When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  “Then I shall fetch Daniel,” he threatened, standing with his feet braced apart, hands behind his back.

  Her eyes widened at his words, but it seemed he was not finished with his intimidation.

  “Or pick another,” he continued. “It doesn’t matter who as long as you’re treated.”

  “Why do you care?” she asked curiously.

  “Because you are my responsibility,” he answered. “As long as you’re my wife.”

  A burden, a millstone, an obligation. Irritation bubbled up again from beneath her veneer of composure.

  “Thank you, no,” she said, her voice even.

  Instead of leaving, however, he wedged himself behind her, reaching around to the front in order to unfasten her jacket. She brushed his hands away, but they returned, implacable and as obstinate as the man.

  She should stab him with one of her chisels, Iseabal thought. “Please leave, MacRae.”

  “After I’ve wrapped you again, Iseabal,” he said, his voice as even as hers.

  Her mother’s oft-repeated remark echoed in Iseabal’s mind. Men were warriors who had no hesitation in causing wounds; they simply did not wish to be around when they were treated. Such a statement might have been true at Fernleigh, but not here in this cabin.

  Dressing had been a chore this morning, and donning her jacket had been a triumph of sorts. She’d relinquished wearing her stays, since she couldn’t lace them over the wrapping.

  MacRae, however, bent and removed the dirk from his boot, as if meaning to slice through her clothing again.

  “Will you stand, Iseabal?” he asked, bending so that his mouth was close to her ear. “Or shall I simply cut your clothing from you?”

  “Daniel,” she said abruptly.

  His hands stilled on her shoulders, making her wish he stood in front of her so that she could read his expression.

  “I wish Daniel to help me,” she said. The first mate’s presence in the cabin would cause her only embarrassment, not this consternation of the senses, as her heart raced and her breath felt as if it were stolen from her.

  He didn’t say a word, simply moved to stand in front of her.

  “Cut or remove it, Iseabal?” he said, his mouth thinned, his eyes narrowed in irritation. She felt the same but bit back her words.

  That, evidently, was to be her only choice. Not who should treat her, but how she might be treated. Stubbornness would be impractical, since she had only one shift remaining besides the one she wore.

  He was standing too close, his presence overpowering. Iseabal waved her hand in the air, a silent gesture for him to move back. He did so, and slowly she rose to stand in front of him.

  “I will not hurt you, Iseabal,” he said.

  Merely discard her like an unwelcome parcel, she thought. Her father’s sheep were treated with more prudence.

  Closing her eyes, she stood compliant as he pulled her jacket free.

  “Can you raise your arms a little?” he asked, his voice sounding absurdly gentle for this moment and this occasion. And this man, she told herself.

  She did so, feeling the soft shimmer of material over her skin. Crossing her arms protectively over her breasts, she stood uncomplaining and docile. Like a lamb, and not a ewe after all.

  Carefully he began to unwind the wrappings, extending both hands around her. The fabric of his shirt brushed against her heated cheeks. He smelled of fresh air and salt water, and of his own scent, one indescribably male.

  “Why did you marry me,” she asked quietly, “if you planned to end the marriage soon enough?” Curiosity was unwise, but at least it would stop her from thinking of how close he was.

  He straightened, and she opened her eyes to discover him staring at her.

  “You could have claimed yourself affianced,” she said. “Or even married.”

  “Neither of which is true,” he said.

  He would not be the first man who lied to escape his fate. Honor had made him her husband, yet it did not keep him one. Obligation placed him at her side, and responsibility had him standing too close, and too intrusive. If he had only been less noble, she would be at Fernleigh now, not standing nearly naked in front of a man destined to remain a stranger.

  “Is the pain becoming more manageable?” he asked.

  She nodded wordlessly.

  “I’m going to press here,” he said, gently placing his finger against her skin above her top rib. “Is there any pain?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. He was so close that she could see the growth of beard on his cheeks. She wanted, rashly, to place her hand against his face, fingers following the edge of his jaw.

