Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The carriage waited in the courtyard like a black beast, its polished wood shining in the torchlight.
The sky was cloud-covered, causing the whole atmosphere to take on a stark, grayish pallor.
Isobel looked at her surroundings through tear-filled eyes, her throat so tight she could hardly breathe.
Behind her, the house she had grown up in seemed to shrink with each passing moment, becoming less real, less solid, as if it were already fading into memory.
Her mother clutched her hands and pressed a handkerchief into her palm. “Write to us,” Catriona whispered, her voice breaking. “Promise me ye’ll write.”
“I promise.” Isobel’s voice barely escaped her lips.
She wanted to say more, to tell her mother how scared she was, how much she didn’t want to leave.
But the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, she pulled her mother into a tight hug, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and trying to remember the feeling of being held.
Her father stood apart, his face pale and ashen, his hands clenched at his sides. When Isobel finally let go of her mother and turned toward him, she saw the guilt etched into every line of his weathered face.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “God forgive me. Isobel, I’m so sorry.”
She wanted to rage at him, to blame him for all of this. But looking at him now, broken and defeated, she found she couldn’t. He’d made mistakes, yes. But he’d also tried to do what he thought was right, to show mercy in a world that punished kindness.
“I know you are.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Take care of Mother. Please.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
She turned toward Margaret then. Her friend had stayed, just as she’d vowed she would. Margaret had been her constant companion through their youth and even now, even after helping Isobel pack her belongings, Margaret clung to her side faithfully.
“Take care of Star,” Isobel whispered as she wrapped her arms around her friend tightly. “Tell her that she has always been a good girl…my best girl…and I will…I will see her again…”
Isobel let the words evaporate. She understood what her mother said, just over an hour ago, when they all stood in her father’s study.
Dunalasdair was not a world away. It was not so very far from her home that they would never see each other again.
Yet, when Isobel thought of all she was leaving behind: her parents, her friends, her beloved horse, she could not bring herself to bid them all a proper goodbye.
A shadow fell across them. Laird Dunalasdair stood at the carriage door, his expression impassive. “It’s time.”
She turned back for one last glance at her parents, trying to etch their faces into her memory. Her mother was crying openly now, and her father had his arm around her shoulders, holding her upright.
“I love you both,” Isobel managed, then allowed the Laird to help her into the carriage before she could lose what little composure she had left.
Isobel was immediately grateful that the coach was one from her father’s stables. The interior featured finely upholstered seats and there were thick woolen blankets draped across the cushions. She pressed herself against the far window and waited for her betrothed to join her.
But he did not. He stood at the open door for a moment, his eyes meeting hers. “Are ye…ready?”
There was a look of concern in his eyes she had not seen there until this very moment.
“You’re not riding with me?” She looked around the nearly empty carriage before nodding to the seat opposite herself.
His expression faltered, but the look of consternation remained. “I’ll be on horseback, leadin’ the company. That’s where I’m needed.”
“Of course,” Isobel murmured.
With a swift bob of his head, Laird Dunalasdair closed the door to the carriage.
Isobel suddenly was overwhelmed by a sick sense of isolation.
Even though she had seen him arrive on horseback not so very long ago, she had not dreamed of making this journey on her own.
She longed for Margaret, for her mama, or anyone else who would listen to her qualms and infuse in her a sense of stalwart courage.
But, as the driver shouted to his team of horses and the carriage wheels rolled, Isobel realized that none of her wishes would come true.
There was no friend, no confidante by her side.
No one would be there to offer her words of comfort or to hold her hand and whisper assurances.
She was alone, wretchedly deserted, and in three days’ time would find herself living an entirely new existence.
* * *
On the afternoon of the third day, the carriage reached the top of a hill, and Isobel pressed her face to the window, her breath catching.
The castle emerged from the landscape as if carved from the mountains themselves.
Massive stone walls, dark and imposing, enclosed a central keep that soared above everything else.
Banners in crimson and black fluttered from the ramparts, snapping in the Highland wind.
