Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Isobel woke up to rain pounding on the windows as a maid cheerfully entered the chambers and drew back the heavy curtains.
“Good mornin’, me Lady.” The woman, who had curly red hair and light blue eyes, bobbed a quick curtsey.
“I’m Jane. Lady Branwen ordered me to help ye with her clothes and finery.
And The Laird himself sent word that ye’re to join the council.
” Jane moved to the wardrobe, then frowned. “Ye haven’t unpacked yet, me Lady?”
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Isobel yawned broadly. “I was so tired last night that I did not manage to do much other than fall into bed.”
“Where are ye gowns?” Jane asked.
Isobel pointed to a trunk that was nestled near the doorway. “I hope it is not a bother that I…”
“No bother, me Lady,” Jane said as she bustled across the room, popped the top on the trunk and began rummaging through the contents.
She pulled out a ruby red silk garment, then tossed it on top of a sturdy oak dresser.
Jane tutted as she tugged three more gowns out of the trunk and set them all aside.
“These willnae do for today. The council will expect to see their lady dressed as…”
“The council?” Isobel sat up, all traces of sleep gone. “But Lady Branwen said I would not be called…”
“Aye, well. It seems the Laird has decided otherwise.” Jane pulled out a deep green wool gown and held it up, considering. “I imagine he’ll be formally announcin’ the betrothal to his men. Ye’ll want to look the part.”
A lance of unease zipped through Isobel’s abdomen, sending butterflies vaulting through her stomach. “What does that mean, exactly? What part am I meant to play?”
Jane held up two gowns, considering them with focused attention. “Dinnae fash, me Lady. The men just want to see ye…size ye up with their own two eyes. Decide what to make of ye.”
Isobel crawled out from under the covers and crossed the room so she could stand beside her new maid. “That one.” She tapped her finger on the green gown; the one Jane had first admired. “If the council members wish to take my measure, let them see me dressed in one of my favorite gowns.”
“That’s the spirit, me Lady,” Jane enthused.
Since this was her first morning in her new home, it took Isobel longer than usual to complete her toilette.
Now that she knew she would be meeting all of Laird MacRaeh’s trusted advisors, she understood that looking her best was paramount.
While she went through the motions of bathing herself and allowing Jane to help her into her garments, Isobel thought of what she might say to the clansmen, and her husband-to-be, when she encountered them.
Perhaps I could ask the Laird if he spent the night restfully.
Isobel shook her head at the musing.
He is a Laird who has been forced into a hasty marriage betrothal. He likely has not slept well since he first read that edict. That much, at least, we will have in common.
She sat still while Jane pinned her hair, watching rain streak in long grey lines down the window.
Even though she meant to find respite, she had not slept well.
The unfamiliar sounds of the castle at night—the creak and settle of old stone, the distant stomp of a guard’s boots on a staircase—kept pulling her back to wakefulness.
And when she finally slept, she dreamed of the stream of blood in clear water and a man looking at her across it with fury in his eyes.
Now that man was her future husband, and she was expected to sit in a room with his council and smile sweetly while they eyed her warily.
“There,” Jane said softly, setting the last pin. “Ye look like a proper lady.”
“I look terrified,” Isobel said.
“Aye.” Jane met her eyes in the small mirror propped on the dressing table. “But ye look terrified in a very dignified way.”
Despite everything, Isobel laughed.
Jane walked her to the council chamber herself, which Isobel appreciated—the castle’s corridors had not yet settled into any clear pattern in her mind, and she was not prepared to arrive lost and breathless in a room full of men who were already forming opinions about her.
“Is it always like this in the mornings?” Isobel asked, as they passed a stream of servants moving with brisk, heads-down efficiency.
“Like what, me Lady?”
“So purposeful. Everyone seems to know exactly where they’re going.”
“The Laird sets the pace,” Jane said simply. “He’s been up since before first light, most likely. The household follows.” She turned them down a narrower corridor. “It takes some getting used to. The first week I was here, I spent half me time walkin’ in the wrong direction entirely.”
“That is genuinely reassuring,” Isobel said as the ache in her abdomen receded slightly and she breathed a gentle sigh of relief.
