The one thing that lay behind all of her worrying and all of her efforts to relieve him of the burden of guilt under which he’d lived for years was that she loved him. She wanted to love him. But freeing himself from his past was something she could not do for him.
Once she laid out all of her information and thoughts about how Laria had managed to do this, it would be up to him.
And that was what had her hands shaking when he summoned her to his chambers. She loved him, but did he love her enough to try to break from the prison he might have created?
* * *
He’d only intended to tell her two things: that the road was open and he expected her parents within days and that Laria had been called to assist a birth in a neighbouring village. One of the village girls had brought the news, saying that Laria had left immediately and would return in a few days.
Now, he had a third, more pressing thing to ask her about, one that crowded out the others.
When showing Brother Angus his system of organising his records and rolls, a scrap of parchment covered with strange words fell out from between two of them. To his surprise, the good brother recognised the words—Norn, he said, because he’d been raised north of Caithness where the Norse inhabited much of the area.
It was a list of names beginning with the names she’d asked him about, continuing on to his wives, his betrothed, Robbie and old Iain and others. He could make no sense of it, but it made his stomach churn and his head hurt. Part of him wanted to put it back where he’d found it. Part of him wanted to burn it. But seeing it, he knew that she was pursuing something that could be dangerous for both of them.
Her soft knock distracted him, as the sight of her always did. He missed her. He wanted her.
Always.
‘Come.’
She opened the door and entered. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I wanted to talk to you.’ Her eyes brightened—a good sign, he thought—but how would she react to what he’d found? ‘Sit. Please.’ She fidgeted in the chair, so he walked over and sat at the table with her, the chessboard a reminder of so many things.
‘I would like to talk to you, as well,’ she said.
Why was he so nervous? Then she saw the parchment there in his hand and knew he’d found her list. But did he understand it and the significance it had?
‘What is this, Isobel?’ His words sounded thunderous between them.
‘What do you think it is, Athdar?’ His jaws clenched then and she waited. He could not have read it himself...
‘Brother Angus is from Caithness,’ he said and she understood.
‘Then you know what it is,’ she threw back at him.
‘I would know why you probe and pry into my private life?’
‘I am your wife, am I not? Do I not deserve to know what has, who has, come before me?’ she asked. She reached over and took the list from his hand and met no resistance. ‘And how and why they died?’ Then she knelt down before him and took his hand. ‘Athdar, something is wrong here. It has been wrong for a very long time and I think it has nothing to do with a curse. I think that Laria has been avenging herself on you.’
She let out her breath then and waited for his reaction. She could see him battling even now about whether or not she was the one losing her mind to madness. Isobel knew she must stay calm or it would not end well.
Then she realised that a calm and even approach would not break through the walls his past had built within him to protect whatever secrets lay there. Taking a deep breath, she said the words she believed would force him to face the truth he could not.
‘Jamie. Duff and Kennan. Robbie.’ She waited a moment and then repeated their names. ‘Jamie. Duff and Kennan. Robbie.’
‘I told you before and I will tell you again—I do not know those names.’ He pushed away from her and stood, pacing across the chamber and putting an ever-growing distance between them, a distance she wondered if they would ever bridge again. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Jamie was the tanner’s oldest son. Robbie—your best friend. Duff and Kennan were Laria’s own sons. And they died, along with Jamie, in some terrible accident that only you know about, Athdar. You need to remember. Or I fear she will continue to kill people until you do.’ She knew she pushed him hard, but only by remembering what he would or could not remember would set him free of the terror that controlled him now.
The logic behind Laria’s madness had come to her in the night. Not at her loom as such clarity usually came to her, but while staring at the ceiling in her chamber, imagining another game of chess being played. It was not about revenge as much as it was about inflicting as much pain as possible before ending it.
A web woven of waiting and watching and planning...and killing. Not all at one time. Not all guilty of the sin at the centre.
Isobel knew now that Athdar was the one at the centre of it all.
‘Laria has no children. She is a widow and never had children,’ Athdar protested.
Isobel was new here. Isobel was wrong. This was wrong. Children? Laria had had children? Nay, he’d never heard her speak of them in all the years that she’d served his clan. Or had he forgotten them as he had others?
‘Duff and Kennan. Only an eleven-month separated them in age. They died the summer you and Robbie were seven.’ She stood and walked to his side. When she touched his hand, he pulled away, running it through his hair as he turned from her.
Could her words be true? If so, who but a madman forgot his friends? Something dark trembled within him, pulling his reason aside as he forced himself to listen to her. Then, shaking his head, Athdar tried to push the doubt and the foreboding aside, but something in his past, something dark, would not ease his path.
‘I said that Laria has no children. And Robbie has been my friend, since he married and moved here some years ago.’
Thoughts and questions swirled around in his mind, but he did not know which to think about or to say. Her words disturbed him deeply and he wondered if this turmoil could truly be something much more dangerous than forgetting.
