spoke in wonder. “Yet he is nothing like the lads of whom we dreamed as girls.”

  “What did I know then?”

  “There seems a darkness in him,” Catherine proposed, “a ruthlessness.”

  Isobel conceded, “They do not call him Devil Black for naught. Yet he has claimed my heart.” The next words came harder. “My sorrow lies in the fact that he can never love me. His heart will always belong to another.” She told Catherine briefly, in a whisper, of the woman who had died in MacNab’s hands, and the grief that yet rode Dougal MacRae.

  “It is a grief that time has not put right,” she concluded. “I cannot put it right, either. I fear nothing can.”

  “Except your love for him,” said Catherine, almost with her old innocence. “I know love can overcome anything. You must believe!”

  “I wish I could,” Isobel said sadly. “My heart is not the hopeful thing it was, when we were girls. But oh, Catherine, I never dreamed it could love so strong. If I follow it, I will follow him anywhere—through any difficulty, storm or fire—if only he will let me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “You must allow me to accompany you,” Isobel beseeched her husband, not for the first time. “As your wife, it is my right to be there and speak on your behalf. It may make a difference. I have much to say to the King, and you shall not face him alone.”

  And, Isobel thought to herself, she refused to watch Dougal ride from her, not knowing if she would ever see him again. The summons from the King had come three days ago, and since then she had been sick over it, and desperate to persuade Dougal round to her thinking.

  She could beg the King for her husband’s life if necessary, and promise anything in return for mercy. But Dougal shook his head, a closed look coming to his face—just like every other time she asked him.

  “Stay here,” he bade, “where you are safe.”

  “What good is my safety, if I lose you?” They stood in the bedchamber they now once more shared. “If you do not return to me?” Isobel felt perilously close to tears—they threatened to blind and choke her. “I could not bear it!”

  Dougal caught her shoulders between his hands and stared into her eyes, and she found herself unable to hide anything from him. All her love and longing must be visible, for he lowered his voice and his tone became unusually gentle.

  “Do not worry, Wife, I will return. Do I not take your brother-in-law, the erstwhile Thomas, with me to speak as to the situation, and MacNab’s part in it? The King shall hear how events transpired, and that MacNab is not blameless.”

  “Oh, Thomas!” Isobel exclaimed with some disparagement. She found herself unimpressed with Catherine’s husband, who now seemed almost staid and lacking in fire. “Why should the King listen to him?”

  “He can give the truth of it, how Bertram MacNab’s betrothed was actually the woman who became his wife, not mine, and how the switch came about.”

  “And I can tell the King the truth about MacNab—how he abducted me from my own garden—”

  “As I abducted you on the road?”

  “—and what he meant to do to me, had I not escaped.”

  “Wife, I ken fine you are afraid—”

  “You know nothing of it. Can you imagine how it will be for me waiting, not knowing how you fare? Surely I will be safer, even traveling, in your company.”

  Some emotion moved in the stormy grey eyes: caution, perhaps. “Nay, but I would not have you possibly return from Stirling alone—”

  “Alone?”

  “Should I be taken into custody.”

  Isobel’s heart dropped sickeningly. “You say that will not happen.”

  His lips tightened in an ironic smile. “It should not. Still, if happen it did, you would be vulnerable.”

  “I would be with the erstwhile Thomas, would I not?”

  That made Dougal grimace. “Stay here under guard, please, with your sister and Meg. Do this for me.”

  Since he asked it so, Isobel could not refuse—she would deny him nothing. But her head came up and she met his eyes in challenge. “I will, Husband, but only if you will do something for me in return, before you go.” At the question in his eyes, she began to unfasten his tunic, and tug free the shirt beneath. “Lie with me now. If I am to be left without you, I would at least have your child.”

  The mist in his eyes ignited and transformed into fire. He would not deny her this, Isobel thought, and she would savor every kiss, every touch. For this memory might have to last her a lifetime.

  ****

  “For the love of all that is holy, will you not sit down?” Meg begged impatiently. “You have been pacing for hours; you will drive me round the twist.”

  The three women shared the solar, on a day turned vicious and cold. Outside, the wind once more tore at the stones of the keep, shrieking like a woman in mourning.

  The fire in the hearth barely succeeded in fighting back the pervasive chill, which seemed to have penetrated clear to Isobel’s heart.

  “I cannot help it,” she said. “I am unable to settle. They will be in Stirling by now, yes? Do you think he has seen the King?”

  Meg shrugged. “The King is capricious and lives by his own rules. He may not have arrived as expected. The weather may have kept him.”

  “I will go mad with not knowing!”

  “And you will drag us with you.” Meg sounded truly exasperated. She shot a look at Catherine. “Can you not reason with your sister?”