“I thought it might be.” Jane slowed as the corridor opened toward a set of heavy double doors, already standing open, the low rumble of men’s voices carrying through them. She stopped just short of the threshold.
Isobel looked at the open doors. She could sense the tension from here. The weight of it added new anxiety to that which already made her stomach flip and flop. As she stood there, she heard the conversations grind to a halt and knew that the clansmen were waiting for her to make a grand entrance.
Get in. Don’t pause at the door.
“Thank you,” she said. She took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
A dozen men in MacRaeh tartan turned to look at her, and their gazes carried weight. Maps covered the great table, held flat by daggers and drinking horns. The room smelled of tallow, damp wool, and cold metal, with something older beneath it all that she could not name.
Don’t stop. Walk to a seat and sit down as though you’re meant to be here.
At the head of the gathering sat the Laird of Dunalasdair.
His tartan was draped over one of his broad shoulders and pinned with an intricately designed silver brooch.
There was a vacant chair on his right side, and he discreetly nodded to it, indicating that he had saved this prominent seat just for her.
A bolt of confidence coursed through her veins at this show of acceptance.
The Laird was not obliged to offer her this position.
He likely had at least one clansman, if not dozens, who ought to be given this place of honor, but Laird MacRaeh had made room for her at the table, and she appreciated the gesture.
With her spirits bolstered, Isobel held her spine perfectly straight, tipped her chin ever so slightly upward, and walked directly toward the Laird. His eyes met hers as she advanced.
She had not known this man long at all, but suddenly, Isobel felt as if she could read the thoughts he was aiming to send in her direction.
They are deciding what to make of ye. Daenae give them anything to work with.
Not one of them spoke to her. A few nodded, the bare minimum courtesy owed to a Laird’s betrothed. She was acknowledged and no more.
When Isobel made her way to the chair at the Laird’s side, her husband-to-be offered her his hand. She accepted him.
When their fingertips touched, the icy tendrils of fear that had been spiking through her veins since their first encounter by the creek were melted.
His hand was warm, his fingertips covered in callouses, and his palms slightly rough.
But with just that one touch, Isobel felt comfortable in a way she had never known before.
It was instantaneous and wholesome, and she had been given this gift without needing to ask for it.
She stood there for a long moment, basking in Laird MacRaeh’s touch. He held her gaze. She watched as the flecks of mossy green and sky blue danced in his grey eyes and Isobel peered into the depths of those orbs, wishing she could read his thoughts one more time.
Then, an older man, with a long scar running from his ear to his jaw, coughed loudly, making it apparent that he was not pleased with this lingering pause and wished for the moment to conclude.
Laird MacRaeh said something short and clipped in Gaelic without looking away from Isobel.
The scarred man clucked his tongue in reply, then harrumphed in a disgruntled fashion.
She filed that away along with everything else she was quietly gathering about this place. The skepticism she had expected. The fact that he dealt with it without pausing or making it an event was indeed quite interesting.
After waiting a full beat, Laird MacRaeh pulled Isobel to his side and moved forward so that they both stood facing the council.
“There’s a matter requirin’ acknowledgment before we continue.” His voice carried without effort. “The Elders have decreed that I wed Miss Isobel Graham of the Lowlands. The alliance serves to bind our clan more firmly to the Crown’s favor and secure our position against future complications.”
A gray-bearded man at the far end of the table leaned forward. He propped both elbows on the table and squinted at her through rheumy eyes. “A Lowland bride, then. And the Elders arranged it?”
“Aye.” Laird MacRaeh’s tone closed the question like a door shutting. “The marriage will proceed as decreed. Miss Graham will serve as me wife and Lady of Dunalasdair.”
The silence that fell upon the room made Isobel’s stomach twist. She remembered then that she still held the Laird’s hand, so she gave his fingertips a quick squeeze.
His eyebrow, the one that was slightly split by a small white scar arched, but he said nothing.
Then the fair-haired man near Alasdair’s right shifted on his seat.
His clothes were finer than the others’, his tartan fastened with a silver brooch that caught the candlelight, and his voice, when he spoke, was smoother than the Highland burs around him, as though it had been carefully sanded down.