by Karen Ranney
“Is that why you welcome this marriage?”
Her mother glanced at her, smiling. “My one true regret was that I never bore his child. Sometimes I pretended that you were his, instead of Drummond’s. But my prayers have been answered in the best way. You’ll marry the nephew of the man I loved. If he is half the man Fergus was, then I’m well pleased.”
Standing, Iseabal kissed her mother’s pale cheek. People had always commented upon their similar appearance in that both of them had been gifted with black hair and green eyes. But her mother’s hair had begun to whiten and her eyes seemed to have become lighter in hue over the years. Almost, Iseabal thought, as if she were becoming a pale version of herself.
Iseabal could refute her mother’s words in a hundred ways, but the small smile on Leah’s face discouraged any spoken truths, even though they lingered in the air.
Gilmuir bound Iseabal and the MacRae together, not love, however much her mother wished it different.
Alisdair stood beneath the stained-glass window in the hall of Fernleigh, Iseabal silent beside him. She’d not spoken to him once, and her only acknowledgment of his presence had been a halfhearted nod when she’d appeared in the hall. From that moment on, she’d stared at the floor as if the worn stones held the map to heaven.
The rough planks of the table beside him were still littered with tankards, as if Drummond had spent hours celebrating his victory over the MacRaes. Whiskey fumes permeated the room, mixing with the smell of a hundred unwashed Drummonds.
Despite the rainy day, no candles were lit, no lanterns gleamed from the mantel, nor did a warm and welcoming fire burn in the huge hearth. There was no priest in attendance, or pipers playing the MacRae March. On such an important occasion as this, it was customary to wear the kilt, but even that had been forbidden him since the garment was still outlawed in Scotland. Nor was his family here to witness this ceremony.
Instead, his marriage was accompanied by a fetid and chilly gloom, being witnessed by his crew and the assembled Drummond clan, all of whom remained silent, as if realizing that this wedding was no cause for celebration.
The feeling of being pressed into this marriage only increased, like he was stepping into one of his brother’s boots and finding it painfully small.
Turning to the assembled clan, Alisdair began speaking the vows given him only an hour earlier, then repeated them to the parents of his bride. Leah was smiling, her expression carefully directed away from her husband, whose bloodshot eyes were gleaming with triumph. Finally, Alisdair turned to face Iseabal. “I take this woman to my side, and bind myself to her,” he said.
Her face was too pale, and her green eyes paler still, as if all the color had been leeched out of her by this ceremony.
All his life he had been surrounded by love. Passionate, endearing, humorous at times. He had never wondered about his own marriage, being certain that he would find that one woman to be his helpmate, companion, and lover.
One day he’d expected to marry a girl from the Cape. Noreen, perhaps, with her sunny smiles and her habit of teasing him. Or Sarah, who prided herself on her cooking and invited him for dinner every week, the meal shared with her father and brothers. But his heart leaned toward Hester, only because she was brave and daring and fearless. Women he’d known from his infancy, friends for a lifetime.
Not a woman who looked terrified of him, whose breathing was so rapid he wondered why she did not faint. Alisdair glanced at Drummond, thinking that being his daughter might well have given her a reason to fear all men.
The price for Gilmuir had been steep indeed.
Iseabal could hardly breathe, her heart was beating so fast.
The MacRae had shaved his beard, revealing a square chin and full mouth. But it was not his handsome appearance that caused her to look away, wondering almost frantically if there was a way to stop this marriage after all.
The scowl, forming over eyes the color of a pale blue sky, hinted at a formidable temper. He towered over most of the people assembled in the hall, and standing as he was with his hands clenched behind him, feet apart, he seemed to dominate the space with his presence.
The most imposing man she’d ever met.
He was dressed as she had seen him yesterday. His clothing was clean; even his boots were shined to a high gloss. Despite his fine clothes, however, he looked like a warrior, one of the legendary MacRaes, although she’d never met any of them. The clan had simply disappeared one day and there was no one left to tell where they had gone.
