Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Ruaridh drew in a breath and tasted rain, torch smoke, and the brackish bite of the loch beyond the castle walls.
Beside him, Lady Isobel walked as if every step were an act of defiance. Her chin remained high and though she had not spoken since the Crown’s man had informed her that her father had already departed, Ruaridh could feel the force of her silence.
He did not blame her for it. Had some man taken his future unexpectedly from him before a room of witnesses and parchment, he would have wanted blood for less.
He kept his hand at her arm only because the corridor had not yet emptied of Crown men and curious lairds, and because if she bolted now, they would not be gentle in stopping her. But he was careful not to let his grip tighten. She had been handled enough for one night.
A movement to his left drew his attention. Colin MacKinnon emerged from the archway and fell into step beside him with the ease of long friendship.
“Ye always did have a gift fer making quiet exits,” Colin murmured.
Ruaridh’s mouth barely moved. “This is me being subtle.”
“Aye. I noticed. Half the hall looked ready tae choke on their own tongue.”
Ruaridh did not look back. He angled his body slightly, placing himself between Colin and Isobel, not to exclude her from company but from words she had no reason to hear yet.
Her life had been torn apart without her consent.
She did not need to listen to men discuss the shape of her usefulness as though she were still upon that stage.
Colin understood at once. He lowered his voice until it vanished beneath the sound of boots on stone and the wind worrying at the torches.
“Tell me ye didnae take her because ye suddenly fancied a bride.”
Ruaridh’s gaze remained fixed ahead. “Dinnae insult me.”
“I had tae ask.”
“Nae,” Ruaridh said. “Ye didnae.”
For a moment, his friend Colin was quiet. Then his humor faded entirely. “Ewen willnae forget this.”
“I ken that.”
“He wanted her badly.”
“Aye.” Ruaridh’s jaw tightened. “Too badly.”
They passed beneath the gatehouse, and the open yard spread before them, busy with servants hurrying with cloaks and guards standing too stiffly for any of it to resemble ordinary departure. Isobel’s steps did not falter as she walked slightly behind them, though the cold must have reached her now.
Colin glanced once in her direction, then away again. “If Ewen had taken her, he would have had Dunnyveg’s blood tied to Sleat and a Crown-witnessed claim tae strengthen it. Men would have listened tae him who have nae listened before.”
“And Duart would have been ringed by enemies with pretty words and lawful seals,” Ruaridh pointed out.
“Aye.”
“That alone was enough.”
“But nae all of it.”
Ruaridh’s silence answered before he did.
Colin’s voice lowered further. “The rumors are true, then?”
“I dinnae ken if all of them are true.” Ruaridh looked toward the stable yard, where his men were already gathering. “I ken enough.”
Colin’s face hardened. “About the women?”
“Aye.”
Behind him, he heard the faint whisper of Isobel’s skirts against stone. He did not turn. If she had heard even a thread of that, she gave no sign.
Good.
Ruaridh’s hand flexed once at his side. “Nae woman deserves tae be handed tae him, nae a MacLean, nae a MacDonald, nae any woman dragged before a room and sold by men who call it settlement.”
Colin studied him for a heartbeat. Then some of the tension left his shoulders, though worry remained. “That sounds more like ye.”
“Dinnae start praising me. I am in a foul temper.”
“I wouldnae dare. I value me life.”
That drew the ghost of a breath from Ruaridh, not quite a laugh and not meant to be one. “Ye will send word?”
“I will. Niall should hear of this before rumor reaches him twisted. Domhnall, too.”
“Aye. Tell them both plainly. Nay embellishment.”
Colin gave him a sidelong look. “When have I ever embellished?”
Ruaridh glanced at him.
“Fine,” Colin admitted. “I will embellish less than usual.”
Despite himself, Ruaridh felt a thin warmth at the familiar foolishness of it.
Colin, Niall, Domhnall.
Those were the three men he trusted as he trusted very few in the world. Those were men who had stood with him in feasts, fights, councils, and storms, men who knew when to jest and when to draw steel without being asked. The thought of them steadied him. He would need them soon enough.
Colin seemed to know it, too. His expression sobered again as they neared the waiting horses. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Ruaridh nodded once. “Dinnae come alone if ye hear anything from Sleat.”
“I’m nae a fool.”
“That remains disputed.”
Colin’s mouth curved briefly, but his eyes moved toward Isobel again, who had stopped a little further away from them, allowing for a few more words exchanged in privacy. This time there was no calculation in the look, only pity carefully hidden because the lady would hate being pitied.
“She thinks ye nay better than him,” Colin revealed softly.
Ruaridh looked at Isobel as well. She was still masked, still rigid, and watching the men bring forward the horses as though deciding which of them she might kill first if given a blade. Torchlight caught the edge of her cheek beneath the mask and the proud, furious line of her mouth.
Against all common sense, he had to admit that she was unusually lovely. He immediately banished the thought.
