Fiona swept forward, forcing Izzy to step back. "My love, do not be so dramatic. That bolt could not possibly have been meant for either one of you. It was merely a practice shot gone wrong."
Izzy kept her gaze fixed on him. He did not accept Fiona's explanation any more than she did. Her father must want her dead, just as the man had wanted her mother dead. A shiver chased down her spine at the thought. All the years she had spent in the tower with her mother, hearing stories of the man who was her father, she had never expected him to come forward and kill her outright. Nay, she had expected him to use her, manipulate her, and then, once he was finished with his game, offer her a slow and painful end, like the one he had given her mother.
Her mother had told her tales of her father's villainy day after day in the shadows of the tower. She had told her as well of her refusal to use her talents as a seer to help him in his quest to rule Scotland, and how that betrayal had pushed him over the edge of reason.
Izzy had never known how much to believe, what pieces of her mother's tales were fantasy or reality. Her gaze strayed to the bolt in Wolf’s hand. The proof lay before her own eyes. Her father was a dangerous man. If she didn't do something to protect the people around her, her father's villainy would reach them as well.
"My lord." Hesitantly, she touched Wolf’s arm. Her fingers barely brushed the soft linen of his shirt. Her pulse quickened at the simple touch. "My lord Wolf. Certainly, now you must realize how dangerous it is for me to remain here."
"My men will apprehend the assassin."
"Will you stop the next assassin? Or the one after that? The threats will continue until you set me free."
"Who continues to threaten you, Isobel?" He moved closer, nearly forcing Fiona out of the way.
"It is best for you not to know."
"For me, or for you?" Cool, callused fingers touched her cheek.
Izzy swallowed, breathing too hard. "Please, it is not safe for me to stay." His touch, meant to comfort, did anything but. A ripple of sensation passed across her flesh, warming her skin. She willed herself not to flush. The simple gesture meant nothing to him, yet it stirred her blood with unfamiliar cravings. Cravings she had no right to explore.
The heat of his gaze faded and his fingers fell away, leaving a chill in their wake. "By the king's command, you are in my care. And there you will remain until I release you."
"Heavens, Wolfie." A worried frown puckered Fiona's brow. "If the girl wants to go, release her. We can find another, more amenable servant."
Wolf clenched his hands at his sides. "She is no servant."
"Then just who is she? Who did you bring into our castle?"
Wolf twisted toward Fiona. "This is not your castle. You are here because I let you stay." His gaze sharpened on Fiona with deadly precision. "Who knew the intent behind my trip to St. Kilda?"
Fiona paled. "We knew nothing. Only that you had gone on an errand for the king," Fiona explained, her voice a mournful plea. "Who is she, Wolfie? Why are you so upset?"
He turned away from her to grip Izzy's elbow. "To the keep. We will all be safer inside. Brahan, escort Lady Fiona."
Fiona's protest was lost in the shouts and stomping feet that filled the crowded outer bailey. Izzy allowed Wolf to guide her. She glanced up at the suddenly dark skies. Night had fallen without her noticing. In the past, she always noticed the passing of day into night and the darkness that had cloaked the tower in nightmarish shapes and sounds. The passing of night meant she had to be more aware, alert to every possible danger. Did the same response apply now that she was here in Wolf’s care?
Izzy quickened her pace, avoiding the ghostly shapes that came in and out of the torchlight as they passed through the less crowded inner bailey toward the hulking gray shape of the keep.
"What will you have me do now that I am here in your home?" Izzy asked, hoping conversation would help turn her mind from the feeling of enclosure that always came when she entered a room.
"You will do what the other women do." His lips tightened.
He had made it clear their conversation was done. Though it was brief, she had gained the information she needed. She relaxed the tension that had crept into her shoulders. He would expect nothing more of her than the MacDonalds had.
Wolf drew her through the massive wooden door of the keep. Izzy held her breath, fearing the dark. But instead of darkness, golden light filled the enormous chamber, from the clean flagstone floor to the vaulted ceiling. She searched above her for chandeliers that should have held a thousand candles, only to find none.
