This announcement gave Isobel pause. She turned in the saddle and scowled at Sutherland, threatening the grinning man with a scowl he’d be wise to heed. “Oh, he did, did he?”
Sutherland nodded and made a clicking sound to speed up his mount. “Aye. I did. Tell her what I told ye, lad.”
“He said when ye cried out it was because ye twisted yer ankle whilst running from a wolf. Then when Alasdair hollered, it was because he was saving ye by scaring the beast away.” Connor beamed. He pointed to a stain on her stocking just above the ankle of her boot. “Is it better this morning, Mama? Ye dinna seem to be favoring it.”
“Aye, son. Much better,” she assured him, ignoring Sutherland’s snorting laughter as he rode on ahead and joined Ian and Alasdair.
“I should be riding wi’ the men,” Connor said in a serious tone.
“Aye, that ye should.” She urged her horse forward and caught up with the men. “Which of ye fine gentlemen shall Connor share a saddle with on this last leg of our journey while I ride alongside Alasdair?” Their wary expressions filled her with satisfaction. Good. They’d do well to fear her.
Both Sutherland and Ian fell back and brought their steeds to a halt.
“The lad can ride with me,” Sutherland invited with a smile.
“And when he tires of Sutherland’s stench, he can ride with me,” Ian said with a wink.
Isobel didn’t miss Alasdair’s low-throated groan. The man sounded like a frustrated stag in rut. “It appears yer men have turned tail and run. Left ye to face yer troubles alone, have they not?”
“I dinna blame them,” he muttered. “Cowards. Both of them.” He pointed toward the distant horizon as they continued on their way. Dusky, blue-gray peaks dominated the skyline, stretching toward the clouds. “Ben Nevis. Tor Ruadh lies a way up from the base of the mountainside, overlooking the glen.”
She ignored his unnecessary chatter. She knew the Highlands as well as he did. “I nay yielded last night. I still maintain we be man and wife.” His tightening hold on the reins brought her no small amount of satisfaction. Good. One way or another, she would make him see sense. She glanced back at the others riding a safe distance behind them. “I know Temsworth and the depths he’ll sink to. Ye dinna know him.”
Alasdair’s eyes narrowed as he stared straight ahead. “We will never agree on this.” He looked her way then, the wind whipping a loosened strand of dark hair across his face, making his glare even more devilish. “I will handle this as I see fit. For yer sake, and for Connor’s. Understood?”
His bullish attitude both thrilled and enraged her. Damn him and his power over her. How she could both love and hate the man baffled her to no end. Last night, he made her scream with bliss, and this morning, the damned fool made her wish to scream in fury. She spurred her horse into a full gallop across the glen. Damn Alasdair and his useless, noble morals. Damn him straight to hell and back.
“Isobel!”
His shout reached her, barely audible over the wind whipping past her. She ignored him, riding on. She clung to her mount as the horse flew across the land and jumped across a small stream. Up ahead, at the base of the mountain, stood a smattering of thatch-roofed dwellings. The villagers were more than likely Clan MacCoinnich’s crofters. The sight of the small community convinced her to slow. It was unwise to thunder into a village where she was unknown. Unknown. The word brought a smile as she lifted her face to the warm sunshine and brushed her windswept hair back in place. Unknown meant safety. Security. Peace.
Alasdair’s mount pounded up beside her, then came to a halt with an abrupt bump against hers. “Woman!” he growled. He reached across, looped an arm around her waist, and dragged her over to his saddle.
She squirmed in his grasp and thumped a fist against him. “How dare ye!”
“How dare I?” He repeated, eyes storming as he jerked her more firmly in place. He locked an arm around her. “How dare ye take off like a demon escaped from hell and risk either breaking yer fool neck or being shot by MacCoinnich guards! Are ye daft?”
“No dafter than yerself.” She shoved him, struggling to slide to the ground. “I demand ye return me to my horse this instant. I’m not a child, and I willna be treated like one.”
He tightened his hold and turned his horse to face the rest of the group catching up to them. “Sutherland—place the boy on Isobel’s mount. She’ll be riding the rest of the way with me.”
“I will not!”
“Aye.” Alasdair yanked her back. “Ye will.”