  She wanted, also, to measure the breadth of his shoulders, and perhaps even trace her hands down his arms to gauge the circumference of his wrists.

  His knuckles brushed over the swell of her breast and she held her breath at the touch.

  “Forgive me,” he said a second later, his voice sounding constricted.

  Hurry, she whispered in her mind, truly wishing now that someone else were performing this chore. She bent her head, outwardly waiting in serene silence, the pose as much a sham as he believed their marriage.

  More than once she’d seen a servant girl staring out the window at the carpenter’s shed, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen. Or a stableboy glancing up at Fernleigh’s third floor, a look on his face speaking of his need. The emotion she felt was easily identified, but not so simply understood. How could she long for a man who had cast her aside before ever coming to know her?

  The daring Iseabal, the one who explored Gilmuir and held great thoughts, wanted to bend forward and place her lips on his throat, right there where the pulse beat seemed the strongest. If he held the right to touch her by dint of obligation and responsibility, surely she could claim the same privilege, formed from inquisitiveness and an unsettling feeling of yearning.

  Bending closer to untie the knot in the bandage, he brushed his chin against her shoulder. An abrasive touch, one that should not send shivers through her. Alisdair moved away, retrieving the strange bottles, placing them on the table beside her tools.

  “Tell me about your carving,” he said, pushing the chisels aside.

  “There is nothing much to tell,” she replied.

  “When did you begin?” he asked, unstopping the dragon jar.

  “When I was a child,” she answered, turning away from the smell. “I used to make garden stones for my mother. Little frogs and toadstools,” she added, smiling in memory of those years. Each and every carving, laboriously done with a piece of iron she’d taken from the smithy, had been greeted with enthusiasm by her mother. Some of her earlier efforts still remained in the garden, sentinels among the towering plants.

  “Is that why you were at Gilmuir that day?” he asked absently, beginning to wrap her again. “To gather material for your carving?”

  “Yes.” Iseabal always found the best stones there, limestone in shades of brown and ivory, marble in variegated patterns. But she’d never before seen anything like the ebony stone she’d stared at all day.

  “I thought you a ghost,” he admitted with a small smile. She stared at him, bemused. His smile belonged to a troubadour, or to a young shepherd asleep on a hill and dreaming of his sweetheart. Iseabal glanced away, wishing that he were a different man. Crude and brutish and even cruel. Someone like Thomas, one of her father’s kin and toadies.

  I thought you were a god, Iseabal confessed in the silence of her thoughts.

  For long moments there was no sound in the room other than the sputtering of the lantern. He opened the rabbit jar and she tensed, expecting the heat of the mixture against her skin. But there was less burning than on the night before. Curious, she turned her head and glanced down at herself. The bruising had faded to a rainbow of hues, from gray to red to a mottled yellow to blue.

  “There must be something magical in that potion,” she said, amazed.

  “Less magic than centuries of knowledge,” h
e said, placing the stopper back in the jar. “The Chinese are skilled in the art of healing.”

  Without asking for permission, he untied her petticoat, letting it drift to the floor, then retrieved his nightshirt from where she’d hung it this morning. Bunching up the cloth, he draped it over her head, raising her left arm gently into the sleeve.

  The back of his hand brushed over her nipple and it tightened in response, sending heat to her cheeks and throughout her body. She looked away, pretending that it had not happened, that the warmth of his hand was not so close that she could feel it still.

  Finally, thankfully, the other sleeve was done, her hand peeking beyond the wrist of his nightshirt.

  “Can you remove your stockings?” he asked. “Or do you need help?”

  “I can do it,” Iseabal said, shaking her head almost frantically.

  “I’ve cleared off a space for you to sit on deck tomorrow,” he told her, stepping back. “Behind the cabin, toward the stern.”

  So that she would not be seen and frighten his men?

