Harlequin Historical November 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2

by Carol Arens

  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 Nessa 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 At
hdar 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.

  ‘Stay!’ he said, scooping the pieces of broken clay aside. ‘Have a care.’

  She walked around the puddle and the jug and patted the pillow at the top of the bed.

  ‘Here now, lie down,’ she said, taking him by the shoulder and guiding him down. ‘Sleep, Athdar.’

  She thought he was going to lie back until the last moment when he reached out and grabbed for her. Only able to grasp a bit of her gown, he pulled her along with him. She moved with him so that her gown did not tear. Finding herself on the bed, next to him, she could only laugh softly as she tried to free herself from his hold.

  ‘Stay with me, Mairi, love. They are all dead now. I should be.’ He wrapped his arm around her and held her close. His next words broke her heart. ‘I should not have lived when you died.’

  He said nothing more which was a good thing, for she felt her own tears flowing at the hints and signs of the deep wounds he had suffered because of these deaths. She lay at his side, tucked half-under him and let him drift off to sleep. Her intention was to wait for him to be deeply asleep so he would not feel her move and then slide out from under him.

  But, a lesson that she learned very early in life was the one she forgot in that moment—good intentions paved the road to hell. Between her fatigue and the warmth of his body, she, too, fell asleep and her intention to leave drifted off even as she did.

  * * *

  Oh, sweet Jesus, but his head pounded!

  Athdar tried to open his eyes, but the light hurt too much for him to do so. Covering them with the hand he could move, he adjusted to the brightness before trying again. Inhaling against the pain, he noticed that he and the chamber smelled like old whisky. He needed to wash and change out of these garments. Tugging his arm free of the weight on it, the sound of feminine murmurs surprised him even more.

  Had he got drunk at the news of Robbie’s death and ended up in one of the whores’ cottages? Christ, what a mess that would be! He turned to see who shared his bed and blinked several times against what he saw.

  Isobel lay up against his side, her leg wrapped around his and her face tucked on his shoulder.

  His head dropped back and he closed his eyes, but that did not stop the images of thousands of ways to die from passing through his mind.

  He would never...

  He could never...

  From the looks and feel of it, he certainly had shared Isobel’s bed. From the looks of it, he yet shared her bed.

  He sat up, ignoring the terrible burning in the pit of his stomach and the hammering in his head, and looked around the room, not daring to look at Isobel yet. The room was a mess, clothing all over, and they were tangled around each other on top of the bed. And the strong smell of whisky was all around him.

  Still, things were not completely out of his control as long as he had not actually done anything to the lass. All of this looked bad, looked very, very bad, but it could be explained.

  He’d been drunk as anyone in the hall could tell.

  He’d lost control and sought her out.

  All because you cannot control yourself. All because you did not think of the consequences of your actions.

  Rurik’s words came back to him just as Isobel stirred at his side and as the door to the chamber opened. Before he could warn off whoever entered, the scream rang out and the sound of the tray crashing to the floor woke Isobel, who also screamed.

  Things went badly from there on.

  Once Isobel was awake, he moved off the bed and rushed, or staggered as it felt, to the door to close it. He had no idea that Glenna’s voice could hit that shrill tone, but it pierced his skull and made his ears want to bleed with its intensity. With the door finally secured, he turned to face Isobel. His stomach churned at the sight before him. No matter where he looked, all he could see was her blood.

  A deep scarlet stain marred the pristine white gown she wore. A bloody sign of the worst kind of abuse he could have done to her. He could not meet her gaze to see the recrimination and horror there, so he fell to his knees before her to beg her forgiveness.

  ‘Isobel.’

  He could say nothing more. And even if he thought of the words to speak, the crashing of the door that knocked him flat to the floor would have prevented it. Athdar pushed himself to his feet and tried to block Isobel from the scrutiny of others, but it was not possible with the number of people who crowded into the chamber.

  Expressions of shock turned to horror a
s they beheld the results of his night of drunken debauchery. He read disappointment and anger in their gazes as they— Padruig, Nessa, Broc, even Jean had made it up the steps to check on Isobel—gazed at him. But for Isobel there was only sympathy and caring.

  ‘Nessa, please see to her,’ he said quietly. ‘She may have a need for Laria,’ he admitted as he ordered everyone else out then.

  He might have transgressed the bounds of proper behaviour greatly, but he was still laird and they answered to him. No one refused his command though they all waited outside the chamber until he left, as well.

  ‘Athdar,’ Isobel called out to him. ‘Athdar, wait!’

  How could she even speak his name without cursing him for what he’d done? He turned back to see her standing at the doorway, the red sign of his terrible sin visible to all. He would make this right somehow. He had to make it right...for her. She deserved none of this. He just did not wish to conduct their privy affairs in the corridor.

  ‘Isobel, there will be time to straighten this all out once you have been seen to,’ he said quietly. ‘Let Nessa see to you, eat something if you can, and we will talk soon.’

  She opened her mouth as though to argue with him, but stopped when Nessa placed a hand on her shoulder. Her mouth trembled as she nodded, accepting his explanation.

  He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face and walked away, not meeting anyone’s eyes. He needed to clean himself up so he could face the consequences of his actions. Once he rid himself of the stink of old whisky and cleaned up, he needed to consult with Padruig and others and to arrange for Robbie’s funeral, as well. He barely got outside in the yard before his stomach clenched and he vomited. It took some time before his stomach calmed enough to complete his ablutions.

  Then his sense of sorrow and failure nearly overwhelmed him as he thought of what he must face this day. Of the people he must answer to and be responsible for. He accepted one thing as he made his way outside—whatever had happened between them or as a result of his lack of control, it would be as Isobel wanted.