Sutherland followed orders without a word, his mouth clamped in a flat line but amusement dancing in his eyes.
Connor grinned and squared his shoulders, taking up the reins. “This be fine, indeed. Thank ye, Mama!”
“Aye, Connor. Be mindful, son.” Isobel bounced backward with a hard jerk. The back of her head cracked against Alasdair’s chin, and her elbow jabbed him solid in the stomach. If the man intended to treat her like a disobedient child, she would act it and make his journey miserable.
Sutherland and Ian took the lead as they followed the dirt path lacing through the center of the village and crossed the wooden bridge spanning a stream splitting the community in two. Connor and Yeva rode next in line, and Alasdair kept to the rear.
The man infuriated her even more by not reacting to anything she did other than clutching her tighter against his chest. As the men, women, and children from the dwellings gathered, she ceased her struggling. She needed allies among these people. People who would help her convince Alasdair to set aside his prideful need to confront the duke.
She was not a fool. He might say he’d send a messenger to file the papers, but deep in her heart, she knew he intended to find a way to challenge the man face to face. He might have the reputation of a calm, logical solicitor, but she knew better. Beneath his cool facade beat the heart of a raging warrior filled with bloodlust for revenge.
The grandeur of Tor Ruadh rose before them. The weathered, stone fortress looked impenetrable with its two guard towers, lethally defensive barbican, and iron portcullis ready to slam shut and bar entry to any intruder. Armed men scrutinized them from the battlements atop the skirting wall and arrow slits in the towers. Sutherland MacCoinnich, brother to the chieftain, had taken the lead to ensure their entry was more a welcome than an interrogation.
Remembering what Alasdair had told her regarding the resurgence of Clan MacCoinnich, she craned her neck, staring up at the tall walls as they passed through the gate. “Ye laid siege and took this place when it belonged to Clan Neal? Just the seven of ye?”
“Aye.” His tone curt, Alasdair halted his mount in the center of the bailey. Fierce scowl locked in place, he dismounted and held up his hands to her.
Isobel attempted to quell the fluttering of guilt her conscience thrust on her. She had treated him ill but rightly so. He should not be so stubborn. She took his hands and allowed him to lower her to the ground. “Can ye not smile? I dinna wish to meet everyone with a snarling beast at my side.”
“I wouldna be a snarling beast if the woman I loved would stop behaving like a mule-headed, short-sighted—”
“Ye would be wise to stop right there, Alasdair Cameron,” she warned.
His jaw, dark with several days’ worth of beard, hardened, and his eyes became angry slits. Saints alive, such fierceness made him even more handsome.
She rested a hand on the center of his chest. “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I should nay have been so cross and behaved so poorly. Can we not call a truce until we discuss it further? I’m certain we can work out a solution agreeable to us both.”
He glared down at her, nostrils flaring like an enraged bull about to charge. His hands planted on his hips, he threw back his head and stared up at the sky, swelling with a deep breath, then snorting it out. The man was either praying for patience or trying to decide if he should turn her across his knee for a tanning.
Isobel folded her arms and lifted her chin. Let him try. She wou
ld never submit to any man’s brutish behavior ever again. Her heart hitched, and her conscience kicked her. Alasdair would never mistreat her, and she wasn’t being fair to even think such. Perhaps a return to kindness and wooing would bring him around. Auntie always said ye could catch more flies with honey than vinegar. “Please? I am sorry for treating ye so ill today.”
He glared at her. “Ye know I love ye, aye?”
She smiled and moved to his side, sliding her arm through his. “Aye.” She hugged him. “And I love ye as well.”
“I like this place,” Connor announced as he bounced up to them.
Yeva made her way across the cobblestones, scowling at their surroundings. “Stay close, Connor. This place very big. You get lost.”
Isobel refrained from reminding Auntie that Hestlemoor had been even larger since the country estate sprawled across several counties. She pulled her son over and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Aye, lad. Stay close until we’ve been greeted proper and are settled in, aye?”
“Do my eyes deceive me?”
A familiar voice drew her attention to the steps in front of the entrance of the keep. A dark-haired man, braw and burly and just as handsome as Isobel remembered stood with a striking, red-haired woman at his side.