Instead, giant torches, suspended from the stone walls by curving iron hooks, lined the chamber. The flame from each torch reflected against a small arched window covered with glass the color of springtime ale. The combination of glass and flame cast a yellow-gold light into even the farthest corner of the great hall. Izzy searched the opulent room from the cut blocks of silver-gray stone that made up the walls and high overhead arches to the tapestries of rich, vibrant blues, greens, and reds that covered the walls. The effect was warm and inviting, not cold and enclosed as she had expected.
"It's beautiful." It was an inadequate description, but she knew not how to verbalize the effect the light had over her fears. "I've never seen glass used in that way before." She had overheard tales of such wonders told by Eldon MacDonald after his trips to the mainland.
She searched the room in continued awe as Wolf led her to the massive hearth. He positioned her directly before the roaring fire. Instant heat enveloped her. She shivered convulsively, not realizing until that moment how chilled she had become.
He released her elbow and stood before the fire himself, rubbing his hands together. He was as cold as she was. "You have never seen a window?"
"Never. Nor did I expect to find them in a castle."
"It is one small luxury I allow myself. The windows are strategically placed so they will not make the castle vulnerable to enemy attacks. You will be safe here."
Light from the fire flickered over Wolf’s dark hair and stroked the rigid planes of his jaw. He said she would be safe. But could anyone, even Wolf, protect her from her father? Her mother had claimed that only her anonymity protected her from his vile reach.
Izzy gazed into the red-gold flames. What was she supposed to do—stay or leave? Both options held danger for herself and others.
"Whoever threatens you will not succeed while you are in my care," he said, as if reading her thoughts.
"How can you say that?" She glanced at the hole in his shirt. "They already have."
He offered her a tight smile. "They had one shot and only succeeded in drawing blood. Now I am warned. They will never succeed a second time."
Izzy closed her eyes against an unexpected rush of emotion. How she wished his words were the truth. She clasped a hand to her wrist, rubbing the callused scars left by the shackles she'd been forced to wear in the tower after she'd once been caught trying to escape with her mother. She knew from experience the power her father could wield.
She started at a gentle touch on her chin and opened her eyes to find his gaze fixed on her. "I have given you very little reason to trust me, but I beg your indulgence now. Trust me to keep you safe."
He offered her a sincere smile, not the tight-lipped one from moments before. Yet somehow she wished it had been, because this smile did strange things to her insides. It brought a warm, flowering sensation to her core. A smile should not have that kind of power over anyone, not the kind of power that would make her do something so foolish as to endanger others with her presence. She should ignore that smile, turn away from it, tell him she would leave this very night for the sake of them all.
"Thank you for protecting me," she whispered. "No one has ever done that before."
The rush of gratification that moved through Wolf at her words was like nothing he had experienced before. He swallowed, breathing too hard, trying to gather himself against the unwanted emotion. He wanted to protect her. Nothing
more. "You are welcome. Now, make yourself at home." He turned to Fiona, and a heaviness descended over him at the dark scowl on her face.
"What is the meaning of all this, Wolfie? I expected a different sort of greeting from you after your lengthy absence." Fiona tapped her foot against the flagstone floor. A pinched look settled over her delicate features, making her appear more like a displeased shrew than a lover awaiting his return.
He tried to muster the same protectiveness for Fiona that Isobel had brought. Fiona had been in his care for the past two years, and had been almost as helpless and bedraggled as Isobel at first. He'd found her wandering along the shoreline near where he moored his ship— abandoned by her lover, desperate and alone. Wolf allowed his gaze to linger on the low neckline of Fiona's gown, remembering the fullness of her breasts, and their rosy pink nipples.
Nothing.
He frowned. Perhaps the crossbow bolt to his chest had injured him more than he thought. Fiona had always garnered at least a glimmer of lust from him.
A movement at his left brought his gaze around. Isobel stood, statue still, holding a mug of steaming pottage out to him.
