Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  Two weeks had passed since Isobel’s marriage with the Devil Black MacRae. The search for Bertram MacNab’s missing bride had been suspended, yet Dougal still spent much of his time abroad on the roads—doing the good God only knew what. Isobel and Meg, the only two women in a household of rough warriors, had perforce struck up a relationship of sorts.

  Isobel held no illusion that Meg liked or even approved of her. Obviously, Meg liked no one. But, Dougal’s sister came to tolerate her, merely because there was no one else.

  “I expect nothing of your brother,” she replied now. The two women shared a room called the solar, a small, intimate chamber meant for sewing and conversation. A shabby place, it nevertheless always boasted a decent fire.

  “I wish I need not acknowledge him my brother,” Meg complained, “curse him to hell!”

  This was not the first such opinion Isobel had heard. She bit her lip and then decided to ask the obvious question. “Why do you hate him so?”

  Meg shot her a scathing look. “Are there not a multitude of reasons?”

  “Maybe. But I think you are a woman who deals in specifics. Will you tell me?”

  Meg swore bitterly. “Is it for me to recount your husband’s sins and failures? Let him tell you himself.”

  “Failures?”

  Meg gave Isobel a disparaging look. “What do you know about Dougal’s past?”

  Isobel shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Meg turned away, walked to the window and stood looking out.

  Snow fell steadily and cold crept over the window sill in an unremitting wave.

  “You have courage, Isobel,” she said unexpectedly. “I respect that.” She looked over her shoulder. “So I warn you again, do not lose your heart to him.”

  “No?” For the past fortnight, Isobel had been struggling to convince herself that had not already happened. “Why, apart from the obvious?”

  “’Tis a fool’s task, falling in love, especially for a woman. We open ourselves to all sorts of pain, betrayal, and disappointment.”

  “Some man has disappointed you?” Isobel hazarded.

  “What man has not, from my father on down? But we speak not of me. Guard yourself carefully, Isobel, against Dougal. He has, in the past, betrayed a woman who loved him right well.”

  “Oh, yes?” Isobel felt her heart sink, and hoped her emotions did not show on her face. “Who was she?”

  “My good friend, named Aisla. We all grew up together, and she wanted Dougal for as long as I can remember. My dear brother—strong, handsome, aye, but not so much a devil, then. We thought they would wed. Everyone thought it. And he professed himself in love with her, but he lied. For when it came down to it, he refused to save her from a fate she did not deserve.”

  The pain in Meg’s voice gave Isobel pause, yet she had to know. “What fate was that?”

  It seemed Meg would not answer. She faced Isobel, and the bitterness in her eyes was shocking. “Aisla’s father—bastard that he was—decided to give her in marriage to a man of wealth and substance.”

  Realization struck Isobel all at once. “MacNab?”

  Meg’s expression tightened. “Aisla was Bertram MacNab’s first wife—the one he killed with cruelty and abuse.”

  To Isobel’s surprise, she saw tears in Meg’s dark eyes—tears of anger, surely, as well as grief.

  “Sweet, gentle Aisla,” Meg went on, “who would not raise a hand to swat a naughty pup. I saw her three times after she was wed, and the change that came over her horrified me. She begged me for help, for rescue. I vowed I would save her.”

  Meg’s features pinched with pain, and she no longer looked beautiful.

  Isobel’s stomach clenched in dismay; she did not want to hear the rest of this tale.

  But Meg tossed her head. “Like a fool, I went to Dougal, my grand warrior of a brother, who feared nothing and could do anything. He was like a god to me then—at twenty, he had just taken over the estate following our father’s death. I thought he loved Aisla—loved her as I did or, more, loved her like a woman. But do you know what he said to me, when I told him of her plight?”

  Isobel shook her head.

