She gripped his shoulders. “I draw my courage from ye,” she replied.
Boyd assisted Fanny from the cart just as a stout woman with jet black hair swept down the steps of the keep and entered the courtyard, a pock-faced youth in her wake. He assumed this was Ghalla and her son.
Having faced death in numerous skirmishes and innumerable gales, he knew what fear was, but the eerie malevolence that clung to the pair sent a shiver racing up his spine. He resisted the powerful urge to draw his sword, bellow a war cry and dispatch them both back to the netherworld. Instead, he took Isabel’s hand and waited.
*
“Isabel,” Ghalla shrieked, swooping to enfold her in a stiff embrace. “I’ve been worried. Ye left without a word.”
Isabel took a step back and inhaled deeply, hoping the speech she’d rehearsed came out the right way and that she betrayed none of her true feelings. “Forgive me,” she said as Ghalla dabbed at dry eyes with a kerchief. “I was distraught after what happened, I had to get away.”
“Ye had no right,” Tremaine hissed. “We were to be…”
“Not now, Tremaine,” his mother interrupted without even looking at him. “We’ll discuss that later.”
Isabel’s stepbrother clenched his jaw and glowered at her.
She took the offensive. “As it happens, ’twas fortunate I went away. The fates led me to the mon I was supposed to wed that terrible day, and we discovered it was all a dreadful mistake.”
Ghalla raked her gaze over Darroch. “This is the snake that jilted ye?”
Her outrage sounded genuine, but the color rising in her normally pale cheeks betrayed her unease—perhaps even a hint of lust.
Tremaine’s gaze darted hither and yon, as if seeking some means of escape.
Isabel faked a chuckle. “Aye, but ye’ll laugh. He thought I’d jilted him.”
Darroch smiled broadly. “Can ye credit there was some kind of mix-up? There I was, waiting at Dun Scaith…”
Ghalla waved him away like a pesky gnat. “Aye, weel, we’ll have to see what yer father says about his suitability.”
Isabel could scarcely wait to deliver the coup de grace, but had no intention of revealing her true feelings for Darroch. She clasped Ghalla’s cold hands. “We married as soon as we discovered the mistake. ’Twas our duty, for the good o’ both clans.”
Desperate Measures
Isabel introduced Fanny, but made no mention of her skills as a healer. Ghalla paid scant attention. Darroch admired the way Isabel and her cousin walked slowly but purposefully towards the keep as they talked, obliging Ghalla to walk with them. The round-shouldered runt trudged in their wake, though he kept well away from Blue.
Taking his cue from Isabel’s wise decision not to openly display their feelings for each other, Darroch lingered with Boyd, keeping a tight grip on Kyla’s hand when she tried to follow the dog.
He worried there’d be a confrontation when the two women tried to enter the sickroom.
“We’ll trail along in a minute or two,” Isabel’s uncle suggested. “Ghalla will balk immediately if I insist on seeing Rory.”
“How can she deny ye that right?” Darroch asked, though having met the woman he had to admit even he felt strangely intimidated by her.
“She’s evil,” Boyd whispered behind his hand so Kyla wouldn’t overhear.
They entered the keep and Boyd led the way to the chief’s chamber, situated at the top of an impressive winding flight of stone steps. A few servants bowed in acknowledgement, but it struck Darroch the castle was eerily empty and quiet—until they reached their destination. The door stood open. Raised voices and loud barking indicated a battle royal was going on within.
Kyla clung to his leg, obviously hesitant to enter.
Darroch was torn. He didn’t want his little lass exposed to the squabble, but his place was at Isabel’s side.
The decision was made for him when Blue trotted out of the chamber and nuzzled Kyla. She put her arms around his neck and they slumped down together by the door.
Satisfied he couldn’t ask for a better protector, he strode into the chamber.
*
“I absolutely forbid it,” the chief’s wife blustered, her face redder than a winter beetroot.
“Then Rory will die,” Fanny retorted quietly, not even looking at Ghalla.
“He will not,” came the retort. “He is responding to my salves.”
Fanny snorted. “Yer salves have made things worse. Can ye nay see and smell the putrefaction?”
