When the Laird Returns

by Karen Ranney

  “Iseabal,” he said, holding out his hand. A small smile played around his lips as if he coaxed her to confidence.

  Speaking would only lead to unfriendly truths.

  Moving toward the door, she stared at the pattern of wood rather than look back at him.

  “You should rest,” she said. “You mustn’t tax yourself too soon.”

  “I’ve rested enough.”

  As she opened the cabin door, she heard him get up from the bunk.

  “Iseabal.” His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, his cheek placed against the braid of her hair. A warrior’s body pressed against her, warming and promising.

  Iseabal opened the door before he could turn her, before they kissed, before a dozen cautions went flying from her mind.

  “Rest,” she said, slipping from his grip and escaping.

  Chapter 31

  “Y ou cannot expect me to keep feeding all of them,” the cook said, waving his wooden spoon in the air. His voice was raised, his cheeks pink with emotion, but Alisdair noted that his eyes were sparkling with excitement.

  “Only you could accomplish such a feat, William,” he said tactfully. “And not for just now,” he added, certain that the cook understood the demands on his time. “We’ll need your services until the village can be repaired.”

  “I’ll be feeding hundreds!”

  Not quite hundreds, he thought. Merely forty-two, in addition to the twenty crewmen of the Fortitude who had chosen to live at Gilmuir. But he wisely remained silent, allowing William to express his displeasure along with his secret delight.

  The cook was French and took great pleasure in his tantrums. William had been angry all day, throwing implements down on the ground and then, when no one would continue to pick them up, resorting to rocks. The best way to calm him was to simply listen, and agree with William that he was the most maligned and underappreciated member of the crew.

  “I should go back to Nova Scotia,” William said, but his voice was not quite so loud now, and his sideways glance was more testing than threatening.

  “I, for one, am grateful that you’re not leaving,” Alisdair said. “Who else could handle such a monumental task?”

  “No one here,” William said, looking around him. Three of the crewmen had been pressed into service to assist him, and although their intentions were good, they had as much expertise in the kitchen as Alisdair had with needlework.

  “I guess I must stay,” William conceded grudgingly. The wooden spoon tapping against the palm of his hand seemed to measure the beat of his words. “If I don’t, you’ll all starve.”

  Alisdair smiled, reaching out to grasp the other man’s shoulder. “I appreciate your loyalty, William.”

  The cook nodded, beginning to shout orders to his helpers for the noon meal.

  Turning, Alisdair discovered Brian standing beside him. Nodding to the young man, he walked briskly away in case William should change his mind and voice yet another complaint.

  The two men halted in the courtyard as Alisdair glanced around, surveying the activity.

  The land bridge was a thoroughfare of constant motion, the villagers of Lonvight crossing back and forth from Gilmuir to their new homes. Building materials were being shared, and the old village was being refurbished by shoring up sagging roofs or repairing holes in the mortar.

  The crew of the Fortitude was occupied in building a structure on the site of the old fort to house those men remaining at Gilmuir. A more private, and smaller, cottage would be his and Iseabal’s home until Gilmuir was rebuilt.

  If she ever consented to leave the Fortitude.

  “Are there any more problems that need to be addressed?” he asked.

  “Only that a certain wife in the village is positive her husband is lusting after another woman, but I expect that’s a conundrum they will have to figure out themselves.”

  Alisdair raised an eyebrow, effectively smothering Brian’s smile. He had his own marital discord to deal with, and it was not a humorous subject.

  He left Brian then, taking the staircase to the cove. He was forced to wait for several minutes as the crew from the Molly Brown lifted another enormous barrel up the staircase. The task, cumbersome and time-consuming, was nevertheless faster than dragging the heavy casks overland behind two horses.

  The cove was peaceful today, aglow in sunlight and with few currents. Alisdair tied the skiff to the side of the Fortitude, climbed aboard easily. Except for his healing wound, he might not have suffered any effects of nearly being killed. In his memories, however, he could not quite forget the moment or the man.