  Fiercely, Meg told her, “He said, ‘She is another man’s wife.’ As if that meant anything. As if it changed her sweetness, her vulnerability, her trust in him, or how much we cared for her. I could not believe my ears. I told him he must save her anyway. That she needed him. That she looked but a shadow of her former, happy self... He turned from me. His face grew hard and his heart also. And after that he drank and haunted the roads, and he let her die in that bastard’s hands!”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Meg, deep in memory, did not answer.

  “You said he was but twenty, then. How long ago—”

  “Eight years. It took Aisla five years to die. I saw her not again during that time, for MacNab kept her locked away. ’Tis said, by the end she had become a jabbering madwoman.”

  And this, Isobel thought with a flash of pain, was the fate she had spared Catherine, and that she herself had narrowly escaped, by the grace of the Devil Black MacRae. Her own father must not know how his good friend’s son had treated his first wife.

  She whispered, “What did Bertram MacNab do to her, do you know?”

  Meg stared at Isobel with empty eyes. “Word trickled out by the servants. What did he not do to her? Confinement, whippings when she did not produce a son. Vile rape, I have no doubt. ’Tis said a man cannot in fact rape his own wife—you and I know better. I will never forgive Dougal for failing her, and I will never respect him again. I left here to marry shortly after Aisla’s death. My own marriage did not work out, and I am forced to return here. But I need not like being under the same roof as my accursed brother.”

  “He does hate MacNab very deeply,” Isobel began.

  Meg glared at her. “Do you defend him? I hope, for your sake, ’tis not a sign of attachment on your part. For be fairly warned, Isobel, he will forsake and abandon you just as he did poor Aisla. If you believe in God, you had better pray you fall not into MacNab’s hands.”

  A shiver traced its way up Isobel’s spine. “But I am Dougal’s wife, now. Surely that offers me some protection.”

  “Do not be a fool! This is an ancient part of Scotland—wives have been snatched, traded, and raped before now. Do not say you have not been warned. Men are vile creatures, not to be trusted, and I have no use for them.”

  “All men?”

  “All of them!”

  “Even,” Isobel asked tentatively, “your brother’s companion, Lachlan MacElwain?”

  Meg glowered. “Him, more than most. If you will speak of a fool—”

  “He is a good-looking fool.”

  “Aye, and that is the worst kind. Such charm cannot be trusted. I have known him since we were all children, and he does not improve with acquaintance.”

  “From what I have observed, he has feelings for you.”

  Meg laughed cruelly. “Aye, and the name of his feelings are ‘lust’ and ‘desire.’ He is capable of nothing else.”

  “He shall not succeed then, in his suit for your affections?” Isobel asked curiously.

  “Is that what you think it? I should have called it seduction.”

  Isobel lifted an eyebrow, and Meg laughed reluctantly. “If I want him in my bed, I shall have him there, but that is all there will be to it. I am too wise to involve my heart. And you do likewise, mind.”

  “Yes,” said Isobel gravely.

  Surprising her, Meg laid a hand on Isobel’s arm. “Truly, Sister, you are an intelligent woman, too much so to get caught by any man’s lies or suggestions.”

  Isobel struggled with it. “You are right,” she acknowledged. “But does not your brother’s declared feud with MacNab, and the very fact that he stole me away from Bertram, argue he did, indeed, care for Aisla and that he wishes some sort of revenge?”

  “You have hope for him yet?” Meg shook her head. “Had he care
d enough, had he the courage I expected of him, he would have done something at the time.” She added passionately, “He would have saved her.”

  Isobel nodded, but Meg must have been able to see that she remained unconvinced.

  “Ask him, if you do not believe me,” she challenged. “Ask about his courage—or the lack of it—and see what answer he makes. He swore he loved her, long ago. He lied! So I warn you, believe no such words that fall from his traitorous lips.”

  “I will be most careful,” Isobel said, despairingly. “And I thank you, Meg, for trusting me with the truth.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You are quiet tonight, Wife,” Dougal observed casually, resting one booted foot on the curb before the simmering fire. Outside, the snow still fell, an accursed, early show of winter. He and Isobel sat alone in the drafty, high-ceilinged hall.