“Alexander MacCoinnich. It’s good to see ye,” she said as they joined the couple on the steps. Fond memories of happy times spent with Clan MacCoinnich flooded her with warm feelings.
Alexander’s grin broadened, and he turned to the smiling lady at his side. “This is my wife, Catriona.” He motioned toward Isobel. “Catriona, this is the Duchess of Temsworth.”
Isobel flinched at the introduction. “Just Isobel. Please.” She pulled Connor to stand in front of her and rested her hands atop his shoulders. “This is my son, Connor.”
“Connor.” Alexander gave the lad a polite nod, but Isobel didn’t miss the inquisitive look he shot at Alasdair.
Connor retreated deeper into the folds of her skirts and remained silent.
Catriona bent to bring her smile even with the boy’s wide-eyed stare. She tucked a coppery curl behind one ear, winked, then pointed to a pair of children waiting just inside the double doors of the keep. “My bairns, Willa and William, were about to visit the kitchen for some bread and jam. Would ye like to go with them, Connor?”
The lad didn’t answer, just edged farther back against Isobel, and chewed on the side of his thumb.
“Ye like jam,” Isobel urged with a gentle nudge to move him forward. “And they look to be about yer age, too.”
The little boy, as coppery headed as his mother, stepped forward. “I be almost six. How old are ye?”
“Five,” Connor whispered whilst still chewing on his finger.
“I be a minute older than him,” said the little girl with curly locks as black as a raven’s wing. She was the image of her father. She held out a chubby hand. “Come on. We gots fresh butter, jams, and honey. It be baking day, so the bread will be good and hot. Cook always gives us plenty. She likes having us underfoot. Says so all the time.”
“Go on, son.” Isobel gave him another gentle nudge. “It’s rude to keep such a kindly host and hostess waiting.”
With a worried look back at his mother, Connor took Willa’s hand and trudged along behind her as she half led, half dragged the reluctant boy into the keep.
“He’s not usually so shy,” Isobel observed, a nagging reluctance to let her son face the fear of new friends and a new place all alone. Guilt gnawed at her for not keeping him at her side.
“They’ll be thick as thieves in no time,” Alexander said, then clapped a hand to Alasdair’s shoulder. “Good to see ye, man. Sutherland says we have much to discuss.”
“We do at that.” Alasdair scooped up Isobel’s hand and brushed a quick kiss to it. “Why dinna ye take Auntie inside with Catriona whilst Alexander and I talk. I’m sure ye’re both weary.”
She bit back that she refused to be dismissed like a child. Nay. She would grant him a mite more indulgence this time—at least until all in the keep knew her story. With a stiff nod to him, she took Auntie’s arm, then and gave a genuine smile of gratitude to Catriona. “I thank ye for such a warm welcome. It means more to my family and me than ye could ever know.”
“Think nothing of it.” Catriona waved them forward. “I’m sure ye’re tired and wouldna mind a crust of bread and jam yerselves—and maybe a bit of wine? Or whisky.” She laughed. “Or both.” She leaned closer as they made their way into the keep. “We’ll let the men fill themselves with their own importance and have their talk whilst we come up with a better plan for whatever’s troubling ye, aye?”
“I do have a plan,” Isobel confessed.
They entered the great hall and made their way to a circling of pillowed chairs flanking a hearth with just enough fire to knock the chill and dampness from the high-ceilinged room. Catriona’s manner put her to ease. The woman wore kindness and thoughtfulness like a regal mantle. Isobel felt an immediate trust for her. She released a dismal sigh as she sank into one of the chairs. “I fear convincing Alasdair to heed my plan is the problem.”
Catriona drew the attention of one of the young, white-capped lasses wiping down the row of long tables running down the center of the room. “Please fetch us some hot broth, wine, and whisky, aye? Thank ye, Anne.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy, then scurried toward the back archway to the left of the room.
“Oh, Anne!” Catriona called out. “Forgive me. Before ye tear off to the kitchen, would ye run to the solar and fetch Gretna and Mercy? I’m sure they’d love to meet our guests, too.”
“Aye, m’lady.” Anne switched directions, heading to the stone staircase to the right of the chieftain’s table at the head of the room.
