"Hurry!" Fiona called over her shoulder as she plunged into the edge of the tree line.
Isobel surged forward into the trees and kept running, stumbling over a fallen branch here, an exposed root there, until her eyes adjusted to the hazy darkness. The forest smelled of earth and decaying leaves, and the scent of rain hung in the air. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts as she continued to run.
Ahead, Fiona paused, hunched over, her hands on her knees, her breathing ragged. "Must... rest... a minute."
Flushed and fighting for breath, Isobel stopped as well, grateful for the slight reprieve. They were not out of danger yet and could little afford the precious seconds it would take to regain their breath. "We must... continue."
A shadow detached itself from the base of a nearby tree. "You've gone far enough for my purposes." The unfamiliar male voice had a deep, rich tone and was sinister enough to make Isobel shrink back into the shadows.
She heard a coarse chuckle as he moved forward. "Thank you, Lady Fiona. I could not have planned this better myself."
Fiona straightened. Her face was pale, her skin almost translucent where it stretched over her cheekbones. Fear glittered in her eyes as her gaze shifted between the man and Isobel. "I'll not hand her over to you."
"That wasn't part of our plan." The man's voice grew hard.
"Plans change," Fiona challenged.
Overhead, the afternoon sky yawned and errant rays of sunlight filtered down through the trees above, casting the world in a yellow glow once more. The man turned toward Isobel. At the first glimpse of his face, of his dark, penetrating eyes, her breath became trapped somewhere between her throat and her lungs. There was no mistaking those eyes, for she had seen a much gender version in the reflection of her own face.
A brisk wind whistled through the forest, tugging at Isobel's unbound hair. Dread iced her skin as she stared at the one man she feared more than any other. Her father.
"Lord Grange," Isobel whispered into the cool afternoon air, not realizing she'd spoken his name aloud.
A slight curl came to his lips. "How quaint that a daughter should recognize her own father before they are even so much as introduced."
She knew him, all right—she knew his villainy, his deviousness, his treachery. She'd seen firsthand how he had destroyed her mother, what he'd done to Wolf in the forest, and how he'd used and abused his own men. But it didn't stop there. The reality of the situation hit Isobel like a cold, hard slap. She shifted her gaze to Fiona. "This was all a trap?"
"I didn't know," she cried, her voice filled with both contrition and fear. "I was trying to help you escape."
"Why, Fiona? Why would you want to help me? I still don't understand."
"Jealousy drove me to murder." Bitter, haunted pain in Fiona's eyes brought a catch to Isobel's throat. "How can I live with that? How can I live with the knowledge that I am a despicable person?" Fiona staggered forward. "Helping you meant there might be some hope for me. I want to change. You have to believe me."
Isobel didn't know what to believe anymore as her gaze moved between Fiona and her father.
Cynicism twisted Grange's expression. "Payments for services rendered is what you always got, Fiona. Your morals were never part of the bargain. Now step back. She's mine."
Like a deadly spider, her father skulked toward her.
"Stay back," Isobel warned. "Stay away from me."
"Or you'll do what? Scream?" He continued his slow crawl toward her. "Scream all you want. You are too far away for anyone to hear you."
In a flash, Isobel bent to the forest floor and came up with a large, pointed stick, a branch that had been left behind by a previous storm. "Stay where you are."
Grange paused, a dark look of displeasure cutting across his face. "You don't stand a chance against me."
"What do you plan to do with us?"
"That, my dear, depends entirely upon whether or not we can come to some kind of agreement."
"What kind of agreement?"
"I want something from you." His dark eyes narrowed. "You give it to me and then we will discuss the rest."
"I have nothing of importance." What kind of game was he playing at now?
"There you are wrong." He stretched out his hand, long and dark and as threatening as the rest of him. "Give me your half of the Seer's Stone."
"I have no such thing."
"Aye." His bottomless black eyes became darker. "You do." In his other hand, he held up a small white stone bound in a clasp and strung from a leather cord. It was the necklace her mother had given her so many years ago. "You recognize this?"
Her hands inched up toward her chest where the necklace used to reside. "How did you get that?"
His gaze shot to Fiona. "Fiona has been a useful spy and thief." He returned his gaze to Isobel. "Now I want the other half. I'm sure once I have you, your husband will give it to me."
"Why would you need both?" she stalled. She had to think of some way to escape. She would never allow him to use her as bait to trap her husband.
"I want the Stones reunited. Only then will the house of Balliol rule Scotland once more."
"You are not a Balliol." She tightened trembling fingers around the stick.
A terrifying grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. "But I married one, which gives me certain rights and privileges. If I possess both halves of the Stone, I can control events that will guarantee my succession to the throne. Now, come here."
The stick stood as the only barrier between them— one pointed stick between reason and the insane. Her mother had always claimed he was mad. Isobel had always hoped that assessment was more a fabrication of her mother's own insanity, but she saw clearly now it was not
As he crept closer, a flash of steel glittered from beneath the folds of his tunic. Isobel stared into his bottomless dark eyes. No reason reflected there, only a twisted obsession haunted his gaze.
