Chapter 6
Robert kept to the shadows, leaning against a pillar at the back of the smoky hall. The great fires on either side of the enormous room barely seemed to cut through the damp chill brought on by the constant spring rains he’d encountered in this area.
Though he’d ridden hard for the last two days in his rush to reach Castle MacGahan, Robert saw this delay as providence.
It suited his needs to wait for an audience with the MacGahan laird.
It gave him an opportunity to study the people around him.
An opportunity to assess the MacGahan strengths and weaknesses.
An opportunity to listen for any mention of Isabella.
It also provided time to learn about the troubles of the clan before he broached his business with the laird. And troubles aplenty there seemed to be, if the grumbling of the servants was any measure to judge by.
The bawdy noise coming from the table of armed men at the front of the hall didn’t bode well, either. The servants obviously felt the same way, darting in to refill the men’s mugs before dashing away a prudent distance.
Robert had seen their ilk often enough to recognize them for what they were.
Hardened warriors, dirty from the trail, here with an obvious purpose.
They milled around their leader like bees buzzing around their queen.
Violence held at bay emanated from the men in waves he could feel even from this distance.
Trouble definitely brewed in this hall.
Trouble, but no sign of Isabella.
He could only pray he wasn’t too late. Twenty years too late, to be exact.
He turned his eyes from the front of the hall to scan the whole of the enormous room.
His eyes but not his awareness. In his experience, it never paid to drop his guard, not even if the noisy warriors were of no concern to him.
They held no interest for him and he certainly had no quarrel with them. His purpose here was simple.
Find Isabella and assure himself as to her safety or remove her to his family’s home.
The old man who’d escorted him into the hall passed by, casting a suspicious glare in his direction and Robert drew farther back into himself. The smell of unwashed bodies wafted up his nostrils in the old man’s wake.
Odd how he’d managed to live the first twenty years of his life in this world never noticing such things. Was it age or the influence of his new home that had sharpened his senses now?
Or had he simply grown soft over the past nine years?
A flurry of activity at the entrance told him this was no time to allow himself the distraction of such matters.
The laird had arrived, at last.
Though he’d never met the man, Robert would have recognized him anywhere.
Randulf MacGahan reminded him of an older version of his long-lost friend, Thomas.
He had the same massive build, the same penetrating blue-eyed stare.
The old laird, though his hair was white, still walked tall and erect, his head held high as his gaze swept possessively over his hall.
Watchful guards surrounded him, each with an eye to the warriors at the front of the hall.
At the MacGahan’s side, head bowed, walked a demure blond-haired beauty.
Isabella? The age would be about right. Thanks to the twenty years the Magic had robbed him of, Isabella should be only four or five years younger than him now.
If this were indeed the woman he sought, it would appear his worries had been for naught. Though he couldn’t say whether or not she looked particularly happy, she was dressed well enough and didn’t appear to be neglected in any fashion.
The laird’s party made their way along the far wall, opposite the warriors’ table, to the dais at the front of the great hall, where they took their seats. Keeping her eyes down, the woman seated herself next to the MacGahan laird’s left as a granddaughter might. A good sign.
Perhaps Thomas had been entirely wrong in his estimation of his father’s ability to raise the lass.
The chairs of the laird’s party were still scraping against the floor when the obvious leader of the warriors rose from his seat, wasting no time.
“I’m no a man to keep waiting, MacGahan. I’ve been patient for too long now. Yer time is up. My armies will be at yer gates within a fortnight if yer no of a mind to meet my conditions to settle yer obligations.”
“Calm yerself, MacDowylt. Early this morn I sent for the lass. As we agreed, she’ll be here. Though it’s little good it’ll do you, as you’ll see for yerself.”
Robert sharpened his scrutiny of the man called MacDowylt. The old laird had sent for a woman at the warrior’s demand? He didn’t like the sound of that. Somewhere deep inside something stirred. Some sixth sense of impending trouble.
He’d learned long ago never to ignore that feeling.
Reminding himself he had no quarrel with the MacDowylt, he made his way to the side of the hall, edging along, slowly, casually, closer to the front to improve his view.
