She moved toward the stairs, and Cameron fell into step beside her. “After I break my fast I’d like to speak with Graham.”
Cameron immediately shook his head. “He will nae wish that. He’s training his men, and they were later starting than he likes, as he saw the king’s party off with Iain and Lachlan.”
“Surely, Graham takes a break during the morning?”
“Nay. He dunnae stop his training until well after the sun has left the sky. He was given the duty of training the men when Lachlan left to go to Bridgette, and Graham takes it even more seriously than Lachlan did. He’s nae human, I tell ye, especially when he’s cross like today.”
She paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned to Cameron. “What vexes him?”
Cameron gave her a distinctly uncomfortable look before shrugging. “I dunnae ken.”
She suspected by the red that had crept up his neck that he did, but she did not push him to give her the truth, likely the effort would be futile. Instead, she continued on to the great hall and said, “Well, then he can be annoyed with me, because I really must speak to him.”
Cameron scowled at her. “Ye ken I’d nae restrain ye, but Graham will likely turn his ire on yer interruption toward me.”
“I am sorry,” she replied, patting Cameron’s arm. “I’ll make sure to tell him I forced ye to bring me to him.”
The great hall was empty save for Father Murdock, who she had only met at her wedding the night before but whom it occurred to her may also be someone who would give her insight into Graham. Surely, Father Murdock, a man of God, would not be hostile toward her. Isobel waved a hand of greeting to Rhona, in an effort to show she wished to be friends.
When Rhona scowled at her, Cameron said, “Quit yer glaring, Rhona, and bring Isobel a trencher of food.”
Isobel cringed as Rhona banged her way out of the great hall. “I wish ye would nae have asked her to bring me food.”
Cameron frowned. “Why the devil nae? She’s a serving woman.”
“She despises me,” Isobel muttered. “I doubt being ordered to serve me will help with that.”
“’Tis exactly why ye need a guard,” Cameron replied.
Isobel glared at him. “Graham kinnae guard me from every MacLeod who may despise me because I was a Campbell. Besides,” she continued on a quick breath when Cameron appeared as if he would argue, “do ye truly believe one of yer own would raise the hand of revenge against me now? I am yer brother’s wife. I am a MacLeod.”
Out of the corner of her eye, two tables over, she saw Father Murdock gulping down a large glass of ale. He set his cup down with a bang, wiped his hand across his mouth, and stood. She hurried to stand to catch him, and as she did, Cameron’s eyes widened and he grabbed her arm.
“Dunnae fash yerself,” he exclaimed, and she realized he thought their conversation had upset her. “I agree with ye. I told Graham as much, but he was unreasonable this morning. I vow I’ll speak with him on yer behalf again.”
“That’s nae necessary,” she hurriedly replied, watching Father Murdock make his way to the great hall door. “I’ll speak with Graham myself when ye take me to him. Might I have a moment of solitude to speak with Father Murdock?”
Cameron glanced toward the priest in surprise. “What for?”
“It’s a private matter,” she replied, her words stiff.
He smirked at her. “Ye feel the need to make a confession?”
Likely, she should. She had helped to end Jamie MacLeod’s life, but she had saved another man’s in the process. “Aye,” she fibbed.
“Father Murdock,” Cameron roared so suddenly, she flinched.
The priest who had just left the great hall appeared once more. “What is it?” he asked, his words sounding slightly slurred to Isobel. Clearly, Father Murdock loved his ale. Mayhap, that would loosen his tongue about Graham’s past.
Cameron waved a hand at Isobel. “Graham’s wife wishes to speak with ye.”
“I have a name,” she muttered under her breath. “Besides, Father Murdock married me. He kens I’m yer brother’s wife.”
Cameron chuckled. “I’d nae be certain,” he whispered as the priest walked toward them. “Father Murdock loves his ale above all else.”
Isobel wrinkled her nose at the strong scent of alcohol that came from the priest. As he neared, she noted his bulbous rosy nose and reddened eyes. He was most definitely sodded, and he had an air of melancholy about him. Pity rose in her. Clearly, the priest was not happy. Father Murdock bowed to her. “Pleased to meet ye.”
