‘Stay!’ he said, scooping the pieces of broken clay aside. ‘Have a care.’
She walked around the puddle and the jug and patted the pillow at the top of the bed.
‘Here now, lie down,’ she said, taking him by the shoulder and guiding him down. ‘Sleep, Athdar.’
She thought he was going to lie back until the last moment when he reached out and grabbed for her. Only able to grasp a bit of her gown, he pulled her along with him. She moved with him so that her gown did not tear. Finding herself on the bed, next to him, she could only laugh softly as she tried to free herself from his hold.
‘Stay with me, Mairi, love. They are all dead now. I should be.’ He wrapped his arm around her and held her close. His next words broke her heart. ‘I should not have lived when you died.’
He said nothing more which was a good thing, for she felt her own tears flowing at the hints and signs of the deep wounds he had suffered because of these deaths. She lay at his side, tucked half-under him and let him drift off to sleep. Her intention was to wait for him to be deeply asleep so he would not feel her move and then slide out from under him.
But, a lesson that she learned very early in life was the one she forgot in that moment—good intentions paved the road to hell. Between her fatigue and the warmth of his body, she, too, fell asleep and her intention to leave drifted off even as she did.
* * *
Oh, sweet Jesus, but his head pounded!
Athdar tried to open his eyes, but the light hurt too much for him to do so. Covering them with the hand he could move, he adjusted to the brightness before trying again. Inhaling against the pain, he noticed that he and the chamber smelled like old whisky. He needed to wash and change out of these garments. Tugging his arm free of the weight on it, the sound of feminine murmurs surprised him even more.
Had he got drunk at the news of Robbie’s death and ended up in one of the whores’ cottages? Christ, what a mess that would be! He turned to see who shared his bed and blinked several times against what he saw.
Isobel lay up against his side, her leg wrapped around his and her face tucked on his shoulder.
His head dropped back and he closed his eyes, but that did not stop the images of thousands of ways to die from passing through his mind.
He would never...
He could never...
From the looks and feel of it, he certainly had shared Isobel’s bed. From the looks of it, he yet shared her bed.
He sat up, ignoring the terrible burning in the pit of his stomach and the hammering in his head, and looked around the room, not daring to look at Isobel yet. The room was a mess, clothing all over, and they were tangled around each other on top of the bed. And the strong smell of whisky was all around him.
Still, things were not completely out of his control as long as he had not actually done anything to the lass. All of this looked bad, looked very, very bad, but it could be explained.
He’d been drunk as anyone in the hall could tell.
He’d lost control and sought her out.
All because you cannot control yourself. All because you did not think of the consequences of your actions.
Rurik’s words came back to him just as Isobel stirred at his side and as the door to the chamber opened. Before he could warn off whoever entered, the scream rang out and the sound of the tray crashing to the floor woke Isobel, who also screamed.
Things went badly from there on.
Once Isobel was awake, he moved off the bed and rushed, or staggered as it felt, to the door to close it. He had no idea that Glenna’s voice could hit that shrill tone, but it pierced his skull and made his ears want to bleed with its intensity. With the door finally secured, he turned to face Isobel. His stomach churned at the sight before him. No matter where he looked, all he could see was her blood.
A deep scarlet stain marred the pristine white gown she wore. A bloody sign of the worst kind of abuse he could have done to her. He could not meet her gaze to see the recrimination and horror there, so he fell to his knees before her to beg her forgiveness.
‘Isobel.’
He could say nothing more. And even if he thought of the words to speak, the crashing of the door that knocked him flat to the floor would have prevented it. Athdar pushed himself to his feet and tried to block Isobel from the scrutiny of others, but it was not possible with the number of people who crowded into the chamber.
Expressions of shock turned to horror as they beheld the results of his night of drunken debauchery. He read disappointment and anger in their gazes as they— Padruig, Nessa, Broc, even Jean had made it up the steps to check on Isobel—gazed at him. But for Isobel there was only sympathy and caring.
‘Nessa, please see to her,’ he said quietly. ‘She may have a need for Laria,’ he admitted as he ordered everyone else out then.
He might have transgressed the bounds of proper behaviour greatly, but he was still laird and they answered to him. No one refused his command though they all waited outside the chamber until he left, as well.
‘Athdar,’ Isobel called out to him. ‘Athdar, wait!’
How could she even speak his name without cursing him for what he’d done? He turned back to see her standing at the doorway, the red sign of his terrible sin visible to all. He would make this right somehow. He had to make it right...for her. She deserved none of this. He just did not wish to conduct their privy affairs in the corridor.
‘Isobel, there will be time to straighten this all out once you have been seen to,’ he said quietly. ‘Let Nessa see to you, eat something if you can, and we will talk soon.’
She opened her mouth as though to argue with him, but stopped when Nessa placed a hand on her shoulder. Her mouth trembled as she nodded, accepting his explanation.
