Chapter 17
To say the last three days had passed in an uneventful blur would be accurate.
They traversed the lush green and craggy terrain of the Isle of Skye in near silence as they rode, slept, ate, and rode some more.
And then, just when Isabel was certain she could take the monotony no longer, they arrived.
Isabel had expected Lachlan’s castle in the northwest of the Isle of Skye to feel like a fortress—for it certainly looked every bit as intimidating as she’d imagined.
Thick, high stone walls. An iron portcullis that raised to expose massive gate doors.
A drawbridge over a moat. Cold stone and watchful guards, a place shaped by war and vigilance, where every face would turn toward her with suspicion and every movement would be measured against threat.
After all, that was what many of the castles she’d occupied had been like.
She had prepared herself for silence from the inhabitants, for distance from the clanswomen, for the careful politeness reserved for strangers who did not belong. Isabel was an intruder. An interloper.
And, aye, their every fortification met expectation, but, as she passed through the open gates of Dunvegan Castle behind Lachlan and his men, she found herself riding into an environment that felt different somehow.
Not in the quiet, controlled way of a noble household like her Uncle Bruce, but in a way that felt like…
home. Like family. Crofts clustered along the rise beyond the castle walls, their chimneys releasing thin ribbons of smoke that twisted into the evening air.
Chickens scattered noisily across the yard as the riders passed, and somewhere to her left a dog barked sharply before racing after them, only to be called back by a laughing voice.
Children darted between buildings, their shrill laughter cutting through the deeper hum of daily life, until they caught sight of the returning warriors and slowed, staring with open curiosity.
The people here had suffered too because of the war but were not as worried about the Sassenachs banging down their doors as those in Glasgow and Edinburgh.
Men, wrapped in their MacLeod plaids of gold, yellow and black emerged from everywhere at once.
Smiths with soot-darkened hands stepped out from their workshops.
Fishermen carried nets slung over their shoulders, salt still clinging to their clothes.
Farmers wiped sweat from their brows and straightened as they recognized the riders approaching.
Guards with swords strapped to their backs, peered with pensive scrutiny.
When they recognized Lachlan, the reaction of the MacLeod clan was immediate. A deafening cheer rose in the air, fists pumping toward the clouds.
“The Wolf of Skye returns!”
The words carried across the courtyard, taken up by others, until the name echoed against stone and timber alike.
Several men surged forward, closing the distance quickly as Lachlan dismounted.
One older warrior, bald on top with hair a shocking white wrapping around the rest of his head limped forward, reaching Lachlan first, gripping his arm with a laugh that held relief as much as pride before pulling him into a rough embrace.
“Ye took your time returning, MacLeod.”
“War keeps a man occupied,” Lachlan replied, though there was a dryness to his tone that softened the words.
Women appeared in the doorway of a nearby hall, some lifting hands in greeting, others smiling openly as they watched the gathering. And yet more running toward husbands they feared would not return, caught up in embraces that made Isabel’s heart clench with emotion.
Isabel remained in the saddle, her hands resting loosely on the reins as she watched the scene unfold before her. She had heard of Lachlan MacLeod’s reputation. The Wolf of Skye. A man whispered about in courts and camps alike. Dangerous. Relentless. Unyielding in battle.
But to witness his homecoming was something else entirely. These people did not simply respect him, they loved him.
The realization unsettled her more than she expected. Power she understood. Reputation she understood. But this kind of loyalty, this kind of ease between laird and people—it was not something she had often seen, and certainly not something she had expected to find here.
Her attention shifted as she became aware of eyes turning toward her.
Curiosity spread quickly, moving through the gathered crowd in quiet murmurs that were anything but subtle.
“Who is she?”
“Did he bring a noblewoman back from the mainland?”
“Is she hurt?”
“Is she his bride?”
The last question came from an elderly woman, with a severe knot of salt-and-pepper hair on top of her head, standing near the steps of the hall.
Her hands were planted firmly on her hips as she studied Isabel with sharp, assessing interest. She appeared to have an air of authority about her, and for that reason, Isabel wanted to impress her, so she held her gaze, offered a smile.
