Devil Black (11 page)

Dougal raised his eyebrows. “Enterprising.”

“The scheme would not have worked at all, had Father decided to accompany us. But, as usual, he professed himself too busy with the estate. Catherine and I are as like in appearance as may be.”

“Aye? Which, I presume, explains the indiscretions of the bailiff’s son.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Once more, his eyes examined her. “You must know how lovely you are.”

“There is no need, sir, to flatter me. You have me already where you wish.”

“I do not flatter, no more than I lie. You are temptation on two legs. If your sister does resemble you, the poor sod had no chance.”

Again Isobel looked away from him. “We told the servants, and Father, Catherine had taken a cold. She went into the coach well swathed—or, rather, I did. Soon after I departed, Catherine met with her Thomas and eloped. They are long away.”

“Your father will be livid.”

“He will. Of course, he may believe it was I who fled with Thomas. So he may think himself well rid of the problem I represented.”

“Is he truly so cold?”

“Yes.” Isobel reflected upon it and added, “I believe so.”

“And where have your sister and her lover fled?”

“Bristol, where he is promised a position.”

“Bristol! The netherlands of hell.”

“Why is that?”

“Anywhere is hell, that is no’ Scotland—and especially this little piece of it.”

“You love your home right well.”

“It goes, Wife, beyond love. The roots of my heart run deep in this place, my ancestors’ blood soaks the ground. I have hope of it—” his gaze swept her body, “for my sons. I will do what I must to retain it.”

“Could the King take it from you?”

“The King can take anything from anyone.”

“I am surprised, then, that you defy him.”

“Do I? Have I not married, as he decreed? Do I not dutifully and diligently plant my seed?”

“Diligently?”

“And with great pleasure. Tell me, Wife, what did you plan to do when Bertram MacNab discovered he had the elder sister after all—the one who, presumably, could not give him his much desired sons?”

“I planned to seduce him, and then it would be too late. I would prove myself by getting, almost at once, with child. What could he do then?”

“What, indeed? A complete sacrifice, then?”

“Yes.”

“So,” he said softly and with particular intensity, “you thought of everything?”

“Almost everything,” Isobel allowed. She had not considered endangering her heart to the man she married. And she had not dreamed of a man like Devil Black MacRae.

“And what, Wife,” he asked, leaning close, so close his lips almost brushed hers, “did you overlook?”

“The bandit of Central Scotland,” Isobel replied, and turned her face away.

Chapter Fifteen

“He is a bandit, a man without honor or scruples,” Meg said of her brother, impatiently. “I do not know why the King—or you, for that matter, Isobel—expect any better of him.”

Isobel gave her new sister-in-law a searching look. Meg seemed unusually irascible today, and that said a great deal of a woman who spent her days in an ill temper. She seemed edgy, and though part of that could be laid at the door of the continued vile weather, Isobel suspected yet another cause.

Two weeks had passed since Isobel’s marriage with the Devil Black MacRae. The search for Bertram MacNab’s missing bride had been suspended, yet Dougal still spent much of his time abroad on the roads—doing the good God only knew what. Isobel and Meg, the only two women in a household of rough warriors, had perforce struck up a relationship of sorts.

Isobel held no illusion that Meg liked or even approved of her. Obviously, Meg liked no one. But, Dougal’s sister came to tolerate her, merely because there was no one else.

“I expect nothing of your brother,” she replied now. The two women shared a room called the solar, a small, intimate chamber meant for sewing and conversation. A shabby place, it nevertheless always boasted a decent fire.

“I wish I need not acknowledge him my brother,” Meg complained, “curse him to hell!”

This was not the first such opinion Isobel had heard. She bit her lip and then decided to ask the obvious question. “Why do you hate him so?”

Meg shot her a scathing look. “Are there not a multitude of reasons?”

“Maybe. But I think you are a woman who deals in specifics. Will you tell me?”

Meg swore bitterly. “Is it for me to recount your husband’s sins and failures? Let him tell you himself.”

“Failures?”

Meg gave Isobel a disparaging look. “What do you know about Dougal’s past?”

Isobel shook her head. “Nothing.”

Meg turned away, walked to the window and stood looking out.

