Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  Isobel considered herself capable of dealing with difficult people, but not in this case, not when the stakes promised confinement and forced marriage.

  Which, to be truthful, did not differ so terribly from what Father had planned for Catherine. This chamber might as well be located in MacNab’s house, and Catherine could be sitting here awaiting her fate, to be bedded by a stranger.

  Isobel closed her eyes for a moment, grateful she had at least been able to spare her sister that.

  And what would happen now? That question dominated her mind. Presumably the coach had wrecked at the bottom of the hill. And, presumably, MacNab would eventually go searching for his son’s missing bride. Should any of her attendants survive the wreck, he or she would tell of the bandit on the dark road.

  Only Bethan, though, knew Isobel’s true identity, that she had taken her sister’s place. The odds of rescue coming—finding her here—were so slight, it made Isobel feel ill.

  The Black Devil, he called himself. She shivered again; the name seemed all too apt.

  ****

  “Of course you will not actually marry her,” said Meg, her eyes narrowed to slits. “This is another of your games, a particularly vile one. You are doing this to get at MacNab.”

  Dougal made no answer. He shot his sister an unfriendly look and poured himself another tall whisky.

  “This will rebound on you,” Meg predicted. “You have done a fair bit of thieving in your time—cattle, aye, ponies, jewels, silver, even whisky. But a woman? And from MacNab, of all men. You know full well he shall run, at once, to the King.”

  Dougal shrugged carelessly.

  “And,” Meg seethed on, “how will you collect the ransom without telling the world of your guilt?”

  “I do not mean to ask ransom,” Dougal replied. He slumped into his customary seat by the fire and stared into the flames. All he could see, though, was the rage in the eyes of his captive. Not what he had expected—not at all—and far too good for MacNab. The wench had courage and defiance. She also possessed a rare beauty that relied not at all on golden curls and simpering smiles. The very thought of bedding her had him hard as a length of iron.

  He wondered who she was. MacNab would choose no peasant for his precious son. Catherine, of no surname. English, though she did not look it with that fire in her hair. He had seen his share of English misses, though he had not yet had one. This one must be a virgin, and overdue for splaying.

  Meg laughed, never a reassuring sound. “The King will have your head for this. Is that what you want? Folk hereabouts have just been awaiting the chance to see that.”

  She came and squatted beside him, in order to look into his face. “Brother, I long since gave up hope for your soul—”

  “’Tis in no greater jeopardy than your own.”

  “True. This is about revenge, is it not? You wish to bring MacNab to his knees.”

  Dougal felt a grimace pull his lips awry. “MacNab—the grand gentleman,” he sneered. “The man of purported means who can do no wrong.”

  “This is about Aisla, is it not?” Meg asked softly, gazing hard into his face.

  “Do not speak her name!”

  Unexpectedly, Meg’s expression softened. “Do you think I do not understand? She was my friend.”

  “I warn you, Sister, I do not wish to speak of this.”

  “Can the wound be still so deep, after so long?”

  Dougal surged to his feet, nearly sending Meg sprawling. “The wound, as you call it, has no chance of so much as scabbing over—not while that bastard enjoys any measure of success in this world. Do not begin to suppose you understand.”

  “You loved her.”

  Savagely, Dougal turned on his sister. “What do you know of love? You, who murdered your husband.”

  “He betrayed me.” Meg got to her feet and stood, tall and composed as a queen.

  “With another woman?” Dougal laughed cruelly. “I am surprised he dared.”

  “So am I. He knew what I would do, should he ever prove unfaithful. I told him full well, on our wedding night.”

  Dougal stared at her. “I believed the poor sod enamored of you. He never left off talking of your beauty and the poetry of your eyes.”

  Meg looked thoughtful. “One cannot trust the tongue of a man. I, myself, would not have believed it, had I not seen the evidence with these poetic eyes.”

  “You caught him?” Dougal asked, interested despite himself.