“Yer presence is making him ill,” Ghalla hissed. “That’s why I’ve forbidden visitors, and allowing a dog…”
“Aye,” Tremaine echoed.
Isabel’s patience snapped. “Oh, shut up, Tremaine. Ye ken naught about healing. Get out of my sight.”
He gritted his teeth and glanced furtively at his mother before slinking out of the chamber. It was just as well. The urge to kill someone had seized Isabel the moment she’d set eyes on her father. She barely recognized the skeletal man in the soiled nightshirt staring blindly into nothingness. Only the sweat beading his brow gave any indication he still lived. The reason for the fever was apparent before she even saw the wound on his forearm daubed with some ineffective ointment. The stench was enough. She’d kissed his forehead, but he didn’t seem to know she was there.
She filled her lungs and clenched her fists, desperately trying to calm the anger seething in her belly. “We will do what Fanny deems necessary.”
“Ye canna cut off his arm,” Ghalla wailed. “What good is a chief with only one arm?”
The false sorrow in her stepmother’s voice only spurred her on. “Then he will die in agony, and ye ken it.”
Determined not to cry in front of the hateful woman, she was grateful when Darroch slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned into his solid support.
Jaw clenched, Boyd pressed both fists into the end of Rory’s bed and leaned forward. “Ye’d best pray he lives,” he spat at Ghalla. “Or ye’ll pay dearly for this travesty.”
She sneered, glared at Isabel, then left.
“Doesna smell as bad in here now,” Darroch remarked.
Isabel appreciated his attempt to lighten the gloom, but her tears finally flowed as she buried her face against his chest. “He might die even if they do amputate his arm.”
He stroked her hair. “Have faith. We ken Fanny can work miracles.”
Fanny stared at Rory’s putrid arm. “This is a tad more serious than a dislocated elbow, laddie. We might need more than a miracle—and I’ve ne’er taken off a limb.”
Boyd headed for the door. “I’ll fetch the fellow who tends the men when we go raiding.”
Isabel’s hopes rose. “Is he a surgeon?”
Boyd hesitated before replying. “Something o’ the sort.”
*
Darroch held fast to his wife as she sobbed, wishing he could take away her sorrow. But the reality had to be faced. He’d ridden out on many a raid and had an inkling of the kind of man Boyd had gone to seek—a barber, perhaps, or a blacksmith. In his opinion, the latter would be preferable. He deemed it wise not to mention his suspicions, but sensed from the look on her face that Fanny had an idea of what lay ahead.
He’d only witnessed one amputation—a leg mangled by a lynx. The unfortunate patient had died a slow and obscene death before the deed was done. The memory evoked a sour taste.
He looked down at Rory MacRain, chief of his clan’s sworn enemy, a man he’d been brought up to hate. Yet he was just a man. The years of warfare and slaughter seemed futile and nigh on sinful in the face of Isabel’s grief.
Gow
Satisfied Ghalla and Tremaine were out of the way for the moment, Isabel slumped into a chair beside her father’s bed, took his good hand and kept vigil in a fog of exhaustion. Fanny brought water from the ewer and pressed a wet cloth to his cracked lips. He seemed to want to drink but most of the water dribbled down his chin.
Darroch stood in the
open doorway with legs braced and arms folded—the stone-faced protector.
Minutes later, Coira barreled past him. She fell to her knees at Isabel’s feet. “Praise the Lord ye’ve returned, my lady,” she sobbed. “That Nellis woman is a witch. She’s put the fear o’ the devil in us all and even cats avoid her brat.”
Isabel cupped her faithful servant’s tear-streaked face. “’Tis good to see ye again, and dinna worry, we’ll put things back to rights.”
Coira struggled to her feet and glanced back at Darroch. “Is this mon…?”
Isabel smiled. “Aye. My husband.”
Her maid beamed. “’Tis true what they say, then—ye willna be obliged to wed the brat?”
“Not while I have breath in my body,” Darroch assured her.
A flush stole into Coira’s face. “And a braw body it is,” she whispered to Isabel.
Now it was Isabel’s turn to blush. “Ye’re too cheeky, but ye’re right. Listen, we havena told anyone else this, except Uncle Boyd, but we believe Ghalla contrived to have us both think we’d been jilted.”