Snow fell steadily and cold crept over the window sill in an unremitting wave.

“You have courage, Isobel,” she said unexpectedly. “I respect that.” She looked over her shoulder. “So I warn you again, do not lose your heart to him.”

“No?” For the past fortnight, Isobel had been struggling to convince herself that had not already happened. “Why, apart from the obvious?”

“’Tis a fool’s task, falling in love, especially for a woman. We open ourselves to all sorts of pain, betrayal, and disappointment.”

“Some man has disappointed you?” Isobel hazarded.

“What man has not, from my father on down? But we speak not of me. Guard yourself carefully, Isobel, against Dougal. He has, in the past, betrayed a woman who loved him right well.”

“Oh, yes?” Isobel felt her heart sink, and hoped her emotions did not show on her face. “Who was she?”

“My good friend, named Aisla. We all grew up together, and she wanted Dougal for as long as I can remember. My dear brother—strong, handsome, aye, but not so much a devil, then. We thought they would wed. Everyone thought it. And he professed himself in love with her, but he lied. For when it came down to it, he refused to save her from a fate she did not deserve.”

The pain in Meg’s voice gave Isobel pause, yet she had to know. “What fate was that?”

It seemed Meg would not answer. She faced Isobel, and the bitterness in her eyes was shocking. “Aisla’s father—bastard that he was—decided to give her in marriage to a man of wealth and substance.”

Realization struck Isobel all at once. “MacNab?”

Meg’s expression tightened. “Aisla was Bertram MacNab’s first wife—the one he killed with cruelty and abuse.”

To Isobel’s surprise, she saw tears in Meg’s dark eyes—tears of anger, surely, as well as grief.

“Sweet, gentle Aisla,” Meg went on, “who would not raise a hand to swat a naughty pup. I saw her three times after she was wed, and the change that came over her horrified me. She begged me for help, for rescue. I vowed I would save her.”

Meg’s features pinched with pain, and she no longer looked beautiful.

Isobel’s stomach clenched in dismay; she did not want to hear the rest of this tale.

But Meg tossed her head. “Like a fool, I went to Dougal, my grand warrior of a brother, who feared nothing and could do anything. He was like a god to me then—at twenty, he had just taken over the estate following our father’s death. I thought he loved Aisla—loved her as I did or, more, loved her like a woman. But do you know what he said to me, when I told him of her plight?”

Isobel shook her head.

Fiercely, Meg told her, “He said, ‘She is another man’s wife.’ As if that meant anything. As if it changed her sweetness, her vulnerability, her trust in him, or how much we cared for her. I could not believe my ears. I told him he must save her anyway. That she needed him. That she looked but a shadow of her former, happy self... He turned from me. His face grew hard and his heart also. And after that he drank and haunted the roads, and he let her die in that bastard’s hands!”

“How long ago was this?”

Meg, deep in memory, did not answer.

“You said he was but twenty, then. How long ago—”

“Eight years. It took Aisla five years to die. I saw her not again during that time, for MacNab kept her locked away. ’Tis said, by the end she had become a jabbering madwoman.”

And this, Isobel thought with a flash of pain, was the fate she had spared Catherine, and that she herself had narrowly escaped, by the grace of the Devil Black MacRae. Her own father must not know how his good friend’s son had treated his first wife.

She whispered, “What did Bertram MacNab do to her, do you know?”

Meg stared at Isobel with empty eyes. “Word trickled out by the servants. What did he not do to her? Confinement, whippings when she did not produce a son. Vile rape, I have no doubt. ’Tis said a man cannot in fact rape his own wife—you and I know better. I will never forgive Dougal for failing her, and I will never respect him again. I left here to marry shortly after Aisla’s death. My own marriage did not work out, and I am forced to return here. But I need not like being under the same roof as my accursed brother.”

“He does hate MacNab very deeply,” Isobel began.

Meg glared at her. “Do you defend him? I hope, for your sake, ’tis not a sign of attachment on your part. For be fairly warned, Isobel, he will forsake and abandon you just as he did poor Aisla. If you believe in God, you had better pray you fall not into MacNab’s hands.”

A shiver traced its way up Isobel’s spine. “But I am Dougal’s wife, now. Surely that offers me some protection.”

