Devil Black

by Laura Strickland

  Chapter Seventeen

  “MacNab is at the door with that accursed son of his in tow. They demand entry.”

  Meg delivered the announcement with her back pressed against the closed door of the dining hall and her head high. The four of them had been at dinner. The hour being late and the weather continuing foul, the last thing Isobel expected was this kind of interruption.

  Yet Meg, who had gone out to direct one of the courses, returned and shut the door as if against an invading army.

  Lachlan MacElwain, their sole guest, exchanged glances with Dougal and straightened in his chair. Isobel, her heart leaping, looked to her husband also.

  Dougal stirred, a small, ironic smile touching his lips, picked up the dirk with which he cut his meat and slipped it neatly into his sleeve. “Leave it to the impolite MacNabs to disturb my dinner,” he drawled. “Well, Sister,” he continued to Meg, “and have you left them on the doorstep?”

  “In the hall,” she replied, only the glitter in her eyes and the high color in her face betraying her emotion, which Isobel could not quite identify—terror, or excitement?

  And surely she saw anticipation in her husband’s eyes. Lachlan looked thoughtful but not appalled. Was Isobel, herself, the only one frightened by this awful development?

  Dougal looked at her, just as if she had spoken the question aloud. Three days had passed since that night they had spent together and yet apart, in her bed, and they had not had relations once. The wild thought now blossomed in her head: perhaps, finding he had no use for her, Dougal would just hand her over to MacNab after all.

  Yet, on his feet, he turned to one of his retainers. “Alert the men, if they are not already aware of our…visitors. Make sure everyone is armed, and close the gates.”

  He looked at Meg. “How large a party has MacNab brought?”

  Meg shook her head. “Not large: just himself, the abominable Bertram, and two attendants.”

  Dougal’s smile sharpened. “Very bold—or very foolish.”

  Lachlan, now also on his feet, said, “You cannot take him prisoner, Dougal, nor murder him. In all conscience—”

  “I have no conscience, a fact MacNab knows right well. And I have anticipated this from the first.” He turned to Meg. “I will see him there, in the hall.”

  Meg nodded, and her eyes moved to Isobel. “Shall I stay with your wife, upstairs?”

  Dougal feigned great surprise. “Why would you do that?”

  “To keep her out of MacNab’s sight, of course.” Meg asked Isobel directly, “Will he recognize you?”

  Isobel nodded, but Dougal gave her no chance to speak.

  “You think I mean to hide her? But nay, Sister, I will not hide my wife. Why should I, indeed?”

  Now Meg and Lachlan exchanged incredulous stares.

  Lachlan spoke, “Because she is Bertram’s affianced wife, whom you stole?”

  “Nay, but she is not. I apprehend ’tis one Catherine Maitland for whom they have come looking—my wife’s sister, in truth. Well, Wife, will you greet them with me?”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes on his face. So, he meant to brazen it out, did he? And yes, he had anticipated this with great relish, but she had not, and she felt terrified, as if she might lose what little dinner she had taken.

  “Come.” Dougal stepped to her side and offered his arm. “You look beautiful, as always. It might be better, however, could you manage to look a bit less frightened.”

  “Impossible!” Isobel’s lips felt stiff, and her throat had gone tight.

  Now they all stared at her.

  “She will be ill,” Meg predicted.

  “She will faint,” Lachlan wagered.

  “Nay, she has more backbone than that.” Dougal’s arm, beneath her hand, felt like rock.

  She gazed up into his eyes. “Perhaps I would do better to wait in my room.”

  “Perhaps you would. Yet, Wife, word of your presence has obviously got round the district at last, and now we must play this out. MacNab will not rest until he lays eyes on you. ’Tis best faced now.”

  “What must I say to him?”

  “The truth: that you chose to wed wi’ me.”

  “What if he insists on taking me away with him?” Isobel’s heart violently protested the possibility. Despite her many doubts about her husband, and the seemingly impossible distance between them, she discovered she did not wish to leave him.

  Something flickered in the grey depths of Dougal’s eyes. “Then he shall have a war on his hands. You are my wife. I will die before I give you up.”

