by Terry Spear
Marcus waited for him to clamber to his feet and renew the attack, but the man’s gray eyes grew shadowed, then stared up at him lifelessly. Blood spread over the ground from the back of the man’s head.
Warily, Marcus dismounted, his own back burning with pain. The whoreson couldn’t even fight him in an honest battle man to man. Though what had Marcus expected when three of them had been set upon him?
He kicked the man aside, saw the rock he’d struck his head on, and shook his head. “Next time, you will have to send a bigger force to deter me, whosoever you are that sent these men to murder me.”
Before he grew too weak to manage, Marcus climbed into his saddle and rode like the devil to the tavern. When he arrived, he fell from his horse to the ground in a bloodied heap, cursing at everything he could curse. With a willpower that overtook the pain carving a swath through his back, he managed to get to his feet and stumbled to the tavern, pushing the door open, and took two steps inside.
Praying his cousins were here, his vision blurring and the peat smoke from the fire making the tavern even hazier, he couldn’t see them among the men seated at the half dozen tables scattered about. With as much strength as he could muster, he shouted, “Finbar! Rob!”
The place was noisy and smelled of ale, but when he yelled, conversation ceased and all gazes swung to him.
He thought he saw his cousins rushing to aid him, but he couldn’t be sure. He just hoped no one else meant to kill him as his sword fell from his weakened grasp and struck the floor right before he joined his weapon, smacking hard against the wooden planks, sending up a cloud of dust in his wake.
Chapter 3
Isobel wondered why Lord Erickson had swept her toward the other side of the great hall, until she realized he was trying to keep her from seeing Marcus further. After her father would not grant her hand in marriage to Marcus, she intended to prove to the assembled lords and ladies that she had chosen the Highlander as her own. No one else need ask for her hand in marriage.
She had seen the hostile looks directed at him, and some of those same men had cast the same kind of disparaging looks her way. Did they think she’d ever agree to marry any one of them? She knew her father could make that decision, if he so chose. But he’d always assured her and before that—her mother—that Isobel would have a choice.
“Some wine, my lady?” Lord Erickson asked her.
She shook her head and again looked for Marcus. Erickson had a quick temper that matched his fiery red hair. She could imagine having several redheaded bairns who each had tempers to match their father’s.
Lords Fenton, Neville, and Hammersfield headed her way as if they believed it was now their turn to spend time with her. She wished to take a respite and drink some wine with Marcus. She had every intention of showing how much she loved the Highlander and no other man would have her affection.
Glancing around the hall at the collected visitors, she realized her father was nowhere in sight, and she felt a chill race down her spine. He always stayed close at hand while she danced with the gentlemen. Was another suitor offering for her, and this time her father was considering any proposal just to ensure she did not wed the Highlander?
“Lady Isobel, would you care to dance with—” Fenton didn’t finish speaking when Cantrell, one of her father’s servants, hurried into the great hall to talk to her father’s advisor on the other side of the room.
Cantrell was a spry middle-aged man who oft ran errands for her when she needed something done—for a fee. Yet, he’d proved invaluable to her time and again. He was always crossing the border, knew everyone and one and all liked him, so he had been invaluable to her father as well since Cantrell always heard the news first about trouble brewing at the border and quickly apprised her father. She wondered if he charged her father for the information, or gave it freely.
Lord Wynfield’s pudgy face reddened, his jaw dropping. Whatever the news, it was not good. He glanced around the great hall—looking for her father? Then spied her and he quickly spoke to Cantrell and headed out with Cantrell following behind.
“Hope that it is not trouble at the border again,” Hammersfield said, crossing his arms. “Whoever has the pleasure of marrying Lady Isobel will have to deal with all of this on a regular basis, I daresay.”
After her father was dead! Marrying her would not mean the lord would suddenly have her father’s title and his properties.
Lords Fenton and Erickson agreed. The men began to talk to one another about the unruly Scots, while Lord Neville quickly took the opportunity to offer his arm to Isobel. “A dance, my lady?”
The men quickly ceased their talk of border issues, realizing the baron had made a play for her when they had forgotten all about her. She could see that, should she have to marry any of them, she would be good for providing bairns, and an heir, but naught more.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” She rushed out of the great hall to see her father about the business with marrying Marcus, still wondering where her Highlander was, and hoping Lord Wynfield was not now telling her father that he needed to prepare for the skirmishes at the border.
“Lady Isobel!” her maid called out, hurrying to catch up to her before Isobel reached the stairs.
She turned to look at her and saw the concern etched in Mary’s face.
“Laird Marcus has left, my lady,” Mary said, her words low as if she shouldn’t be speaking them.
Isobel’s jaw dropped. “What…” She had never considered he would leave this early, and certainly without saying his farewell. He had never done so in the past. At first confused, then furious, suspecting he had been forced to leave because of the way she had showed the assembled visitors and staff that she favored Marcus above all others, she narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“‘Tis the way of things,” her maid said vaguely.
Isobel steeled her back. “Why did he leave? Tell me, Mary.”