“Do not be a fool! This is an ancient part of Scotland—wives have been snatched, traded, and raped before now. Do not say you have not been warned. Men are vile creatures, not to be trusted, and I have no use for them.”

“All men?”

“All of them!”

“Even,” Isobel asked tentatively, “your brother’s companion, Lachlan MacElwain?”

Meg glowered. “Him, more than most. If you will speak of a fool—”

“He is a good-looking fool.”

“Aye, and that is the worst kind. Such charm cannot be trusted. I have known him since we were all children, and he does not improve with acquaintance.”

“From what I have observed, he has feelings for you.”

Meg laughed cruelly. “Aye, and the name of his feelings are ‘lust’ and ‘desire.’ He is capable of nothing else.”

“He shall not succeed then, in his suit for your affections?” Isobel asked curiously.

“Is that what you think it? I should have called it seduction.”

Isobel lifted an eyebrow, and Meg laughed reluctantly. “If I want him in my bed, I shall have him there, but that is all there will be to it. I am too wise to involve my heart. And you do likewise, mind.”

“Yes,” said Isobel gravely.

Surprising her, Meg laid a hand on Isobel’s arm. “Truly, Sister, you are an intelligent woman, too much so to get caught by any man’s lies or suggestions.”

Isobel struggled with it. “You are right,” she acknowledged. “But does not your brother’s declared feud with MacNab, and the very fact that he stole me away from Bertram, argue he did, indeed, care for Aisla and that he wishes some sort of revenge?”

“You have hope for him yet?” Meg shook her head. “Had he cared enough, had he the courage I expected of him, he would have done something at the time.” She added passionately, “He would have saved her.”

Isobel nodded, but Meg must have been able to see that she remained unconvinced.

“Ask him, if you do not believe me,” she challenged. “Ask about his courage—or the lack of it—and see what answer he makes. He swore he loved her, long ago. He lied! So I warn you, believe no such words that fall from his traitorous lips.”

“I will be most careful,” Isobel said, despairingly. “And I thank you, Meg, for trusting me with the truth.”

Chapter Sixteen

“You are quiet tonight, Wife,” Dougal observed casually, resting one booted foot on the curb before the simmering fire. Outside, the snow still fell, an accursed, early show of winter. He and Isobel sat alone in the drafty, high-ceilinged hall.

He had roamed far this day and taken a heavy load of silver off a fat merchant. All the while, he had thought only of returning home to his wife and the sweet reception she would give him in her bed. He had been nearly too hard to ride comfortably.

And now that he was here and the hour passing late, she began with women’s games—the withdrawn gaze and prolonged silences. He had not expected Isobel, so fiery and honest, to lower herself to that petty level, and it annoyed him.

“Have I done something to displease you?” he asked ironically.

That persuaded her to look at him, a searing, blue stare. “How could you, my lord, when I have barely seen you this day?”

“Ah, so that is it? You fancy neglect? Well, I cannot be in your bed all day long, more’s the pity. But surely we can repair there now.” He had an accounting, in his mind, of the things he wanted to do to and with her—a long accounting.

She got to her feet and glared at him. “Is that all I mean to you? A warmer for your bed?”

Dougal sighed inwardly, letting none of his aggravation show. Women—almost more trouble than they were worth. Perhaps her mood had swung due to her monthly cycle.

Evenly, he said, “You are my wife and as such deserve respect. And aye, your duties do include warming my bed.”

“Duties?” She nearly soared off her toes, in anger. He had never seen her truly enraged, though he had tasted her other passions; it might prove interesting.

He let his gaze travel over her slowly. “I thought, Wife, it was a duty you enjoyed right well.”

Her cheeks heated. “That is neither here nor there. Why did you wed with me?”

Dougal got to his feet, a deceptively lazy motion. “If you mean to rant at me, let us go upstairs. The servants will be listening.”

“There are no servants.”

“I speak of my men, who do for me about the place. Have some dignity.”

Her eyes opened in surprise, and then she turned and led the way from the hall. She ascended the stone stairs ahead of him, and Dougal found himself admiring her taut backside, the focus of a large part of his fantasies earlier in the day. His palms itched to touch, yet he could wait and hear her out—he possessed at least that much self control.