Was this madness after all? Had he ignored the signs? The voices he heard. The times when he was lost to himself. The times when he did things with no recognition or memory of them. The rage and fear that seemed to live just beneath his skin, always threatening to explode.
Oh, God in Heaven, he was a madman.
And Bel had married him, tying her fate and her life to a man who lost all those he dared love. What if the truth was that he was somehow causing it all? That he had taken the lives of those named on her list? That his madness kept him from remembering dark deeds done? How could he protect her if she needed it from him?
He tightened his hands into fists and released them over and over as the confusion and fear tried to gain control of him once more. But who would protect his Isobel if he did not?
Isobel watched the terrible pain and fear inside of him try to protect itself. It had ruled his life, it had held him prisoner, for years and years, even without him knowing it.
His expression went blank, the emptiness taking control so he could not think past it. But he was struggling there, she could feel it, see it...and her heart broke.
If he could not take that first step and claim control over his soul, how could she do anything to help him? Pain burned in her chest as she understood that she could not remain here, could not continue to be his wife, if he was not willing to believe her. Their ending, she feared, was approaching and she could not stop it from happening now.
Worse, even though he’d read her list and knew her suspicions, he would not accept that someone else was to blame here. If he could not try to believe her, she could not help him as she thought she could.
How presumptuous she’d been. How certain she knew the best path for him and that she would be the one to show him along it. What a fool she was.
There would always be some trigger lurking and waiting to cause these spells. If there was happiness, guilt would lur
k in his darkness. If sad, fear would. A never-ending pattern and he would never break free. Isobel gave up in that moment.
He could see the heartbreak in her eyes as she met his gaze then and waited for the words that he knew would damn him to the darkness that always waited there.
‘Athdar,’ she said, her voice calling him back from the edge that moved ever closer. ‘I cannot do this. I cannot live with your past and this pain between us. I cannot live in fear of saying the wrong word or doing the wrong thing. I cannot live not being able to help you.’
‘You said you were mine always, Isobel.’ He needed her to stay. He needed her love. He needed...
She stepped away from him then, the pain of her small movement making it difficult to breathe now.
‘I want to be with you always, Dar,’ she whispered to him. ‘But you will not let me help you and you will not take the steps to help yourself.’
Athdar had heard her words and wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe there was no curse. That everything had been caused by one person. Now though, he feared at his core that he might be more responsible than anyone.
And if it was him, if he was battling not only a terrible past, but also a horrible mad future, how did he protect Isobel?
There was only one way to make certain she was safe, from a curse, from a madman if his own madness was the cause of it, or from a madwoman if she was correct about Laria’s involvement in his past. He stood tall and looked past her at the window of the chamber.
‘I expect that there will be some visitors soon. I asked you here to tell you that the road is open to travel now.’
‘My parents? My father is on his way?’ she said. Confusion entered her eyes at his change in their topic.
‘Aye. I expect your father to be the first one through. I think you should make plans to leave and meet him so that you can return to Lairig Dubh.’
Would it work? Could he drive her away from him, from here? More importantly, drive her to safety? He waited for her to speak, hearing only the sound of her breathing, shallow and low.
‘And that is what you wish, Athdar?’ she asked. She clasped her hands together, searching his face.
He knew the words that would bring this to a close, and even knowing they would keep her safe if he could not, his heart did not want him to say them. To use them against her.
‘For years, I’d convinced myself that I did not wish to marry again. Then you came here uninvited and, well, now we are married.’
He saw her draw in a breath as though preparing for what he would say. Turning away, he only knew he could not say them while watching the pain in her face.
‘It was a mistake to do this—to marry again was a mistake. You are a mistake.’
Her gasp cut him in two. He forced himself not to turn at the sound and waited for her to leave.
If he was descending into madness, it would be without her.
The sound of her footsteps moving across the wooden floor echoed in the emptiness that would be his life without her. He dared one slight turn of his head, one last look at her that would have to last him for ever.
She paused before the table and reached over, taking one of the pieces before she ran from the chamber. After the door slammed behind her, Athdar walked to the chessboard and realised which piece it was.
She’d taken his black queen.
It mattered not for he would not play with those pieces again. He would not look on that board, for he could only see her when he did.
Now that he had managed to drive her away, with his words and his lack of faith in her, he wondered if the madness would rise up to claim him completely.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The morning came and she dressed in silence. Walking through the hall tortured her with its many and wondrous memories and she would keep them close to her heart for ever. Surely longer than the year-and-a-day of their marriage.
Though some of the women were already there to begin working, she could not speak to them or to anyone else. Only Padruig tried, but she had to wave him off. Nessa hugged her and wished her well. Jean fought back the tears she could not and turned her face away. Even Ceard crossed his arms over his broad chest and muttered about Athdar.