He lunged forward, sending the knife slashing toward Isobel's face. She brought up the stick to block his arm, then spun to the side, narrowly escaping the attack. He turned and came at her again, but this time Fiona launched herself at him. A howl of displeasure echoed in the trees as he flung up his arms to protect his face from the threat of clawing nails. Instead of deflecting the attack, as Isobel expected, his fist slammed into Fiona's temple. The blow snapped her head to one side with enough force to send her sprawling backward onto the ground.
She lay silent against the dark earth.
He crept closer, his knife extended, searching for an opening to strike. If she were going to do it, it must be done now. Her grasp tightened on her stick and she drew a shaky breath. An instant later her feet flew over the thickly padded forest floor. She avoided fallen trees and overgrown roots that grasped at her ankles and shredded the hem of her gown as she raced past.
Slashes of sunlight filtered through the branches above, guiding her way. Even so, footsteps pounded behind her, growing closer with each frantic beat of her heart Isobel prayed for more speed. Fear scalded the back of her throat, and the wind brought tears to her eyes.
She had to outrun him. The land dipped and twisted as she surged forward, tearing through the dense ferns and saplings and scattering any number of sleeping creatures from beneath the dense underbrush. She headed northward. There was a path there; Wolf had shown it to her the other day.
No matter what direction she tried, angry footsteps echoed behind her, gaining speed. Her feet plunged into the brook, sending a spray of water up her legs and weighing down the hem of her skirt. Isobel tossed her stick aside and grasped handfuls of heavy, water-soaked fabric, determined to pick up her speed despite the slippery creek bed.
She leapt up the small embankment, anticipating the secure feel of solid ground beneath her feet, only to find herself jerked backward cruelly, into her father's chest.
She twisted in his arms, trying to break free. Her hair obscured her vision, but she could imagine his dark features leering down at her. "Let me go
."
His only response was a low, chilling laugh.
Isobel screamed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
"Isobel!"
The roar of Wolf’s voice died away. His entire body ached with fatigue and tension, every muscle afire as he sprang from his horse and bolted toward the keep. The night's storm had passed, leaving the bailey damp and boggy. But instead of the fresh newness one might expect the breeze to carry after a storm, a desperate chill hung in the air.
With more force than necessary, Wolf threw open the massive door to the keep, startling those inside as it reverberated off the stone wall behind it The warriors he'd left behind sat at benches in the chamber, their faces grim.
Mistress Rowley and several other servants bent over a pallet set by the hearth. Wolf could not see who lay there, but the blood-soaked cloth near the bedside told him all he needed to know. Wolf looked to his men. "Who attacked?"
Hiram stood, pushing away from the table to join his master. "The king's own men."
Wolf fought to stay calm as his thoughts flicked back to Grange's empty encampment. Another trap. They had drawn him away from his own people, leaving them vulnerable to attack. "How many are injured or dead?"
"Only one injury, my lord Wolf." Hiram's gaze dropped to the floor.
Wolf’s heart stopped. "Isobel."
"Nay, 'tis Walter."
"Where is Isobel?"
Regret twisted Hiram's scarred face. "No one knows. She forced us all to lock ourselves in the keep. The last we saw of her, she walked out of here with a crossbow in her hands."
"And no one went after her?" Wolf clenched his hands into fists, fighting the trembling that threatened.
"Walter followed on her heels. We all assumed he would stop her. Then when we heard a howl coming from outside, we immediately went to arms." Hiram stared down at his hands, folding and unfolding them as he spoke. "By the time we made our way to the bailey, the king's men were gone, as was the Lady Isobel."
"Where is Walter?" Wolf asked.
Hiram pointed to the pallet by the hearth. "He lives, but he was badly injured by a crossbow bolt that narrowly missed his heart."
If Walter had been injured, did that mean that he'd failed in his attempt to kill Isobel? Wolf strode to Walter's side. He drew his dagger with a trembling hand as he bent down beside his straw pallet and pressed the tip of the weapon against the curve of Walter's chin. "Traitor."
Walter's gaze remained fixed off in the distance. "One who deserves to die," he replied, his misery obvious.
"You don't deny that you betrayed me."
"Father threatened your life if I did not kill her. I had no choice."
"Everyone has a choice, Walter. Sometimes you just have to look for the options." Wolf sheathed his weapon as his anger diffused.
"I couldn't let him kill you after all you have done for me."
"Our father is not all powerful. He is just a man," Wolf ground out.
"He's a king." Walter's jaw clenched through a shudder of pain.
"Aye, but that doesn't make him God."
Walter swallowed with difficulty as his fingers crept up to the blood-soaked bandage that covered his chest. "Nay. God is more merciful," he said softly. A plea for forgiveness lingered in his eyes. "I could not shoot her."
"Where is she?"
Walter shrugged, then gasped in pain at the movement. "I located her in the bailey before the others attacked. She opened the portcullis and just stood there in front of the gates as if she were waiting for something."
Or someone.
A chill rippled across Wolf’s flesh. Had Isobel betrayed him as well? Was she working for his father? How could that be, if the man had gone to so much effort to ensure Walter's cooperation in killing the girl? Even so, suspicion roared through him. Why would she leave the gates open? Why would she just wait there, alone?