  The words found their way to Isobel’s soul and took up residence, even though she knew the reason he said them had nothing to do with what was in his heart. He already battled MacNab. This was a skirmish he had contemplated. He merely did not want to lose.

  Yet she felt her chin lift anyway. What might it be, to be loved by a man such as this?

  His gaze quickened as he read the emotions in her eyes. His hand, warm and strong, came up and grasped her hand, which rested on his arm.

  “Very well, I am ready,” she told him.

  Still, when they began to move, her knees wobbled and sickness rose into the back of her throat. She could hear raised voices in the great hall. They fell silent when she and Dougal entered the lofty chamber and the two men there turned to stare at her.

  She recognized Randal MacNab at once, somewhat to her surprise. Tall and carrying enough extra weight to argue affluence, he had a strong, fleshy face and receding hair, now gone grey. Lines scored his forehead and cheeks, but his eyes were those of a young—and angry—man. He wore unrelenting black, no kilt for him, and a sword at his side.

  She failed to recognize Bertram, the man she should have married. He had been a man of twenty-one when last she saw him and must be all of thirty now. He had his father’s height but none of his bulk, and reminded Isobel of a whip, cruel and dangerous. His brown hair had just begun to recede and his face might be deemed handsome by some. Well proportioned, he looked proud and haughty, and Isobel saw rage in his eyes. Like his father, he wore a sword. Unlike him, he sported the MacNab tartan, its colors muted in the dim room.

  She heard what sounded like a growl come from Dougal’s throat and felt the hate surge through him like summer lightning.

  Bertram MacNab stepped forward with a cry. “Catherine! Father, did I not tell you it was so? Catherine, are you well? We searched the district for you. In fact, this blackguard pretended to help us search, all the while keeping you imprisoned here.”

  Isobel, still clutching Dougal’s arm desperately, said the only thing she could. “I am not Catherine.”

  Confusion reigned for several moments while both MacNab and his son spoke at once, neither giving Isobel fair opportunity to explain. Dougal stood the while, silent as a rock, even when Bertram stepped up to challenge him.

  “What have you done to her, MacRae? What foul magic worked upon the poor lass’s mind, that she knows not who she is? I shall have you for abduction and imprisonment.”

  “I am Isobel, older sister to Catherine,” Isobel said, determined now to make herself heard. “I was Isobel Maitland and am, now, wife to this man.” Her fingers tightened on Dougal’s arm.

  “Married? You wed wi’ her?” Isobel thought Bertram would explode; the point seemed far more valid to him than her actual identity. It was clever-eyed Randal who stepped forward and said, “Why are you here, Isobel? My son’s marriage contract was with your sister, Catherine.”

  “Just so.” Dougal spoke up for the first time. “And you have no business here, having no contract of any kind concerning this woman, my wife.”

  “One moment!” Randal MacNab held up a hand. “She will explain to us before we go anywhere. Where is your sister, lass? And had your father knowledge of this?”

  Isobel shook her head. “My sister and I hatched the scheme between us, to change places. No one knew, save our maid who, I believe, died when our coach crashed.”

  “Every
one died,” Randal said grimly. “The coach overturned in a ravine. We were not sure but you—or rather your sister—had perished as well. We had men search the roads for days.”

  “And all the while,” Bertram seethed, “this bastard knew—”

  “Aye,” Randal denounced in a hard tone. “And yet he pretended to search, by our sides. Explain that, man. And also why you saw fit to wed with this woman if, indeed, the marriage is no sham?”

  Dougal lifted his head arrogantly. “I wed as the King himself bade me—in response to your complaint of me, I believe, MacNab. And the marriage, performed by the priest, O’Rourke, is legal, as well as consummated.”

  MacNab stiffened like a horse feeling the whip. “O’Rourke? That drunken sot! I believe any ceremony performed by him could well be called into question.”

  “And the consummation?” Dougal sneered. “Will you question that, as well?”

  Bertram turned what appeared to be half crazed eyes on Isobel. “If, Lady, he raped you—well, my father has the King’s ear. He shall hang for it!”

  For the first time, Isobel felt Dougal tense beneath her touch. The words she spoke now, she knew, could mean his demise—and her freedom.