He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face and walked away, not meeting anyone’s eyes. He needed to clean himself up so he could face the consequences of his actions. Once he rid himself of the stink of old whisky and cleaned up, he needed to consult with Padruig and others and to arrange for Robbie’s funeral, as well. He barely got outside in the yard before his stomach clenched and he vomited. It took some time before his stomach calmed enough to complete his ablutions.
Then his sense of sorrow and failure nearly overwhelmed him as he thought of what he must face this day. Of the people he must answer to and be responsible for. He accepted one thing as he made his way outside—whatever had happened between them or as a result of his lack of control, it would be as Isobel wanted.
Whatever she wanted.
Chapter Thirteen
She could not have imagined that a day which had been as bad as the one yesterday was could have been followed by another one that was even worse. But, from the moment she opened her eyes—nay, even moments before that—it had spun wildly out of control as her life would now do.
How could she have fallen asleep with him? And in such a condition?
In the darkened chamber, lit with but one small candle, she’d never seen the injury to his hand when he reached for the broken jug on the floor. She’d never noticed the bloody stain on her gown where he grabbed it in the dark. Mayhap if she’d risen as she’d planned, she could have changed and no one would have seen it and made the hasty and wrong conclusion that everyone who’d rushed into the bedchamber had.
Including Athdar.
He’d lost his senses in the desolation of losing a friend, one of his oldest friends from the little he’d said, and then sought solace in too much whisky. That had driven him to the confusion that led him to her door—or rather Mairi’s door—to find some comfort there, so deep in his misery and in his cups that he mistook Isobel for her. Her mistake added to his suffering, for now, now, she knew exactly what he thought he’d done.
Taken her virtue by force.
; Her head swam with the implications and complications of this situation. She needed to speak to him before he made any decisions based on...based on her deceit. What if he sent word to her parents and to Connor about this? Then there would be no way of correcting her mistake and there could be war if her father sought satisfaction for what he thought Athdar had done.
‘Nessa, please call Athdar here,’ she asked, as the servants rolled the large tub into her chambers. ‘I must speak to him before he does anything.’
‘We must see to you, lass. Athdar...the laird can see to himself until you are...made comfortable.’ The woman’s fury was clear in every word and gesture. Nessa also believed the worst.
‘Jean...’ Isobel turned to the other woman in the room. ‘I must speak to him first,’ she begged.
‘Here now, lady,’ Jean whispered as she put her arm around Isobel’s shoulders and guided her to the other side of the room. ‘The laird said he would talk with you after you have had a bath and dressed.’
Jean glanced over her head and Isobel knew she was exchanging wordless gestures with Nessa. Once the room had been cleaned up and all the servants gone, Jean took her hands and sat her on the edge of the now-pristine bed.
‘Should we call Laria for ye? Do you have any...injuries...that need tending to?’
When she looked from one woman to the other, they both blushed deeply at the questions. Isobel understood what they were asking and shook her head, trying to speak the truth to them.
‘Athdar did not hurt me,’ she said. ‘I am not injured.’ They shook their heads and tsked in reply. ‘He did nothing...’
She realised that she was convincing no one of anything. Their minds were set on believing the worst, so she gave up the battle for the moment and sank into the tub’s steaming water. Though he’d not hurt her, or truly even touched her, he had slept on her and his weight and the twisted manner in which she ended up—half beneath him, half next to him—had left her sore and achy. Isobel let the water, and the herbs they’d put in it, soothe her.
They did not rush her at all and only helped her wash her hair when she convinced them the water was cooling. Nessa stoked the fire so that it burst into flames, heating the chamber just before Isobel stood and climbed from the tub. Jean wrapped her quickly in two lengths of linen drying cloths.
She’d had enough.
‘I need some time alone,’ she said. ‘I would like to dress myself.’
She just needed an opportunity to sort through her thoughts and come up with a plan before things went completely awry. She needed to know what to say to Athdar and how to explain the grievous error that had happened between them before he took responsibility for something he did not do.
‘I will get ye something plain to eat, lady. And some of that betony tea that ye like so much,’ Jean said, accepting her request.
Though Nessa looked as though she would argue, she nodded as she gathered up the soiled garments and followed Jean out. She could not fault them for their concern. It touched her heart to have them worrying over her, much as her mother fretted about her and her siblings, no matter their ages.
Once the door closed and the latch dropped, she sat on a stool before the fire and combed the tangles out of her hair. Letting it dry, she fought the growing urge to cry. Not so much for herself, but for Athdar and all the pain he yet carried within himself. And now this fresh guilt.
Her stubborn, selfish plan to come here and convince him that they were suited for marriage could now destroy her chances of that. Worse, if this misunderstanding continued too long, even more problems would happen because of it. She needed to see Athdar and clear this up. He did not deserve the trouble she was causing on top of everything else he felt responsible for.
So, she gathered her hair and braided it. Searching through the trunk in the corner, she found clean undergarments and stockings and put them on. A borrowed gown, for she’d not been able to keep all of her garments when she remained behind, that laced up the side and a tartan shawl and she was ready to leave the chamber and carry out her task to set things aright. Lifting the latch, she pulled the door open and found Jean waiting with a tray.
