Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Icannot run.” The fire of rebellion that had ignited in Isobel’s stomach moments before sputtered and extinguished a heartbeat later.
Margaret tightened her grip on her hands. “Ye can. We could leave tonight. Me uncle has connections in the south. We wouldnae even need to go far at first. Just long enough for…”
“No.” Isobel drew a breath. “If I go, what becomes of them?” She nodded at the door to her father’s study where her parents lingered. “The agreement disappears. The protection disappears. My father will still owe those men, and this time there will be no one to bargain on his behalf.”
“But this is yer life, Isobel,” Margaret argued. “You cannae sacrifice…”
“Then what should I do?” Isobel demanded as her irritation with the situation gnawed at what remained of her strained nerves.
She knew that her friend only meant to be supportive, but Isobel could not contain the worries that flew through her mind.
“Shall I leave my parents destitute? Should I reject the elder’s decree and leave them to face the consequences?
What would happen to them? What would become of me? What kind of person would I be if…if…”
She could not bring herself to finish the statement. The thrill of bolting from the house, saddling Star, and riding toward the southern border had enticed Isobel for a moment, but now, she saw the vision for what it was: futile.
Even if she managed to escape and defy this proclamation, the Elders would be within their rights to drag her back to Scotland.
Her soon-to-be-husband, the Laird of Dunalasdair, would likely be compelled to track her movements and hurry her to the altar, for he was just as obligated to be joined through this marriage as she.
Silence settled in the room. The weight of the decision seemed to press down on both of them.
Margaret squeezed her fingers gently. “Then if this is to be yer last night here, I will nae leave ye to face it alone.”
Isobel looked up and saw the honest dread and concern etched into Margaret’s lovely features. Her pale blue eyes glittered with unshed tears.
“I will stay with ye,” Margaret said. “We will sit awake and talk or nae talk at all. But you will nae spend the night wonderin’ when he will arrive with nay one beside ye.”
Something tightened in Isobel’s chest. “You do not have to…”
“I want to,” Margaret said. “And I am nae askin’ permission.”
Isobel’s heart ached with fear and sorrow. She knew not what tomorrow would bring, so she recognized that it was a blessing to have her dearest friend by her side to provide even this modicum of comfort. Despite everything, she managed a faint smile. “Then I would be grateful.”
They went to Isobel’s chamber together. Margaret closed the door behind them and remained there for a moment, as though listening to the quiet of the corridor. Isobel moved toward the bed and sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Neither of them spoke immediately.
Margaret crossed the room and lowered herself onto the mattress. She slid one hand over the mossy green and pure gold duvet cover. “Ye should try to rest.”
“I doubt I could.”
Isobel leaned back against the pillows without undressing. After a moment, Margaret did the same, lying beside her fully clothed. The candles burned low, and the room grew still.
Isobel stared at the canopy of her bed.
“When I was a child,” she whispered, “I used to cut out paper stars and stick them to the fabric up there.”
“Mmm…” Margaret murmured. “How did ye get them to stay put?”
Isobel shook her head slowly. “They didn’t. I wasn’t tall enough to poke a pin through the stars and even when I slathered the backsides in honey, they would not stay in place.”
Margaret laughed softly. “You put honey up there?”
“I tried.” Isobel released a resigned sigh. “But I failed.” She paused and pondered how to say what she was really thinking. “Margaret, do you think I am the sort of young woman who is just…” She once again sought the correct term, but nothing extraordinary sprung to mind. “Malleable?”
Margaret turned her head and gave Isobel an incredulous stare. “No,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Yer stubborn as can be and ye know yer own mind better than any other lass in the county.”
Isobel frowned. She tipped her head back further and looked toward the vacant green canopy.
“Then, why didn’t I find a way to fix those stars in place?
And why can’t I find a way out of this marriage?
” Anxiously, she lifted her hand to her mouth and chewed on the corner of her thumb nail.
Her mother reprimanded her endlessly for indulging in this bad habit, yet she could not stop herself from venting some of her inner disquietude.
“Why did the Elders choose me? Could they not have struck a bargain some other way? Could they not have demanded some other form of payment in return for freeing my father from his debts?”
“These are heavy questions, me friend,” Margaret said slowly and Isobel could hear the ring of exhaustion echoing in her companion’s words.