Coira snarled. “I might have kent it. She’ll do anything to make sure that cruel worm becomes chief.”
Isabel’s grief resurfaced as she looked at her stricken father. “We’ve sent for the surgeon.”
Coira shook her head. “If the Nellis woman had allowed the village healer to treat him when he first returned, it need ne’er have come to this.”
“We canna dwell on that now. There are things to see to. Ye perhaps saw a wee lass with red curls?”
“Aye, with Blue outside the door.”
“She’s our daughter, and she’ll need care while we tend to my father.”
Coira glanced at Darroch. “O’ course. I’ll get her fed and take her to yer chamber.”
“Ye’ll have to take Blue,” Darroch explained. “She doesna go anywhere without the dog.” He hesitated before continuing. “And she only speaks to the hound.”
“Only to the hound?” she parroted.
“Aye.”
Boyd’s arrival with two of his men saved them from further explanations. “All is in readiness,” her uncle declared. “We deemed the kitchen the most suitable place. Plenty of hot water and…”
The words stuck in his throat as he motioned his men to lift his brother-by-marriage.
Isabel struggled out of the chair, overwhelmed by a vision of her father being carved up like a side of venison. “Nay, ye canna do it in the kitchen.”
Darroch took her into his arms. “’Tis the best place,” he said calmly. “I’ll go with them.”
“I’m coming too.”
“Nay. Kyla needs ye. Go with Coira and take care of our daughter.”
“Ye’ve done all ye can,” Fanny agreed. “’Tis up to us now.”
Isabel’s heart urged her to insist, but her mind knew they were right. She watched them carry her father away, nestled like a limp doll in the beefy arms of a burly warrior, and wondered if it was the last time she’d see him alive.
*
Darroch guessed from his manner of speech that Gow was a lowlander by birth, but Boyd expressed confidence in the man, so he kept his thoughts about lowland folk to himself. He’d never actually encountered anyone with hair redder than his own, and the voluminous orange beard rendered it difficult to tell if the mountain of a man was young or old.
As he’d predicted, Gow was a blacksmith by trade, but had apparently performed amputations before and wasn’t squeamish about the prospect of taking off his chief’s arm. As if to prove the point, he proudly stuck a stunted index finger in the air as he dug his saw and pincers out of his leather apron. “Ma own handiwork,” he boasted.
Once Rory had been laid out on the scarred butcher block table, a discussion ensued about the best way to render the patient oblivious to pain.
“’Tis evident he’s been drugged,” Fanny said, “but we dinna ken what Ghalla administered, and I suspect she’ll nay be truthful if we ask her.”
“I’ve heard of healers who use laudanum,” Boyd suggested. “There might be some in the Still Room.”
“I’ve a flagon of dwale somewhere,” the cook shouted from the scullery. “Though ’tis a while since I put my hand on it.”
“We’ve used whisky at Dun Scaith,” Darroch offered.
Gow wiggled his shortened finger. “Had to keep ma wits about me when this happened, so I didna take but a few swigs o’ whisky.”
Darroch tried but failed to imagine a man sawing off his own finger after imbibing “a few swigs” of whisky.
Fanny touched the back of her hand to Rory’s forehead. “Again, we dinna ken what Ghalla used, and we canna wait much longer else he die while we’re blethering. He’s ice cold.”
Darroch nodded to Boyd. “There’s four of us to hold him down. I say we proceed.”
Hearing no objection, he pressed his weight to Rory’s right hip and thigh; Boyd held down his left side, while his men each took a shoulder.
The cook bustled in, wiping a carving knife on her apron, and handed it to Gow. Darroch offered up a prayer of thanks Isabel wasn’t present as the knife sliced into flesh.
Jaw clenched, Fanny worked tirelessly to stem the blood. Gow’s breathing became more labored as he methodically cut flesh, snipped sinew and sawed bone. The cook sobbed quietly.
Rory was so heavily drugged he only writhed and whimpered pathetically. Darroch was reluctantly grateful the MacRain chief seemed to feel little pain, even when the blacksmith cauterized the stump.