  “In the stable, with the young sister of a groom. The lass, no more than twelve, was sobbing. An ugly scene.”

  “What did you do to her?” Dougal almost hated to ask.

  “Her? Helped her to her feet, dried her tears, and sent her home. She was a child, and one in no fit state for punishment. He, on the other hand...”

  The rage in her eyes took Dougal aback.

  “Upon inquiring about my household, it proved my husband had long been intent on deflowering every female with whom he came into contact. As time passed, the females became, by necessity, younger and younger. The staff knew, of course—and were afraid to tell me.”

  Dougal fully understood why. Even the echo of his sister’s rage daunted strong men.

  “Only imagine,” she seethed, “him preferring some unseasoned wench, when he had me in his bed.”

  “You felt insulted,” Dougal marveled. “Not broken-hearted?”

  “Do not be foolish. You know I have no heart to break. I am like you, in that regard.” Meg’s eyes flashed. “My husband deserved to die, if just for his fecklessness. He knew what I was—what I am.”

  “A witch?” Dougal suggested against his better judgment.

  “A dangerous woman, one to be reckoned with. But we were speaking, Brother, of your dilemma.”

  “I see no dilemma.”

  “Oh, I think you do. The wench can identify you. How can you suppose to let her go?”

  “Aye, how can I?”

  “Yet you cannot keep her captive forever. You have backed yourself into an untenable position.”

  “And what do you care, Meg, about my fate? You never tire of saying how you hate me.”

  Meg scowled. “I hate the things you have done—and failed to do. However, you do, at present, represent my personal security. Should you find yourself beheaded, with all these lands forfeit, what will become of me?”

  Dougal shrugged. “Why not wed Lachlan? He wants you badly enough, poor fool.”

  Unexpected color rushed to Meg’s face. “Lachlan?”

  “Do not tell me you failed to notice his worshipful glances?”

  Meg’s chin lifted. “All men look at me that way.”

  Dougal laughed harshly. “Do they, so? What a wonder.”

  “I cannot help it. ’Tis easy enough to attract a man. Finding one who will stay honorable and true presents the difficulty.”

  “Honorable and true?” Dougal spoke the words with incredulous disbelief. “For the likes of us? Aye, Sister—you must, indeed, be mad.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Come.” The guard spoke the word in a grunt that even Isobel could not fail to understand, the first command she had received in a day and a half.

  It had seemed longer, trapped in the barren room with her food and drink presented at the door by yet another shabby retainer—the only person she saw. She had availed herself of the “necessary” and paced until she wore holes in the threadbare carpet, unable to sleep, and she now felt half mad with worry and distress.

  At least, as she told herself repeatedly, Catherine was safe, off away with her new husband. And so what did Isobel’s fate matter? She had possessed no prospect of a happy life anyway, trapped at her father’s house. Was this so very much worse? At least Catherine, carrying her lover’s babe, could claim a future.

  She told herself all this and even, on an intellectual level, believed it. Yet when the taciturn guard at last ordered her from the room, her heart plunged to her feet.

  Had the monster who held h
er in his power made up his mind about what to do with her? Had he, perhaps, sent a ransom demand to MacNab, her future father-in-law? Did MacNab wait for her, below?

  Her footsteps echoed on the dusty stones of the corridor and stairs as she followed the guard to the rough hall she had seen before. She could hear rain pounding the outside of the keep—for a day and night, continuously, it had rained, the weather worsening Isobel’s mood.

  Her captor, alone, awaited her, standing before a fire that leaped and danced. He turned to survey her as she entered the chamber, and Isobel wondered what he saw. She had not been able to wash herself properly, and her hair hung loose down her back. She possessed not so much as a comb with which to put it up again. She felt like a wild woman, heedless in her impatience.

  She spoke before he could. “It is full well time you addressed my presence here. Sir, this is intolerable! You cannot hold me trapped against my will without comforts or recourse. Am I a prisoner, to so languish without benefit of the law?”

