She did not move away. She did not stop him. She pulled his shirt, bringing him closer to her. Dar dropped his hands from her head and stroked down her arms before sliding his hands around to her back and embracing her. Pulling her up against him hard, he had no doubt she could feel his rigid flesh between their bodies.
But did it frighten her? Nay, not his Isobel. She let out a slight gasp and then met his gaze. ‘Kiss me again, Athdar.’
And he did. He wrapped himself around her, lifting her up to meet his mouth and taking hers. The feel of her tongue against his nearly undid the control he was struggling to keep strong. He stopped and let her explore his mouth, ignoring the blinding need to lay her down and fill her with himself. Every touch of her tongue, every time she clutched at his shirt and slid her fingers unknowingly across his nipples, his body screamed for him to break free and take her.
Then a sound from below broke into the heated haze surrounding them and he lifted his mouth from hers and listened. Other than the sound of their breathing, both of them panting from the pleasure, none other came to them. But it gave him a chance to realise that he had crossed a line with her.
A very desirable and pleasing line, but one that an honourable man did not break with an innocent unless there was an understanding between them. When he attempted to step back, she resisted, tightening her grasp on his shirt and leaning against him. She let him go, but watched him with wide, intent eyes. Uncertain of what to say, he waited on her to speak, expecting she was overwhelmed by the power of the passion between them. When she did not, he finally found words.
‘Do you regret this?’ he asked softly as he leaned over and picked her shawl up from the floor.
‘Regret?’ She shook her head. ‘I regret only that you stopped.’
Did she have no idea of the enchanting temptation that she was to him? Of the danger someone like her, her, presented to him? Clearly not.
‘Someone had to or...’
‘So you regret...this?’ she asked. ‘That you acted this way, then?’ Sadness seeped into her voice. Something he never wanted to hear there.
‘My behaviour has been less than honourable towards you, Isobel. You should go now.’ He whispered that warning, praying she would understand how close to disaster they now stood.
‘I should go? To my chamber? Back to Lairig Dubh?’
She put a pace’s distance between them and crossed her arms over her chest, pulling the shawl tight over her breasts. Breasts that had recently been pushed up against his chest. Nipples that had tightened against him even if she was unaware of it. Considering the path of his thoughts, there was only one answer.
‘Both.’
Her gaze narrowed and, for a moment, he recognised the same glare her father was so famous for being sent in his direction.
‘You would send me away?’ she asked.
‘This was wrong,’ he said, nodding at the area around them. ‘No man should touch you that way, kiss you that way, unless you are betrothed.’ He knew she waited on that offer, but it was not coming. It could not come from him.
Instead of going to her chambers, she stepped closer, studying his face. Then a mutinous expression filled her face and her lower lip curled. No matter what she would say, Athdar understood he was in trouble.... Big trouble.
‘You would send me away out of fear?’
Had it been so clear in his expression, then, that she could read it?
‘Aye. Fear,’ he answered, crossing his arms, as well, but more in an attempt to keep himself from grabbing her once more. ‘Fear of you. Fear for you. Fear that I will take your virtue but am unable to offer you more than that passion. Fear that I will—’
He stopped himself then. He could not admit wholly the control his past yet held over him, not to her. His true fear was that he would break her heart and be unable to protect her. That whatever deadly fate had stalked the other women in his life would pursue her. Now, looking at her face and in her eyes, he knew that if anything happened to her, it would be the death of him.
‘You must go,’ he whispered. ‘Back to your chamber. We will talk about the rest in the morning.’ He pointed down the dark corridor towards the room.
‘Tell me why? Tell me why this promising beginning cannot continue towards something else? Is it because of Mairi’s death? Or Seonag’s?’ She reached up and touched his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes. ‘I do not believe you are cursed, Athdar.’
‘Neither did they. Neither did Tavia. But they are dead now, are they not?’ He could not stop the frustration and resignation from bursting through now. She’d unleashed it, first with her innocent passion and now with her insightful questions. ‘Any woman who ties herself to me dies. I will not risk you.’
‘Well, I do not regret what happened between us, Athdar. And I will not act otherwise.’ She lifted her chin and watched him, and though he should say words that would scare her away, he just did not want her to believe he regretted what happened between them this night or over these past weeks.
He placed his finger under her chin and lifted it even higher. Then he leaned over and touched his mouth to hers, just to feel the heat and the passion that simmered inside of her once more before he sent her away. Her mouth, with its mutinous firmness, softened under his touch and her lips moulded to his. Then he lifted his head and stepped away, allowing his hand to drop.
‘Regret that? Never? But you...you I will always regret.’ Not taking the chance of her misunderstanding, he made it clear between them. ‘Nothing more can or will happen between us, Isobel. Nothing. So return to your chamber and, on the morrow, we will find a way for you to return home.’
