Chapter 19 #2
Isolde shot him a look, not caring if she scowled. Who would blame her for the moonlight caught him to advantage, showing off his handsome face and glossing his thick, dark hair. She could also see that his eyes twinkled, and his amusement worsened her annoyance.
“Passion is a two-edged sword.” She set her hands on her hips. “The same lust that burns between lovers can also crave blood, ending lives in one swish of a blade.”
He grinned. “You are a treasure. Did you know knights love women with steel in their veins?”
“I do now.” Squaring her shoulders, she made certain her posture displayed enough steel to set the handsome devil’s head spinning. “I shall endeavor to appear mouse-like.”
Her wit was rewarded by a deep, rich chuckle.
Not wanting him to see the smile tugging at her lips, she went to stand at the window. Placing her hands on the ledge, she looked out at the rosy-gray luminescence of approaching dawn.
Niels and Rory would come for him soon.
Guilt jabbed into her at the thought, and she risked a glance over her shoulder.
As she should have known, he’d resumed his favored posture, again lounging against her bedpost, ankles crossed and arms folded.
Resplendent in his dark, masculine beauty.
And looking across the room at her in a way that made her heart flip.
“A farewell kiss before your henchmen fetch me?” His words shattered the spell.
A thousand kisses, her lips called to him.
She let silence speak for her.
Wincing at her weakness, and needing to escape his presence, she gathered her skirts in preparation for a swift departure from her chamber.
That done, she sailed past him, not stopping until she reached the door.
“Sir Donall,” she began, stunned by the daring of what she was about to say.
“Aye, sweeting?” he answered from behind her, still sounding amused.
She steeled herself as excitement raced through her.
The man liked steel.
So she drew a steadying breath. “When I see you on the morrow, we shall again discuss enlightenment,” she said. “Perhaps including a few kisses.”
He laughed.
“You are bold,” he called out as she stepped into the corridor. “A fine bold lass.”
His words chased her through the dimly lit passageway, even pursuing her into the stair tower and down its winding stone steps.
She would have dashed right into the great hall when she reached the bottom, for she was heading to the bailey and the quiet she’d find there at this early hour. But grumbling voices, some raised in anger, stopped her.
Keeping to the shadows of the stair tower’s arched entrance, she peered into the hall’s murky darkness. Most of the night torches had burned out, but the glow of the hearth fire and a few braces of tallow candles on a nearby long table cast some illumination.
And it was around the table that the elders huddled, their grousing and cross-tempered snorts echoing in the otherwise empty hall.
Isolde tilted her head and listened. The youngest council member Lorne’s voice rose above the grumbles…
“I say a resounding nae.” He raked the others with a fierce look. “Balloch MacArthur is a braggart. He will not keep silent about such a coup.”
A chorus of gnarled fists pounding on the long, oaken table signaled the council’s agreement.
All save one.
The clan war leader, Isolde’s uncle, Struan, slammed down his ale cup. “What would you fools have us do with them? Put good horseflesh to the cliff along with the MacFie?”
Isolde clasped a hand over her mouth, and shrank deeper into the shadows, her heart thudding.
“It is madness to harm the MacFie,” Lorne argued. “We have no quarrel with his people.”
“I’m with Lorne,” came white-haired Ailbert’s quavering voice. “Every clan in the Isles will damn us for such a dark deed.”
“Aye, doing so would only bring us more trouble,” another agreed, waving his eating knife for emphasis. “We cannae kill Gavin MacFie, nor can we give the horses to Balloch MacArthur. The arse has a loose tongue.”
“Blithering idiots!” Her uncle shot to his feet. “MacArthur also has a stout sword arm and a fat purse. What shall we give him for our lady’s dowry if not the MacLean’s two fine steeds?” He set his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. “A coffer of old stones?”
Ailbert, clan oldest, tittered. Doing so earned him a sharp glance from the ceann cath.
“Think before you cackle, you feeble-headed nitwit,” Struan upbraided him. “Old stone is all we have, and it isn’t a precious commodity. Every last one of these isles and all the land beyond is riddled with rock.”