  He had roamed far this day and taken a heavy load of silver off a fat merchant. All the while, he had thought only of returning home to his wife and the sweet reception she would give him in her bed. He had been nearly too hard to ride comfortably.

  And now that he was here and the hour passing late, she began with women’s games—the withdrawn gaze and prolonged silences. He had not expected Isobel, so fiery and honest, to lower herself to that petty level, and it annoyed him.

  “Have I done something to displease you?” he asked ironically.

  That persuaded her to look at him, a searing, blue stare. “How could you, my lord, when I have barely seen you this day?”

  “Ah, so that is it? You fancy neglect? Well, I cannot be in your bed all day long, more’s the pity. But surely we can repair there now.” He had an accounting, in his mind, of the things he wanted to do to and with her—a long accounting.

  She got to her feet and glared at him. “Is that all I mean to you? A warmer for your bed?”

  Dougal sighed inwardly, letting none of his aggravation show. Women—almost more trouble than they were worth. Perhaps her mood had swung due to her monthly cycle.

  Evenly, he said, “You are my wife and as such deserve respect. And aye, your duties do include warming my bed.”

  “Duties?” She nearly soared off her toes, in anger. He had never seen her truly enraged, though he had tasted her other passions; it might prove interesting.

  He let his gaze travel over her slowly. “I thought, Wife, it was a duty you enjoyed right well.”

  Her cheeks heated. “That is neither here nor there. Why did you wed with me?”

  Dougal got to his feet, a deceptively lazy motion. “If you mean to rant at me, let us go upstairs. The servants will be listening.”

  “There are no servants.”

  “I speak of my men, who do for me about the place. Have some dignity.”

  Her eyes opened in surprise, and then she turned and led the way from the hall. She ascended the stone stairs ahead of him, and Dougal found himself admiring her taut backside, the focus of a large part of his fantasies earlier in the day. His palms itched to touch, yet he could wait and hear her out—he possessed at least that much self control.

  The chamber they now shared felt warm and cozy; she had made a few changes these last weeks—chairs, and an upholstered bench before the fire, a rug on the cold, stone floor, and a hanging blocking the cold air from the window. Part of him appreciated that, desired the comforts almost as much as he desired her.

  She spun to regard him, wild-eyed. “Now we are alone, will you speak to me?”

  “Aye.” Damn it, he was still hard; being in her presence acted on him like black magic. “But I will tell you ahead of time I do not appreciate a woman’s moods, nor being held victim to them.”

  “Moods?” she echoed, outraged.

  He examined her briefly. “I apprehend this unfortunate display is born of your...monthly sensitivities?”

  “No! I am not—” In an effort to control her anger, she paused and drew a breath. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of suffering from ‘sensitivities,’ monthly or otherwise.”

  “Well, I do no’ appreciate this ill temper.”

  “And, am I supposed to worry about what you appreciate?”

  Dougal felt his own anger—a dark and terrible thing—sharpen. “Presumably.”

  “Think again. Because you care not for my feelings—shut up in this terrible place virtually alone, fated to provide you comfort, and you will not even answer for me one question.”

  “I will, if you ask it in a sane manner.”

  “Sanity? He asks for sanity, in this madhouse? Why did you wed with me?”

  Dougal turned away from her and poured a cup of whisky from the flask that stood ready. “You know why. The King decreed—”

  “That is not the reason! A man like you—a robber, an outlaw, a thief of cattle and women—cares nothing for what the King bids him. You hate MacNab, and you wed me to get back at him, to hurt him, did you not?”

  Dougal drank deep. “Why ask me questions, if you already know the answers?”

  “So. It is as I said before, I am nothing more than a weapon, like a sword or a dirk. Why sleep with me, then? Why not just keep me prisoner, kick me into a corner? Would it not serve the same purpose?”

  Annoyance blossomed in Dougal’s head. He sneered, “I sleep with you, woman, because it is my right. Because your body pleases me, and because MacNab will eventually discover you are here. When he does,” Dougal let his gaze flick her again, “I would make sure you already carry my son.”