  “The area is sheltered from the worst of the breeze, and you might wish to work there,” he added, his words instantly shaming her.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  Nodding, he repacked the jars behind their doors, and left the cabin.

  Shameless, Iseabal thought, to be repudiated and still wish to be touched.

  She walked slowly to the door, daring herself to open it and call after him. If she did, would he come back? Or would he stand there and smile at her kindly as if she were an injured sparrow? What would he say if she spoke what was in her mind?

  Kiss me, Alisdair. Give me that, at least. A memory to tuck away and savor when I’m no longer a bride. Rejection, she decided, was overwhelming when it fit inside a single word. Annulment.

  If she were a woman of uncertain virtue, or one more courageous in deed rather than thought, she might have gone to him.

  “Keep me with you,” she would say, and then enumerate all the reasons he should. She would be a good wife, tidy and understanding and supportive. Complaints would never fall from her lips, and she would be content enough in their life together. Happy, perhaps.

  Or she might claim his pity, but the idea soured her stomach. He either knew the truth and dismissed it or never realized what his decision would mean. From the moment he severed their marriage she would be a ruined woman. What man wanted a compromised bride? Her only salvation was to become a paid companion or a mistress to a man willing to give her that title, at least.

  Opening the door quietly, she stared out at the darkness. Dawn came without warning aboard ship, and night fell as quickly. There was no middle ground, no gloaming, no morning mist.

  She fingered the wooden latch of the door, her hand slipping damply against it. Gradually she pushed the door closed, remaining there for a moment, staring down at the shadows of her hands in the lantern light. Before she could act upon her impulse, Iseabal pressed down until the latch engaged, the sound of the faint click a death knell to her thoughts of courage.

  Fergus MacRae awoke as he usually did, before dawn. Sleep was never so valuable to him as the time awake. Once, he’d come too close to sleeping forever.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached for his wooden leg, strapping it on with an ease that came from years of practice. He knew, from the pain in his limb, that he would only be able to use the wooden leg a day or so longer before trading it for his crutch.

  Once, he had wished himself dead rather than maimed, but he’d been young and foolish. The time after Culloden had been difficult. Not only had he nearly died escaping Cumberland’s troops, but he’d lost his leg from a musket wound. He’d taken nearly a year to heal and months after that in order to learn to walk again.

  But he was more fortunate than all those who’d never returned from battle, and he greeted them every morning, along with all the ghosts of his regrets.

  Standing, he took a few stumbling steps until he gained his balance. Catching a glimpse of himself in the fragment of mirror atop his bureau, he smiled. As a smithy, the muscles of his arms and chest had become powerful over the years. Dependence on his right leg had strengthened that limb, and his left thigh had bulked due to the effort of walking on a wooden leg. Consequently, he was a formidable figure of a man, if one could discount the fact that he was not whole.

  He turned toward the window, pushing aside the draperies that the Widow McKinsey had made for him. His landlady was a sweet soul with a generous nature and two unmarried daughters. That state of affairs was to be expected in the Highlands. There was a dearth of young men in Scotland. Either they’d enlisted in the Highland Regiments or they’d been shaken loose from the land and sent fleeing from their homes for another country promising a better future.

  As he did every morning, he watched the sun rise slowly over the rolling hills to the east. As the shadows began to lighten, he thought of his brother and father, lost to the world all those many years ago. His mother and sister seemed to stand smiling every morning, waving at him, their faces wreathed with smiles.

  The sun stretched its arms until the horizon was filled with light, great orange-and-yellow streaks that heralded the morning. He felt his heart swell as the music of the dawn seemed to come to him in the sound of mythical pipes. Turning his head, Fergus glanced to the southwest, where Gilmuir lay. He’d been there only once since Culloden, but it had become a dead, empty place, solitary and abandoned. He’d never known if his people had been slaughtered by the English or banished like the men whose wrists were manacled with iron chains of his making.