Wolf shoved a hand through his hair, hoping to bring clarity to his thoughts. But only more questions lingered. The attacks had been on her life. Or were they? Perhaps they truly had been directed at him the whole time, and not her, as he'd assumed. Had she willingly poisoned herself to throw him off her trail? Why would she do that?
A wave of raw emotion crashed over him, and he closed his eyes against it, searching his memory for facts, for things she might have said or done that would confirm his suspicions.
In his mind's eye he saw Isobel in the crofter's cottage when they'd first met, looking desolate, alone, and in need of a champion. He pictured her sitting at the edge of the pond, her feet tucked primly beneath the hem of her gown. When her gaze had touched him that day it had been filled with tenderness and a sincere desire to help him. And he knew in his heart that what he'd seen there had been the truth and not some act.
And when they'd made love for the first time.... Wolf opened his eyes and met Walter's remorseful gaze. He knew with each trembling touch of her hands upon his flesh that she cared for him—and a part of him had come back to life that day. A part of him that he'd thought his father had crushed out of him long ago. He'd trusted her then, and he trusted her now.
"There had to be a reason she left the gates open." Wolf narrowed his gaze on his brother. There had to be another explanation. "I need to ask you something else and I shall tolerate nothing but the truth."
Walter nodded.
"Did you at any time try to harm Isobel or myself?"
"My only attempt was in the bailey." His words rang with sincerity. "Although I knew of my mission since the moment we arrived on St. Kilda. Why do you think I have been so angry since our return here? I knew I would have to separate you from what you'd come to care about—all for the sake of our father."
"Did he tell you why he wanted her dead?"
Walter shook his head. "I never asked. I thought it was just one more way for him to control our lives."
"He controls me no longer."
Walter's eyes widened. "What have you done?" He struggled to sit up, but a fit of coughing forced him back against the pallet, gasping for breath.
"I made a choice. One that might well cost me my life." Wolf stood, anxious to find his wife and learn the truth from her own lips. "I need to find Isobel."
Walter struggled to sit up once more. "You—" Spasms of coughing wracked his body. He cried out in agony as he collapsed against his makeshift bed.
Wolf snatched up the neatly folded tartan and black leather tunic that lay near Walter's side and quickly put them on. "Rest. You'll need it. For I still haven't decided what is to be your fate." Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the great hall and into the courtyard. He had to find Isobel; nothing else mattered more than that.
Walter had last seen her out in the bailey. It seemed as good a place as any to begin his search.
"Isobel."
He strode through the inner bailey until he found himself standing before the hen yard. "Isobel," he called again, listening for a reply, but there was only the furious squawking of the chickens as they pecked the ground in search of food. Mistress Henny stopped her grazing to peer up at him ever so briefly before settling back into her newfound routine.
Isobel had adapted to her routine at the castle as well. She'd taken up the challenge of preparing the meals each day, as well as ensuring that they had ample supplies of food and cloth in the storerooms. She had even taken up the drying of herbs from the garden to mix into medicines so that his kinsmen would have only the best care if the need arose. She had been given no choice in their marriage, but she'd done everything a wife should do. If she were only here as a spy, would she have done those things?
There was no denying that she had deceived him. But would the knowledge that she was a Balliol have stopped him from touching her that very first time on the isle? He had taken one look into those bottomless eyes of hers and imagined seeing a plea there ... a plea to be taken, to be held, to be loved.
And yet something his father had said lingered at the edge of Wolf’s thoughts. The man had hinte
d that there was more about Isobel he did not know, something his father had not revealed.
Wolf shook off the thought with disgust. His father could not be trusted. Nay, he had to keep his faith in Isobel. With a purposeful stride, he left the hen yard, heading for the outer bailey.
"Isobel?"
The slight morning breeze snatched his voice and carried it across the open space as he strode to the outer bailey, where Walter had seen her last. He walked the length of the bailey before he paused near the large castle gate. Where could she be?
He saw something on the ground—a somewhat battered crossbow. He picked it up. The one Isobel had carried? Wolf stood and turned back toward the keep.
"Wolf?"
He stopped and swung back toward the closed portcullis at the sound of a familiar voice. Fiona clutched the iron bars between her delicate fingers, looking as though the very act of standing upright was more than she could bear. Her yellow velvet gown was torn and filthy, her hair a wild tangle of grime and leaves. A gash surrounded by an angry blue bruise marred her temple.
"Fiona?" He signaled to the tower guards to raise the portcullis. The grinding of metal filled the air as the gate rose slowly upward.
Fiona released her grip on the bars and swayed on her feet, though she remained upright. When the bars cleared a path, he moved to stand before her. "What happened?"
Her blank gaze focused on his face and fear rooted in his chest "He took her away."
"He took who?" he asked, already knowing what she would say.
"Isobel." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Grange has her."
Every fiber of his being became alert "Where?"
"I do not know." Her tears came all the harder now, as she fell to her knees. "I tried to help her. You have to believe me."
Fear and confusion twisted inside him. He didn't know what to believe. He stared off into the distant trees. Was this just another trap? Or did Grange truly have his wife? If so, where Walter had failed, Grange could easily succeed.
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