“What has happened?” Isobel could barely form the words.
Ewan drew near again, his face lined with regret. “Gregor was shot. When we left Craiglocky, he fought for his life.”
“Dear God, no.” Isobel clapped a hand to her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes. She shook her head, her hair billowing about her shoulders. “No. No.”
Not Gregor.
Yancy paused at the door, his features oddly tender. “I shall get your clothes. They should be dry.”
The moment the door clicked shut, she buried her face in the pillow, sobs wrenching her. Dear Gregor had been wounded. Did he live? A wave of nausea slammed into her. He must. The gentle giant couldn’t die. He couldn’t.
She’d made a horrid cake of everything—caught bare as a bone in bed with Yancy by her father and brothers. Given Yancy’s reputation, they wouldn’t believe nothing happened.
How could she face them? Or Mother? Fresh shame engulfed her. To spare her family the disgrace, she’d go away, God only knew where, though.
Ten minutes later, hair plaited and eyes undoubtedly red and swollen, Isobel emerged. Only Ewan, Father, and Harcourt remained with Yancy. He had dressed and sat at the table, a guarded expression on his face. Tension firmed his mouth, and anger simmered in his eyes.
The fire had burned out during the night and no one had attempted to start another. They must intend to leave immediately.
Ewan stood near the windows, his back to the others.
The day promised a repeat of yesterday. Cold, dank, and miserable. Normal for Scotland, and a perfect description of her heart as well.
The door swung open and Dugall stamped inside. “It be a dreich day.”
Yes, a dreadful day, indeed.
He shook off his wet plaid. “The beasties be ready.”
Isobel advanced into the room and draped her shoulders with her cloak. “I take it we’re to leave at once?”
Ewan turned from staring outside. “Just as soon as the vows have been spoken.”
Isobel froze in fastening the braided cord at her throat. “Vows?”
She almost gagged on the croak that emerged. Determined not to glance at Yancy, she drew in a bracing breath. Nonetheless, she sensed his penetrating gaze willing her to look his way.
What of Matilda? She’s ruined too.
“Aye, lass.” Father strode to her. He touched her damaged cheek, compassion having replaced the wrath in his eyes earlier. “Ye’ve been compromised. I would save ye some embarrassment. Ye and the earl can exchange yer vows here. No one need know how we found ye before ye wed.”
Except, everyone would in any event.
Attempting to stifle what the clan members witnessed in the bedchamber was as futile as trying to keep snow from melting over a blazing fire or damming the River Tay with a hairpin.
Nigh on impossible.
Father motioned to Dugall and Ewan. “Yer brothers and me be the witnesses. And the duke, too. I’ll have the rector register the marriage when we get home.”
Harcourt remained silent, his usual mocking expression gone sober.
What a confounded mess.
Isobel stepped away and continued securing her cloak. She examined each in turn, forcing a smile. “You’ve thought this through, it seems. And what if Lord Ramsbury doesn’t wish to marry me?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, afraid of his response, yet knowing what she must do, no matter his reply.
Yancy rose and after a swift, guarded glance at Ewan, started toward her.
“That’s far enough. You’ll not touch my sister again until you are husband and wife.” His countenance stony, Ewan fingered his sword.
A hungry bear proved more amiable.
“Oh, good heavens, Ewan. Leave off, will you, please?” Isobel felt rather like a cranky she-bear herself.
“Isobel, look at me.” Though Yancy’s tone remained gentle, she couldn’t ignore his request.
To keep her features composed, she curled her toes in her half-boots.
He smiled that dashing smile of his, sending her silly heart into palpitations. “I want to marry you.”
What did one threaten an earl of the realm and Britain’s War Secretary to make him acquiesce to a forced marriage?
“Of course you do.” She released a humorless laugh and fluttered her fingers in Ewan’s direction.
Ewan regarded her warily.
“I am sure my brother’s blade and whatever they threatened to do to you if you didn’t make an honest woman of me has nothing to do with your eagerness to wed.” She flinched at the shrill sarcasm in her voice.