When the man appeared as if he would tip over with his bow, Cameron grunted and grabbed the priest’s elbow. “Ye’ve drunk too much ale again, Father. Ye’ve met Isobel. Ye married her,” Cameron finished, and then released the priest who eyed her with one brown eye open and one shut.
“So I did,” Father Murdock finally crowed.
Cameron shook his head. “Isobel wishes to speak with ye alone. I’ll be directly outside the great hall door,” he said, with a glance to Isobel and then a censoring look at Father Murdock. “Remember yerself, Father.”
Isobel didn’t know what that comment was about, but she wished to hurry Cameron out of the room while no one else was around. “It would be perfect if ye waited outside the door, thank ye for the offer,” she replied encouragingly to Cameron.
Once he had departed the room, she helped a muttering Father Murdock to his seat.
“Remember myself,” the man mumbled under his breath. “’Tis they who need well remember, I’m still the priest!”
“Certainly ye are,” Isobel said, smiling sweetly. “I imagine as the priest ye ken a great deal about yer flock.”
“Nae so verra much anymore. The laird’s wife is the only one who believes she needs my counsel,” he said with a hiccup and a fierce scowl. “She’s a fine lass, and likely the only MacLeod who will nae go to Hell.”
“About the MacLeods,” Isobel said, hoping to steer the conversation back to Graham. “I—” She cleared her throat, suddenly wary to admit she hardly knew her husband. “Ye may have heard some talk about how Graham and I came to be wed.”
The priest gave her a smile and patted her on the hand, as he looked at her. “Dunnae fash yerself, lass. He may have taken ye as wife with the sin of revenge in his heart, but ye have bewitched him.”
At the moment the priest said those last four words, Rhona entered the room. Her mouth parted, and she dropped the trencher of food she had been holding. “Ye ban-druidh!” she hissed.
“Nay!” Isobel hurriedly denied and scrambled up to help the woman, but when she stepped toward Rhona, she rushed out the door, nearly colliding with Cameron, who was entering. She barreled past him, casting a fearful look over her shoulder as she went.
“What’s occurred?” Cameron asked, glancing first at Isobel, then the trencher, and then Father Murdock.
“Who can say with Rhona?” Father Murdock lied while giving Isobel a pleading look that she could not ignore. She was unsure why the priest had lied, but she was wary to make yet another enemy by not going along with him.
“Nae anything,” she said, noting when Father Murdock slumped with relief. “I simply dropped the trencher as Rhona handed it to me. If ye’ll give me one more moment, I’ll be ready to see Graham.”
Cameron gave her a skeptical look, but finally, he nodded and departed the room once more. Isobel eyed Father Murdock. “Why did ye lie?”
Father Murdock scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, lass. If Cameron or Graham thought my words caused Rhona to call ye ban-druidh, I may well lose my place at Dunvegan. As it is, none of them here need me. Nae a one of them ever confesses to me besides Marion, or even asks me for any advice, and yesterday when I tried to get Graham to confess before marrying ye, he said he took his confession straight to God and had no need of me. I vow to ye I will handle things with Rhona.”
Isobel’s heart squeezed. She could see how a man as guarded as Graham would not wish to rev
eal his heart to anyone but God, but Graham needed to be made to understand that Father Murdock needed to feel useful. She patted the priest on the arm. “Dunnae fash yerself. I’ll keep yer secret, but be sure to tell Rhona she misunderstood ye, aye?” Isobel gave a little shiver recalling what Sister Beatrice had told her happened to women who were thought to be white witches. Angry, scared mobs had been known to burn them at stakes or drown them.
“I vow I will speak to her,” Father Murdock assured Isobel.
The door opened and a group of women strolled into the great hall, eyeing her suspiciously. Isobel sighed. Her moment of discretion was gone, and she suspected greatly that Rhona was already spreading talk that Graham had married her because she had bewitched him. She rose, knowing she would have to save her questions for later. “Dunnae forget to speak with Rhona,” Isobel whispered.
“I’ll nae,” Father Murdock replied.