“I dinna ken what sort o’ devil’s brew she used,” Fanny muttered more than once. “It might kill him if the amputation doesna.”
As the hours crawled by, Darroch fixed his thoughts on one bright ray of sunshine in the whole gory mess—when explaining matters to Coira, Isabel had called Kyla our daughter.
*
Anxious and exhausted, Isabel’s relief upon entering her own chamber was enormous, especially since Kyla had willingly accompanied her and Coira. The lass had even slipped her hand into Isabel’s without hesitation.
Of course, Blue had come too. Kyla laughed when he leapt onto Isabel’s bed and she immediately followed his example.
“I’ll go find her some dresses,” Coira said.
Kyla’s smile turned to a frown as she folded her arms across her chest and glowered.
Isabel thought again about insisting the lass speak her wishes, but she was too tired and too worried about her father to embark on such a campaign. “And perhaps some boy’s clothing too, for riding and such.”
Coira nodded and left.
Kyla immediately turned her attention back to Blue, and Isabel joined them on the bed, acknowledging she’d given in too easily.
She stared up at the rafters, until she heard bairn and dog snoring softly. She allowed her eyelids to flutter closed. Just for a wee nap.
Soap Suds
Boyd put a hand on Darroch’s shoulder as they stood at the foot of Rory’s bed. “I thank ye,” he said hoarsely. “Isabel’s chamber is close by. Go to yer wife and tell her he still lives.”
It was plain the older man was at the end of his stamina, but Darroch was concerned Isabel hadn’t appeared when they’d carried her father back to his bed.
Fanny had stayed in the kitchens, consoling the bereft cook and putting things back to rights. The woman seemed not to know what exhaustion was.
“My men and I will keep vigil,” Boyd assured him. “It might be better if Isabel doesna come for a day or two. When he wakes, he’ll likely want more of whatever Ghalla’s been feeding him.”
Darroch looked at the man swathed in bandages who’d never woken during his ordeal—the enemy chief on whom he’d sworn to heap vengeance scant days ago. “I’ll try to keep her away, but she’s stubborn.”
Boyd chuckled as he slumped in the chair beside the bed. “Aye. Like her mother.”
That remark conjured a vision of a certain riding habit as Darroch ventured in search of his wife’s chamber.
He proceeded cautiously, hand on the hilt of his dagger. Boyd had dispatched men to seek out Ghalla and Tremaine with orders to confine them to their chambers, but there’d been no confirmation the instructions had been carried out.
He was relieved when he espied Isabel’s maid coming out of a nearby chamber laden with what looked like frocks for little lasses.
She bobbed a curtsey. “She’s a stubborn one, that bairn,” Coira said.
“Let me guess. She wanted pantaloons and shirts.”
“Aye, but she didna tell me, only yon lazy hound. Poor Isabel slept through the whole argument.”
Darroch was impressed with this loyal servant. “I thank ye for yer patience. At least she’s talking to the dog now. She didna speak to anyone before.”
Coira’s eyes widened. “Not even ye?”
Darroch didn’t want to resurrect the yearning to hear his name on his daughter’s lips. “In time, I suppose. Ye say Isabel is sleeping?”
Coira nodded and pushed open the door.
Kyla sat up in bed and stretched out her arms to him. “We have to be quiet, Boo,” she said to the dog. “Bel’s sleeping.”
Blue raised his head a smidgen, watched Darroch approach the bed, then went back to sleep.
Darroch picked up his daughter, relieved to feel the warmth of her skin against his as she kissed him. Her scent chased away the horror of the gory scene in the kitchen, although a good wash wouldn’t go amiss after the long journey. He was somewhat surprised Isabel hadn’t arranged for water to be brought, but one look at his sleeping wife explained why. “I think we all need a bath,” he told Kyla.
Blue blinked open his eyes and growled.
“Ye’re right, Boo,” Kyla said. “Sleep first, bath later.”
“Seems sensible to me,” Darroch yawned. He put his daughter back down on the bed, shucked off his boots, removed his weapons, and inched onto the mattress so he was back to back with Isabel. Kyla crawled over to curl up against his front.
Kilted at the Altar Page 14