  If she wanted freedom from him, that was.

  She drew a breath that seemed to vibrate through her, then leaned toward Bertram and met his eyes, her own narrowed.

  “No rape, I assure you, sir. I wanted him. I do, yet. Had I been forced to lie with you in my poor sister’s place—now, that would have necessitated rape.”

  ****

  Dougal was still laughing long after the MacNabs gathered the shreds of their dignity and stalked off, their rage tangible. His mirth seemed genuine, and it annoyed Isobel in a way she could not easily define.

  At last she turned on him and exploded, “I do not know what you find so amusing. You have not heard the last of this. You heard him say he will send word to my father, and what he may do I cannot say.”

  “I did, indeed, hear him,” agreed Dougal, his eyes still displaying unholy mirth. “Yet, Wife, I can only applaud the spirit you showed. As for your father, surely he will be deep in confusion by now, with your sister having disappeared. Or will he be thinking ’tis yourself ran off, and Catherine here? At least he will be relieved to know you are alive.”

  Would he? What would Father feel when he learned his daughter had wed with an infamous outlaw? Would he care? Perhaps all his concern centered on Catherine and he was glad to be rid of his elder, troublesome daughter...

  “I do not think ‘relief’ can describe his possible emotions,” she said tersely. “And whether he will actually travel here I cannot say. He has ever professed himself far too busy with the estate to trouble much with us.” Her lips tightened. “He is most diligent toward the estate.”

  “Aye?” Dougal gave her a cool look. “And yet this case may be different, surely? He might well bestir himself.”

  “He might.”

  “So I shall be prepared, give my men instructions to expect company at the gates. Eh?” He slanted a brow at her.

  Isobel, thinking hard about it, said slowly, “MacNab will send Father word that I am here, not Catherine. So whatever he thinks now, he will soon know the truth.” She shook her head decisively. “He will not come.”

  “We shall see.”

  She told him, “Whatever my father decides, I doubt MacNab is done with this. Will he complain to the King?”

  “How can he, when you have assured him you chose to wed wi’ me?” Dougal crossed to her side and lifted a finger to trace her lips. “Thank you for that, Wife.”

  Helplessly, she gazed up into his eyes, deep grey and as mysterious as a stormy sea.

  “But perhaps,” he whispered, “words make an insufficient expression of my gratitude. Can you think of aught else?”

  Isobel knew she should not melt into a pliable bundle against him; nothing between them had been resolved. He thought of her still as a weapon, something to be used—his heart remained aloof from her, no matter how intimate their bodies became.

  Could she live with that? Could she live without his touch? He declared himself grateful, yet he, like his sister, manipulated people with ease.

  Isobel should walk away from him now and preserve what little pride remained to her amid this awful mess. She did not need more hurt or more pain. And yet he held, for her, all the temptation of the devil himself.

  “I will think of a proper way for you to thank me,” she told him. “Only give me time.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I do not need you. I do not want you! Be a sensible man and keep out of my life.” The whisper vibrated through the cold silence of the great hall and stopped Dougal in the doorway, unseen. The dawn, just past, had come muffled in deep snow; the couple in the hall, who spoke with their heads close together, stood nearly lost in deep gloom.

  Yet, Dougal knew them: his sister, Meg, and his friend, Lachlan—who obviously did not know what was good for him.

  As if to prove it, Lachy whispered, “I cannot! You have bewitched me. Do you have any idea how I want you?”

  Dougal, unwilling eavesdropper, almost groaned. He—fresh from his wife’s bed and another endless night spent struggling not to touch her—understood the meaning of frustration. But he knew his sister also, and Lachy would get nowhere by begging.

  As if to prove him right, Meg laughed. “All men want me, most to their sorrow. Do yourself a favor, Lachy, and give it up.”

  Lachlan’s voice trembled when he replied, “I do not think that’s possible.”

  Dougal saw his sister reach up and touch Lachlan on the cheek, a gesture of unaccustomed tenderness. “Lachlan, I have known you since we were both children. You are like a brother to me, almost.”

  “Do not say that!”

