Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  “What has happened here?” The words tumbled from him. “When—?”

  “We fell under attack yesterday. He came with a small army and a ram, fire—I placed a spell of protection round the place and your men fought like badgers, but we could not hold.”

  “He?”

  “Need you ask?” Meg’s eyes looked dull, flat like black stones. “Bertram MacNab. They call you the Devil, Brother, but he has earned the name.”

  Dougal’s party entered behind him. He felt them gather, stricken, at his back. He swallowed and asked what he must. “My wife?”

  “Taken, along with her sister.”

  Thomas groaned. “But my wife is with child—”

  Meg shot him a hard look. “Then pray for her, if you believe in anything.”

  Dougal’s tongue tripped on. “Rab? Lachlan?”

  For the first time emotion showed in Meg’s eyes. “Rab is dead, as are most your guard. He fought valiantly and, for a time, held his ground as an army might. They burned him and still he fought. The MacRae blood ran strong in him!”

  Dougal felt the color drain from his face. “And Lachlan?”

  “He lies dying.” Meg’s expression betrayed none of her agony, but it filled her voice. “Everyone left alive here, save two maids and myself, is injured unto death. They would not take me, for they feared my magic. Yet it was no’ strong enough to save anyone.”

  Isobel. Lachlan. Dougal’s mind stuttered over their names, painful as a raw nerve. He knew, then, the complaint to the King has been a ruse, yet another distraction to remove him from the place so the attack could be carried out. MacNab had taken everything he cared for—once again—and left him nothing with which to fight.

  “My wife,” said Thomas, and touched Dougal’s arm. “Somehow, we must get them back—”

  “How?” Dougal asked, looking into the man’s eyes which burned with cold fury. “He has slaughtered my warriors, all but these who ride with me.”

  Thomas said, “We will return to the King, ask him for justice. It will surely be forthcoming—”

  Dougal laughed harshly. “Aye? When? Our women are in that bastard’s hands and, I assure you, one day is too many. You know not what he is.” And I understand him, Dougal thought. I never should have left Isobel here, should have taken her with me as she begged.

  “We must do something!” Thomas protested, heated now. “My wife—”

  “And mine.” Dougal turned to Meg. “Lachlan. Take me to him. The rest of you, check our defenses, what is left of them.”

  Lachlan lay in the solar on a makeshift bed constructed of bloodied cloaks. Meg began to speak as she led Dougal in, as if the words were compelled from her.

  “He was very brave. You know, for years I thought him naught but a pretty boy, but he has proved me wrong—aye, proved me wrong! They injured him in an attack the day before yesterday when he was out with the guard. Our warriors managed to bring him home. He was so sore hurt—yet when MacNab brought the attack here yesterday at dawn, he got up somehow and fought. He fought!”

  The solar, usually the most charming room in the keep, lay in disarray and smelled of blood and sickness. Casting one cursory look about, Dougal saw at least some of the battle had taken place here.

  He went forward and knelt at Lachlan’s side, the sword he wore clanking. “Lachy?” To his dismay, his voice broke. A shocking thing, since he supposed he had conquered all emotion years ago.

  Lachlan’s eyelids fluttered, but he did not otherwise respond.

  Meg sank to her knees beside Lachlan and touched his brow. “I worked over him all night after they brought him in—he and a troop of warriors had been riding the borders when they encountered MacNab attempting to steal back his own cattle. There was a sharp, short battle, the men said. I thought I should lose Lachy. I poured all my magic into him. I have little left, now.”

  Dougal asked, his voice hoarse, “Tell me what transpired when MacNab attacked yesterday.”

  Meg shuddered. “We three women were together here in this room, I keeping watch over Lachlan. Rab, who had gone out on patrol, returned soon after dawn. I think he had an instinct and wanted to be here defending the gates.”

  “The best warriors are all about instinct,” Dougal said, grief gripping his heart.