Other than a slight narrowing of her gaze, she did not react. She stared at him for several moments before turning away from him. She gathered up her shawl and picked up the lantern from the floor before walking back to the end of the corridor and her chambers. Nothing, not a word or gesture, spoke of her acceptance of his decision or her abidance of his orders. Instead, she tilted her head as though studying him before lifting the latch to her door and going inside.
Athdar returned to his chamber. He should have felt content that she understood the situation between them and that nothing more could come of this desire and attraction they each had for the other. He undressed and climbed into his bed, but as he lay down and tried to find sleep, the truth struck him.
Isobel had not taken his words, his declaration, as the fact of how things would be between them. Nay, she had not. Instead he understood now the parting glance she had given him for he’d seen it in his sister’s gaze and in Mairi’s and Seonag’s at times.
The expression was one of accepting a challenge made.
God help him, he was in more danger now than ever before.
* * *
He does not remember.
He does not remember the cost that he will pay.
He desires her and cannot stay away from her.
Her father is not the only danger he faces if he continues to pursue her.
A reminder is needed.
He must remember the terrible cost he must pay.
For ever.
Chapter Twelve
The next few days were strange ones for Isobel.
After her encounter with Athdar and the passion that had flared between them, she could not go back to being ignorant of his feelings. And she did not wish to.
The morning after had been awkward at first, but she moved through the day, helping move Laria into the keep and setting up the workroom she would use. Laria’s cottage was much too far from the keep during winter’s storms, so her practice over the last decade or so had been to situate herself in the keep from which she could reach or be taken to places in the village more easily.
It took most of the next day to finish setting up the looms with help from N
essa and others. Some of the older kin who visited told tales of Jocelyn working side by side with her mother when she was just a young girl. In spite of any unease, Athdar did help out, getting everything set up and then watching as she began weaving. Unused to this loom, it took her a while to get things adjusted, the correct tensions on the threads, the positioning of the weights and the choice of a pattern, but by late in the afternoon she sat working in a familiar rhythm and soon produced a length of fabric.
There was a moment that felt unreal to her.
While still working on the first few inches of fabric, Athdar walked up behind her and watched. She nearly lost her pace when he placed his hand on her shoulder and leaned in close to speak.
‘Does this please you, Isobel?’ he asked, not moving his hand from the comfortable place on her shoulder.
‘Aye, Athdar,’ she answered without taking her eyes off the loom and the moving threads. She dared not look to see if anyone else noticed their familiarity. ‘It pleases me.’ Before he could lift his hand away, she posed a question to him.
‘Does it please you to see your mother’s and sister’s looms at work once more?’
He squeezed her shoulder then, sending a tingle all the way down along her spine. ‘It does please me, lass.’
Having witnessed the fierce fight he was having with himself over the way things stood between them, she decided to let it pass. They had discussed travelling back to Lairig Dubh, but his men returned with reports that the pass was, well, impassable. So, her visit here would continue, while he wished for a bout of warmer weather to clear the pass and she prayed for the winter’s early arrival to spread.
If she had more time...
So, three days had passed and she bided her time, enjoying the time with Athdar and his kin, using her skills for weaving to spend her time being useful. And using the time with Laria to increase her knowledge of plants, herbs and medicaments. Isobel felt useful and needed and as though she fit in quite well. And, if the time came—which she knew it would—that the roads opened and she was able to return home, mayhap he would ask her to stay instead.
Then, on the fourth day, everything changed in ways that she could never have expected or known.
* * *
‘Something strange is going on,’ she said to no one.
Sitting alone at the loom, working the dark green and brown threads into the fabric, she noticed a number of people she did not recognise entering the keep. A woman about Athdar’s age was the centre of it and her grief was palpable to her. Though she wanted to go to her, Broc was there and then Jean came from the kitchens.
Watching the scene unfold from her place in the back of the hall, Isobel wondered about what had happened. When Broc sent servants and men off in different directions, she put down the shuttle and rose. Nothing could console or calm the woman’s agitation and finally Broc sent for Laria.
This was wrong. Something was terribly wrong—even she, a stranger here, knew it. Broc must have sent for Athdar, so she knew he would take care of this when he arrived. She sat back down, keeping watch, neither happy nor good at waiting.
* * *
She was on her feet again and found herself taking slow, measured steps forwards just as Athdar did arrive.
The shouting shocked her.
‘This is your fault!’ the woman cried out at the sight of Athdar. ‘Everyone now suffers because of you!’ The colour drained from Athdar’s face and she moved a few more paces closer.
‘Ailis? What has happened? Where is Rob?’ he asked as he tried to take the woman’s hand, but was shaken off by her. Broc leaned over and told him something that made him grow ashen.
‘Aye, Dar,’ the woman said. ‘My Robbie is dead, just like the others. Just as ye should be!’ Her voice broke into wailing and she crumpled at Athdar’s feet. ‘But nay, ’tis never ye who suffers the cost, is it? No’ the laird’s son.... No’ the laird.’