His voice boomed out his vows as if he were issuing a command. He paused, as if expecting her to acknowledge his words in some way. If she were truly as biddable as her father thought, she would have smiled at her new husband or appeared pleased to be marrying such a handsome and well-to-do man. But she did not, choosing silence instead, and focusing her attention on anything but him.
Her mother was thrilled with the match, simply because he was a MacRae. Her father was pleased with the money he’d received and the fact that he had rid himself of a daughter. Even the Drummonds, murmuring behind her, did not seem averse to this union.
Evidently she was the only one with any objections, and they were not to be voiced. She was simply to acquiesce to everyone’s plans for her and look overjoyed at the prospect.
The thunder was her only ally, booming overhead, rattling the stained-glass window as if in reproach for her submission.
The vows completed, her father passed a small silver chalice to Iseabal. The Drummond tradition of both husband and wife drinking from the same cup signified the joining of two lives. She took a sip of the whiskey before passing the cup to the MacRae. Her mother held out a sheaf of wheat and a square of woven cloth, symbols to indicate that each would provide for their home. She handed MacRae the cloth, while he took the wheat and presented it to Iseabal. The giving and accepting done, she waited for him to speak, a moment rooted in custom. The groom was supposed to praise his new wife and thank her parents.
Instead, the MacRae stepped forward, giving instructions for her belongings to be brought to the hall. There were to be no words of praise, no ceremony, which was as well, Iseabal thought. She disliked hypocrisy.
Her mother continued to smile at her, the look in her eyes one of joy. Behind her, the Drummond clan stood motionless and nearly silent, as did the men the MacRae had brought with him.
Her father made a gesture and one of his ever-present guards appeared beside him. “Fetch her trunk,” he said brusquely.
With such simple words, she was acknowledged wife instead of daughter, and just as easily banished from Fernleigh.
Iseabal walked into her mother’s arms, blinking back tears.
“I am so happy for you, Iseabal,” her mother said gently. “You must be happy as well.”
Iseabal nodded, turning back to her new husband. His gaze was fixed on the window above him, intently studying the glass rendering of a young knight. What did he see when he looked there?
She had not expected a display of emotion from her father, but her departure from Fernleigh was done without a word of farewell. One moment she was standing in the clan hall, the next she was at the door, swept along in a silent tide following the MacRae.
Glancing back at those who stood in the hallway, Iseabal felt a sense of loss she’d not expected. The servant girls she’d known all her life waved their fingers in discreet farewell. Robbie, the stableboy, smiled at her, but her father looked at her as if she were no more than an uninvited guest who’d outstayed her welcome.
Chapter 5
T he MacRae took her arm, albeit gently, and walked with her from Fernleigh.
Her father had offered no horses, and the MacRae had arrived with none. She and her new husband were followed by two men who carried her straw trunk, and behind them at least twenty others, so orderly in their manner that they reminded her of the Highland Regiments assembling in Edinburgh.
The thunder roared again, preceding another cloudburst. In seconds
she was drenched, rain soaking through her wedding finery. The MacRae acted as if the storm were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and like their leader, none of the men behind them voiced a complaint.
They headed in the direction of Gilmuir, a journey she knew well enough. Iseabal was forced nearly to a run to keep up with the MacRae. His strides were long and impatient, as if he could not wait to reach Gilmuir. Or escape her presence.
The day grew increasingly miserable, with the chill bringing forth a fog that clung to the grass, shielding their feet from view. Occasionally Iseabal would push back her wet hair from her face, wipe her eyes dry, but the efforts were futile. The air was gray with rain and cold with the winds sweeping over the glen and through the branches of the trees.
After a quick sideways glance at her, the MacRae slowed his pace. Still, he walked ahead of her a few feet, with her trailing behind like a well-trained mastiff.