  “Our men reached the forecourt just before Bertram MacNab and his men attacked. Many of our warriors fell at the outer gates—dragging our dead, they withdrew to the doors of the keep and fought on. When the doors broke, and Rab fell, that is when Lachy pulled himself up. He stood in that doorway and held off MacNab’s men as long as he could. When they at last took him down, I believed him dead.”

  She paused and sucked in a breath. “It felt like my heart tore from my chest. I did not want to love him! I swore I would never again be so weak.”

  To Dougal’s horror, she began to weep broken, ragged sobs into her hands. Dougal experienced one moment’s pure identification with his sister: he knew in full her pain, her dismay, her belief that she had protected herself. He too had grown a shell woven of darkness and hurt, fancying himself untouchable.

  Isobel…

  Yet, he did not love his wife… He feared for her, aye, he desired her, he longed to protect her. But unlike Meg, he was incapable of love.

  And he had little comfort for his sister, now. He did not attempt to take her into his arms. Instead he looked at his friend—his one friend in the world.

  “What are his injuries? His arm, you say?”

  “The original wound was a grievous blow to his chest. His right arm is cut to the bone in two places—I do not know how he held a sword. So many other wounds, I lost count of them.” Meg flipped back the cloak that covered Lachlan. Beneath it he lay naked, a maze of slashes and contusions.

  Dougal winced and raised one hand to the deep scar on his own cheek.

  “He may lose the arm,” Meg went on, “if he lives. I have done all I can, all I know. The fever may defeat me.”

  “Never say that,” Dougal whispered. “He is strong.” And, what would life be without Lachlan at his side, rueful and light of spirit, his humor always matching Dougal’s own and game for any endeavor? “His own courage will save him.”

  Meg turned her head and looked her brother full in the eyes. “I only wish you had possessed such courage when Aisla needed you. It might have prevented all this.”

  Dougal did not duck the accusation in her eyes. “Do you not think I have blamed myself a thousand times?”

  Her lips twisted. “Much good that does us now. Much help to Isobel and Catherine—you know what MacNab will do to them.”

  “You think I will not fight to rescue Isobel?”

  “Will you? As you fought for Aisla?”

  Aye, Dougal thought desperately, passionately, though no word passed his lips. I did the best I could. I failed—I was little more than a lad, and I failed. It shall not end so, this time.

  “Tell me how they left Lachy alive,” he begged.

  “They thought him dead, as did I. MacNab took the women and would have taken me, also, but I threatened him with a curse. I stood over Lachy’s body—I stood, Brother, and defied them. A lesson you might well learn.”

  Dougal nodded, again not dodging the missile of her hate.

  “What will you do?” Meg challenged with a sneer.

  “Give MacNab what he wants—what he has always wanted.”

  Meg lifted a brow. “And, what is that?”

  “Me,” Dougal replied. “I mean to place myself squarely in his hands.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Courage, Catherine,” Isobel said to her sister with assurance she did not truly feel. “You must be brave for the sake of your child, if for no other reason.”

  Catherine made no reply. She had been ill, shivering and vomiting, since they arrived at MacNab’s keep, and that worried Isobel sorely. Truly, Isobel fretted for the babe her sister carried, more than for her own safety.

  At least they were together, she
thought now, and at least Bertram MacNab had not put them in the vile chamber where Isobel had last been held—that where Aisla had been imprisoned and had doubtless died. The bedposts in this bedchamber held no scars, and Isobel would take reassurance wherever she could find it.

  She stroked her sister’s hair, a gesture she had often employed since their mother’s death. Back then, Catherine had clung to her and wept. As the elder, Isobel strove to hide her own grief, even as she hid her terror now.

  “Only think on our Viking ancestors,” she said, “or, indeed, the Scottish ones. Would those brave women weep and moan?”

  “I am not weeping,” Catherine protested, sounding more herself. “I am trying very hard not to be sick. What do you think they will do with us?”

  Isobel dared not answer that truthfully. Her first visit had acquainted her all too well with Bertram MacNab’s depravities. She could only hope to direct his attentions to herself, and so spare Catherine.

