Chapter 16 #2
Rose nodded across the hall to where Stephen stood, stuffing his face and talking animatedly with Davie MacLeod—who looked as if he wanted to escape. Stephen noticed that they were all looking at him and winked.
Rose wiggled her fingers and smiled flirtatiously. “What about him? He’s uncommonly handsome.”
Gillian moved in front of Rose before she enticed Stephen to approach them. “Stop it! I don’t even know him!”
Rose laughed. “What matter? You’ll hardly know your Frenchman when he mounts you on your wedding night. Should your first coupling be with a stinking old carcass, or someone young and beautiful that might bring you pleasure?”
Gillian shook her head. “My betrothed expects a virgin. I cannot soil myself and dishonor Father.”
Rose rolled her eyes and made a rude noise. “Honestly, Gilly! Do you really believe that every lady goes to her marriage bed a virgin?” Her fine auburn brows arched knowingly. “Virginity, my wee innocents, is so very easy to fake.”
Isobel and Gillian looked at their sister curiously. She seemed to know of what she spoke, which intrigued them both.
“What if she were to get pregnant?” Isobel asked.
Rose dismissed this with a wave of her hand.
“There are ways to prevent unwanted pregnancies—but in our case it doesn’t matter overmuch.
Father is rushing us all to the altar, so anything you do in the next fortnight or so can easily be attributed to your husband so long as he beds you immediately. ”
“Really?” Gillian breathed, fascinated.
“Aye. Ye should grab what ye can, while ye can,” Rose continued. “Ye never know what the future holds. And by the look of that young buck yonder, methinks it might be worth your while.” She winked conspiratorially and looked around the hall. “Later I’ll give you something—”
“I don’t want it!” Gillian said, starting to sound hysterical, as if she feared Rose might somehow force her into it.
“Leave off,” Isobel said. “She doesn’t want to—and besides, Stephen is a good friend—leave him out of your schemes.”
Rose squared her shoulders and put on an obedient face. “Aye, mum!”
They all laughed and moved to the enormous fireplace.
Isobel hadn’t felt so warm and wanted in years.
She had missed her sisters and her home desperately.
But although an easy rapport was quickly established between them, Isobel did not share her feelings about Philip.
She was not yet ready—and besides, what Rose had said would not leave her.
Better to lose your maidenhead to a man of your choosing, than to some old stranger.
Ye should grab what ye can, while ye can—ye never know what the future holds.
Lord Kincreag was not an old carcass, but neither was he Sir Philip Kilpatrick, the man she loved beyond reason. Better to have one night with Philip, than to always wonder, to always wish and want.
Virginity, my wee innocents, is so very easy to fake.
Her heart beat faster at the very thought, and it lingered, took root and blossomed, filling her with excitement and delicious fear.
Tonight, she would pay Philip a visit.
She was distracted all through the dinner hour.
It was an odd meal, besides. Uncle Roderick presided over it as if he were already chieftain, and though that was not wrong of him, considering her father’s condition, it still made Isobel feel slightly resentful.
Rose was not present, and Roderick informed Isobel that she tended his wife—the pregnant Tira.
He confided that he was stalling Rose’s wedding until after Tira gave birth.
He feared that without Rose’s superior healing skills the baby, and perhaps his wife, would be lost. This was a very important baby, as Alan had already verified that it was a boy.
Isobel immediately felt chagrined for her cross feelings at her uncle. He had suffered much in the past twelve years—being twice widowed could not be easy on anyone, certainly not a kind man like Roderick MacDonell. It was amazing he’d managed to preserve his good humor.
There was still no sign of Philip, though Stephen came to the table late, looking as if he’d been up to no good.
Davie entertained them with music from his harp and some rather tame ballads.
Isobel wanted to ask Stephen about Philip, but he was seated farther down the table.
She tried to get his attention, but he was bolting his food down as if he were starving, his concentration completely on his meal.
When Stephen finished, he stuffed more food in a sack and hurried away from the table without a word to anyone. Isobel stood to follow him, but Roderick caught her arm.
“It’s time, lass.”