Athdar staggered a pace back at her accusation and Isobel went to his side. Whispers spread quickly through the hall and she saw many others coming in to see to the matter. When she would have offered to help, Athdar spied her and shouted, ‘Go to your chambers! There is nothing for you to see here.’ Though some of those watching threw sympathetic glances in her direction, no one intervened. No one would.
Though hurt by his callous words and manner, she understood that he was profoundly affected by the death of this woman’s Robbie, causing him to react to her. Rather than arguing or giving him cause to do something he would regret later, she backed away, allowing others closer. Others of his kith and kin. Not outsiders like her.
Isobel walked to the bedchamber and watched from the doorway as more and more people came to the hall to speak to Ailis. Athdar remained there, but did not try to approach her again. Indeed, from where she watched, he did little but stand and stare. Though some of his men approached, and both Broc and Padruig spoke to him, he did little more than shrug or wave people off. Then he called for whisky and began drinking deeply of it.
Soon, servants began putting platters of food and pitchers of ale on the table. Some of those in the hall partook of it, but most simply spent time trying to console Ailis over her loss.
Was Robbie her son? Her husband? Her brother? What was Athdar’s connection to him and his death? Why would Ailis blame Athdar? So many questions swirled around in her thoughts, but there was no one to answer them.
When she could, she watched, but sometimes, the grief was too intense to witness. She offered up some prayers for the man’s soul and for his family when she could no longer watch. Standing by helpless was not something she was accustomed to doing.
Jean had Glenna bring a tray up to her, but the girl did not remain long enough to answer her questions. The gathering in the hall had turned quiet now and Laria had given something to Ailis before she was taken back to her cottage. A group of women, some old, some young, accompanied her from the keep.
Still, she had no answers. She would have to wait and find out more on the morrow. Resigned, she worked on some mending and then decided to go to bed early since there was nothing more she could accomplish. Some time later, she was awakened by the sound of someone lifting the door latch. Expecting Glenna, she pushed herself up on the bed and waited for the girl to enter. Mayhap now she could gain some information or insight into what was going on and why Ailis thought Athdar was to blame.
But, outlined by the light of lanterns along the corridor, the person who stood at the door to her bedchamber was not Glenna at all.
‘Are ye awake, lass?’ His words slurred and she could smell the pungent aroma of uisge beatha as he walked inside and closed the door. He’d been drinking whisky and now stunk of it. She slid from the bed, not knowing what to expect from him.
‘Athdar? What is wrong?’
His heavy breathing echoed across the chamber, but he had not moved since closing the door. He would never hurt her, so she had no fear of him. But drunken, he could hurt himself or her unintentionally. She walked slowly towards him, stopping at the table near the hearth to light a candle.
He looked as if he’d seen death and it was coming for him.
So haunted were his features that she gasped as she got a look at him. Isobel put the candle down so she did not drop it and walked to him.
‘Here now,’ she whispered softly. ‘Let me help you back to your chamber. Some sleep will help you.’
‘I came here... I forgot... Mairi...’ He slurred the words and sloughed off at the end into nothing.
So this had been Mairi’s chamber, then? He might have mumbled something more, but he was wobbling and making noises as he shuffled on his feet, so she was not certain. She did not remember him ever mentioning Mairi, his first wife, until a few nights ago, though others here had spoken of her openly. ‘Why did you come here, Dar?’
‘Robbie is
dead,’ he said. ‘Robbie.’
She walked to his side, planning to at least get him to sit on the bed before he fell to the floor. ‘Who is Robbie?’
He allowed her to guide him to the bed and he sat, but he did not answer right away. Instead, he lifted the jug he’d been carrying up and drank deeply from it. Then he put it on the floor at his feet, covered his face with his hands and sat motionless.
Had he caused Robbie’s death?
A laird and chieftain sent men into dangerous, even deadly, situations and sometimes men died. Her own father had spoken of losing friends in battles and even when he had had to fight to rescue her mother from outlaws who had taken her. Death was the only certainty in their lives. And a laird held the ultimate authority—and responsibility—over his people’s lives and deaths. Still, why did this one devastate him?
‘Ailis was right. It should have been me who died. Not the others. Not Robbie now. Me.’ His voice sounded both empty and so overly full that it hurt to listen to it.
He reached for the jug and she was tempted to take it out of his hand. Instead she let him drink more, thinking that it would make him fall asleep sooner. ‘Tell me of Robbie.’
Athdar sat quiet for a few minutes and then spoke.
‘We were friends. Robbie and Duff and Kennan and Jamie and me.’ He smiled then, but it broke her heart with its sadness. ‘We ran and fought and...’ His words slipped off and it was then she noticed the tears. His tears. ‘It should have been me.’
Isobel was puzzled and suspected that whisky and grief added to his confused thoughts, as well. He lifted his head then and seemed to realise his surroundings and her. He began to stand and she moved closer to help him. Then he staggered back and tripped, falling on the bed. When his feet flailed out, he kicked the pottery jug and broke it. It roused him and he reached for the pieces, apparently aware of her bare feet.
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