Harcourt could take lessons from her today. She shot him a glance.
Compassion simmered in his silvery eyes, and he offered a kind smile.
Dugall couldn’t hide his discomfit. Suddenly absorbed in the scarred floor, he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
So, they had threatened Yancy.
No surprise, there.
They were Scots, after all. In addition to be ferociously protective and loyal, the Scottish weren’t above using less than finesse means to obtain what they desired. Ewan had tricked Yvette into marrying him by similar means, albeit he had done so to keep her from certain ravishment.
Rather surprising His Grace hadn’t objected or done something to aid Yancy. Perhaps he had tried, but to no avail.
“Isobel, I honestly do wish to marry you,” Yancy said. “Nothing would make me happier.”
So sincere were his voice and expression, she could almost convince herself he cared for her.
“Thank you, Lord Ramsbury. I am honored and humbled by your offer.” She gave him what she hoped appeared a grateful smile. Quite difficult to do when her heart had been rent in two. “However, none of this muddle is of your making, and I take full responsibility for everything.”
“Be that as it may, lass, he still be obliged to marry ye. He was caught in yer bed.” His eyes bleary, Father held out his hand. “Let’s be about it then, shall we? Yer Mother’s frantic for yer return.”
She stared at his large, calloused hand for a long moment then lifted her gaze. Surely, regret shone in them. Isobel shook her head. “No, I think not.”
“What do ye mean, nae?” Brows wrinkled and lips pursed, Dugall appeared wholly baffled. He turned to their father. “Make her see reason, Da.”
Father sighed and sympathy lined his craggy face. “Ye dinna have a choice, lass.”
“You cannot be serious.” Ewan planted his hands on his hips, glaring as if he would like to paddle her.
“I’ll be tarred and feathered.” Harcourt laughed. “Seems like you have escaped the parson’s mousetrap, Ramsbury. By a whisker.”
He chortled again.
“Why not?” Yancy angled his head, his gaze searching hers.
If she didn’t know better, she would think him sincerely confused. Wounded, even.
She twisted her hands in the cloak. “My reasons are my own.”
“You must marry. You’re ruined twice over as it is.” Ewan paced about the room, flinging her frustrated looks. “This is utterly ridiculous.”
“I quite agree.” Isobel angled toward the door. She had to escape before she ran screaming like a lunatic. Her reserve of dignity had depleted to a thimbleful.
Ewan swung to Yancy. “Ramsbury, will you take Isobel as your wife?”
She whirled to confront Ewan. “That is beyond the pale, Ewan. Just stop. Now.”
If she had her parasol, she would whack him, the overbearing, interfering arse.
“I will.” His unblinking gaze trained on her, Yancy stared into her soul. “And I do.”
God, how she wished he weren’t being forced to marry her, wished he’d actually chosen to ask her, wished he
hadn’t compromised Matilda and promised to marry the girl.
If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
“Isobel, please, say you’ll take Ramsbury as your husband.” A pleading tone entered Ewan’s voice. He truly was desperate to protect her. Her heart thawed a degree. Bless him and his misguided efforts.
All she had to do was say yes. Simple as that. Under Scottish law, she and Yancy would be legally married.
“I know what you are trying to do, Ewan, and though I appreciate the sentiment behind it, you overstep the bounds.” Heavy of heart and foot, Isobel turned her back. She’d disappointed them and all but obliterated any prospect for her future happiness. Everything had gone to hell in a handcart.
She couldn’t bear to glance Yancy’s way, or she would burst into tears. At the off-kilter door, she held her breath, her eyes and mouth pressed into tight lines, as she struggled for control.
She didn’t want the men outside to see her in a state, nor could she remain inside where any moment, her composure would crumble like a month-old ginger biscuit.
“Isobel?” Softly treading footsteps approached. Yancy turned her to face him.
No, don’t say it. Don’t ask me, I beg of you.
