Chapter 11
Isolde knew she was damning herself by hurrying along Doon’s long and curving, gray-shingled beach.
Even so, she kept on. In truth, she was already doomed.
Her fate sealed the moment she’d admitted her powerful attraction to the MacLean.
But she wouldn’t let her heart – or her passion – rule her actions.
She’d be strong and resistant, and do what she must.
Such as seeking out Evelina, the island’s own joy woman.
Isolde’s face flamed despite the morning’s chill.
She liked Evelina, but she rarely called at the woman’s home.
Hurrying there now, she glanced over her shoulder.
Blessedly, no one followed. She didn’t need castle long-noses pestering her about the purpose of her visit to one of Doon’s most isolated corners.
She knew her reasons and that was embarrassing enough.
But desperation drove souls to behave as they wouldn’t otherwise. And so she’d made it across the scrubby moorland between Dunmuir and this side of Doon in good time. Soon she’d reach the dark belt of trees that ringed the cove where Evelina lived in a stone cottage near to the sea’s edge.
Indeed, Isolde could see it now…
Sheltered by cliffs, the whitewashed cottage with its gray-slated roof blended well with the rugged bluff rising behind it. Entirely secluded, it was the perfect hideaway for anyone wishing to live in solitude. Or shield their doings from disapproving eyes.
Just now, bluish-gray peat smoke rose from the chimney, proving the joy woman’s presence. Within moments, Isolde would be there as well.
Too bad her pulse raced and her mouth had gone dry. Thanks to her own badgering, she knew exactly what kind of goings-on took place behind the thick walls of Evelina’s cozy little home. Or rather what had taken place there as the joy woman claimed she no longer plied her trade.
Either way, Isolde had never thought poorly of her.
After all, she sometimes suspected she’d inherited the wild heart of the Viking shield maiden one of her more fierce MacInnes ancestors was said to have captured and wed.
Family legend said that he’d won her love, but had never tamed her.
She doubted he’d tried very hard, for she’d observed that many men appreciated women of spirit.
Evelina was so, she knew.
Besides, unless the gods smiled on Doon, restoring peace to the troubled isle, she’d soon be performing at least some of the lurid practices Evelina had explained to her.
Carnal acts she’d use to seduce the MacLean.
Ancient Viking blood in her or no, heat swept up her neck at the thought and her courage evaporated.
“Mercy…” She paused to adjust her cloak, and to consider running back to Dunmuir.
But it was too late.
As she stood there, the cottage door swung open and Evelina stepped out, a wooden bowl in her hands, her glossy black tresses unbound and flowing to her hips.
“My lady.” She greeted Isolde with a smile. “I bid you a good morn.”
Isolde closed the short space between them. “And to you, lady,” she said, returning the smile.
“Evelina will do.” The joy woman set the bowl of stewed chicken beside a larger bowl filled with water. Straightening, she turned back to Isolde. “What brings you here so early?”
“Oh…” Isolde glanced to the sea. Then she blurted the only excuse that came to her. “The elders’ fussing wears on me,” she said, speaking true enough. “I hoped to find peace in a walk.”
“So you came here?” Evelina lifted a brow. “Such a long way from Dunmuir?”
“I wished to see you.” Isolde clasped her hands before her. Already feeling awkward, she found it hard to stand before her friend…
A truly beautiful woman, sultry and worldly-wise, Evelina wore a gauzy morning robe.
She hadn’t tied its sash, leaving the edges to hang open.
Her silken undergown proved transparent and had a low-dipping bodice cut to run just beneath the dusky tips of her breasts, while a long slit up the front of the gown’s skirt revealed the whole of her legs, and more.
If Isolde wasn’t mistaken, the undergown’s sheerness showed a thin gold chain slung low around Evelina’s hips.
A chain with a large, sparkling bauble dangling from it. A gemstone of a brilliant green, nestled against the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Forgive me for coming unannounced.” Isolde met Evelina’s untroubled gaze. “You are expecting a visitor?” I know you didn’t dress this way for me.
“So I am.” Evelina smiled as she closed her robe. “But I am the one who should apologize,” she said, tying the sash. “I am usually alone, or used to attending guests who expect me to greet them thusly. Indeed, sometimes I wear only air.
“I forget how I walk about.” Her smile deepened, and she shrugged. “I hope I did not shock you?”
“No, no.” Isolde shook her head. “But I will leave. I do not want to disrupt your morning.”
