King David would be well pleased to marry Isobel to someone of his choosing, someone who would hold Brigid Castle and strengthen the king’s ability to maintain his rightful position as King of Scots, and Graham was well pleased to deliver her to the king as promised and take a step toward the destruction of the Campbells for their many crimes against his family.
Harnessing the anger the mere thought of the Campbells always brought, Graham repeatedly squeezed his hands into tight fists and released them until they prickled and burned, warding off the numbness trying to set in from the cold as he also took deep breaths of freezing air to keep his mind sharp. It would not be long now, and he needed to be ready. Isobel had arrived at the castle hours earlier, exactly as their informant had told them a sennight before that she would. Soon the informant would signal them to attack.
With a glance toward the forest, where he knew his men attempted to rest before battle, he listened. He could not see his men, but their even breathing filled the silence with a blanketing whoosh that told him they were near and in clusters. Snores punctuated the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations. He envied them. He could never settle his mind enough to sleep before a battle.
Gripping his sword, each muscle rippled down the length of his arm in response. Physically, he was ready. He had never been in better condition in his life. He shifted his weight to the leg that he had injured over a year earlier when he’d fought against English knights trying to seize his eldest brother Iain’s wife, Marion. The only pain Graham felt now was from the tightness of muscles needing warmth. He smiled grimly. Relentless, excruciating training had rid him of every trace of the limp the near-fatal wound had plagued him with for many months following. He had the strength of a warrior to match the best.
It wasn’t boastful, just a fact he had proven by testing himself against both his older brothers, Iain and Lachlan, who were legendary fighters. Finally, he had honed his body into that of a combatant equal to both his brothers. Gratitude filled him. While the attempt had begun as a result of jealousy toward Lachlan and a need to best him, that desire no longer plagued him. He prayed now that his strength in mind was as great as that of his sword arm, for tonight he would need both.
Feeling restless, Graham signaled to his younger brother, Cameron. “I’m going to run through the course of attack once more,” he said in a low whisper so as not to disturb the sleeping men.
“Again?” Cameron replied with a snort. “Do ye nae believe the forty times before committed the course to yer memory?”
“There is always opportunity to improve,” Graham replied, smiling into the darkness and choosing not to scold his brother for his impertinent tone. He was glad to have Cameron with him for this battle, impertinence and all. He trusted no one in this world more than Cameron, who Graham was closer to than he was to Iain or Lachlan. Though Graham would die to protect any of them, Cameron had always been his confidant. Iain, as laird of the clan, had always kept himself somewhat distant, and Graham’s relationship with Lachlan had been strained for many years due to his own folly. But he did not want to dwell now on how foolish he had been. He would have the rest of his life—he hoped—to try to make amends for that.
“We kinnae afford an error, Brother. If we make one, dunnae fool yerself into believing we will get this chance again. The Campbell will nae be so foolish as to leave Innis Chonnell guarded by so few of his men whilst the rest are away fighting, and Isobel Campbell will be married to our enemy before we can even escape this island.”
“Ye’re right, Brother. Do ye want me to make the sweep with ye?” Cameron asked in hushed tones.
“Nay. Ye take respite. I’ll go alone and whistle if I see trouble.”
“Ye’re certain?”
Graham could hear the weariness in his brother’s tone. “Aye. I’m certain. I’ll nae be long.” He didn’t wait for Cameron to respond this time. He merely turned and plodded through the thick snow, listening to the howling wolves that prowled the woods. His fatigued legs burned as he walked. He was weary. They all were. They’d ridden at a relentless pace from their home on the Isle of Skye to Loch Awe, but it had been necessary to arrive here, where they knew Isobel was being brought to marry his and Cameron’s uncle Jamie, the traitor.