  “No comforts?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you not in out of the rain, in your chamber? Is there not a fire? Were you not given food and drink?”

  Rage rose like a bubble to Isobel’s head. She distinctly felt it take hold of her mind. “You understand very well what I mean.”

  “Had I known you would spout only complaints, I would not have had you brought hence. Sit, please, Lady Catherine.”

  Isobel remained standing, stiff with anger.

  “By God,” he said, eyeing her scathingly, “I may have done MacNab a service. I doubt you are the meek English maiden he envisioned as marrying his son.”

  Indeed, Isobel thought, she differed in every way from that image, being but half English, certainly no maid. And her name was not even Catherine. She felt a small smile of satisfaction curl her lips.

  Her captor narrowed his eyes. “Now, what does that look denote, I wonder? I will have you know, Lady Catherine, beneath this roof I am the law. Your fate rests squarely in these two hands.”

  “And what of your fate? Can you steal a woman’s freedom with impunity, even in lawless Scotland?”

  “Is that what they tell you back in England, that we Scots are lawless? Fools! Our laws are far older than any constructed by their foolish king.”

  “The King is a Scotsman!”

  “And our clan law predates his advent by a thousand years. I am Laird, here. My authority is absolute.”

  “How very convenient for you. I hope the knowledge will comfort you when the King separates your head from your shoulders.”

  He evinced no reaction to her words.

  “Please sit, Catherine. I wish only to speak with you. But if you prefer, I will send you back to your room.”

  “My prison, you mean? Before we speak of anything, you will answer my questions. Is there news of my attendants? Are they alive or dead? Has word come from MacNab? Will he ransom me soon? When shall I be released?”

  “Sit! Can I offer you a drink? I regret there is no tea. We do not bother with it here. But I have some fine whisky.”

  “Stolen, no doubt.”

  He blinked at her.

  “Oh,” Isobel seethed, “I know what you are—nothing more than a bandit, who has set himself up as some sort of laird. Did you thieve these lands, as well?”

  He looked annoyed, and Isobel congratulated herself. It might not be wise to poke a rabid dog with a stick, yet she could not help herself.

  “My family’s ties to this land are ancient,” he spat.

  “Oh, yes? If you had any pride in your family, you would at least tell me your name.”

  He drew himself up to his considerable height and executed a respectable bow. “Dougal MacRae, also known as Devil Black, at your service, my lady.”

  Isobel’s eyes flew wide. “Devil Black?”

  A wry smile twisted his lips, lending him a dark attractiveness. “I am told ’tis the name whispered by the locals when they speak of me.”

  “And you are proud of that, I warrant? I do not doubt your forefathers would be ashamed—”

  “My lady, my forefathers spent their time stealing their neighbors’ cattle and women, and hiring out their swords in battle. ’Tis an old tradition in these parts.”

  “I see.” Isobel struggled to think clearly and failed. “So what do you mean to do with me?”

  “Seat yourself, my lady, and we will discuss it.”

  Slowly, Isobel lowered herself onto the settle that fronted the fire.

  “Aye, so.” He poured a glass of whisky and placed it in her hand; his fingers brushed hers and she experienced a shock, like the kiss of a lightning bolt. “Drink.”

  Isobel raised the glass to her lips, but then hesitated. She needed to keep a clear head.

  Devil Black MacRae began to pace in front of her. His rough, hide boots emphasized the length of his legs, and he moved like a padding wolf.

  “I am at war with my neighbor, Randal MacNab. It is a moral war, and I will carry it out at any cost to myself.”

  A moral war? Before Isobel could speak, he went on.

  “There is naught I would not do to injure him. That, lady, is why you find yourself in my hands. You were sent here to become the bride of his son Bertram, were you not, Lady Catherine?”

  Isobel opened her mouth to deny it.

  “Do not bother to lie,” he bade her. “Word gets round concerning MacNab’s intentions, and I have informants in his household.”