Mary wrung her hands and glanced at the stairs behind Isobel, and quickly turned her gaze back to her. “Come, my lady. Enjoy the dance.”
Isobel looked over her shoulder to see if someone was standing near the stairs, but there was no one. Yet someone could be listening in the corridor above. Or even hidden from view on the narrow, tightly-curved stairs that ascended to the upper floors.
She strode past the maid and headed for the door to the inner bailey.
“My lady, where are you going?” Frantic, Mary rushed after her.
“Why did he leave?” Isobel asked Mary again, not to be thwarted in learning the truth.
Mary’s expression tightened, her lips thinning, but she didn’t speak.
“‘Tis fine with me. I will learn what I can on my own.” Isobel hurried outside.
“My lady, you canna leave.”
Having no intention of arguing with her maid, Isobel stalked toward the stables. Just as quickly, two of her father’s knights headed for her, the one, the captain of the guard, Sir Halloran, his blond hair as short as any Norman’s, his eyes a sharp blue. He was frowning at her like he would when he had a disagreeable task to perform. Redheaded Sir Travon, who always had smiles for her—except for tonight—stalked beside him. His green eyes were narrowed as he considered her. She knew the two men wouldn’t allow her to go anywhere. Even with an escort.
“The dance is inside, my lady,” Sir Halloran said. “You should be enjoying the celebration.”
“Thank you kindly, Sir Halloran. I am getting a breath of fresh air, if it pleases you.” She didn’t care whether it pleased him or not.
The captain of the guard took hold of her arm, and she looked up at him, shocked and angered. No one in her father’s employ had ever manhandled her. “Unhand me at once!”
“‘Tis for your own good, my lady.” The ogre hauled her back to the keep as Mary hurried to keep up with them.
Isobel would have the men fired. The both of them! She tried to jerk her arm free, but she couldn’t get loose no matter how hard she tried.
Onc
e inside, Sir Halloran released her and blocked the door. It seemed as though everyone had noticed her departure, and every eye was on her.
She smiled sweetly and headed for the stairs. Mary followed her up them as if she were her shadow.
When she reached her father’s solar, Isobel noted the door was open and he was inside. And alone, which she was grateful for. Mary continued on down the corridor, not needed when Isobel was seeing her father. He was dark-haired like her, but his eyes were nearly black, and not blue like her own. She had her mother’s beautiful cat-like eyes, she was oft told. Now his eyes narrowed at the sight of her.
“Father, I wish to wed Marcus. I love him and he loves me. That should be all that matters.”
“You belong here where you will provide an heir for the earldom. You do not belong in some drafty, ill-furnished castle in the Highlands, my daughter.” The diplomat that he was, he was firm, but at least he still attempted to placate her.
She would not be appeased! She glared at her father. “Did you send him away? He was invited here. A guest, like any other.” Though she knew he was not a guest like any other. Only she welcomed him with open arms. Everyone else reviled him. Except for Mary, who loved to hear stories from him of home as well, and Jane, who thought Isobel and Marcus’s love for each other was the most romantic notion ever.
“You were too bold with him. I would have done the same had any other man touched you the way in which he did. ‘Tis not done when you are not promised to him.”
“We love each other!”
“‘Tis only a young girl’s imaginings. You will care for the man, any man, who takes you for his wife.”
“That is not so! Marcus has asked for my hand many times, and you have turned him down every one of those times? I do not imagine the love that is between us. What of my feelings for him? What of his feelings for me? Do they not matter? Did my mother mean naught more than a dowry to you?”
She knew he had loved her mother with all his heart. She hoped he’d see her point.
“Enough, Isobel. My title was not at stake when I took your mother to wife.”
“My happiness means naught to you,” Isobel blurted out. She saw the look of hurt on her father’s face, but she had to break through his denial. She had to make him remember why he married her mother. Didn’t Isobel deserve the same kind of love and happiness?
“Seven men have offered for you, whom I approve of, and you will spend time with them and decide which you prefer to marry.”
“Marcus is the only one I will agree to wed.”
Ignoring her comment, he continued to speak as if she were blithely agreeing to everyone he dictated! “You will wed in a fortnight. In that time, each of the seven men will be given the time to court you properly. If you select one before you have spent time with the others, so be it. If you cannot find it in your heart to decide on one of them, I will do the honor. I leave it to you to choose well.”
She bit her lip to keep from saying no to her father. She only had one choice. If she ran away to join Marcus at Lochaven in the Highlands, her father would punish the laird and his people. She could see that now. If she went somewhere else, disappeared for several months, if she could find someone safe to stay with, mayhap her father would be so relieved to learn she was alive, he would allow her to wed Marcus. She would not give in so easily to her father’s unreasonable demands. She understood about his title and the importance, but she wanted to be loved for who she was, allowed to be the way she was and not what some nobleman, who didn’t love her, wished of her.
Her parents had cared deeply for one another just the way she wanted to love Marcus.
“As you wish, my lord father.”
He frowned and seemed not to be taken in by her acquiescence. She’d accepted his demands too readily.
“You do not wish to know who will have the honor to court you?”
She shook her head, her chin stubbornly lifted, fighting the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.