  Somewhat to Isobel’s surprise, her sister and sister-in-law got on amazingly well. At the moment, they definitely stood united.

  “Sit down, pray, Isobel,” Catherine bade. “Give us all some rest.” In an aside to Meg, she went on, “Isobel has always be
en headstrong which, indeed, began all this trouble.”

  “Me? And I suppose you have naught to do with it? No matter,” Isobel exclaimed bitterly, “recount my past sins if you will. I care for but one thing.”

  “You should care for your own well-being,” Meg said. “Lachlan tells me MacNab has sent out raiding parties these two nights past—when Lachy and our warriors rode out, they saw the tracks in the snow.”

  “I am concerned with my own safety.” Isobel knew full well MacNab wished to get his hands on her again, his sole purpose, now, revenge. MacNab could have no way of knowing Catherine—Bertram’s true intended—was now here at MacRae’s keep, nor that she had also become another man’s wife. He wanted to cause pain, distress, and fear.

  “Then behave accordingly,” Catherine said. “Sit down and sew.”

  “I cannot possibly!” But Isobel did pause in her pacing to eye Catherine’s needlework. She labored at embroidering a tiny white gown for her baby, a lovely thing that evoked pleasant images. Fleetingly, Isobel wondered if her seduction of her husband, the morning he left for Stirling, had good effect. He had certainly been thorough in his pursuit of the task...

  “Since when do you sew?” she demanded of Catherine.

  “Motherhood requires patience,” Catherine told her implacably, placing one hand on her expanded belly. “As you may one day learn.”

  Isobel, spared from answering that ridiculous statement, swung round as the chamber door opened and Lachlan came in. She did not miss the way Meg’s face lit at the sight of him.

  Lachlan, clad for the outdoors and wearing his sword, looked unusually grim. He beckoned to Meg, who rose and went to him. They held a whispered conversation.

  “It is rude, that,” Isobel protested, “keeping secrets in front of others.”

  The couple parted and looked at her. Lachlan spoke, “I am saying only that I will be out riding with a troop of men. I have doubled the guard—”

  “Why?” Isobel demanded. “Because you saw tracks in the snow?”

  Lachlan exchanged looks with Meg, who shrugged.

  “Aye,” Lachlan spoke directly to Isobel. “I swore to Dougal I would keep you safe while he was away. I would sooner perish than fail in that.”

  “You believe we are in danger?”

  Lachlan scowled. “I do. The weather is vile, and I am thinking raiders from MacNab’s keep could use that as cover for creeping in close. I mean to ride the borders, even if I freeze myself through.”

  “Dougal has a good friend in you,” Isobel told him.

  Lachlan’s eyes once more flew to Meg. “Aye, so, but do not forget I have a treasure of my own here to guard.”

  He went out and a brief silence ensued. Then Isobel observed, “He is in love with you, Meg.”

  “Foolish man!” Once more Meg sounded exasperated.

  “How do you feel for him?” Both Isobel and Catherine stared at their companion, awaiting her answer.

  “I swore off love long ago,” Meg replied acerbically, “if that is what you ask.”

  “Just like your brother,” Catherine observed comfortably. “But the head cannot always command the heart, and yon Lachlan is a charming bugger. How do you truly feel?”

  For an instant it seemed Meg would not answer, then a spark of mischief entered her dark eyes, and her lips curved in a smile. “I have to admit, I will not be glad to see the back of him any time soon. As you say, he is charming as a hound pup, or a child—but he loves like a man. I vowed, after murdering my last husband, I would never take up with another, yet I now find myself content.”

  Catherine lowered her sewing and stared. “You murdered your last husband?”

  “Do not fash yourself. He deserved it,” Meg said breezily.

  “And Lachlan knows of this?”

  Meg smiled. “I told you he is a fool.”

  For Isobel, the day dragged on. She paced the solar and, when her companions continued to complain, the hallways, where drafts of cold air made her shiver. She was one of the first to hear the pounding at the front door.

  Could it be Dougal, returned? But no—surely not so soon.

  Two of the household guards, one the estimable Rab, ran to the door, Rab with his sword drawn. But when the door was drawn open, Isobel saw her husband’s own warriors in a cluster and bearing a rough litter constructed of cloaks and pine poles.

  The men spoke together, quick and fierce, their accents blurring the words. Isobel ran forward to see a man on the litter, covered in blood—Lachlan. He looked dead.

  She gasped, and Rab roughly pushed her out of the way. “Lady, let us get him in!”

  “What happened?” Isobel asked. “Does he yet live?”

  One of the men bearing the litter answered her, though she caught perhaps one word in ten. They had come under attack by a large number of MacNab’s warriors under the leadership of Bertram MacNab. Lachlan had fought valiantly, as had they all, but once he fell it became a battle on the part of the others to get him away.