He needed them now. He needed his people because she would not be here to help him. A failing for sure, but she knew the limits of her abilities and her love. Staying would kill that faster than leaving would let it die. Broc had everything arranged and she found the horse saddled and ready outside the keep. Two guards, already mounted, waited on her to leave.
She had little to take with her since her clothing had returned with her mother. So, a small bag tied to her saddle was all she took...and the black queen. She could not leave her behind to be played by someone else.
Mayhap she was a more jealous woman than she thought?
With enough provisions to take them through the pass—two days’ travel at most now that the snows had melted—she would meet up with escorts from Lairig Dubh. Broc had sent out messengers ahead to make preparations to take her the rest of the way...home.
Soon, Athdar’s keep was but a shadow behind her and the road opened before them. With so much pain in her heart that she was almost numbed by it, she could not talk to the guards, choosing silence as they rode. Only questions about her comfort were asked and when they did stop to eat the food packed for them, she avoided them.
* * *
They’d eaten their midday meal and were about to mount when one of the guards began gagging and coughing. Then the second one did the same. Horrified, Isobel watched as, within a few short minutes, they lay unconscious and near death. They’d shared the same food and she waited for the symptoms to strike her down, praying that Athdar was safe.
But they had not shared the skin of ale.
Could there have been something in the ale? She had, instead, drunk from a skin that contained the betony tea she so liked. Jean said...oh, God, not that she’d made it, but that it had been waiting for her this morn.
The sun above became blurry and Isobel’s legs felt weighted down. She knew Laria must be close, watching and waiting for her to fall, so she picked up her skirts and ran, moving slower and slower with each step. She fell then, tumbling into the field by the road, unable to move even though she knew that death, and Laria, tracked her.
Athdar!
Athdar, she thought as her body began to shut itself down.
Will he remember me or will I fade into the dark part of his memory like the others?
* * *
‘Athdar?’
‘Leave me be!’ he yelled from inside. The whisky did not block out their voices or her memories.
She was gone. She had left him after swearing she would never leave.
‘Damn it, Dar! Open this door before I break it down.’ Broc’s angry voice did not change Athdar’s mind about opening it.
‘Come on, man. Isobel is in danger.’ But Padruig’s quiet plea and mention of her name did.
He staggered across the clothes-strewn room and lifted the bar just moments before the two forced their way in. Knocked to the floor, he waited for them to climb off him.
‘Where is Bel?’ he asked, climbing to his feet and pushing his hair out of his face.
‘This was just delivered from the village.’ Broc handed him a small, folded packet.
Tearing it and cursing as he did, Athdar handed it back to Broc to open more carefully. Padruig paced, hand on sword, waiting for orders. When something fell to the floor from inside the packet, Padruig scooped it up.
He’d seen the writing before, when Laria wrote down instructions or a list of ingredients and supplies she needed. This was her writing now.
Come and learn the truth.
Come alone or she dies.
I am waiting.
Justice is waiting.
Padruig held out his hand and dropped the item that he’d picked up into Athdar’s palm after he read the note.
His black queen.
/> She did not think he saw her take it, but he had. He just couldn’t find the words to tell her not to, or to beg her to stay.
Laria had Isobel and would kill her unless he found them.
Only by facing the darkness inside his memory could he get to her. His refusal to do that yesterday was what put her on the road this day. He thought she would be safer away from him, but that had simply put her into Laria’s grasp. Now, she was in danger and his heart and soul knew he could not risk her.
He closed his fist over her favourite piece and read the words again. Dear God, she had not told him where to find them! Athdar knew he could not help her without facing all of it, even the dark, swirling madness that lay inside him.
‘I do not know where she is!’ he yelled out. ‘How will I find them?’ Broc grabbed for him as he fell to his knees.
He had to think. He had to concentrate.
He had to remember the accident Isobel had spoken of and where it had been.
He recalled the names she’d spoken over and over to him, trying to open the dark pit within him to find her. He said them aloud, caring not who heard them.
‘Jamie. Duff and Kennan. Robbie.’ Nothing.
‘Jamie. Duff. Kennan. Robbie.’ Still...nothing.
‘Athdar,’ Broc said. ‘I know where they are. Where she is.’
‘How do you know? Did Laria tell you something?’ he asked, grabbing Broc by his shirt and pulling him close.
‘I followed you. I followed you that day.’
‘What day, Broc?’ he asked as he flung his steward aside.
Black waves tumbled in his memories. Broc as a child, younger than him by a few years. Broc sneaking behind him, ever a few paces behind him. Unable to force what would come at its own pace, he walked away.
‘Where, Broc? Tell me where?’ he shouted. Athdar opened his trunk and got his dagger and his leather jack. Then he turned and waited for Broc to reveal the location.
‘The mill. The old mill.’
Terri Brisbin Highlander Bundle Page 63