“Oh, but you aren’t.” Evelina opened her door wider. “My lord is a well-occupied man. He will not arrive for some hours yet.” She peered down at the wooden bowl of stewed chicken. “Other than him, I await no one except Mab.”
“Mab?” Isolde blinked.
“Devorgilla’s cat.” Evelina glanced toward the nearby trees as if expecting the tri-colored feline to appear. “Mab often visits me. She welcomes the stewed chicken and beef I make for her and cares not from whose hand such tidbits are served.”
Isolde’s heart twisted at the flicker of regret in the older woman’s eyes. “I did not mean-”
“I know, my lady.” Evelina’s face warmed. “I also know you are not here to speak of my dressing habits or cats. Come inside and tell me what troubles you.”
“It is nothing.” It is everything.
“So I see.”
Evelina stepped back so Isolde could duck beneath the door’s low-set lintel. Though yet early, the small stone hearth glowed with a freshly laid and kindled peat fire. Its scent, smoky-sweet and earthy, lent the spotlessly clean cottage an air of warmth, peace, and contentment.
“I cannot bear to see anyone distressed,” Evelina said, glancing at Isolde as she ushered her deeper into the cottage. “Least of all you, dear lady.”
“Then I truly should leave. I’m afraid I-”
“You have reason to be a-flutter.” Evelina took her arm. “And you have me to help calm your worries.”
She led Isolde across the stone-flagged floor to a small oak table and two exceptionally fine high-backed chairs.
Releasing Isolde, Evelina pulled out one of the chairs.
Isolde sat, grateful, and then waited as her friend crossed the room to slide a screen of woven willow branches in front of an open arch in the opposite wall.
Evelina’s bedchamber.
Isolde knew the tiny room held a bed and nothing else.
She also felt a stab of guilt, remembering how she’d peered into the room on her first visit to the cottage.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she’d peeked behind the screen when Evelina turned away to fetch them both a bit of her self-brewed redcurrant wine.
This time, too, she caught a glimpse of the room before Evelina drew the screen into place. The bed was a simple oaken four-poster, uncurtained, but with exquisitely embroidered coverings and pillows.
Uncomfortable, Isolde snapped her gaze to the well-swept floor rather than watch the joy woman move about so near to the scene of so many hours of passion.
A place where, later that very day, Evelina would tryst with her secret lover.
“Your champion sounds like a man of some standing,” Isolde said when Evelina returned. “Do you not wish to wed?”
As soon as she spoke, she realized the hurt her words could cause. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“You did not offend me.” Evelina looked at her with her great dark eyes, her face serene. “There is never shame in speaking the truth. We cannot marry because, as you know, I am not a lady.”
“But-”
“I have quit my wicked trade?” Stepping closer, Evelina took one of Isolde’s hands between her own. “Think you it matters that I’ve reformed – as some would say?”
“It should.”
“But it does not.” Evelina released her hand. “Some stains never wash out, my lady. The people of these isles have long memories. It is also known that I did what I did for the joy of it, and not because I was ever forced to lift my skirts.”
Taking two cups off a shelf, she poured them each a portion of her famed redcurrant wine.
“The truth is, I have a reputation for evil living.” She placed a cup in front of Isolde.
“Many are they who would chase me with sticks, their faces a-glow with zeal while they call down all the terrors of hell upon me.”
“They do not know you.”
“And they never will as they do not wish to. I must say that I do not mind.” Evelina’s voice was firm, but her eyes glistened, making Isolde forget her own cares.
“Tell me your champion’s name and I shall intervene.” Isolde clutched at Evelina’s arm when she made to move away, but her fingers grasped air as the joy woman slipped past her to stand at the hearth, her back to the room.
“Is he a MacInnes?” Isolde leaned toward her. “A MacLean?”
Evelina turned. “As I will not betray your trust, nor can I break my lord’s. Not even to you.”
“He must be one or the other,” Isolde reasoned, sympathy making her press the matter. “If he is of my blood, I shall speak to the elders on your behalf. If he is a MacLean…” She hesitated, and then rushed on. “Perhaps there, too, I can soon wield some influence.”
With a soft sigh, Evelina gestured to the row of wooden pegs lining the far wall. For the first time, Isolde noticed a faded plaid hanging there.
MacInnes colors.
Her heart thumped, but then she spotted a MacLean plaid dangling from the next peg.
And there were others.