  “They came like an army,” the man told Rab. “They mean to attack while the Devil is awa’.”

  Isobel’s heart clenched in her chest, but she had eyes only for Lachlan.

  She lifted her voice and called, “Meg! Meg, come quickly!”

  The two women ran from the solar into the ghastly scene. Isobel watched the color drain from Meg’s face.

  Meg wasted no time with questions and instead gestured to the men. “Bring him into the solar, where ’tis warm. Carefully, now!”

  “How sore hurt is he?” Isobel asked her sister-in-law. “Can you save him?”

  Meg shook her head. “Who can say? There is healing in these hands, as well as harm. I cannot tell if ’twill be enough.”

  The men bore Lachlan off, and Isobel turned to Rab. “If MacNab attacks the keep, it will hold, yes? Can he breach the defenses?”

  Rab shrugged and his gaze turned uneasy. “We will fight to the man to protect you, Lady—and die if need be.” He grimaced. “Better death by the sword, I am thinking, than to face the ire of the Devil Black.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “So, that is the King of all England and Scotland,” Thomas said wonderingly, and not for the first time. “He was in a right foul mood for himself, was he not?”

  “As vile as this weather,” Dougal replied. The two men, with their escort of warriors, traveled home following an audience with the King during which Dougal had his knuckles slapped quite sharply. He knew he should be grateful—he might have received far more than chastisement. And he was aware much of the credit for it might be laid at the feet of the man who rode beside him.

  Thomas had proved quite forthright and eloquent in his explanations and defense of Dougal, managing to convince James that Dougal had not, in fact, abducted Bertram MacNab’s betrothed since she had never traveled north from Yorkshire and had, at the time, been wed to Thomas himself.

  The King, with a written complaint from Gerald Maitland in his hands—Isobel’s father had not been present—listened and lost a shade of his bad humor.

  “All for the sake of love, was it?” he asked. “Who can fault that? It does not mean, Master MacRae, you can go about snatching women from carriages.”

  “I rescued her from the wreck of a carriage, your highness.”

  James did not swallow it. “You, sir, have a reputation that precedes you. Your neighbors complain ceaselessly of your activities. We tire of listening.”

  “I assure you, Sire, I am mending my ways and have wed just as you, yourself, instructed. I hope for a family soon and mean to devote myself to tending my children and my lands.”

  James grunted, “Do not let us see you here on any future complaint, or it will go badly for you. You have been warned. Now, waste no more of our time.”

  Recalling it now, Dougal narrowed his eyes. “Aye, Thomas—that is the very man who wields the power of life or death over us. This time, thanks to you, he proved lenient. You have a place wi’ me so long as you need
it.”

  “Thank you, MacRae. I promise to serve you as bailiff, faithfully.” Thomas gave Dougal a quick smile. “And perhaps I can help you keep your nose clean, eh?”

  Not while either Randal or Bertram MacNab draws breath, Dougal thought bitterly. Oh, aye, he would act the part of the responsible landowner to the best of his ability, if only for Isobel’s sake. But there were still a number of scores to be settled, and the anger inside him would find no rest until it knew revenge.

  Right now, however, he just wanted to get home, to reach journey’s end and be with his wife. It astonished him how much he longed for that moment and how he ached to see Isobel, hold her, crawl into bed and avail himself of her warmth.

  That desire sustained him through the many miles from Stirling, through cruel wind and driving sleet. Weary, he and his party reached their own lands just at nightfall, and Dougal knew from crossing his borders that something was amiss. Instinct told him so, a kind of sixth sense acclimated to the land, as well as the absence of the guard.

  He called to his warriors at his back, “Something is very much wrong!” And they pushed their tired mounts hard through the gathering dark.

  For all that, when Dougal beheld his own gates he stared in disbelief. They lay in ruins, charred and broken, and beyond them the forecourt of the keep lay in darkness, a yawning black hole.

  His heart began to pound as if it would force its way out of his chest. He dismounted just inside the forecourt and began to bellow, “Rab! Lachlan! Here, to me!”

  Silence met his ears, but for the sharp wind whistling round the stones. He heard his men mutter to one another and dismount behind him. He stared, transfixed, at his front door.

  Battered, broken like the gates, one of the stout panels had fallen, charred, and there on the threshold he saw the stain of blood.

  He hollered wordlessly and pushed his way inside, his head feeling as if it would burst. And there, coming to meet him, Meg…

  They met in the center of the entry hall, and Dougal wondered at his sister’s appearance—hair loose and flying, face pale—she looked as if all the fire had been taken from her and only sorrow and resignation remained.