Don’t make me deny the thing I want most in the world.
He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his troubled eyes. “Will you marry me?”
She swallowed as a tear seeped from the corner of one eye. “I cannot.”
Bending nearer, he searched her eyes, his gaze tender. He caressed her chin with his thumb. “Why?”
The door burst open, smacking her hard and shoving her into Yancy’s arms. His scent and arms engulfed her simultaneously.
Kinley, breathless, sweaty, and smelling of horse, tromped into the cottage. “Riders be approachin’, movin’ fast, and bearin’ MacHardy’s colors.”
Chapter 24
“Please do exactly as I ask, Isobel. MacHardy is as ruthless as the men who took you.” One hand on Isobel’s elbow, Yancy led the group from the hut. He firmed his grip on her arm. “Do you understand? Promise me.”
Her turquoise gaze probing, she scrutinized his face. What did she seek?
“I promise.”
Easing from his clasp, she stepped away. A mantel of despair shrouded her, evident in her bowed head and slumped shoulders.
Drizzle seeped from the dreary morning sky, shadowing the glade laden in foggy grayness. Two score brawny Scots, heavily armed and alert, sat mounted and awaiting orders.
How the hell had he not heard that entourage arrive?
An entire bottle of whisky, that’s how.
The crushing pain in his skull threatened to cross his eyes. No more than he deserved for such overindulgence.
Skye, along with several other saddled horses, shuffled restlessly. The horseflesh seemed as eager to be done with this business and return home as he.
And Isobel, for certain.
He ventured a glimpse toward her.
Regal as a queen, her delicate features outwardly composed, tumult simmered within the depths of her eyes. Placing her hood over her head, she shifted away from his scrutiny and stared into the mossy trees. She had fared the worst of all of them, and given this morning’s ill-fated events, the conundrum hadn’t fully played out.
By God, if she didn’t accept his suit—
Not now.
Yancy shoved her rejection and his dismay accompanying her rebuff to an isolated corner of his mind. Later, at his leisure, he would examine them. More pressing matters demanded his attention. MacHardy’s brazenness didn’t bode well.
He sought the Scot who’d brought the news. “What are the baron’s numbers, and how far away are they, Mister—?”
“Kinley, yer lordship.” Hand on his belt, the Scot bobbed his head respectfully. “Fourteen men, and they be two miles, maybe a wee bit more to the northeast.”
“Dugall, please help your sister mount.” Yancy stopped himself short of ordering McTavish to put Isobel on Skye. “She’s to ride with you.”
Isobel hurried to do as he bid, a mite more eagerly than he liked.
Yancy turned to face Sethwick. “I trust you dealt with the Blackhalls?”
“Yes.” Sethwick sent a guarded glance to his sister. “We won’t have any more difficulties from that quarter.”
He slipped a dirk into his boot. “Other than a few ambitious fools possessing more bravado than common sense, the rest dropped their weapons swifter than hot pokers pressed to their nether regions the moment we stormed the gates.”
“The majority of the scunners be threatened and coerced into doin’ Blackhall’s biddin’.” Sir Hugh stretched his arms overhead then flexed his wide shoulders. “They be havin’ nae more desire for a conflict with other clans or England than we do.”
“They were eager to cooperate, and in return, I gave them my word the Crown wouldn’t seek retribution.” Sethwick adjusted his plaid before tightening the belt at his waist.
Fingering the silver buttons on his coat, Yancy considered Sethwick. The man’s diplomatic skills were legendary, as was his temper. “That was wise and a far better way to earn men’s loyalty then trying them for treason. What of the MacGraths and Claustons?”
Sethwick actually smiled as he swept his dark hair off his forehead before placing his tam atop his head. “Except for a few rogue malcontents, the other tribes weren’t involved in the unrest. Angus Blackhall and MacHardy contrived the whole scheme to get Tornbury lands.”