His sodden breeches could not hide the well-developed muscles of his legs any more than his coat could minimize the breadth of his shoulders. Even his hands were large, and she remembered the feel of them, warm against her palms.
What would it be like to lie with him?
She might be a maiden, but she was not ignorant of the deed. A few years ago she’d been courageous enough to ask a servant girl.
“Well, miss,” Mary had said, “the man rises behind you, and inserts himself into your privates. All hot and bothered he is, miss, especially toward the last. Then he sleeps for a bit and wants it again. If you wish to know exactly how it’s done,” she’d confided, “watch the rams. They’ve the same bluster.”
Iseabal had, secretly, taken the maid’s advice. Not only had the ram acted as if the deed were owed him, but the whole coupling had been done in seconds, leaving the ewe bleating and rolling her eyes, for all the world like she was impatient with his posturing.
Surely she could be as placid as a sheep?
Halfway to Gilmuir, the MacRae turned to her. “Would you like to rest?” he asked.
“No,” she said agreeably. She’d made the journey on foot yesterday, and she could do it again today. Nor would she utter a word of complaint about the weather or the cold. Slogging through the mud was not such a trial after all. The only difficulty was the pain in her side, but, Iseabal decided, she could bear it.
His expression lightened strangely enough, his scowl fading. “I meant to offer no insult,” he said. “I only asked after your comfort.”
She looked up at the sky, the rain pounding on her face. Comfort? Where was there comfort?
Despite the rain, and in abject disregard of the storm above them, the MacRae walked to stand beneath a gnarled old tree. Iseabal shrugged and followed.
“Are you not worried about lightning?” she asked.
He smiled, the expression out of place for this dreary day. “When you’ve been aboard a ship in a storm, you begin to think yourself invincible.”
While she felt as vulnerable as the exposed root on which she sat. Spreading her filthy petticoat over the tops of her equally ruined shoes, she folded her arms across her knees and sat staring at the men around her. They stood uncomplaining in the rain, as docile as sheep.
“Who are those men?”
“The crew of my ship,” he said shortly, then amended his statement. “The men of the Fortitude.”
“Your ship?”
He nodded in response, leaving her to wonder if she should be satisfied with that.
“You are a sea captain?” she asked cautiously, wondering if her prayers had indeed come true. A marriage to a man who was often gone from home would not be an onerous thing.
“I am,” he said shortly.
Evidently, Iseabal thought, she was not to ask questions of him.
A few moments of silence passed before Iseabal stood, eager to complete the journey. At least at Gilmuir there was a spot or two that was still impervious to rain. And a fire would be doubly nice.
The remainder of the journey seemed to take hours, made in half steps through the mud. The fortress appeared suddenly, oddly surrounded by a white mist, as if Gilmuir were floating on a cloud.
They crossed the land bridge and only then did she begin to hear sounds from the men behind her. Some laughed; some uttered words of relief; still more began to talk freely, as if rendered mute in any place other than Gilmuir.
Iseabal walked inside what had once been the courtyard and beyond to the trellised archway.
“Prepare for departure, Daniel,” the MacRae said to one auburn-haired man. He nodded and continued walking. Not one of the men was making an attempt to light a fire or prepare shelter for the night.
“Where are we to live?” she asked. She’d given no thought to the future, more concerned with getting through the ceremony to worry about more.
He looked at her with chilled eyes, as if she’d transformed herself into her father. “Not here,” he replied curtly.
“Then why did you buy the land?” she asked, caution fading beneath curiosity.
“Because it belongs to the MacRaes,” he said, striding through the archway to the priory beyond. He turned to stare at her when she remained in place.
In her mind, Iseabal had always been brave. Her thoughts, reckless and occasionally daring, had been held within, where they couldn’t lead to punishment. Rarely did she act upon them, having learned to be cautious and circumspect with her words and deeds.