With a nod to the priest, Isobel started toward the door, wincing when the women all scrambled away from her. Once she was outside the great hall, she huffed out a breath.
“Are ye sure there is nae a thing amiss?” Cameron asked with a frown.
“I’m certain,” she replied. “I’m simply anxious to speak with Graham. Will ye take me to him now?”
Cameron descended the steps ahead of her, and when they reached the sand, he motioned across the loch to a large area of rock that stood stark and bare high above the lapping water. “We’ll walk around to the training site,” he bellowed above the wind.
She nodded and followed him, having to double her pace to keep up with him. As they neared the group of men, she saw Graham in the center of a large circle, shirt off and sword swinging in an arc above his head. Fierce concentration etched his face in lines, and sweat glistened on his sun-kissed skin. He attacked his opponent with a ferocity that made her heart speed up in fright.
The other man in the circle was smaller, which could have been an advantage in regards to speed, but Graham was clearly superior in agility, as well as strength. He made quick work of knocking the man’s sword from his hands, and then he had his sword to the man’s throat. “Cormac,” Graham growled. “Ye will train every day until I deem ye a good enough warrior to guard my wife.”
“Aye, Graham,” the man responded. “I am sorry—”
Graham held up a staying hand. “I ken it, just remember to bide yer tongue and show respect.”
“I will,” the man pledged.
Graham brushed his arm over his eyes and then pointed his sword at a different man. “Ye’re next. Come.” The last word was harsh and unbending.
Isobel squinted into the sun to see who Graham was commanding to fight. She started, realizing it was the man Broch whom she had danced with last night. Uneasiness filled her. Broch was a large man. Larger than Graham. And Broch looked too eager for her liking as he stripped off his plaid. Graham had just finished a fight, and she could see sweat on his brow and glistening on his chest. Cameron had moved into the circle of men watching the fight so that his back was directly to her, and she could not see. She shoved her way to his side, aware of the shocked looks she received.
“Does anyone ever get injured during training?” she whispered to Cameron.
“Aye,” he replied, not taking his gaze off Graham and Broch who had begun to circle each other.
She tugged on Cameron’s arm until he glanced at her. “They are careful, though, aye? Death is nae a fear in training.”
Cameron shrugged. “It usually is nae.”
“Usually?” she hissed, worry knotting her stomach.
“Aye. Usually,” he growled. “Sometimes an error occurs and someone does nae pull back his sword quickly enough, but then that is fate, aye?”
“Nay!” She clutched his arm as Graham’s and Broch’s swords clanked so loudly she felt her teeth rattle. “Graham has just finished a battle. He should have rested before the next one.”
Cameron arched his eyebrows. “Graham has been training since dawn. He dunnae tire.”
“All men tire!” she growled, irritated at Cameron’s continued attitude that his brother was not human but immortal. “What if Broch slips and wounds Graham?”
“Broch will nae slip.” She started to sag in relief when Cameron added, “If he wounds Graham, he will have intended it.”
“What say ye?” she cried out, earning the irritated attention of several of the men watching the sparring.
“Graham demoted Broch from captain this morning, and Broch has protested the demotion. To have it removed, he must prove he is still worthy of the position by defeating Graham in battle.”
“What?” Disbelief nearly choked her. “Why did Graham demote him?”
Cameron shrugged. “I dunnae ken, but Broch seemed to. Apparently something happened between the two of them last night. Perchance Broch was disrespectful. He can be hot-tempered.”
“Nay,” Isobel choked out. “This is nae because of Broch’s temper, I fear. I believe it’s because he danced with me.”
“Ah,” Cameron said with a nod. “That explains much.”
“Cameron, please, ye must stop the fight.”
“Nay,” he replied flatly. “Broch must learn a lesson.”
“And what if yer brother is injured in the teaching?” she persisted, though Cameron had already turned his attention back to the fight, so she knew her pleas fell on deaf ears.
Broch launched a series of blows at Graham that drove him backward, causing the men on the far side to widen the circle. She began to shake as fearful images flashed in her mind. Graham stabbed in the gut, the heart, the neck. She squeezed her eyes shut on a moan, and when she opened them again, Graham was the one attacking.