“Time for what?” Isobel asked impatiently, straining to follow Stephen, who promptly disappeared through a doorway.
“Time to meet your betrothed.”
The air left Isobel in a rush, and she forgot Stephen. She turned to her uncle. “Now?”
He nodded sympathetically and propelled her across the hall, his hand on her back. “Best not to keep him waiting.”
Isobel’s mind was a whirlwind of fear and apprehension.
Before she could make any sense of it, or even prepare herself for meeting Lord Kincreag, they stood before the door to his chambers—the finest in the castle, besides her father’s.
But her uncle didn’t knock. He frowned at the door for a moment, then turned to her, and whispered, “Have ye tried to use yer magic to discover what ails yer father?”
Isobel shook her head. It hadn’t even occurred to her. He was ill, after all, and she was not a healer—Rose was.
Roderick nodded, the frown easing from his brow.
“Should I try?” she asked.
“No—ye best not chance it with the earl here.” He took her shoulders and looked deep into her face. His gaze dropped to her mother’s charm that lay against her breasts. “Your father has spoken to you of the importance of concealing your magic?”
Isobel nodded miserably.
“Well, I will be redundant then, but just the same I must. Do nothing to make him suspect. You have heard the rumors of what he did to his first wife?”
“They’re just rumors. Father would not wed me to a murderer.”
“Of course not. But what happened to the countess remains a mystery—one the king didn’t care enough to investigate.”
Isobel blinked. “Are you saying he did murder her?”
Roderick shook his head emphatically. “I am not saying that. Your father certainly believes him innocent, and Alan is a good judge of character. However, I have always found the man cold and—”
The door swung open. Isobel jerked guiltily toward the man who now filled the doorway.
He stood with one hand on the doorframe and the other gripping the edge of the open door.
He was as dark as Philip had said—black hair, black eyes, skin so dark he must have Spanish Moor in his blood.
He was dressed almost entirely in black as well.
And the room beyond was dimly lit, so the broad expanse of his shoulders seemed to melt into the darkness beyond.
His black devil eyes were currently fixed on Roderick. “And?” he drawled, his voice deep and chilling.
Roderick smiled charmingly. “And here she is, my lord. Isobel MacDonell.”
Lord Kincreag continued to stare at Roderick. Finally, his gaze flicked to Isobel, examining her with disinterest before scanning the corridor.
“She comes alone?”
Roderick placed a palm on his chest. “What am I, my lord? I’m here to vouch for her maiden safety.”
A dark brow arched slowly, sardonically. “And who will vouch for her maiden safety on her journey from England to Lochlaire?”
“My lord?” Roderick queried. “I dinna understand.”
“I’ve been told she traveled with three men—and no one else.”
Isobel’s face flamed. “What do you accuse me of? Are you doubting my—and Sir Philip’s—honor? My father sent him because he could be trusted with my life. He would not have sent someone who would debauch me at the first opportunity.”
That cold gaze moved to her, eyes narrowed. “It’s not always the men who are doing the debauching.”
Isobel let out an incredulous breath, but her cheeks and neck burned.
He insinuated she was some whore who debauched men?
And just what had she been doing with Philip—with her eager kisses and wicked thoughts?
What was she contemplating doing that very evening?
She fought to keep her expression insulted, rather than revealing the horrified embarrassment she truly felt.
She looked at her uncle for support, but even he seemed at a loss.
Finally, he said, “I assure you, Isobel comes to you a maiden—innocent of the ways of men. Sir Philip Kilpatrick would never dishonor Alan in such a fashion.” When Lord Kincreag still eyed them skeptically, Roderick said, “Perhaps we should come inside so you might become acquainted with Isobel.”
The earl put his back to them and disappeared into the room. Roderick urged Isobel forward, giving her a grimace of sympathy.
No candles were lit. Only the light from the fireplace. But seconds later a candelabra slowly came to life. The earl tossed the tinderbox on a table and turned to her.
“Let us be clear. You are a witch, and I am a murderer.”