Burning rage warmed him at the thought of his uncle. Graham smirked into the darkness. It would give him great pleasure to snatch Isobel Campbell from his uncle. Graham’s informant had told him that Jamie was to marry the heiress, and Graham felt sure Jamie thought to use marriage to Isobel to assure the Campbell’s continued aid in his attempt to steal the lairdship of the MacLeod clan from Iain. And the Campbell thought to use the marriage of his daughter to Jamie to assure Jamie oversaw Brigid as the Campbell himself wished, which meant using the castle to help them control the Isles and seize the throne from King David. Destroying Innis Chonnell tonight and taking Isobel would obliterate much of the enemy’s plan.
A sudden howling nearby drew Graham’s attention back to his surroundings. So far they had not had to contend with the wolves, and he said a quick prayer that their luck held, preferably for the duration of their time on the island. But if God was not feeling so very generous this night, hopefully the wolves would at least stay away until after Graham and his men stormed the castle and had seized Isobel Campbell. The best way to fight off the wolves was fire, but if he could see the castle wall from where they were, then the Campbell men would surely be able to see a fire, so such an approach would be impossible.
He shoved branches out of his way as he walked, but one snapped back too quickly for him to duck and it sliced his cheek. The instant warmth of blood trickled down his icy skin, the contrast of hot and cold making him grit his teeth. Ignoring the sting of the cut, he wiped the blood away with the back of his hand and kept moving toward the embankment where they would scale the fortress wall into the castle courtyard. He had learned a long time ago that pain, whether to the heart or the body, could be harnessed—sometimes even conquered—with a strong enough will.
His will was as deep as the ocean, and its current flowed only toward revenge. Coming to the embankment, he stared up at the looming castle. His heart began to pound as his blood rushed through his veins, sending painful pricks of anticipation to every part of his body.
Suddenly, a woman’s scream split the silent night. “Ban-druidh, ban-druidh!”
The word witch rang loud and clear. The signal had been given. It was time to pilfer the prize he had promised his brothers and his king.
Isobel could do no more than stand there stupefied as Marsaili screeched at the top of her lungs.
“Ban-druidh, ban-druidh, ban-druidh!” she cried while pointing at Isobel.
Isobel stared in shock and horror as Jean slapped Marsaili across the face, but it did not stop the woman’s screams.
Her face red with fury, Jean motioned to two men standing guard at the door. “Take her from the chapel!” Jean snapped, one hand gripping Marsaili’s arm so tight that Jean’s fingers became white. Her stepmother looked to the priest and barked, “Marry them!”
Fear propelled Isobel to scramble backward, but she ran into someone. Glancing over her shoulder, a wave of dismay filled her at the sight of Jamie MacLeod. He shoved her forward so violently that she nearly fell to her knees, only catching herself with a hand to the wall.
“Ye heard yer mistress, Father. Marry me to the wench right now,” he said, moving directly behind her as if to block her from fleeing, which she intended to do as soon as she could determine how.
“But if she be a witch—” the priest started, the rest of his sentence drowned out by Marsaili’s wailing.
Lord MacLeod pushed by Isobel as he strode toward the priest, whose eyes went round as he cowered. At that exact moment, the guards dragged Marsaili past Isobel, but the woman grasped onto Isobel’s arm and began to drag Isobel with her. As Isobel worked to free herself from the painful grip of her half sister, who was now kicking one guard and clawing at the other—all while still
managing to hold onto Isobel and move them toward the door—more shouting came from behind her.
“Ye will marry us!” Lord MacLeod boomed.
“But, my lord, if the lady be a witch—”
“Ban-druidh, ban-druidh,” Marsaili chanted.
“If ye dunnae shut that loon’s mouth, I’ll kill her,” Lord MacLeod snarled to the guards who gripped Marsaili.
Isobel struggled to block out the noise in the chapel and the noise in her head. She had to think. She had to flee. She didn’t know why Jean was trying to marry her to this man, but he was clearly evil. Her father would never have agreed to such a match, which explained why they were trying to force her into it now, when her father and her brothers were not present.
“Just take them both out!” Jean demanded as the guards struggled to fight off a now spitting, snarling Marsaili while trying to get her to release Isobel. With a hard yank, Isobel found herself jerked outside into the freezing, black night along with Marsaili.