  Standing on deck, he felt caught up by another type of recollection. He’d manned this ship on voyages across oceans, to countries both alien and enthralling. He’d stood at the bow railing wondering what tomorrow might bring. In that very same place, he’d prayed at times, to be delivered from a merciless gale, or for the wisdom to steer them around typhoons.

  Could he give it up so easily? Change his home from the sloping deck of his ship to the solid grandeur of Gilmuir? Surprisingly, yes. His travels had been right for a young man eager to explore and make his way in the world. Now, however, he was prepared to build. Not only Gilmuir, but the foundations of what would be the rest of his life.

  The faint sound of stone hitting the bulkhead alerted Alisdair. The noise came again and he followed it, circling the cabin and heading toward the stern. Iseabal sat on a chair, her attention directed at the block of marble in front of her.

  Tapping on the mallet, Iseabal sliced through the marble as if it were a loaf of newly baked bread, the ringing sound of the chisel against stone ricocheting against the cliff walls. A shard flew against the bulkhead, falling unheeded to the deck.

  A face was emerging from the ebony stone, a chin only partly chiseled, a nose jutting out imperiously. Recognizing himself in the brow not yet fully formed, and in the shape of the head, Alisdair felt a surge of embarrassment.

  “Do you not need to measure me in some way?” he asked a moment later. “The length of my nose, perhaps? My chin?”

  She turned, dropping the mallet, and stared at him.

  “I know your face well.” A simple statement, made as one would speak of the day, the moment, the climate. A wary response, carrying no emotion at all.

  He studied her, wondering what she would say if he spoke his thoughts. He, too, knew her face well. She was a woman possessed of average features. Her nose was unremarkable, her cheekbones slightly higher than normal. Her mouth was not distinctive in any way, save that the lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper. There was nothing of her face that people might remark upon or marvel at. Her eyes were green, but not so vibrant that they caused comment. Yet, average in each of her parts, she was nevertheless exquisitely beautiful assembled.

  Leaning against the corner, his hands tucked behind him, Alisdair watched her. The afternoon sun brought color to her face, tinting her cheeks a delicate rose. She’d tied back her hair with a ribbon to match her pale blue jacket.

  The longer he was married to her, Alisdair thought wryly, the more beautiful she became, as if her character altered her appearance somehow. Or perhaps it was simply that he could see her more clearly the better he knew her.

  “You should have come to Gilmuir,” he softly said.

  She said nothing, no demurral or teasing response. Simply nothing, like the Iseabal she’d once been, silent, watchful, and eternally cautious.

  For days she’d been oddly distant, treating him in the same blandly compassionate way she would a stranger. Gone was the easy camaraderie they were beginning to build together, and in its place was an awkwardness he’d not felt since the beginning of their marriage. She guarded her thoughts well, holding them inside so tightly that he’d no inkling of them.

  “I wished to work,” she said, addressing her tools. Slowly and carefully, she arranged her chisels in a neat pattern of militaristic rows.

  “It takes a great deal of your time lately, Iseab
al.”

  She glanced at him then, the worry in her eyes disturbing him. He knew there were words she did not speak and emotions she chose to conceal. Her reticence was grating, but not as much as her lack of trust in him.

  “Do you object, Alisdair?” She stood, covering the bust with a square of hide. He moved to her side, slid the leather from the stone.

  “I have no objection to your carving, Iseabal,” he said. “I only wish to know the reason for your sudden aversion to my presence and to Gilmuir.”

  “Why would you think that I’m averse to either?” she asked carefully, once again shielding her work. He smiled grimly at this evidence of her gentle obstinacy. When she wished, she could be as opaque as marble and as stubborn as stone.

  “Because you’ve avoided me as aptly as you have going ashore,” he said, clenching his hands together at his sides.

  “I wished to work on my carving,” she murmured, looking away again. Standing, she moved to the rail, studying the pockmarked cliff face as intently as she had her statue.

