Chapter 39
Afamiliar sound called Isolde out of the haze she’d slipped into to block her uncle’s ravings. For what seemed an eternity, he’d paced the cell, at times stalking so near to the yawning crack in the floor, she’d held her breath, hoping he’d step wrong and plunge into the oubliette.
But he appeared more surefooted than a mortal man should be, not even blinking each time he strode along the edge of the opening.
And all the while, he bemoaned his ill-fated life. His hatred of her father. His love for her mother. His resentment of her.
His crazed plans to seize all of Doon.
Recognizing madness when she saw it, Isolde settled in against the cold stone wall, shut her eyes, closed her ears, and prayed.
It seemed only a miracle could save her.
But just when all appeared lost, she heard something that set her heart to pounding…
Barking that cut through the fog she’d fallen into, and that filled her with hope.
Bodo, her sweet, precious darling, was coming for her. And as she’d left him locked inside her bedchamber, that could only mean someone had let him out.
She hoped the MacLean.
But Struan also heard the barks and whirled to face her.
“It would seem your savior has four legs,” he taunted, angling his head toward the cell’s entry. “I will take as much pleasure in sending your yappy little beast into the oubliette as when it is your turn to follow him.”
“No-o-o!” Isolde pushed away from the wall, horror chasing her caution. “Leave him be!” she cried, lunging at him, the steel inside her now white-hot and glowing.
He grinned and leapt aside. “Have a care, or you will land in the pit without my help.”
“I will push you in first,” she yelled, chasing him.
He laughed, easily sidestepping her. She stumbled, her arms flailing as she fell, landing near the oubliette. Pain slammed into her, the rough stone floor cracking her knees and scraping her palms.
“So eager to die, chieftain?” Struan nudged her with his foot. “Shall I help you over the edge? I promise to send your wee beastie after you.”
“Don’t you dare touch him,” she panted, struggling to her feet. “Don’t even- Bodo!”
He burst into the cell, flying at her uncle in a frenzy of snarls and barks. He leapt at Struan’s legs, sinking his teeth deep into his flesh. Howling in pain, Struan teetered on the edge of the gap, shaking his leg in a vain struggle to dislodge the dog.
His eyes wide with horror, Struan stared at her, his arms wheeling. Then he was gone. Over the edge in a blur of flailing arms, legs, and brown and white fur.
“Bodo!” Isolde’s scream blended with Struan’s as she dove forward, grabbing for her pet. But her arms closed on air.
She collapsed at the gap’s edge, her heart crushed by tight, searing pain. “Bodo, no…”
Her cries came small now. Pathetic little gasps, wooden and ragged, torn roughly past the hot swelling in her throat. “Oh, Bodo, my love…”
And then she heard it.
A frantic clacking sound. Claws on stone. And a bark.
Bodo.
Opening her eyes, she saw him through the sting of tears. He clung to the edge of the crevice, desperately struggling to pull himself to safety.
“Bodo!” Hot tears spilling down her cheeks, she grabbed him, pulling him up into her arms.
She crushed him to her, stroking and soothing him. “Oh, my sweet, precious laddie.” She pressed her face against his shoulder, kissed his soft, warm fur. “You came for me.”
“And I, sweet lass?”
“Donall?” Isolde’s heart burst, relief rushing through her. She looked up at him, hoped she wasn’t dreaming. “Is it really you?”
“Who else?” His smile flashed. “Or were you hoping for another knight?”
“I prayed only for you.” She blinked, half-afraid she was imagining him, too blinded by tears to see him clearly.
But there could be no mistake. She’d know him anywhere, recognize him in the darkness of a cold and dying sun, in a crowd of a thousand other men.
“You came,” she said, dashing at her cheeks.
“We came.” He leaned down to gather her and Bodo into his arms. “We who love you.”
“My dearest…” She looked at him, her heart swelling. “I am so blessed,” she added, leaning into him, resting her head against his broad, warm chest. “I love you so…”
“Then all is well.”
Before he could say more, the others rushed into the cell and gathered around them, their presence sweeping her with gratitude and happiness.
Her heart still brimming, she smiled at them all…
Sir Gavin with his crooked, almost boyish smile. Lorne and Evelina, their own love shining so bright. Iain, handsome and braw as his brother, concern and relief in his dark, innocent eyes.
Young Lugh, smiling shyly, wonder and pride lighting his face.
So much love, caring that almost overwhelmed her.
“It was my uncle.” She shifted in her love’s arms, needing to tell them. “He’s mad.”