“Aye. A few stolen plaids and strategically bandyin’ some names about had people convinced the MacGraths and Claustons be aligned with Dounnich House.” Sir Hugh hitched up his trews, his thoughtful gaze focused on Isobel. Lines of worry creased his forehead. He fretted for his daughter.
Sethwick grunted and kicked a pinecone. “Angus was an idiot for believing MacHardy would share an inch of Tornbury or that there’d be no reprisal if the baron had succeeded in marrying Miss Farnsworth.”
Yancy rubbed his sore nape and smothered a yawn. He didn’t favor sleeping on the floor and neither did his aching muscles. “You’re saying MacHardy contrived the entire rebellion rumor so he could get his grubby hands on Tornbury’s lands?”
Dammit, what kind of blind chucklehead didn’t suspect that very thing? In hindsight, the ploy was as glaring as Prinny in his puce cutaway and breeches. A feudal baron, MacHardy’s greed for land knew no bounds.
Had love done that to Yancy, distracted and jumbled his mind to the point he couldn’t perform his duties? Self-castigation stabbed him.
Fool.
Both Sethwick and Sir Hugh nodded. A hint of compassion shone in the latter’s dark eyes, but Sethwick’s gaze remained coolly aloof.
“What maggot got into MacHardy’s head? To take that kind of a colossal risk for grazing land and pristine water?” Yancy snorted. “Bloody imbecile.”
“Seems gold be discovered a wee while back.” Pursing his mouth, Sir Hugh’s face crinkled with a squint as if trying to recall when. “I heard rumors a year ago, meself. Farnsworth tried to keep it close to his chest, but news of that kind canna stay hidden verra long.”
Gold?
All this chaos because of greed?
A muscle in Yancy’s jaw jumped with suppressed rage. Men died yesterday, though the renegades deserved their fate. Gregor’s life hung in the balance, perhaps had been forfeited, and Yancy’s hope of winning Isobel may have been crushed to dust.
For what? So men could line their pockets?
“Our few wounded are en route to Craiglocky.” Sethwick’s announcement jolted Yancy back to the present.
“What of Angus and Dunbar?” Perched atop Dugall’s massive beast, Isobel’s quiet question echoed loudly through the clearing. Strain pinched her pretty face.
Sethwick’s features softened. “Dead. You’ve nothing to fear from them ever again, Isobel. Neither does Lydia.”
Her countenance revealed neither relief nor joy at the news, but rather resignation. She idly toyed with the horse’s mane. “Tasara and her brother and sister?”
“Safe and on their way back to the gypsy encampment with their father.” Harcourt offered the information.
Something in his voice alerted Yancy. He eyed the duke. Harcourt appeared inordinately absorbed in a blob of mud on the toe of his usually shiny boot.
Sethwick grinned as if he was privy to an amusing secret. “There’s a tale you must hear.”
A flush stole up Harcourt’s face, and the glower he shot Sethwick would have laid out a lesser man.
Several Scots snickered.
Yancy gave them a stern stare. “Another time, perhaps.”
No perhaps about it. Harcourt didn’t color. Come to think of it, he did seem rather subdued. Just how had he acquired his bruised eye?
That would have to wait. More important matters loomed. “Harcourt, take all but half a dozen men and conceal yourselves amongst the trees. Miss Ferguson goes as well.”
Isobel opened her mouth, probably to protest, but snapped it shut at the severe look Yancy sent her. Good. She intended to keep her word.
He inspected Sethwick’s men. Better trained than His Majesty’s Army, he would wager. They might very well need to put their skills to use again. “Once MacHardy’s party arrives, watch for me to mount. That’s your cue to surround them.”
With a stiff inclination of his head, Harcourt wordlessly slung onto his steed then led the others into the surrounding wood. Within moments, they had vanished into the grayness.
The day’s gloom and poor visibility provided a perfect covering. MacHardy wouldn’t realize he was outnumbered and entrapped until too late. Likely the sod hadn’t figured on Sethwick outriding him and overtaking Yancy and Isobel before the baron did.
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 18