  After their marriage, she’d ceased being tentative with him. Instead, they’d shared laughter and conversation, delighting in the other’s nature as well as in moments of loving. He wanted that other Iseabal back, not the quiet woman with hints of anger in her gaze, and not this one whose defiance had been replaced by a solemn sort of misery.

  “Why do I think that’s not the full answer, Iseabal?”

  How could he solve a problem that was never mentioned? Or respond to a question never voiced? Her silence irritated him, so too her meek acceptance of his burgeoning anger.

  She’d acted the same with Magnus Drummond.

  He turned on his heel and left her, striding to the cabin. An act of restraint had him closing the door softly behind him when he wanted to slam it. He didn’t have Iseabal’s nature. What she achieved by endurance, he gained with more forthright tactics.

  He should go to her, convince her to speak to him, utter words that would reassure her. Except, of course, there were none. He suspected the reason for her reticence well enough. Despite her fear of Drummond, the man was still her father and parental bonds were difficult to sever. She was torn in her loyalties while his had never been clearer.

  If she wanted to extract a promise from him that he would do nothing to Drummond, he could not give it to her. Any more than he could agree to refrain from protecting his home or the people who depended on him. He couldn’t ignore her father’s actions.

  Drummond had effectively declared war on Gilmuir.

  James MacRae stood at the bow of his ship, the Cuideal, two of his four brothers beside him. They were as silent as he, awed by the sight of Gilmuir, the place they’d heard about all their lives.

  Golden light poured over the ship, as if welcoming them home. A riotous morning sky, replete with pink-and-orange streaks, announced their silent arrival.

  Noting the merchant ship anchored at the side of Loch Euliss, James wondered if the Fortitude was moored in the cove. If so, attempting to navigate the narrowing waterway would be foolish, if not dangerous. His ship drew more than either vessel, being designed to carry cargo across the oceans.

  Turning to his brothers, he made his decision. “We’ll anchor here,” he said.

  “You’ll be rowing us to the cove, then?” Hamish asked sardonically.

  “You should be the one doing the rowing,” Brendan answered. “You’ve taken it easy on this voyage.”

  “I’m all for walking to Gilmuir,” James said, “if only to escape the two of you.” With that, he left to relay the orders.

  Iseabal stood at the door of the cabin, fist raised to knock. How fleeting courage was. A week ago she’d faced down her father and was willing to shoot a man to find Alisdair. Now, however, she felt as frail as a new lamb and about as brave.

  She rapped on the door with her knuckles, but there was no answer.

  “You do not have to knock,” he said irritably when she hesitantly opened the door. “This is your cabin as well as mine.”

  “Your wound needs to be treated,” she said, coming into the room. “Unless you would rather do it yourself.”

  “Why should I object to my wife’s ministering care?” he asked tightly. “It is better than her fleeing from me.”

  “I haven’t left the ship,” she said quietly, moving to the tansu and retrieving the articles she needed.

  “No, but you’ve been as distant as if you had.”

  Some words cannot be voiced; some fears are too terrible to speak. She’d found it easy to be brave on his behalf, but facing him now was more difficult than holding a pistol on a sailor. She didn’t want to see the same look on his face as she had seen on Brian’s or the other crewmen’s. She didn’t want to watch while he slowly withdrew from her, as if her touch were plague-filled.

  She’d lose too much for her courage now; it was easier to remain silent.

  Placing the jars and vials on the table in front of him, she began to examine his wound. A nasty blow, one designed to kill, yet he had escaped death to sit in front of her now.

  Their life had been a circle, Iseabal suddenly thought. Once, she’d sat where he did now, trapped in fear and reticence as surely as she was at this moment. He had been the caregiver and she the reluctant patient. But where their circumstances might have differed, their natures had not.

  He was still brave; she was yet a coward. Alisdair demanded of life; she accepted. He saw possibilities, while she felt boxed in by her own limitations.