“We know, sweet.” Donall stroked her hair, lowered his head to kiss her brow. “We heard him as we neared, caught your shouts and his cry as he fell. He cannae hurt you now.”
“He killed Lileas, even Da.” She looked to Lorne, saw his grim nod, and knew he’d already guessed. “He would have killed me, had Bodo not…”
“Hush, you,” Donall soothed her, holding her close as he carried her through the cell’s narrow entry. “It is over now.”
“The gods be praised,” someone behind them said. She couldn’t tell who, but the words broke the tension and everyone rushed near, fussing over her and smiling, as the MacLean carried her and Bodo down the passage, and then up the sea tower’s steps, out of Dunmuir’s dungeon.
An hour or so later, he carried her again.
A sweet pleasure she could easily become accustomed to – no, something she intended to enjoy as often as possible.
Freshly bathed and so in love, she snuggled against his bonnie chest as he strode into Dunmuir’s great hall.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and threaded her fingers in the heavy silk of his hair.
With a sigh of contentment, she leaned into him, not caring who saw – indeed, she hoped everyone in the crowded hall did look.
“My dashing MacLean.” She glanced up at him. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
“I love you more,” he returned, flashing his heart-stealing smile.
Lileas smiled with them.
For one joyous moment, she even thought she’d glimpsed her sister’s face. The image wavered only briefly, half-hidden by the peat haze drifting through the hall, but appearing long enough for her to see Lileas’ pleased expression.
Time, as well, for her heart to catch her sister’s softly whispered assurance that now, at last, all had been set aright.
Isolde believed her.
Never had her world, her beloved Isle of Doon, been so close to perfect.
And if the MacLean kept his word, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he would, and if her clan members agreed, as Lorne seemed to think they would, soon the island would no longer be divided in two, but jointly ruled.
A common and loved home for MacLeans and MacInnesses, fulfilling the alliance her father had always sought, and that her sister had died trying to achieve. A coming-together that had brought her so much more than just a truce.
A sharp, attention-demanding bark alerted her to Bodo and she glanced down, smiling at him through tears. He trotted along beside them, the extra spring in his step and the way he held his head, showing that he knew the champion’s role he’d played and was mighty proud.
Savoring the accolades.
Lorne and Evelina walked with them, too. As did Gavin and Iain. Each one of them freshly bathed. Even Bodo and Lugh. No traces remained of the slime and reek from the dungeon passage, hardly a hint of the ordeal now behind them.
Niels and Rory, newly released by their former captive, flanked them, both men looking sheepish and subdued.
All smiled, though Iain appeared a shade less jovial than the others. Lorne’s eyes, too, held a reflective note. But even the truth of Struan’s treachery couldn’t dampen the joy in Isolde’s heart, couldn’t dim the triumph of the declaration about to be made.
Regrettably most of the hall’s occupants appeared too deep in their cups to comprehend what the MacLean was about to proclaim.
But she knew, and she rested a hand on his shoulder as they passed the ranks of MacLean and MacKinnon warriors. Men who still stood guard around the crowded, torch-lit hall.
Of her people, hardly a soul stirred. Those yet awake turned glassy-eyed stares on them. Some already sprawled on the rushes, snoring loudly, while others slept with their heads resting on the tables.
A hardy few still made merry, tossing back brimming cups of ale or entertaining themselves with ever bawdier songs and boastful tales of battles won and wenches bedded.
Not that Donall cared. He had one purpose – to claim his lady. And so he stepped onto the raised dais at the upper end of the hall.
“MacInnesses!” He raised his voice to be heard the length and breadth of the hall, perhaps even to the farthest corner of Doon.
“Men of Balloch MacArthur!” He turned to them. “Hear well for if you cross me, I will come after you with the balled might of the great houses of MacLean and MacKinnon!”
He swept his gaze along the ranks of his own men. Not a one of them, nor the MacKinnons who’d come with them, had moved. They stood proud, a wall of muscle, mail, and gleaming steel. Their blades drawn in silent warning, a threat to any who’d challenge them.
Turning again to face the MacInnesses and MacArthurs, he lowered Isolde to her feet, and then drew his sword, raising it high.
“You, at the long tables…” he began, his tone fierce. “You have mistreated my lady. Be warned – don’t ever hurt her again.”
An uneasy stirring rippled through the hall. Furtive whispers accompanied by nervously exchanged glances. A few grumbles of displeasure. Some men looked down, ashamed to meet his eye, while others had the gall to glare.
No one challenged him.