The Chieftain (3 page)

What has happened?
she thought.
Who can be doing this, and why? Or have the horses simply bolted?
But she knew that was unlikely, or the coach would not have kept so unerringly to the road for so long.

And then at last, in the cool shade of a wood, the coach turned into a narrow lane and halted. Orders were shouted, there was a distant noise of horses’ hooves, over and above the coach horses, and then all at once the door was flung open. Hands reached in, and Isobel felt herself grasped and dragged roughly into the open.

Then, horribly, the door was slammed shut again, an order shouted in Gaelic, and the coach drove on, out of her sight.

‘Mother!’ she cried, and began to run along the lane after it.
 

Hands caught her and held her.
 

‘She’ll be safe enough. He’ll leave the coach at the next crossroads. They’ll have a long walk home, but they’ll take no harm.’

She knew that voice, deep and lilting, completely untroubled. She turned sharply and met the unforgettable dark eyes, full of ironic amusement.
 

Hector MacLean bowed.

‘We meet again, Mrs Carnegie—I give you that name,’ he added, ‘because it is still yours. But not for long... I do not like to be insulted.’

A trickle of fear ran coldly down her spine. ‘What…what do you mean?’ It was all so unreal, like a nightmare. Had she fallen asleep in the coach? Was this all just a bad dream?

‘You’ll know soon enough.’ He called another order in Gaelic, more softly this time, and she saw that the wood seemed to be crowded with Highlanders, and that it was not horses she had heard, but ponies, the shaggy sure-footed garrons best suited to the mountains. One was brought forward, and she realised she was supposed to mount. She shook her head, stubbornly refusing to move.
 

Hector MacLean drew his dirk. ‘Do you want me to bind you to the beast? Get up!’

Would he use that knife, if she were to refuse him? She dared not to risk it, and struggled onto the pony’s broad back, with a little ungentle assistance from Hector. And then most of the others mounted, bareback like herself, and they set off into the trees, one man leading her pony. They went quickly, but the men on foot kept pace with them easily, moving with silent loping strides through the patchwork of light and shadow. She noticed how the bright tartan merged into the background as they went, and understood its advantages as clothing for a race of cattle thieves and murderers. Was she to be their latest victim? What could they want with her? A ransom? That seemed the most likely. Yet such things did not happen, not to Isobel…

In that bewildered dreamlike state, she was aware of very little, except for the bumpy motion of the pony; and that after a time they left the wood and emerged into the bright hot sunlight, and then that they splashed through a shallow burn. On through another wood, and then along the edge of a cornfield, and a second, until at last they came to a cottage sheltered by trees; and halted in the ivy-shaded yard behind it.

The cottage looked almost derelict, with holes in the roof and broken windows. It could not have been lived in for years. But it was not empty now. Yet more Highlanders came softly out to greet them, speaking quietly in Gaelic, but clearly excited. Innumerable pairs of eyes peered up at her, full of lively interest from beneath shaggy fringes of hair. She recoiled as one man reached out a grimy hand to finger the shining black silk of her gown, but at a sharp command from Hector he drew back again.

She felt Hector’s touch on her elbow. ‘Into the house with you, Mrs Carnegie!’ he ordered, one hand on his dirk.
 

There was no point in arguing. Even if Hector had no intention of using his knife, his wild-looking band of retainers still hemmed her in, and she did not trust them at all. Obediently, with a sleepwalker’s dazed half-consciousness, she made her way towards the back door of the cottage, half off its rusted hinges.

There was an evil-smelling kitchen, and beyond that a living room, lit with a dim green light because of the trees and bushes crowding close to its windows. And in there waited a small, respectable looking man, dressed in dark grey, with brown hair neatly tied back, and a small leather-bound book in his hand. He came forward as if to greet her, but paused as Hector spoke to him in Gaelic.

Then she realised that Hector had bent close to her and was whispering in her ear. ‘One little sign that you’re less than willing, and you’ll not see the moon rise tonight!’
 

She gazed at him in bewilderment, and then back at the other man, and then at the three Highlanders who had followed them into the room, closing the door behind them. Her heart thudded. What was going to happen now?

Hector took her left hand in his and led her forward to stand before the quiet man, who cleared his throat and opened his book, and began to read.
 

And Isobel realised with appalling clarity that Hector MacLean had brought her here to make her his wife.

She looked about her, thinking fast, desperately seeking some way of escape. How long had it taken to ride here? Was it possible that her father might have freed himself in time to follow the speeding coach and come to her rescue?
 

And if Hector wished to marry her, were his menacing words against her any more than empty threats? He would gain nothing by her death. If she were to defy him now and try to escape, would he let her go?
 

She dared not risk it. Who knew what went on in the mind of a wild Highlander? It would be easy enough to conceal a body in this deserted and lonely spot, and then no one would ever know what had become of her.
 

She realised that the minister - if such he was - had paused, and was looking at her with concern, so she turned back quickly to face him, trying to appear as calm and untroubled as possible. If only her hands did not tremble so! But perhaps he would think it natural for a fugitive bride to be nervous. What tale, she wondered, had Hector told him? That they must marry secretly, because they loved in spite of her family’s disapproval?

Then she wondered about the minister. Was he indeed a minister of the Scottish Kirk? Or was he perhaps a Catholic priest, or a non-juring episcopal clergyman in trouble for refusing the oath of allegiance to the King? She knew many Highlanders preferred these forbidden faiths to the Presbyterian church of the land. Would this marriage be legal if he were not a minister? She could not guess from the words he read. Though the service was conducted in English she was too frightened to remember if her first marriage had followed the same form. She had been frightened then, too—

But she was careful all the same to give the right answers, as clearly as she could, though her voice was low and shaking. She did not look up once, not even when she felt Hector raise her hand to push his ring onto the finger where James Carnegie’s had once lain. She realised he must have removed that some time before the ceremony, though she did not remember him doing so.