Letting out an exasperated breath at another delay, she stepped back inside and let the woman place the tray next to the bed. Realising that the woman’s short stature belied a warrior’s resolve, Isobel sat and ate. Hungrier than she realised, she consumed every morsel of the plain but filling meal. The betony tea she’d come to enjoy while working with Laria calmed her as she sipped the steaming decoction. Jean looked on as she ate and drank, pleased only when she finished every bit of it.
‘Is Athdar in the hall?’ she asked, rising and walking to the door.
‘Is it wise to seek him out, lady? Why not rest here and wait for his call?’
Knowing the older woman meant only to be helpful and knowing she would never get past her peaceably, Isobel nodded. Taking the shawl and draping it over the chair, she went to the bed and got on it. Jean smiled and carried the tray from the room. Isobel listened at the hushed whispers outside her door and then closed her eyes to feign sleep when Nessa peeked inside to check on her.
A few more minutes of lying quietly and then Isobel climbed from the bed and pulled on her boots. From the quietness below, she suspected that Athdar was outside, in the yard or village. She would find him and they would talk about this.
She did not take a chance going through the hall and running into Nessa or Jean, so she put the shawl up over her hair, leaned her head down and made her way out of the keep’s main door. Walking along the building, she found herself drawn to the boisterous—bloodthirsty, even— sounds from the enclosed yard where the men trained in arms and fighting. If there was something going on there, Athdar would be there—involved or watching at the least. As she rounded the corner of the keep, she found that she was not the only one following the sounds or the only one now watching the spectacle within the fence.
Athdar stood, surrounded by a half dozen men, taking them on. Some carried weapons, others did not. From his bloodied face and heavy breathing, it was clear he was not winning this battle or even holding his own. As she watched, she noticed he was not truly even fighting to his abilities. She’d seen him fight before—at Lairig Dubh, here—and this was not a fight. This was atonement.
Isobel pushed her way through the crowd to get to the fence. This must be stopped. He must be stopped. The people moved aside as they realised who she was and she rushed on. Spying Broc ahead, she ran to him and tugged his sleeve.
‘You must stop this...now!’ she said, loudly to be heard over the cheering. When Broc simply shrugged at her, she realised they, as well as Athdar, believed he was worthy of such punishment.
Men, she had found, were daft. They had this certain sense of judgement and justice that confounded her. They were...men! If no one here would stop this, she must. Gathering her skirts, she climbed up and over the fence, landing inside the yard.
Keeping hold of her skirts and stepping over God-knew-what in the dirt of the fighting field, she walked towards Athdar. Careful to stay out of the way of weapons, she approached him directly so she was in his line of sight at all times. One by one, each of his opponents saw her and stood down. Now only Padruig and Athdar continued fighting and the crowd grew quiet. Her voice could be heard now.
‘Athdar, you must cease this now.’
She knew he saw her and heard her. Padruig did, for he stepped back for a brief second before turning back to face Athdar, sword raised and ready to strike again. She walked slowly, in measured steps, between the two men and approached Athdar.
‘Athdar, I beg you to stop this now,’ she said. Reaching over, she peeled his fingers from their steely grip around the hilt of his sword and took it from him. She dropped it to the ground and stood directly in front of him. Isobel lifted her hand to his face and touched his cheek. ‘Cea
se this.’
‘But, Isobel, I have dishonoured you...’ he began.
‘Nay, you have not. Only my actions can do that.’
He glanced over her head and around the yard where others remained, hanging on every word they could hear and action they could see. Still befuddled by his actions the night before and the grief of Robbie’s death, he knew only that he must take responsibility for the actions, even if she decried it. In this, there was only one honourable way out.
But would she accept it? After his abominable treatment of her? He lowered his voice to her.
‘Regardless of your assessment, your honour has been insulted. We know it. My kith and kin know it. As will yours.’ She grew ashen then, as if accepting the price of whatever happened between them. ‘There is only one way out of this so that you do not suffer the consequences.’
‘Am I to battle your men for my honour then?’ Her weak attempt to jest was whispered, telling him that this had shaken her, as well. He tried to ease her fears.
‘Padruig might give you an even fight, but you could take the others down, of that I have no doubt,’ he whispered back to her. Her lips trembled in a slight smile, but he sensed she understood. He stepped back from her, took her hand and held it up so all could see.
‘Last night, I claimed Lady Isobel as wife in our custom of handfasting. And she accepted me as husband.’ Shock echoed across the yard and he saw it in most faces there. Whether they accepted his words as truth or not, now, by publicly stating it before them, it was fact. ‘No matter my clumsy and drunken manners towards her and no matter the misunderstanding of it this morn, the Lady Isobel is my wife.’
He watched as the same determined expression her father sometimes wore entered her eyes. But would she say the words that bound them for a year and a day? He did not deserve such consideration after what he’d done and could only hope she would accept this offer and let him make all things up to her. They could work out how this would end later, but first honour, his and hers, demanded this.
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