  She glanced down at him. His eyes sparkled at her like a sunlit morning sky, but his mouth was unsmiling. At this moment he was simply Alisdair MacRae, stripped of all his honors and titles. Impatient, stubborn, insistent, occasionally demanding. A mortal man, after all.

  How odd that she should find him even more fascinating for all his faults.

  Her hands came into his field of vision, her fingers long and tapered, callused fingertips sliding delicately through his hair. She was careful but relentless in the exploration of his wound.

  “We have not loved enough, Iseabal,” he said, his gaze lifting to hers.

  Her fingers halted against his scalp. Her breath seemed trapped on a sigh; her full breasts, sedately covered, were suddenly too close. His inclination was to bend forward, brush his lips against the swell of fabric.

  “We’ve not been married long,” she said finally, her gaze on his hair.

  “Do I please you?”

  Now there was a longer pause, as if she were framing the words. Surely he was not that bad a lover. Inconsiderate? He could imagine that, he thought wryly, with his body’s intractable reaction to her even now. Alisdair the quick.

  “Yes,” she said shortly.

  As she applied the medicines, he traced a path from her wrist to her elbow, gliding over the sleeve of her garment with a remembering finger. Her arms were straight and muscled from her sculpting, her wrists supple yet delicate.

  She pulled back, capping the jars and placing the stoppers on the two vials.

  Leisurely, he reached up and began to unfasten her jacket, saying nothing as he did so. But his gaze never veered from her face when he opened the buttons.

  “I want more, Iseabal,” he said, pressing his face between her breasts. His breath felt heated against the delicate lace shift. “I want the woman I was beginning to know. Where has she gone, Iseabal? Where have you sent her?”

  Her eyes widened, but still she didn’t speak.

  At her silence, he reached around her legs with both arms, leaning his head against her hip. She placed her palms against his temples, her fingers speared into his hair.

  “I am here,” she whispered.

  “Are you, Iseabal? Then why do you fear me?”

  “I do not,” she said, her voice sounding as if she trembled. He pressed a finger against her inner wrist, felt the fluttering beat of her blood.

  “I promised to kiss you the next time you treated me to silence,” he said, standing. He leaned down, holdi
ng her head still with his hands.

  There was something magical in the way his mouth fit against hers, he thought. He saw sparks behind his eyelids, but reveled in the sensation of losing himself in passion. His breath was constricted, his heart matching hers beat by beat, his senses focused only on Iseabal.

  If they could not have trust between them, at least they had this.

  “Damnation, Alisdair, what’s all this about you getting married? And to a Scot?”

  Alisdair stiffened, pushing Iseabal behind him. Her jacket was unfastened, and her shift and what was beneath it were not for public viewing.

  “It wouldn’t hurt for you to knock, James,” he said curtly, glancing at them. Three of his brothers stood there, various degrees of surprise flickering over their faces. Only James, he noted, had the sense to look chagrined. Brendan and Hamish were as slack-jawed as envious hounds. He should have been surprised at their appearance, but all he could feel at the moment was rage.

  “Shut the door, damn it!” he roared, and they finally had the grace to step outside, closing the door behind them.

  “Forgive me,” he said, glancing down at his wife. “My brothers are oafs.”

  She only nodded and, as he watched, retreated into herself once again.

  Alisdair sat before her on the floor, his back against the bunk where she perched. His wrist rested nonchalantly on his drawn-up knee. A casual pose, Iseabal thought, wishing that she could appear as nonchalant.

  The three MacRae men—James, Hamish, and Brendan—sat on the floor opposite them. There was something about the brothers that linked them—a curve of chin, a proud nose. Yet they were each so dissimilar in appearance they could easily have been cousins instead of brothers. James was tall and slender. Hamish was gifted with broad shoulders and an oddly squared physique. Brendan was simply average, but possessed of a more ready smile than his brothers.

  Beneath their surface amiability, however, lurked an almost palpable anger, as if listening to Alisdair’s tale had further united them.