“And I’m afraid I don’t have any answers to give ye.
” She yawned broadly. “If ye would like to talk through your worries…if ye want to cut out paper stars and try again to hang them…”
“No.” Isobel patted Margaret’s forearm gently. “No more paper stars. No more dreams of what is to come. My future…my marriage…my life is now set.”
* * *
The familiar sound of horse hooves clip-clopping in the stone courtyard shattered the silence of Isobel’s bedchambers shortly after the day dawned.
Isobel’s eyes opened instantly. For a moment, she did not understand what had awoken her. Then the sound came again, louder now, accompanied by voices and the creak of leather.
Margaret sat up beside her. “Isobel…”
They both knew. Isobel crossed the room quickly, pushing aside the curtain with trembling fingers. The courtyard below was still grey with early morning light.
She looked down and saw a man who could only be the Laird of Dunalasdair.
He swung from the saddle, landing lightly before handing the reins to a waiting groom.
From her perch high above, she catalogued his traits.
. The Laird was tall. Broad-shouldered. Long sweeps of dark hair were pulled back to the nape of his neck.
He turned slightly.
The rays of the sun chose that moment to poke through the clouds and shine brightly on his silky locks.
Isobel went still. She knew the burnt copper highlights in that mane.
She leaned further out the window and squinted at his appearance. Sure enough, a strip of cloth was wound around his hand and slightly up his wrist, likely concealing an injury.
The man from the stream.
Her knees wobbled as a vision of the man from yesterday, this same man who now stood in her family’s courtyard, returned to her.
His hand covered in blood. The tip of his dirk separating his chest from hers. The look of loathing in his eyes that he hadn’t even bothered to try to conceal.
“No…” she whispered.
Margaret moved beside her. “What is it?”
Isobel did not answer. She watched him cross the courtyard, his stride long and certain. He paused, slowly lifting his head, his gaze moving across the windows, then stopped.
Isobel stepped back from the window.
It is as if he knew I was watching.
A sense of panic made Isobel’s heart jump erratically in her chest. She lifted her hand and fanned her face, willing herself to breathe deeply and slow her frantic thoughts and heartbeats, but none of her ministrations made any difference.
The Highlander I met is the Laird of Dunalasdair. The warrior…the brute…this man is to be my husband.
Suddenly, Isobel did not think Margaret’s suggestion to runaway the night before was so horribly misguided.
Why did I not listen to her? Why did I not go when I had the chance?
Isobel’s eyes darted around her room then scuttled back to the window as she mapped out an expedient escape route.
If I just tie my bedsheets into a rope, I can be out the window in…
A knock sounded, then the door opened without waiting for a reply. Her mother hurried in, pale and breathless.
“He is here,” she said.
Catriona rushed across the room and grabbed Isobel’s hand. Margaret moved forward and grasped the other side. Isobel’s fingers were ice cold. She trembled and quaked, but her mother and friend held tight.
Footsteps began moving through the corridor outside.
And this time, there was no possibility of escape.
* * *
So, this is an Englishman’s household.
Alasdair had been escorted into Mr. Graham’s study by an elderly and tottering butler.
He stood there for all of thirteen seconds before a bevy of people joined him.
The man of the house, Mr. Thomas Graham himself, had crossed the room immediately and taken up a post behind an enormous and gaudy wooden desk.
It was covered with a smattering of papers as well as several ink pots, a blotter, and a wax sealing ring.
Alasdair had narrowed his eyes and stared at the gold ring.
That trinket must’ve cost a fortune.
But Alasdair was unimpressed by this faux display of wealth.
He understood enough from the letter the Elders sent that Mr. Graham was in trouble financially and that meant all the items that were stuffed into this overcrowded work space were mere shows of wealth, rather than evidence of refinement or heritage.
Alasdair sized Mr. Graham up with a single swift glance.
Small. Sniveling. Cowardly…Never protected his daughter a day in his life.
As Alasdair thought of Mr. Graham’s daughter, his betrothed, she appeared. Three ladies, who Mr. Graham introduced as his wife, Mrs. Catriona Graham, his child, Miss Isobel Graham, and her particular friend, Miss Margaret glided into the room then huddled together near the corner of the desk.