  “Thomas will come for me,” Catherine said when Isobel did not answer, holding fiercely to the belief.

  Would he? What would Dougal do when he returned home from Stirling—if he returned home—to find his wife gone? Isobel thought back to the scene at MacRae’s keep when she and Catherine had been dragged away. So many of Dougal’s warriors dead—even poor Lachlan. She remembered Meg standing over her lover’s corpse, fierce and defiant. Could she even imagine Dougal feeling that way toward her?

  And Thomas, she thought, though she did not say, possessed no means to rescue his wife, just as Dougal now possessed no might. Means and might—were both not vital to the kind of battle that would be required?

  She whispered, almost to herself, “Thomas and Dougal are away with the King.”

  “They will return, and soon.”

  Catherine’s assertion made Isobel’s stomach turn over. She knew Dougal might not return. The King might, rather, decide to punish him for past crimes, and even to sentence him to death. If so, did that mean her future lay here, a grim span of days filled with grief for him, pain and endurance? Could she even live without the man she loved? She might well survive, but it would not be living.

  “Thomas will come.” Catherine repeated it like a prayer. “He will come for me and his child.”

  Thomas, a bailiff’s son, not even a bailiff in his own right… He might well throw himself against the stones of Randal MacNab’s stronghold. He might also die there.

  Isobel knew their only hope was Dougal MacRae, her husband, the man she would follow anywhere—the man who loved her not.

  He had loved Aisla and loved her still, but he had let Aisla die here, in the precise place where Isobel now stood.

  “What—?” Catherine began, only to be interrupted by a commotion at the chamber door: harsh voices, an exchange with the guard posted outside, and then the scrape of the bar lifting.

  Isobel, never very devout, began to pray. Please, not Bertram, anyone but Bertram. Please!

  The door swung open, revealing not Bertram MacNab but his father, Randal. Isobel had no way to know which way Randal’s depravities might lie—to cruelty, surely, and the ruthless use of power. But would he carry out the threats his son had made?

  Somehow, Isobel got to her feet, her arm curled protectively around her sister’s shoulders.

  “Sir,” she began before Randal MacNab could speak, “this is an outrage! My sister is ill, and as you can see, she is with child. I demand you release her at once.”

  “You demand, do you?” Randal’s mud-colored eyes, so like his son’s, inspected the two of them with disparagement. “And, wench, why should I do that? My good friend your father asked us to recover his daughter. Shall he not be doubly pleased with both?”

  A spark of hope lit Isobel’s heart. “Is my father here? Or on his way?”

  “No.” MacNab smiled grimly. “But I am empowered to act as his agent in this matter.”

  Isobel thought swiftly. “Fine. Well, send Catherine home to him.”

  “Send the both of us,” Catherine said.

  Randal shook his head. “And then what would I have with which to bargain? Mistress MacRae, I have a score to settle with your husband.”

  “What score?”

  MacNab tossed his head. “A thousand injuries, over any number of generations. Blood for blood—’tis how we do it here. Or, coin for coin.”

  “Coin?” Isobel repeated, foundering.

  “I mean to ransom you,” Randal said, “and the price will be high.”

  Isobel drew a breath. “Ransom me, if you will. Let my sister go. She means nothing to Dougal.” And I, too, mean little enough to him. Yet, it matters not what happens to me—I will pay any price for Catherine’s sake.

  “I shall think on that,” Randal said, and Isobel knew he lied. She had just shown him her weakness and he would use it against her any way he could.

  “When your husband arrives,” he went on, “I shall permit you to observe the negotiations.”

  Again, Isobel’s heart clenched. “He has journeyed to see the King.”

  “Aye, and he has returned again, curse his black heart! Och, well, if James is too lily-livered to do the job for me, I shall take care of it myself.” He waved a hand at the room. “Meanwhile, enjoy your accommodations. As you see, there are no windows through which you might climb.” He bared his teeth. “In fact, there is no way out at all.”

  He went out, and Isobel heard the bar slam down across the door, outside.