  He looked Isobel up and down, from her hair to her toes. “It is an arranged marriage, aye?”

  “MacNab is friend to my father, so you see you shall not get away with this. As soon as word of what you have done reaches my home—”

  “Och, ’twill not take so long as that. I dare say MacNab has missed you by now and has already gone looking.”

  “Abduction is a crime, even in Scotland.”

  “So says the fine English miss. And what sin did you commit, to earn the terrible fate of marriage with young Bertram? Do you know him?”

  “We met long ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Years.”

  “Then you will know nothing of the self-entitled, humorless, and brutally cruel prick he has become. I dare say you would be better with me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Do not doubt it, Lady Catherine. At least I have red blood in my veins, not poison.”

  “And he has, no doubt, a modicum of decency.”

  “You think so? You would be wrong, then. He abuses his servants—and I do no’ speak of forcing them to work long hours. He is known to have whipped two men to death.”

  “A worse failing,” Isobel asked tersely, “than thievery and abduction?”

  “At least I am honest about what I am.” He leaned toward her slightly. “I am, always, honest. Young Bertram presents one face to the world and another to those unfortunate enough to meet him on intimate terms. What happens behind closed doors would make your hair stand on end.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  Dougal shrugged. “To reassure you, perhaps, that the absolute worst has not yet happened to you. You could be in Bertram MacNab’s hands, instead of mine. Indeed, you have had a narrow escape.”

  “You will not convince me of that. I demand you release me, Dougal MacRae. Better done now than when the law demands it.”

  “Aye, well, there is another option, I am thinking.”

  “There is?”

  Once more he inspected her in a way that sent heat stealing over her skin. “I cannot release you, lady, because you can and will identify me.”

  “I will promise—”

  He shook his head in feigned sorrow. “I trust not the promises of women. I cannot send you home, since your erstwhile sire would no doubt have you escorted once more to MacNab, under heavy guard. I will not see you sold in marriage to him.”

  “Because he is your enemy?”

  “Because even an Englishwoman deserves better.”

  “So,
” Isobel struggled to keep from revealing her despair, “what is to be done?”

  He approached her where she sat on the edge of the settle. The force of his presence preceded him like the front of a storm—intimidation coupled with a strain of male attractiveness such as Isobel had never before encountered. It felt dangerous as a bog of quicksand and sharp as an axe blade. Instinctively she caught her breath.

  Softly, he said, “I believe I shall have to marry you myself.”

  Chapter Eight

  “You are a madman!”

  Dougal watched the emotions leap like firelight in his captive’s eyes—beautiful eyes, deep blue as the sea at sunset and, he did not doubt, nearly as treacherous. The sea lured men to their deaths; this beauty might lure him to depths he could not fathom.

  He had known—and plundered—his share of maidens, but never one like this, with intelligence that fairly shone from her, and courage to match. She fired his blood like whisky, so he had trouble concentrating.

  Aye, she thought him mad, and evil, and any number of despicable things. He could see as much in those eyes. But he might tame her like a headstrong pony and revel in the doing.

  “Folk hereabouts have long speculated as to my sanity,” he conceded. “I assure you, I am quite rational.”

  She laughed incredulously, and he found himself further inflamed by the sound. He wanted to hear it in his ear whilst he held her down on a bed and entered her, wanted her passion to meet his own—quick and savage. He wanted to lose himself in her eyes, tangle his naked flesh in those wild, red tresses, and make her weep for him.

  Could she tell how hard he was? But no—her eyes clung to his, as if she searched his soul.

  “I have decided you must wed with me.” The words, repeated, sounded almost brutal, and her eyes widened. Dougal had not meant to speak them that way; he wanted her to want him.

  She sprang to her feet. Tall for a woman, the top of her head reached his eyes, which put their bodies nearly heart to heart. He could smell a fragrance coming off her skin—that of pure woman.

  He heard the breath rush into her lungs. “No! Your one course of action, if you would keep your head, is to release me unharmed.”