"This should warm you and take the chill away."
He accepted the savory stew and took a sip, suddenly realizing that none of those who had arrived on the ship had taken food since the previous night. So intent had he been on returning to the Black Isle that all else but arrival had faded from importance.
Isobel turned back to the hearth to fill another mug, then handed it to Brahan, who accepted the meal with a nod of thanks. Next, Isobel offered a mug to Fiona. Instead of accepting the food, Fiona clenched her fists at her sides, her gaze sliding from Isobel to himself.
"You claim she is no servant, yet here she is serving you." Fiona lashed out, striking the mug from Isobel's grip. It hit the floor with an ominous thump. "You forget I am no naive girl. I can see the deception in your eyes. Tell me who this woman is."
"We will speak of this matter in private, Fiona." Wolf set his mug on a table near the hearth.
"Your silence is more damning than your words. If I were a weaker woman I would fall into a faint at the thought of you bringing your new mistress here."
Wolf’s expression darkened. "She is not my mistress." He took a step toward Fiona when Isobel once again caught his gaze. She knelt before the discarded mess and began to wipe it up with an apron left near the hearth. He knelt beside her, puzzled by her actions. "What are you doing?"
A worried frown creased her brow. "As you suggested ... what a woman does."
He lifted her hand from the apron, leaving the mess behind, and pulled her gently to her feet. "That is not what I meant."
She slipped her fingers from his grasp and nervously brushed at the gathers of her dirty brown gown.
His frown deepened at the glint of triumph in Fiona's gaze as she fingered the rich linen of her own kirtle and surcoat "Do you have any training?" he asked Isobel in a harsher tone than he had intended.
Her brown eyes widened. "Only to serve."
"Did your mother never teach you the ways of a lady?"
"There was no need," she said simply.
"And you never resented that fact?"
"There is very little room for resentment in my life— past or present" Her chin rose a notch.
Anger and pity battled inside him, and he turned abruptly away to the serving girls who had gathered round to clear up the mess. "Find Mistress Rowley to take Isobel upstairs. See that water for a bath is brought up. And for God's sake, someone find her some clothing that befits her station."
Fiona crossed her arms in front of her, her gaze a malicious assault. "What station is that?"
Wolf flexed his hands open and closed. When he felt more in control he turned back to Isobel. The heat from the fire had brought a golden glow to her skin and turned her straw-colored hair to burnished gold. Despite her impoverished state and bedraggled appearance, there was something both innocent and seductive about the way she held herself, like a blade of grass in stormy winds that neither wilted nor bent. A blade of grass that belonged to him.
This woman was his to protect, to own, to bed. His father had bound her to him. At the moment that fate did not seem such a bad thing.
"Answer me, Wolfie. Who is she?" Fiona demanded, interrupting his thoughts.
He allowed his gaze to linger over Isobel's narrow waist, the soft swell of her breasts, the long column of her throat. The woman would be enchanting given the slightest bit of care. "Fiona," he said without taking his gaze from Isobel, "meet my future bride."
Chapter Eight
Silence descended in the great hall like the falling of a gauntlet All eyes turned to stare at the foursome gathered near the hearth.
"Your bride?" Fiona shrieked.
An expectant lull hung in the air as Wolf’s household awaited the acknowledgment of his words.
A series of rapid emotions darted across Isobel's slight features—anger, denial, fear. She moistened her lips with her tongue as if to speak. "I..."
"You what?" Fiona challenged.
Isobel's pulse fluttered wildly at her throat. "I..." she tried again.
Anticipation hovered over the room. Wolf waited, like everyone else, for her response. Time stretched with agonizing slowness. He leaned forward, awaiting her acceptance.
Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? He wrenched his gaze away, seething with sudden frustration. When would he ever learn that caring what others thought about him only led to great pain? "She needs to rest."
Wolf cut in. He caught her about the waist and, ignoring her resistance, guided her toward the stairs at the far end of the great hall.