He moved his sword in a dizzying blur above his head and down, over and over. Broch met each blow with his own sword, but his arms trembled as he held Graham back on the last blow. The men stood locked, face-to-face, their swords overhead, each fighting to rid the other of his weapon. As Broch started to gain ground, Isobel could hardly stand still for fear that Broch would lose control and the man would not pull his sword back at the last moment.
Graham’s arms were taut, and his jaw was clenched with effort. Panic for Graham rioted within her. The beat of her heart drowned out all other noise, and as Broch made a final push with his sword, she was sure Graham’s arms would give and Broch would injure him. Driven by blinding fear, she raced toward Graham and Broch.
“Cease this!” she cried out, catching her foot on the edge of a rock and stumbling forward into Broch’s back. In a blur, he swung toward her, his sword coming down from the arc to meet the enemy behind him. Her heart froze as a scream tore from her lips, but louder than her own scream was the guttural cry that came from Graham.
“Pull back!” he roared.
Graham’s furious command rung in her ears as Broch’s sword whispered by her nose, missed her chin, grazed the material of her gown between her breasts, and then sliced her skirts from her thighs to her feet. Astonishment and stark fear made her immobile, and then a violent shudder ripped through her body and her legs buckled.
The next thing she knew, she was being held up by Graham, and Broch was gaining his feet to get up from the ground. She had no idea how he had gotten there. Graham brought a hand frantically to her face, slid it over her chest, and her stomach, then he bent over while holding her upright, and slid it up one of her exposed legs and down the other.
Taut silence surrounded them, and she became acutely aware of all the eyes upon them and of the long gash in her gown. When Graham stood and his gaze met hers, she gasped at the torture she saw there.
“A Dia.” His raw voice sent another shudder through her. “By Christ, ye were almost killed,” he choked out, the throbbing in his voice increasing but his eyes growing cold with fury.
Isobel immediately tried to step away from Graham to block him from hurting Broch, who was now standing and looking between her and Graham with a horrified expression on his face. “Graham,” Isobel ple
aded when he tugged her back and tightened his hold on her arm. “Please. Broch did nae mean to cut my gown.”
“I am nae vexed with Broch,” Graham replied, his voice so frigid she felt as if a wintery blast of wind had hit her. “Ye need nae fash for him. Save that for yerself, Isobel. Ye’ll need it.” With that, Graham released her, and without another word, he strode away, leaving her embarrassed, mortified, and surrounded by his men.
Chapter Sixteen
It was not until Graham reached his bedchamber that he could think beyond anything other than the fear of seeing Isobel almost killed and the anger that she foolishly ran into his battle with Broch. He jerked a hand through his hair as he paced the length of his room. No, their room. At least, he had intended to make it their room, to bring her in to sleep by his side, but now…
He glanced at the rumpled bed where his wife had willingly and trustingly given her body to him, and he knew deep in his gut she had taken something from him, too. The wall he had built between himself and feeling things was gone. He felt so much in this moment he thought he might go mad. His temples pounded, as did his heart. Tightness gripped his chest and his throat, and his lungs felt too small, as if they could not hold enough air.
Continuing to pace, he clenched his teeth, struggling for control, fighting against the fear, and battling the tide of longing that was threatening to make him weak. He breathed in and out, slowly and methodically, until his heartbeat calmed, and he could think once more. No longer needing to pace, he sat on the edge of the bed and Isobel’s scent wafted to his nose. He was immediately reminded of how she had felt in his arms last night, and how she had felt not long ago, so fragile and afraid from her near greeting with death. What was she thinking to intercede like that? Worse, though, what had he been thinking to allow his jealousy to fuel him to demote a good commander and then agree to a battle with him?
He growled into the mocking silence of the room. He had not been thinking properly, just as he had spent years not thinking with his head but his emotions when it came to his jealousy of Lachlan. Emotions were ruling him now, despite how fiercely he fought it, and Isobel was the cause.
When a Highlander Loses His Heart (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 4) Page 22