  “I stipulated ‘almost.’ We teased and tormented each other as bairns. I know your mind and your considerable failings, as you know mine.”

  “Surely that is to the good?”

  “I think not. You are fickle as the wind and want always what you have not, simply because ’tis withheld from you. You have never formed a serious attachment in your life, save that to my accursed brother. And what does that say of you?”

  “Never, perhaps, until now.” The throb of passion in Lachlan’s voice opened Dougal’s eyes wide. “I would sell my soul for you, Meg.”

  “A fine declaration. But I have no interest in your soul.”

  Dougal knew he should withdraw; this scene was not meant for his eyes, or ears. Yet wonder kept him rooted to the spot.

  Lachlan shook his head. “I am helpless in your hands. Prudence and wisdom—what little ever I possessed—fly away from me in your presence.”

  “Do not play the fool!”

  “And if I cannot help myself?”

  “We can always help ourselves, Lachy, if we try. Do you know what I am? What they say of me?”

  “That you are a witch,” Lachlan said, so low Dougal, still listening shamelessly, barely heard him.

  “A witch, aye. And a murderess. Both are true of me, Lachy. So keep clear and save yourself—for the sake of our old friendship.”

  “You surely have enchanted me.”

  Poor sod, Dougal thought, shaking his head. Lachy never learned. Yet he saw his sister, cruel as fate and twice as fierce, fall into his friend’s arms and then, while they were wholly distracted, Dougal did withdraw, for decency’s sake.

  The incident remained much on his mind and later that day, when he and Lachlan, who seemed, now, virtually to live at the keep, were busy inspecting the fortifications one more time, he tried to broach the subject.

  Knowing Lachy had stolen at least a kiss from the object of his desire, Dougal expected him to be enthused and energized. Yet as they stood together on the walk that ran along the keep’s top battlements, Lachy seemed quiet and morose.

  “What is troubling you, then?” Dougal asked impatiently. “Are you sickening for something?”

  Lachy ro
lled his eyes like a wayward pony. “Sick, aye, ’tis a terrible sickness.”

  “What is?”

  “Love.”

  Despite what he knew, Dougal almost choked on his tongue. “Please say you do not fancy yourself in love wi’ my sister. It is a sickness indeed, one that will destroy you if you let it.”

  “Oh, aye? And I apprehend you do not in fact feel the same toward your new wife?”

  “I do not,” Dougal declared bitterly. “I am, aye, attracted to her, and she serves to warm my bed.” Though not lately. “But you know very well I believe not in ‘love.’ ”

  Lachlan looked stubborn, one of his worst moods. “You did, once.” He spoke the name Dougal wanted never to hear again. “Aisla—”

  Pain rushed through Dougal in a staggering wave, and he reacted in the only way he could—with anger. His hand flew to his sword and he rounded on his companion.

  “I was a lad then,” he growled, “a deluded fool.”

  Lachy’s blue eyes met his, unflinching. “And you loved her. I daresay you do yet. We all loved her—who could fail to? Will you betray her by denying the truth, the value of what you felt? Must you, Dougal?”

  Dougal’s rage nearly strangled him. His voice sounded rough as gravel when he spoke again. “I do not deny I thought I loved her. But I assert such love is an illusion, a false emotion. How did any love I thought I felt for her benefit her, Lachy? You speak of betrayal—aye, I carry that sin every day of my life.”

  Lachlan’s expression turned to one of regret. “I did not mean that. God knows, you did what you could.” His voice lowered, even though they stood isolated in the cold wind at the top of the keep. “I know—”

  “You know nothing! And you will forget what you think happened. I warned you before, if ever you speak of it, I will slit your throat, friend or no.”

  Lachy glared. “Have I ever spoken a word, all these years? I am not sure what happened, by any road—only that you made a bid—”

  “And failed,” Dougal said, like a man stabbed to the heart. “My own conviction in the power of love availed me nothing then, Lachy. If you want to buy into the delusion for the sake of your loins or your conscience, though by the devil’s horns, I do not know why, then find yourself some meek miss who can decide herself equally besotted with you and give you a crop of sons. Do not entangle yourself with my sister.”