  He glanced in the direction of Leah McDonald’s childhood home. She’d married a few years after Culloden, he’d heard. He’d never sent her word that he was alive, being ashamed of his condition, trapped by pride into silence. What woman would want a one-legged giant? A question he’d never asked Leah, and an omission for which he felt a daily regret.

  If he had to relive his decision, he’d present himself in front of her, one leg missing and all, and see if they couldn’t make a future for themselves. She might have been repulsed by his injury, but there was as good a chance that she would have opened her arms to him. He would never know now.

  Fergus wondered if she thought of him occasionally, if she spared any time in memory of the boy he’d been. Too late now. That song replayed itself in his mind continuously. Thirty years too late.

  In a few minutes the seaport he’d chosen as his home for the past ten years would be awake. Cormech was a pleasant enough place, less crowded than Edinburgh and closer to Gilmuir. There were opportunities for him in Inverness, but he had vile memories of that town during the war and would not return.

  All in all, he enjoyed his work, finding pleasure in the small things of his life. The sizzle of water in the cooling bucket as he thrust the red-hot iron into it, the curve of a horseshoe appearing beneath his oak-handled hammer. One task he’d been given, however, disturbed him. Every few weeks he was to go to a ship and manacle the Scots in the hold. He’d done the chore, fixing the chains to both wrists and ankle, maintaining the required silence and grateful that he was not obligated to speak.

  What could he say to these people? As the months passed and whole families were imprisoned, his sense of horror grew. When the guards turned away, Fergus had questioned a prisoner or two. Their careful whispers verified that they were not prisoners, or guilty of any crime. They’d been sold into slavery in order to make way for sheep.

  The English had been more successful at conquering Scotland than they’d believed. The young ones were not speaking the Gaelic, a generation had been born that had never heard the pipes, and lairds were banishing tackmen from their homes.

  Something had to be done, Fergus MacRae reasoned. He was one man, amidst a city of people who seemed to ignore what was before their very noses. What could one man do?

  He smiled, looking out at the dawn sky. Perhaps it was for this challenge that he’d been spared, after all
.

  Chapter 11

  I seabal was seated in her nook on the stern, her attention directed once more to the block of stone before her. Over the past few days, she’d been working on it steadily, squaring up the corners with small, pinging taps of her chisel.

  He’d never seen anyone as lost in her work as she.

  From his perch in the rigging Alisdair watched her, wondering if she knew how often he did so. Iseabal was proving to be a mystery he very much wanted to solve.

  Although she must have been in pain, she’d never complained, and not once had she asked what would become of her. He should have been pleased at her silence and acquiescence. Instead, he suspected that how she acted and what she felt were often at odds.

  Perhaps it would be wiser to seek her thoughts in the flash of her eyes, looking past the façade of docility and serenity. In the deep green of her gaze she was neither. More than once he’d seen irritation there, and burgeoning anger. But these emotions as well as a surprising sadness were never given voice.

  She was not unlike the women he’d known all his life, Alisdair realized. They had surmounted great hardships to found a colony far away from their homeland, carrying on with their lives in stoic acceptance of every burden given them to bear. But those women had been older, and experienced in life.

  Drummond had done this to her.

  A memory came to him then, of Iseabal standing mute and humiliated as her father extolled her virtues as if she were no more sentient than a rock.

  Nor had he himself acted with greater honor, Alisdair thought, his mind furnishing yet another memory. Not that first night when she’d sat naked to the waist, innocently beautiful and in pain, but every night thereafter.

  Every time he wrapped the bandage around her waist, he fought off the impulse to stroke her skin and feel the warmth of her flesh against his lips. And every night he helped her don the nightshirt, his hand brushed against her breasts, seeking satiation of a greater need. On each occasion Iseabal sighed in response, but never said a word in protest.

  His conscience was nagging at him. A curious thing, to feel as if two separate parts of himself were warring. His mind stated emphatically that he was not willing or ready to be wed, especially to a stranger. Yet he hardened when he looked at her and had dreams featuring her soft smile and talented fingers.