“She’s too pretty to be a prisoner,” the woman declared, as though settling the matter.
Laughter rippled through the nearby crowd and heat crept into Isabel’s cheeks before she could stop it. That was decidedly not the reaction she’d been hoping for.
Lachlan flicked his gaze toward her at that, and when she looked in his direction, she caught the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth before he turned back to the men pressing him with questions.
A young lass of perhaps seven, missing two front teeth, broke free from the cluster of onlookers and ran forward, stopping just short of Isabel’s horse. She stared up with wide, unblinking eyes, more curious than anything else.
“Are ye a lady from the king’s court?” she asked, reaching out to touch Isabel’s skirt, bold in the way only children could be.
Isabel hesitated for half a heartbeat before answering, her voice softening. “I suppose I am.”
The girl grinned as though this confirmed something important, then darted back to her mother, clearly satisfied with the exchange.
The entire scene felt overwhelming in a way Isabel had not anticipated.
With all the running they’d been doing, and the pure exhaustion of the ride, she’d hardly had time to think about what it would be like when they arrived.
But even if she’d spent days ruminating on it, she wasn’t sure she would have imagined any of it the way it was unfolding now.
Eventually, Lachlan returned to her side.
“Forgive them,” he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “We dinna often receive visitors.”
“I take no offense at people’s curiosity,” she replied, though her gaze lingered on the MacLeod men, women and children still watching them.
He reached up to help her dismount, his hands settling briefly at her waist. The contact was steady, practical—but it was not without awareness.
Not after the kiss they’d shared in the woods.
Heat seared from his fingertips through the fabric, and it took everything in her not to wrap her arms around Lachlan and bring his warmth closer.
To relive those moments of his lips on hers.
A ripple of want caressed over her skin, and she bit the inside of her cheek to try and pull herself out of the haze threatening to take over. The desire she felt was reflected in Lachlan’s gaze
Before she lingered more in his hold, before she pressed her mouth to his, Isabel pulled from his grasp and turned away.
The day passed quickly after that, though Isabel could not have said exactly how.
She was shown to a chamber overlooking the dark sea loch and the small craggy islands that dotted the waterways.
The stone walls of her chamber softened by woven tapestries and a narrow window that framed the restless water below.
It was more comfortable than she had expected, more lived-in than austere, with a large, cushioned chair, soft fur rug before the hearth, and a tranquil tapestry on the wall depicting a field of flowers.
Still, she found it difficult to remain there for long.
The energy of the place drew her toward the courtyard where life continued without pause.
She exited the castle, standing on the stone steps and observing, unsure where to go next.
“My lady,” Angus said, approaching her. “Are ye well?”
“Aye. Just… taking it in.”
Angus gazed out to the courtyard too. “We are a rowdy bunch.”
Isabel smiled. “Everyone seems to have a place here. To be well cared for.”
“Aye, our laird makes sure of it.”
It did not take long for her to understand something she had not fully grasped before. Lachlan, a man feared on the battlefield, was not feared at home. Children darted up to him for games of tag. Women waved and flirted—which had Isabel feeling more jealous than she had any right to.
Men approached him constantly, not with the rigid formality of court, but with the familiarity of people accustomed to being heard.
One spoke to him of fishing boats and the morning’s catch.
Another asked about supplies for the coming winter.
An older man lingered over a discussion of repairs to the outer wall, gesturing toward the stone as though it were a shared responsibility rather than a burden placed solely on Lachlan’s shoulders.
Rather than pawning off the conversations onto one of his men, Lachlan listened with patience. As if each concern was a concern of his own. Isabel was so used to men in high power not wanting anything to do with the mundane day to day, but Lachlan appeared more than interested.
He gave instruction where it was needed, made decisions without hesitation, and moved through the yard with purpose that never felt rushed.
At one point, he paused beside a small boy who had fallen while running, helping him to his feet with a brief word that sent the child off again with renewed determination.
The MacLeod clan not only respected their laird, but they also trusted him.
“Can I give ye a tour, my lady?” Angus asked.