And then his hands grasped her shoulders, and she felt his lips cool and light on her forehead, and she knew it was over.

Except that it wasn’t over. The next moment he pulled her into his arms. And then a shock ran right through her, as she felt him bring his mouth to hers with a kiss like nothing she had ever known in her life before.

Urgent, demanding, it seemed to sear her body, fill her, melt her. It was as if they were fused together, white hot, while the room around them, the minister, the throng of men, the wood beyond, the whole world outside, all faded, dwindled to nothing and fled.
 

Then, as if it had never been, it ended - so suddenly, so abruptly, that she almost fell as he drew away from her, so little power was there left in her legs.
 

He put out a hand to steady her, just for a moment, without looking at her. And then he simply turned away, going first to thank the minister and then on to share his satisfaction with the other men.
 

He had got what he wanted. She was his, before God and the law.

Alone, feeling suddenly utterly bereft, Isobel watched as the men cheered and shook Hector’s hands and slapped his back, and laughed together, comrades sharing a triumph. It was as if they had forgotten all about her, now the vows were exchanged, the formalities over. Yet there had been that kiss—Could that have meant nothing?
 

She leant against the wall, feeling weak still, her whole body aching with longing for - what? Her feelings were in turmoil. She was fearful, excited, wanting desperately to be away from here; and yet in some tiny hidden part of her, not wanting it at all.

What was going to happen to her, now the marriage was over and she was bound before God to Hector MacLean? Would he allow her to go home, to her parents, to her old life? She doubted it. He had married her for her fortune, and until he had that in his hands, he would surely not set her free.

And for that to happen, for their marriage to be fully recognised, there was one other thing that must be done. ‘A wife’s duty’, her mother had called it, on the night before her marriage to James. Did she owe that duty even to this man?

She shivered. The men were passing a leather bottle round now, laughing and joking in Gaelic, never once looking at her. The minister had joined them, and seemed to be in as convivial a mood as the rest of them.

She wondered fleetingly if they would notice if she crept to the window and tried to escape, but she knew she would attract attention trying to break enough of that jagged glass to climb through. Was there any other way out?

She jumped as a hand grasped her elbow. Hector was at her side, his eyes very dark, his voice soft. ‘Upstairs now, Mrs MacLean!’
 

She followed his gaze to a shadowy corner of the room, where a rickety ladder led up into darkness. She could scarcely breathe for the thudding of her heart. She tried to obey his commanding pressure on her elbow, but her limbs would not respond. For a moment he whispered in her ear, trying to urge her on, and then he laughed and swept her off her feet into his arms.

There was a great encouraging shout of laughter from his companions, and they called after him as he bore her across the room to the ladder and mounted it slowly, sure-footed as a cat on the narrow rungs. She lay limp and trembling in his arms.

At the top of the ladder was an attic running the length of the cottage, lit only by holes where the thatch had fallen from the roof. It was cleaner than the rooms downstairs, and a heap of dried heather had been spread at one side, covered with a plaid.

‘Brought from Ardshee for our marriage bed,’ he whispered. And there, on that makeshift bed, he laid her down.

Unbidden, her thoughts flew back to another wedding day, another marriage bed... Then too she had faced this moment, made inevitable by the vows exchanged, when she must give herself to a bridegroom she scarcely knew…She had been afraid then, very afraid, repelled by the caresses already endured, terrified at the thought of those to come. But at the very last moment she had been spared…

As she would not be spared today, for the bridegroom who stood looking down at her, his hands busy laying aside the dirk and unbuckling his belt, was a vigorous man in all the pride of his youth and strength...
 

‘No one,’ he said softly, as he lowered himself beside her, ‘will ever be able to say that I am your husband in name only.’

He was leaning over her now, undressing her. She did not even try to resist, simply lay with eyes closed as his hands moved. Her heart was thudding, though whether from fear or something else she did not know. She felt him pull her neckerchief free from where it lay around her neck, then loosen the lacings of her bodice and gown and pull the folds of black silk from her body. Fumbling a little, he tugged off chemise, shoes, stockings, and then the cap from her head, unpinning her hair so that fell loose about her shoulders.
 

Then, as the air struck cold on her naked skin, she felt him draw away from her.

She looked round. He was kneeling beside her now, gazing at her, his eyes narrowed and dark, his breathing uneven. There was a little pause, then he whispered,

‘
Dhia,
Isobel MacLean, but you are beautiful!’

The words were like a caress, stirring every part of her to life. And at that moment she could have responded with the very same words, for he too was beautiful. It was almost as if she
felt
rather than saw the fine-boned face, the glowing eyes, the thickly waving hair, the beautiful hands; the lean supple body emphasised by the close fitting trews and the graceful folds of the plaid. A long shuddering tremor shook her, which had nothing whatever to do with fear.

Then he was close to her again, and his hands and his mouth were moving over her skin, firing her longing, waking every pulse and nerve to a throbbing ache of desire. She reached up to draw him closer, opening her mouth to his kiss, giving her body to his coming.
 

And he came, and there at last answered the need that had lain waiting in her through the long lonely years. For the first time she became a wife in more than name. Hector’s wife.

And then all at once it was over. As she opened eyes dazed with delight, she saw that the ardent lover, the passionate bridegroom, had vanished as if he had never been. He drew away from her and sprang to his feet, pulling his belt about him and adjusting his plaid, his dark face a cool mask of indifference.