“Ban-druidh, ban-druidh,” Marsaili screamed so loudly it hurt Isobel’s ears.
With a loud bang, the chapel door slammed shut behind them.
Marsaili immediately fell quiet, and one of the guards stomped away only to come back seconds later with a torch that pierced the darkness with a small bit of light. It was just enough that when the guard shone it in Marsaili’s face, Isobel started at what she saw. Marsaili was giving her the sweetest smile.
Then she released Isobel. “Ye’re welcome,” she said, batting one of the guards’ hands away while staring straight at Isobel.
Isobel blinked. “Ye were lying in order to help me?” Isobel whispered, both grateful and astounded.
Marsaili winked at her as she shifted her gaze past the guards and Isobel. “The fit has passed,” she announced. Isobel looked behind her at the wall that surrounded the castle, but she saw nothing abnormal. She had no notion what her half sister was staring at.
When she turned back around, Marsaili dragged her gaze to Isobel and then the guards. “I vow to be verra good. Ye can move away now. I will nae leave.”
The guards exchanged a wary look but nodded and stepped far enough back to give them some solitude, but not so far that they could not easily and quickly take Marsaili in hand again if necessary.
Marsaili stepped closer to Isobel and grabbed her by the hand. “Dunnae fear,” the woman whispered. “Ye’ll nae be marrying that devil Jamie MacLeod this night.”
Relief made Isobel tremble. She squeezed Marsaili’s hand. “I kenned well Father would nae marry me to his greatest enemy,” she replied in hushed tones. Isobel swallowed hard, trying to think how to delicately say the rest of what was in her mind. “Marsaili,” she said gently, “is yer mother…” She paused. How did one ask someone if her mother was evil? Och! There was no good way. With a quick breath, she asked, “Is Jean conspiring with Lord MacLeod?”
Marsaili’s eyes popped wide. “Aye.” She quirked her mouth for a moment, and then said, “Conspiracy blankets everything, Isobel, but nae all of it be born of evil.”
Isobel frowned. “Are ye trying to tell me that more people are conspiring against our father?”
“Aye,” Marsaili replied, her gaze moving past Isobel once more.
“What are ye looking at?” Isobel demanded.
“Hush,” Marsaili hissed. “Ye will attract the fools’ attention.”
Isobel glanced toward the guards who were facing each other and talking, then she looked back to Marsaili, who shifted from foot to foot as if anxious. A warning sounded in her head, and she whipped around and glanced toward the top of the wall where men stood on guard. Slowly, she crept her gaze along the wall as Marsaili began to tug on her arm.
“Turn around, Isobel,” Marsaili commanded, but Isobel ignored her as the warning in her head grew almost deafening. She counted five guards on each wall before Marsaili pulled her around with a jerk.
Isobel gasped at her half sister, and craned her neck to look behind her once more. Four guards! There were but four guards to the north. As she stared it became three, then two, then one, and then the wall was bare of guards. For a moment, she was not certain she could believe her eyes, but then the same thing occurred on the south wall. She sucked in a breath, turned toward Marsaili, and asked in a low voice, “Do ye stand with Father or against him?”
Isobel didn’t know what was happening, but she knew her stepmother and Lord MacLeod were evil, and Marsaili had been the only person willing to help her thus far. She didn’t know if she could trust Marsaili, but she knew she could not trust Jean or Lord MacLeod, and it seemed her father’s men were currently doing Jean’s bidding.
Marsaili locked gazes with Isobel. “I stand with ye, Isobel. I vow it.”
Isobel’s heart thudded in her ears, and she faced the wall once more. As the moon came out from behind a cloud, a very large, very powerful-appearing, half-naked man poised for battle with a sword in hand became silhouetted against the night. Her breath caught in her throat. Suddenly, he disappeared, dropping over the wall so quickly she would almost have questioned that she’d seen anything at all except another man scrambled over the wall, and then another, and another. Isobel didn’t know whether to scream in warning at an attack or sigh with relief at a rescue.
Marsaili gripped her shoulder from behind. “They are here to help us.”