“I only do what is best for you.” He reached to take her hands, appearing somewhat unsettled that she was on the verge of tears.
She took a quick step back to avoid his touch, tears rolling down her cheeks. “May I retire to my chambers now, my lord?”
“Aye,” he said coldly, not taking well to her dismissal. “You will spend time with Lord Fenton at nooning on the morrow.”
“As you wish.” Her voice was a choked whisper. She did not kiss her father’s cheek as she always did when retiring for the night, although it was way too early for her to be abed when guests were below in the great hall waiting for her return. She could not suffer to see their smug looks when her heart was near bursting with sorrow at the way Marcus had been sent away so unkindly. She turned to leave.
“You will have an escort at all times, my daughter.”
Her back to her father, she spoke to the floor covered in rushes. “Mary. Of course.”
“And one of my men.”
In disbelief, she turned and stared at her father. “What?”
“For your protection, daughter.”
He knew her too well. She would leave now before he gave word to his advisor to have one of his men watch her.
“My safety,” she said, feigning ignorance.
“Aye. You are all I have, daughter. Had you been a son, I would not be having this discussion. Now you must marry and provide an heir, before I am no longer here. I will secure a future for your son before I would leave this world.”
She took a deep, steadying breath, realizing not only did he care about his title and estates, but about her welfare. Yet, marrying one of the English lords would not make her happy. Still, did he know something she didn’t? That he was unwell? “You…you are not ill, are you, father?”
“Nay.”
She ground her teeth. Fine. Then the truth mayhap would sway him. “Know this, since Lord Fenton is one of the men who wishes to court me, I will tell you then that I broke his nose when I was three and ten.” She watched for any change in her father’s expression. When his eyes widened, she thought he didn’t believe her. Or he did and he couldn’t believe she’d do something so violent to a prospective suitor when they were younger. “He said my mother was naught but a Highland heathen and whore.”
His face reddening, he clenched his teeth so hard, he looked like he would break his jaw, but he still did not say a word.
“Do you think if he weds me, he would not seek retribution? That he would not think me beneath him because I am my mother’s daughter with Highland blood coursing through me?”
“I will make it known to him that he is no longer able to court you. I will add Lord Wynfield to the list instead, who has confided in me many times over that he wishes your hand as well.”
“Your seneschal?” As if there was another. “Lord Wynfield? He is more than twice my age. Surely you jest.”
Her father shook his head. “The baron is a good man and mayhap you need an older man to take you in hand.”
“Are we done, Father?” She didn’t wait for him to reply, but tore out of his solar and into the corridor where Sir Travon waited. Her heart tripped at the sight of the knight. Except for earlier when he accompanied Sir Halloran, who forced her to return to the castle, he was usually very cordial toward her, and always had a smile for her. She suspected he would have loved to wed her, not just for the title, but because he cared for her. But her father would never consider him because of his low rank.
Her father couldn’t have already told his men she was to be guarded at all times.
She hurried to her chambers, hoping the knight had some business with her father, but his footfalls a few steps behind her told her otherwise.
She turned and stopped, her action so unexpected, Sir Travon nearly ran into her. “Did you wish something of me?” she asked, her voice sharp and on edge.
Appearing not in the least bit bothered by her harshness, he shook his head. “Only following orders.” He gave her a crooked smile.
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She shut herself up in her chamber, vowing to find a way out of this nightmare. She would not wed one of the Englishmen or Normans seeking her hand.
The door opened and Mary hurried into her chamber, frowning at her. “You are not returning to the great hall? Your suitors await you. They wish to dance with you.”
“Mary, you of all people know how I feel about Marcus.”
“Aye, and also how we canna always have our own way. I left my people behind to stay with your mother, to protect her, to be her companion when she was so far from home. We were childhood friends, you ken? She loved your da as much as you do. I had to sacrifice my Highland ways and my Highland family, but now I am here for you.”
“Oh, Mary.” She took her maid’s hands in her own. “If you wish to return—”
“Nay, my place is here. Someday I would love to cradle your bairns.”
“If they are Marcus’s,” Isobel said bitterly. She turned and strode to the window, then peered out at the hills, the trees, and loch in the distance.
“Do you want me to take down your hair?” Mary asked.
Isobel wanted to leave and steal away with Marcus. That’s all she wanted to do.
***
Marcus hadn’t felt this bad in a long time as a healer stitched his wound shut and used some kind of herbs in a poultice on the injury. Finbar and Rob were standing nearby, arms folded, brows furrowed, their eyes narrowed with worry. The sun shown into the small room furnished with a bed, chest, table, and a chair. He must be in the tavern, though he wished he was home, and Isobel was with him.
“I will live.” Though the way Marcus was feeling, sore, aching, his back burning, he wasn’t certain. His voice was dry and raspy. He was lying on his stomach and thought if he had to move from this position, he’d never make it.
“Can we resituate him so that he can sit and drink some mead?” Finbar asked the healer.
“Aye, but carefully. His belly may not be able to take any food or drink so soon. Take a care that you dinna pull his stitches loose.”
Marcus wanted something to drink, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it that bad.