Catriona seated herself opposite Isobel and Yeva. “Mercy is Graham’s wife, and Gretna is her companion.”
Companion? How odd. Especially here in the Highlands. Of course, Alasdair had said Mercy was goddaughter to the king. Perhaps, since she ranked high in the peerage, she had brought her ways to Scotland. The thought made her uneasy. England’s peerage had brought her nothing but danger and pain.
Not wishing to seem rude by remaining silent overlong, she forced a smile. “How is Graham? I was pleased to learn that all the MacCoinnich brothers had survived the sickness that wiped out so many.”
“Graham is well. Proud father to wee Ramsay and another bairn soon to join us. Full moon’s a coming.” Catriona rested her hand on the slight swell of her stomach that the folds of her loose overdress had hidden before. “Alexander and I will also be blessed with another child before winter sets in.” Her bubbling laughter echoed through the hall. “Alexander prays it’s not another set of twins.”
A pang of longing and a twinge of jealousy twitched through Isobel. She brushed aside the feelings. “Congratulations! I’m so pleased Tor Ruadh is bursting at the seams with blessings.”
Soft murmuring accompanied by a steady tapping from the direction of the staircase, drew her attention. A curvy young lass with hair as shiny and bright as newly forged copper walked beside a statuesque woman of about the same age, but that’s where the resemblance stopped.
Heavily pregnant, the tall lass, dark-haired and possessing a serene beauty, walked with an ornate staff, carved and painted like a work of art. As Isobel studied the pair, she realized the woman didn’t use the staff as a means of support or decoration but rather as a way to know where to place her steps. The lady was blind.
Her cane lightly brushed against the tables and benches. Head held high and free hand resting on the large mound of her rounded stomach, she gracefully navigated the room. The lass at her side, occasionally steered her by the arm whenever the staff happened to miss an obstacle.
Catriona rose as the pair reached the sitting area. “Gretna, Mercy, this is her grace, the Duchess of Temsworth, and her Aunt Yeva. Yer Grace, this is my cousin, Gretna Neal, and my sister-in-law, Graham’s wife, Lady Mercy.”
&nb
sp; Gretna, the lass with the coppery hair even the Goddess Brid would envy, rushed forward, curtsied, then gave a friendly squeeze to both Isobel and Auntie’s hands. “A pleasure to meet ye both. Welcome to Tor Ruadh.”
“Thank ye,” murmured Isobel, wishing she had managed to escape her title as she had escaped the duke. Before she could utter another word, Lady Mercy responded with a dignified curtsy, but her smile was most definitely strained. A leeriness tightened across her face. “Your Grace.”
A heaviness settled in Isobel’s heart. Graham’s wife knew about Temsworth. She could see it in her face. “Please, I must insist, everyone call me Isobel. I finally escaped the tyrant I was forced to wed, and I’d just as soon return to my maiden name, Isobel MacNaughton.”
Lady Mercy’s tensed demeanor melted away. With assistance from Gretna, she found Isobel’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It is truly my pleasure to meet you, Isobel—and please, call me Mercy. I, too, have cast aside my title. My father was the Duke of Edsbury. I believe he and your husband traveled in the same circles, so I am more than glad you were able to escape such a dark world.”
“Yer words are a balm to my ears,” Isobel said as she returned to her seat, admiring the ease with which Mercy moved among the chairs, selected one, and lowered herself into the cushions with a weary huff and a rubbing of her swollen middle.
“She can see light and dark. Sometimes even colors and shapes if the day is bright enough,” Catriona said with an understanding smile.
“Forgive me. I didna mean to stare.” Isobel flinched as Auntie pinched the tender skin under her arm. The age-old reprimand to mind her manners stung just as badly now as it had when she was a lass.
Gretna giggled as she rose and inspected the overflowing tray of treats Anne had set on a nearby table. “My mam used to pinch my arm when she felt I wasna behaving proper.” She poured steaming cups of broth and passed them among the ladies. “And I must admit, I’ve done the same to my wee’uns.” She glanced at Isobel as she filled a small plate with dried fruit and bits of cheese. “If ye dinna mind me asking, do ye have any children?”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 16