Below the castle, a village stretched across the hillside, smoke rising from numerous chimneys.
It was larger than she’d expected. More imposing. More… threatening.
The carriage rolled down the hill, passing through the village where people paused to watch the procession.
Children ran alongside the horses, laughing and calling out in Gaelic.
Women stood in doorways, their expressions curious and measuring.
Men tipped their caps but their weathered faces revealed nothing.
They were judging her, Isobel realized, wondering what kind of lady this Lowlander would turn out to be and whether she’d be strong enough to survive here.
She wanted to shrink back from the window, to hide from all those watching eyes.
But something stubborn inside her refused to cower.
She was here. This was her new home, whether she had chosen it or not.
And she would not start by showing fear.
So she kept her chin high and met their gazes as steadily as she could, even as her heart hammered and her hands trembled in her lap.
She smiled at the children who scrambled a bit too near to the carriage wheels and waved to shopkeepers who sold flowers, vegetables, and potatoes out of their carts.
The castle gates swung open as they approached, and the carriage entered a large courtyard. Servants hurried forward right away, and Isobel could hear the Laird of Dunalasdair shouting orders.
The carriage door opened, but it wasn’t the Laird who stood before her. One of his men, a rugged soldier with gentle eyes, extended his hand to help her down. Isobel gratefully took it, stepping onto the cobblestones on unsteady legs.
She looked around the bustling courtyard, searching instinctively for her fiance.
She found him across the yard, already dismounted from his black stallion, deep in conversation with another man.
Once again, as he had done throughout the entire journey, Laird MacRaeh seemed to sense her eyes on him and twisted slowly to return her gaze.
She stood transfixed, watching him pat his horse’s neck while speaking with a stable hand.
The Laird’s white shirt clung to his chest, likely because he was sweaty and exhausted from riding through the crowded streets.
The fabric clung to his muscles and Isobel remembered the way his arms had stretched and bulged while fighting those men in the creek.
Even though they had spent time together these last three days, she had not dared to ask him about that battle, and he had not mentioned the skirmish either.
Her eyes traced his forearms and stopped when they reached his hand, which was still bandaged.
Perhaps I should offer…
Isobel had only taken a single step away from the carriage and moved toward her betrothed when two women approached, and Isobel felt herself being assessed with sharp, intelligent eyes.
The first woman was elderly, probably in her seventies, but she carried herself with the upright dignity of someone who’d never learned to bow.
Her hair was iron-gray, pulled back sharply from a face that was all planes and angles.
She wore black, as if in mourning, but her eyes were shrewd as they studied Isobel.
The second lady was younger, probably close to Isobel’s age, with hair that was the color of raven’s wings and features that resembled Laird MacRaeh’s enough to identify her as his kin. She was attractive in a fierce way, her mouth set in a line that indicated she didn’t smile easily.
The aged woman spoke first, her voice carrying the same authority Laird MacRaeh’s did, though hers was tempered with something that might have been kindness. “I am Lady Branwen MacRaeh, Alasdair’s grandmother. And this is his sister, Sarah.”
Isobel dropped into a curtsy, grateful for the familiar ritual. “Lady Branwen. Lady Sarah. I’m glad to meet you both.”
Glad is not the right word. But it is the available one.
Lady Branwen studied her for a moment longer, then made a small sound that might have been approval.
“Ye look like you have been sittin’ in that carriage for three days,” she said.
“Which you have. Come. Your chambers are ready, and there is hot water waitin’, which I suspect ye need considerably more than ye need anythin’ I might say to ye right now. ”
She turned and walked toward the castle entrance without waiting to see if Isobel followed, with the unhurried certainty of a woman who had never needed to check whether the world was keeping up with her.
Lady Sarah fell into step beside Isobel. “She likes ye,” she said, in a tone that suggested this was both a pronouncement and a mild surprise.
“How do you know?” Isobel asked for she could not comprehend the matter. She did not think her meeting with Lady Branwen had been amiable nor did Lady Branwen’s manners bear any signs of regard or affection.