Isobel’s mouth went dry. What did he mean? “I…I am not—”
“I have no intention of talking to you about my first wife, so do not bother asking. Nor will I ask you why everyone believes the MacDonells of Glen Laire are witches. I don’t care.”
“If you think I’m a witch, why would you want to wed me?”
“I did not say I think you’re a witch, I’m merely repeating what everyone else says. If you…think you are, once again, I do not care to know.”
Isobel clasped her hands tightly before her. This was not going as she’d imagined. In spite of the warnings she’d received about him, she’d never expected him to be so cold and unfeeling. “But…but we are to be married,” she protested. “Am I not allowed to ask about your life before me?”
His sleek black hair was tied back at his nape.
Neat, severe almost. Just like his attire.
For a man who was disgustingly rich, he dressed simply.
Black breeches that fit close to his lean and muscular body, black hose and shoes, a black doublet relieved only by small silver buttons.
Only a simple falling collar, smaller than any she’d seen, tempered the oppressive blackness of his clothes, fitting close to a dark, corded neck.
His glacial and uncompromising features were undoubtedly handsome, as Gillian had said, and they did make her swoon—but with dread.
She saw no kindness in this man. No warmth.
He was heartless and cruel. He would never love her, and he would never welcome her love.
She was not at all certain she was interested in giving it to him.
“This is a marriage, not a friendship,” he said. “I offered for you, and your father accepted. You are mine now. You will live by my rules.”
Isobel placed a surprised hand on her mother’s pendant. Waves of fear and agony—her mother’s—washed through her, but she held the emotions at bay, searching for her mother’s strength, the courage she went to the stake with, to bolster her in this.
“You offered for me?”
“Well, one of you. I did not care which. Your father is my friend—one of the few I have. He fears greatly for you and your sisters’ safety. I offered for you because I can protect you—all of you—if you are my family. No one will harm you while I live.”
Isobel was not comforted. She was deeply dismayed. The hope she had tried desperately to preserve—that she could somehow find happiness, or even a sort of contentedness, with Lord Kincreag—was crumbling before her eyes.
“Uh…thank you, my lord.”
He dismissed her thanks with an indifferent nod. “Very well. We are finished then. We’ll be wed in a week’s time. The banns are being said already.”
It was moving too fast, her heart cried. A week? “But…that’s May—it’s bad luck to wed in May.”
He looked at her as if she were a foolish child. “Luck will not make this bearable, Mistress MacDonell. For either of us.”
When she just stood there, gaping at him, he said, “You are dismissed.”
Roderick ushered her out the door, closing it behind them. Isobel let him lead her to the hall, but she held back at the entrance, unable to bear the sounds of laughter and music. She could not join in—not now. She feared she might be ill.
She looked up at her uncle, feeling betrayed and miserable. “Father loves this man?”
Roderick rubbed his temple. “He is not like that with Alan, you’ll see.” He took her hands then, and said, “I’m sorry, lass—your father knows how he is, but thinks it’s because of his first wife. He believes the right woman will thaw him.”
“And that woman is me?” Isobel shook her head. “I don’t think so—he hates me!”
“I can talk to Alan…” Roderick said, but it was clear from his expression he thought it would do little good.
Isobel shook her head. Her father had good reason for doing this—the earl of Kincreag could protect all three of the MacDonell girls. She could not let her personal unhappiness ruin it. She would manage to get on with the earl well enough…one day…if he gave her a chance…
She squared her shoulders. “No, I pray you, don’t trouble Father with this. Tell him…tell him I liked Lord Kincreag and will marry him as planned.”
Her uncle hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But perhaps you’d rather tell him yourself?”
Isobel couldn’t lie to her father with the memory of Lord Kincreag’s cruel eyes still fresh in her mind. She would likely burst into miserable tears—she was close to doing so at the moment and turned partly away from her uncle.
“I cannot. I’m unwell.”
Roderick made a soft clucking sound. “Of course ye are, lass. Shall I send Rose to look in on ye?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I just want to go to bed.” She could feel him watching her as she walked away, but she didn’t care. She would marry Lord Kincreag, as her father wished, but tonight was still hers.