  She gasped and wrapped her arms about herself in a defensive gesture. “That—that is your aim?”

  “He will not want you back, if you carry the black devil’s get. Neither will your father, if he turns up looking.”

  “My father?”

  “Had that no’ occurred to you? I figure ’tis but a matter of time. Someone in this household will talk, and word will get abroad that my new wife looks remarkably like Catherine Maitland.”

  “So—” she sounded as if she had been struck, “you sleep with me to…to stake your claim?”

  He shrugged with indifference he did not really feel. “Aye, and will you complain of it? You were willing to give yourself to Bertram MacNab for your sister’s sake. Him, or me—where, in your view, is the difference?”

  Eyes burning, Isobel stared at him and said nothing.

  “You know full well MacNab wanted sons. Should I be any different?”

  “So I am naught but a…a breeding sow, am I?”

  “A valuable sow, aye.” His eyes were on his cup, so he nearly missed it when she flew at him and aimed a blow with one hand. His instincts being what they were, however, he caught her wrist before the blow could connect, and glared into her eyes.

  “Ah! I will not take abuse from you,” he snarled.

  She refused to back down. “Yet I am fated to accept abuse from you?”

  “How and when have I abused you, Wife?” He had been right; her anger inflamed him and made him want her more than ever. He now felt so hard he might burst. “By giving you my kisses, which you returned full well? By removing those garments you could not strip off quickly enough?”

  “Curse you!” she spat.

  He stared into her eyes. “Too late! I was accursed long before ever I met you.”

  “Take your hands from me!” She strove to pull away from him.

  For an instant he thought about holding her, kissing her as he had longed, feeling her melt against him into a pool of desire, as he knew she would. But no. He would not force her. Let her ask him for it.

  He released her as if touching her burned—as it did. Turning away, he began stripping off his clothing—leather tunic, soft wool shirt, overly-tight trews and, finally, the kilt. When he’d finished, he turned toward her, flagrantly displaying his manhood, which surged to attention.

  She looked her fill and swallowed hard. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to bed, Wife. Surely that is permitted?”

  “Here?”

  “Have I not th
e right?”

  “Yes, but—I thought you only stayed here when we… I warn you, I will not agree to accommodate you this night.”

  He lifted a brow. “You complain when I stay only to ‘use’ you, and then you complain when I stay to sleep.”

  She flushed again, the color staining her beautiful skin.

  “Sleep where you will. I care not. I only want you to understand what will and will not happen this night.”

  “Oh, aye, you have made yourself clear.” He climbed into the bed, taking up as much space as possible. He closed his eyes, feigning weariness. In truth, he felt anything but tired.

  Isobel stood where she was for several moments, as if rooted, then went and sat in the chair by the fire.

  Time slowly drew out, and Dougal’s body relaxed. The long miles ridden that day began to catch up with him, and his thoughts drifted toward sleep.

  He nearly slept when he half heard, half felt Isobel move about the room. Peering between his lashes, he watched as his wife removed her clothes and donned her night rail, some of his drowsiness leaving him as a consequence. He knew that body of hers now, could declare the soft weight of those breasts, the silk of her long legs wrapped around him. Desire pricked at him like a fever.

  She climbed into the bed, her long hair loose around her. Carefully, she strove to make herself small and assure her body avoided his.

  He thought of the many mornings this fortnight past when he had waked to find her limbs twined with his, and the delectable feelings thus occasioned. He had only to reach for her now…

  Yet he had vowed he would make no such move until she showed her desire—and a woman locked into a tight ball at the edge of the bed showed none such.

  He was a grown man, was he not? A man who had endured tremendous pain in his life with stoic resistance. Surely he could endure this.

  Yet he swore at himself bitterly before he closed his eyes again, and he had to force himself to form the mild, ironic words, “Good night, Wife—and be sure to sleep well.”