Uncertainty froze Isobel as she stared at the largest man. The darkness obscured his features, but she could see him raise a finger to his lips in a motion for her to be silent.
Before she could decide what to do, one of the guards yelled, “Attack!”
At the same moment, something swished by her ear. And then again. Swish.
The guard’s shouts abruptly stopped, and then a thud resounded in the night, followed quickly by another.
She did not have to turn around to know Jean’s men were dead. Knots of fear formed in her belly as Marsaili moved to Isobel’s side and gripped her hand. Marsaili squeezed her fingers hard as the giant of a man she had been watching at the top of the wall came to a shuddering stop in front of them. Twenty men flanked his sides like a human wall of iron. Something about his presence commanded attention above all else. His cold, hard gaze did not offer comfort but only more fear.
“Isobel Campbell?” he asked with such contempt that she immediately took a step back.
She glanced to Marsaili for reassurance but saw a flash of guilt on her half sister’s face. “Ye deceived me?” Isobel asked and accused at once.
Marsaili bit her lip. “’Tis nae so simple, Isobel. Please, I mean ye no harm. I only seek to help ye. Ye must trust me!”
“Intruders!” a voice rang from the rampart.
A horn blasted, and before Isobel could respond, the giant swept her and Marsaili behind him. “Neil! Defend them with yer life,” he called to one of his men.
She was seized by strong hands and dragged to the side of the keep, along with Marsaili. The chapel door banged open, a whistle pierced the air, and men suddenly flooded into the courtyard from the main castle.
Besieged by doubt, Isobel stood by the man Neil and watched the battle. Her father’s men—they wore his plaid but did he have their loyalty?—fought against the men Marsaili had vowed were there to help them. Isobel’s heart raced as two warriors drew near.
Neil pushed her head toward the ground. “Stay low,” he commanded.
She bumped foreheads with Marsaili, and as swords clanked above them, Marsaili grasped her hands. “Whatever happens, stay with me,” Marsaili said.
Dismay filled Isobel’s chest. Had she made the best choice? Did she even have one? Cries filled the courtyard along with the hard clank of steel meeting steel. The heat of at least fifty bodies drenched in sweat obliterated the biting cold in the air. Men rushed by her toward one another and bumped into her. She looked to where Neil had been, only to realize he was no longer beside her. Instead he was fighting before her, protecting her and Marsaili.
She stood abruptly, bring
ing her half sister with her. Two men battled very near, and the taller of the two—a Campbell—lunged forward in an attempt to plunge his sword into a bald-headed intruder, but he missed and his blade sliced through the skirt of Isobel’s gown. The soldier’s eyes caught hers, and the desire to kill shining there made panic riot within her. This man was crazed with the need to kill, and she feared greatly she was about to be a casualty.
“Yer laird is my father!” she screamed, hoping to pierce through the haze that had descended upon the man, or perchance remind him where his loyalty should lie.
His answer was a jerk of his sword, which released her gown so that she had barely enough time to scramble backward against the hard stone wall just as her father’s soldier was cut down by the man he had been fighting. The Campbell man fell at her feet, and the bald-headed marauder who had killed him didn’t spare her or Marsaili a glance. He simply disappeared into the press of bodies, and Isobel stood shaking, taking a few deep gulps of air only to realize it was heavy with smoke.
As coughs wracked Isobel’s body, Marsaili tugged on her arm. “Isobel, I fear the men who came to help us will not triumph. We must flee!”
“Flee?” Isobel cried out, trying to stifle the building panic. “To where? Do ye ken where Father is? Or Findlay and Colin?”
Marsaili gaped at her for a moment but finally answered. “Aye. Come with me.”
Isobel looked around the courtyard, which was splintered with early-morning light, a haze of smoke having replaced the oppressive darkness. One glance toward the castle confirmed what she had suspected: it was on fire.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stared at Marsaili’s outstretched hand. “Why are these men burning our father’s castle?”
When a Highlander Loses His Heart (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 4) Page 2