“Archibald says we must honor the old,” came a singsong female voice, and only then did Isolde spot her vacant-eyed mother. The lady Edina sat in a dark corner near the council members, a thick woolen plaid draped around her slight form. “Archibald says-”
“Archibald is dead.” Struan cast an irritated glance at her, but when her once-beautiful face clouded, his expression softened. “Your husband is no more, and you should be abed,” he said, and started toward her. “Come, I will help you abovestairs.”
Lady Edina grabbed the arms of her chair. “Nae. Not until Archibald returns.”
Struan muttered something under his breath and turned back to the table, his face dark. Taking his seat again, he tipped back a long swig from his ale cup.
“We have no choice but to dispatch the MacFie after the MacLean’s execution.
” He glanced at a broad ax hung on the wall, the axe-blade glinting in the candlelight.
“If we release MacFie, and the two horses with him, as you simpletons would have us do, he’ll ride straight for Baldoon.
Within hours we’d have the full gale of the MacLeans’ wrath blowing down our necks. ”
“I dinnae like it.” This from the end of the table.
The rest joined in.
“A fool plan fraught with peril,” one railed.
“Too dangerous,” another agreed.
Lorne stood. “The MacLean has thus far proved himself manly and resolute under his sufferings,” he said, candlelight catching his proud, bearded face. “Further, we have no reason to kill the MacFie. Perhaps-”
“What are you saying?” another elder cut in, agitated. “What would you have us do?”
Still concealed by the stair tower’s gloom, Isolde held her breath, her gaze on Lorne, her favorite elder.
Just now, Lorne braced his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I say we release both men and their horses before a worse fate is visited upon us. We cannae risk a war with the MacLeans.”
Relief swept Isolde. But before she could even blink, outraged huffs and rants filled the hall as the other graybeards roared with disapproval.
“…we’d vowed to have no pity.”
“…make the MacLean pay until he shrieks with agony…”
“Nae mercy.”
Their words grew angrier and louder, their fury filling the air.
Isolde pressed both hands to her cheeks, chilled to the core.
She wanted to run into the hall, use her chiefly voice to end their perfidy.
But she stayed where she stood, her gut telling her it was wiser to learn their thoughts – all of them – before she acted.
She just hoped they’d heed her when she did.
Just now…
Lorne was pulling a hand down over his beard. He looked more disgusted than outraged. She’d hoped he’d stand up to the others. Instead, he just shook his head, and then sank back onto his chair.
Struan nodded once. “Donall the Bold and his friend will be executed within the month,” he announced, his tone triumphant.
“Balloch MacArthur’s man should arrive shortly thereafter to arrange the betrothal of his lord and our chieftain, Lady Isolde.
When he leaves, he shall take the MacLean’s two horses as our gift to his liege. ”
He aimed a needling glance at Lorne. “Should any long-noses come poking about, we will claim we lost the MacLean, Sir Gavin, and their steeds, on the voyage to Glasgow. No one will be able to prove otherwise.”
Isolde stared at her uncle, straining to hear more. She could see his lips moving, but his words were lost in the babble and mayhem that erupted among the graybeards.
With the exception of Lorne, their agreement with her uncle’s views could not be denied. Only Lorne seemed against such a plan, but even he would balk if he knew hers.
Then, as the council’s voices grew even louder, their suggestions regarding how to kill Donall and Gavin turning more outrageous, Lorne pushed to his feet again and strode from the hall.
Isolde watched him stride past the rows of long tables and then head out into the bailey. She should also leave. But at the moment, her legs were too shaky.
One month.
She’d known the MacLean’s execution had been loosely planned for on or around the Summer Solstice, but somehow the date had seemed to loom in the far future. Struan’s words had driven home the harsh truth. Midsummer would soon be upon them, a scant month and a few days away.
A shudder snaked down her spine at the date’s significance.
Just as the days following the Summer Solstice would shorten, their light gradually swallowed by longer hours of darkness, so would blackness engulf all she held dear if she could not keep the elders from going through with their plans.
And she had but a few weeks to do it.
Her heart heavy, she slipped deeper into the stair tower, her wish to seek the pre-dawn quiet of the bailey forgotten. Taking care not to make a sound, she mounted the circular steps, her progress much slower than her descent.
And this time, the devils following her had nothing to do with a darkly-handsome blackguard who kissed like a knight and everything to do with the cold dread chilling her heart.