She’d married a man she didn’t know and had been led from her home uncomplaining, across the muddy glens to Gilmuir. All done without a word of protest. Surely she merited answers. Before her bravado escaped, Iseabal clenched her hands into fists and stared at her new husband. “We’re to live aboard your ship?” she asked, confused.
“No,” he said. “We’re going to England.”
She blinked, astonishment robbing her momentarily of words. England? A destination she would never have imagined.
The rain still fell, soaking into the ground of the promontory, pattering on the fallen bricks. At that moment it was as if Gilmuir were chattering around them, admonishment in every soft raindrop, a scold in the wisp of the wind.
He held out his hand, a dozen steps separating them. The journey, however, was longer than that, Iseabal realized. She was not yet a wife, but the man who stood looking at her was her husband. A man to whom she owed her allegiance, her obedience, her trust.
But she remained in place, her hands now at her sides, her face carefully devoid of any expression.
A moment later he retraced his steps until he stood in front of her. “There will be more comfort aboard ship, Iseabal,” he told her patiently. “A shelter from the storm, at least.”
Was she to sacrifice all she’d ever known? Give up her country as well as herself? Perhaps she was, and supposed to do so willingly, accepting her fate with quiet compliance.
A thought slipped from its sanctuary, one steeped in caution and restraint. Ask him for the stone. She had asked for little, no consideration, few answers. Her silence and her acceptance, Iseabal decided, deserved some reward.
“Will you grant me a favor?” she asked daringly. Cupping her elbows in her hands, she waited patiently for his answer.
“What favor?” he asked, frowning.
Turning, she walked back to the entrance to the ruined clan hall, hearing his boots on the brick flooring behind her. When he stood at her side, Iseabal walked out into the storm again, carefully skirting the edge of the pit.
Rain pounded the ground, creating pools among the pocked stone and a lake of mud in the courtyard. Streams of water poured into the foundation, flooding the base of the pillars.
“That,” Iseabal said, pointing to the gleaming black stone barely visible above water level.
“A rock?” he asked, turning to her.
“A rock,” she answered, surprised at the note of resolve in her voice.
“This is important to you, Iseabal?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes,” she said, tightenin
g her arms around her waist.
He shrugged but didn’t question her further. Instead, he nodded, gripping her elbow and leading her back to the corridor. A request not to be granted, then. At his impatient look, Iseabal followed him into the priory.
This area of Gilmuir had become unsafe in the past years. The yawning hole in the middle of the structure didn’t surprise her. She’d heard her father crowing of his discovery and of the secret cove the MacRaes had hidden all these years.
This was how the MacRae had entered the fortress, yet she’d never questioned his sudden appearance. He’d simply been there, a rescuer not unlike the Raven, a Samaritan to help her from the consequences of her own folly.
The rain was louder here, slapping against the slate floor.
He sat, dangling his legs into the hole beneath him, his hands braced on either side. Slowly he disappeared into the blackness. Peering over the edge, Iseabal could see only a darkness that mimicked the grave. Unexpectedly, his head popped up, startling her.
She’d never taken the staircase before. But then, Iseabal thought, this day had marked a number of first occasions. She sat on the adjoining slate, dangling her feet just as he had. His hands wound around her legs, then to her waist as she slid down into his arms. Their soggy clothing did little to shield curves and angles, muscle and flesh.
His hands tightened against her waist, the unexpected pain surprising her. Drawing back, she pressed herself against the wall, taking shallow breaths to minimize the discomfort.
He seemed to stare at her in the darkness, but said nothing before turning and beginning to descend the steps. Once again he stopped when she made no move to follow him.
“Please, Iseabal,” he said, evidently exasperated into politeness. “It is safe enough. Although the stairs are steep, all you need do is watch your footing. The passage is a narrow one, and you can hold onto the walls.”
He thought her afraid. She should tell him of her injury, Iseabal thought. But this day had been marked by humiliation and the surrender of home and pride. She’d just as soon keep her pain to herself.