Fiona kept pace. "If she stays here tonight, then I shall not."
Wolf halted. "I don't care for ultimatums."
Fiona's features were hard. "Why, Wolfie? Everything was perfect between us."
Wolf frowned. He hated that name, and she knew it. Yet she persisted. "What the king had ordered cannot be undone, not by you, not by me."
Fiona's dark eyes blazed as she gazed at Isobel. "Perhaps when you tire of her you will return to where you belong. In my bed and by my side." With a flash of tawny skirts, she stormed away.
"You should go after her." Isobel tried to pull out of his grasp. "She needs you." A look of confusion had settled over her face, and he longed to wipe it away.
"Nay," he snapped, irritated by his response. "Fiona will be more reasonable when she has had time to cool down. Besides, you need me more. Until I know you are safe, you will remain with me."
"That is unnecessary."
"Perhaps. But until I am convinced otherwise, we are bedfellows in a very real sense of the word."
Her eyes went wide and wild color stained her cheeks. "I shall not. . . you promised . . ."
"I have never had to force a woman to my will before." Nay, in the past he had wooed them slowly until they came to him with their own burning desires. A primitive jolt of satisfaction moved through him at the thought of Isobel coming to him in the heat of her passion.
It was almost a challenge worth taking, but that challenge was not for him. He'd made her a promise—marriage in name only. It was a promise he would have to keep unless she changed her mind.
He loosened his grip about her waist but did not release her. "Come. I shall show you how safe a castle can truly be."
He gave her no choice but to follow as he hurried up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, he continued down the hallway at the same swift pace. To Isobel's credit, she kept up with him without complaint. At the end of the long hallway he stopped before his chamber's door. He had never taken a woman into this room before, not even Fiona. Their dalliances occurred in another chamber two doorways down. A wife or a mistress's room would have adjoined his own, but that was before he had converted the chamber into a solar.
The soft sound of her breathing whispered behind him. "I would be more comfortable in the great hall near the fire." Her voice held a slight t
remble. He turned to look at her, noting the glimmer of fear in her eyes. The question was, did she fear him or the enclosed space they would share?
"You need not worry, Isobel. This room will be to your liking. It is a favorite of mine." He lifted the latch and swung the door open, revealing not a darkened chamber but a room filled with prisms of brilliantly colored light.
He stepped back, giving her access. The hitch of her breath as she entered the room brought a curious warmth to his chest.
Her face awash with awe, she glided into the chamber and turned slowly around. "It is even more impressive than below stairs." Her gaze caressed each tall, thin window that flanked the outer wall of the chamber. Thin plates of glass in a repeating pattern of orange, purple, gold, blue, and green filled the room with dazzling splashes of color. He watched her expression, craving her approval. She moved to the window and reached out with one finger to touch a pane of purple glass. She plucked her finger immediately away, as though expecting the smooth surface to be warm to the touch, not cool.
Wolf allowed his gaze to move from the curiosity on her face to the shadows of the trees to the west that marked the edge of his land. Working glass was not the hobby of a warrior, nor that of a gentleman. Yet the craft brought him pleasure when the responsibilities of his station weighed heavy upon him. As of late he had spent many hours before the clay oven, melting beech wood ash and washed sand into glass as he tried to determine how to deal with his hostile neighbor to the west.
Lord Henry Grange was as vile a man as he was a master. Many of the crofters and servants who lived at Duthus Castle had come seeking shelter from the abusive tyrant. Wolf had offered them asylum, which only angered Grange more.
Wolf’s attention returned to Isobel, and he was startled to find her gaze on him.
"Who created such a wonder?"
The reverence in her voice caught him off guard, with his thoughts still centered on his enemy. A sharp rap on the door spared him from answering.
The door swung open and Hiram entered the room, carrying a copper hip bath in his bulky arms. The overly large warrior set the bath near the hearth. "Milady," he greeted in a shy tone, careful at all times to present the unmutilated side of his face to Isobel.
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