  Catherine began, “Well, if he means to ransom us—”

  “He does not,” Isobel said with certainty, “at least, not at once. He will inflict hurt any way he can.”

  Catherine stared at her. “But he said—”

  “Trust no lie coming from that monster’s mouth. What he says matters not at all.”

  Isobel paced the chamber for what felt like hours. Catherine, exhausted, dozed fitfully. The room, cold and bleak, offered no way to tell day from night, but Isobel counted the moments and Bertram did not come to tie her or Catherine to the bed and unleash his vile appetites. She tried to be grateful for that.

  Weariness nibbled at her before she once more heard someone at the door. Her heart dropped, and Catherine, who had at last slept soundly, lifted her head.

  “What is it?”

  Isobel shook her head and curled her fingers into fists as the door opened. She would fight as hard as she could, and for as long as she could.

  Bertram MacNab stood in the doorway, a leer on his face and two guards at his back. Hate seared through Isobel, so fierce it made her lightheaded. She moved and put herself between Catherine and the monster. You shall not touch her.

  Bertram gestured at her. “We need one of you. You choose.”

  Catherine scrambled to her feet to stand beside Isobel. Isobel felt her sister’s fingers catch hers, and hold. Courage…

  “Why?” Catherine asked. “What do you—”

  “I will go,” Isobel cut her off. She did not know what MacNab intended, but better her than Catherine, who had a babe to protect.

  “No!” Catherine cried. “I demand you leave us together! I—”

  Calmly, Bertram stepped forward and slapped Catherine across the face so hard she fell down. When Isobel stooped to lift her, she saw blood at the corner of Catherine’s mouth.

  “Sister?”

  Catherine, bless her, looked angry rather than cowed. Rage glinted in her eyes.

  “Let me go,” Isobel begged. “I will return.”

  “No!”

  “Catherine, please!”

  Unhappy, Catherine subsided. Isobel turned to Bertram. “Take me.”

  His leer widened, and his eyes inspected her with what she very much feared was anticipation. Would these three haul her back to her previous prison, tie her to that bed where Aisla had no doubt died, be the first three to rape her?

  Again she whispered a prayer in her mind, not, strangely enough, to any deity, but to the devil, Devil Black MacRae. Please, please, please…r />
  “Come,” MacNab growled.

  She went with her head high, but her treacherous legs threatened to go out from under her. Down the corridor they went, past the chamber where Isobel had been confined before, down the stairs to the great hall, where Randal MacNab stood waiting with another man.

  Isobel saw it was dark outside the windows—night. Had she and Catherine been here so long? Dawn had just been breaking through the filthy storm when they were dragged in.

  She tried to focus on Randal. The man beside him, squat and ginger-haired, looked nervous. He had a roll of fabric tucked under his arm.

  Randal addressed Isobel abruptly, while still her senses swam. “What part of you will your husband recognize?”

  “Eh?”

  “We need a token to show him, to prove our intentions when he comes.”

  “If he comes,” Bertram put in. “The Devil Black likes to play the dangerous villain, but we all know his heart is white.”

  “He will come,” Randal told his son. “’Twill be a point of pride with him. So, Mistress, what will your husband recognize? This man, here, is a surgeon.” He grimaced. “Well, so, he is a barber, which is nearly the same thing.”

  Isobel gasped, and for an instant the room went dark around her. They could not mean what they said!

  The ginger-haired man unfurled his roll of fabric; it contained an array of knives arranged small to large.

  “Come now,” Randal told Isobel. “What token?”

  “You are mad!”

  Bertram laughed, a strange, high-pitched giggle.

  The ginger-haired barber looked at Isobel uneasily. “Her hair?” he suggested. “’Tis bonny hair. Surely her husband will recognize—”

  “Yes,” Isobel said through a throat constricted by terror.

  “Na, na!” Randal waved a hand. “Perhaps a finger.”

  “A strip of flesh off her arse,” Bertram suggested, “or a nipple. Sure, he will know her nipple.”

  Isobel’s legs failed her, and she sank to the floor. “No,” she mumbled.