“Her visage is of no import, MacGahan. Nor the state of her mind. She’s naught to me but a means to settle our debt without the cost of war.”
At the man’s words, the MacGahan leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over backward with his movement, his face a mottled red.
Robert’s hand flew to his sword hilt, as did the hands of many in the hall. He waited, all but holding his breath, as the main players in this drama glared at one another over the distance separating them.
Seconds later, the tense silence was broken by a small boy loping awkwardly down the main aisle toward the dais. He darted around MacDowylt’s legs, dropping to one knee as he reached the table.
The woman at MacGahan’s side glanced at the child, then turned her head, her face a mask of revulsion.
“She’s come,” the boy announced breathlessly before rising and turning around toward the entrance.
Shock bolted through Robert’s mind as the child’s full countenance came into view. The right side of his face distorted, puckered and scarred, the bubbled skin an ugly shade of pink that reminded Robert of the bubble gum little Rosie MacKiernan loved to chew.
Robert looked to the woman on the dais again, her face determinedly turned away from the boy, her apparent disgust evident for all to see. If this were in fact Isabella, her father would be most disappointed in the woman his daughter had become. At the moment, he almost hoped it wasn’t her.
A murmur rose from the back of the hall and Robert turned his gaze toward the entryway, anxious to see the woman MacDowylt awaited.
When she entered, Robert felt almost as much of a shock as he had at seeing the boy’s face. Though he’d had no idea of exactly what he had thought this mystery woman would look like, the creature that made her way up the aisle now was certainly not anywhere in the realm of his expectations.
Wild red hair, looking as if it had never been tamed or even washed, surrounded her, curling wetly down her shoulders like a filthy cape.
It hung in clumps in front of her face, hiding her features from all but those who might venture close.
Her clothing hung from her, and— Good lord!
Was that blood smeared down the front of her dress?
Even the brazen MacDowylt took a backward step as she passed by, ignoring him completely as if he didn’t exist. She strode determinedly up to the dais, stopping only when she reached the boy’s side. She placed her hands on the table and leaned in toward the old MacGahan laird.
“State the reason for yer summons and let me be on my way.” Though she spoke quietly, her voice sounded wholly at odds with her appearance.
To Robert’s ear, the sound was soft and melodious, as compelling as a cool breeze wafting down on a warm day. As if unable to help himself, he took another step closer to the dais.
The MacGahan’s coloring had returned to normal and he again seated himself in the chair a servant had quickly righted for him. He lifted his tankard toward the warriors’ table, a grim smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“This is the woman you’ve awaited. The woman you say you’d have for yer bride, MacDowylt. Allow me to present my granddaughter, Isabella MacGahan.”
Robert felt as if his stomach had plunged to his feet. This bedraggled creature was Isabella? This was the result of his failure to keep his oath to Thomas? Worse yet, it appeared that the MacDowylt was here determined to force a marriage to her.
Oh, he’d been wrong. Very wrong. It suddenly appeared he had a quarrel with the MacDowylt after all.
Bride?
Isa glared first at her grandfather and then at the stranger standing six paces behind her. Did they mean this as some sort of mocking gesture? Surely her grandfather knew better than to think she’d allow him to simply give her in marriage to some complete stranger.
“Ha!” she yelled, working to stifle the smile she felt threatening when the stranger jumped. “My answer is no. Discussion’s over and done. Is that it? Am I free to go now?” She turned to face the table again, waiting to see her laird’s reaction.
“So be it.” The old laird spoke quietly, holding her eyes with his own before shifting his gaze to his visitor. “I warned you she’d no be agreeable to yer offer, did I no?”
Isa barely had time to register the surprise she felt in reaction to her grandfather’s response before the air around her shifted and she felt movement behind her. The stranger—MacDowylt, her grandfather had called him—apparently didn’t care for her answer. Or her grandfather’s.
“You’d allow this . . .”—MacDowylt cast a look of contempt in her direction—“this crazed offspring of yers to determine the fate of yer people?”
“Isa,” the laird cautioned, his hand visibly tightening on the tankard in front of him.