“Aye,” he agreed. “She daes.”
“And are ye going tae tell her otherwise?”
Ruaridh’s gaze did not move from her. “Would ye believe me, in her place?”
Colin was silent.
“That is what I thought.”
A groom brought Ruaridh’s horse forward. Another followed with a smaller mount for Isobel. The mare tossed her head, unsettled by the noise and night air. Isobel looked at the animal, then at Ruaridh, and somehow managed to make the glance feel like an accusation.
Colin stepped back. “God keep ye, Ruaridh.”
“And ye.”
For an instant, the jesting was gone between them. Colin clasped his forearm, hard and brief. It was not farewell enough for what might come, but it was all either of them would allow in the open. Then Colin released him and turned away into the shifting torchlight.
Ruaridh watched him go only for a moment before facing the woman he had just taken from one enemy and made, in her eyes, prisoner to another.
Isobel’s chin lifted when he approached.
He almost told her the truth then. He wouldn’t have told her all of it, not the strategies and not the threat to Duart, but perhaps enough that she might understand he had not bid for her out of desire, spite, or conquest. He wanted her to know that she had nothing to fear with him.
Then he saw the rawness she had hidden so fiercely since hearing that her father had left without a word. No explanation would be mercy just now. It would only be another man deciding what she ought to feel.
So, Ruaridh said nothing. He merely reached for the reins and prepared to take her home as he stopped beside the mare and held out his hand. She looked at it as though he had offered her a blade hilt-first.
“I can mount without assistance,” she snarled.
“I dinnae doubt ye can mount,” he replied. “I doubt ye can mount in that gown.”
Her eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Ye ken very little of what I can dae.”
“Aye,” he agreed, feeling irritated. “And I am learning quickly.”
She turned from him with a sweep of skirts and set one gloved hand upon the saddle, gathering the heavy fall of fabric with the other. Around them, MacLean men were preparing to ride, securing packs and checking weapons, but more than one glance strayed toward her. Ruaridh saw her notice.
She put her foot to the stirrup and tried to lift herself.
The gown dragged her down at once. To her credit, she did not make a sound.
She merely set her jaw and tried again, harder this time.
The mare shifted beneath the awkward tug and one of Ruaridh’s men moved as if to steady the animal. Ruaridh stopped him with a look.
Isobel tried a third time. The fabric bunched beneath her knee, the bodice pulled tight enough to hinder her breath, and the stirrup twisted away from her foot.
Still, she did not look at him. Still, she did not ask.
Ruaridh waited one heartbeat longer than kindness required, then he stepped forward.
“I said I dinnae need?—”
“I heard what ye said.”
Before she could twist away, he caught her by the waist. She went rigid beneath his hands, all heat and fury and insulted dignity, but he gave her no time to protest. He lifted her cleanly from the ground and set her into the saddle as if she weighed no more than the cloak folded behind it.
Her breath caught. So did his, though for a different reason and only for the smallest moment. She was all sharp edges and wariness, yet there had been something startlingly delicate in the instant between ground and saddle, when she had been forced to trust his hold or fall.
Then her hand struck his shoulder. It was not hard enough to injure, but it was hard enough to make her meaning plain.
“Dinnae manhandle me.”
Ruaridh looked up at her. “Then dinnae nearly pull me horse sideways trying tae prove a point.”
Color rose high along the visible part of her cheeks. “I would have managed.”
“In another gown, perhaps, with another horse… in another life.”
Her eyes flashed. “I despise ye.”
“So ye have suggested.”
“I havenae even begun tae suggest it.”
Despite the hour, despite the danger, despite the ugly business that had brought them here, something almost like amusement moved through him. He did not let it show. She would have taken it for mockery, and perhaps some part of it was.
He turned away and mounted his own horse without assistance or comment. His men fell into formation at once, Torin at the front, Brodie near the rear, the others closing around them with practiced silence. Ruaridh brought his horse alongside Isobel’s mare.
She sat very straight, gripping the reins with more anger than skill. Her chin remained lifted, though humiliation still burned in every line of her.
“Keep close,” he urged.
“I am surrounded by yer men. Where, exactly, dae ye imagine I shall go?”
“Intae trouble, if yer temper leads.”
Her head turned sharply. “Me temper?”
“Aye.”
“Me temper didnae drag me tae Inveraray. Me temper didnae put me on a stage. Me temper didnae buy me like cattle.”
He nodded. “Nay. It didnae.”
That seemed to rob her of some expected resistance. Her mouth tightened, and she looked away toward the dark road beyond the yard.
The gates opened. They rode out beneath the arch, leaving the torchlit cruelty of Inveraray behind them.
The night swallowed the sound of hooves and harness.
Cold air moved off the water, sharp enough to cut through wool and linen, and somewhere behind them a man shouted an order that faded quickly into distance.
For several moments, neither of them spoke.
Then Isobel voiced herself. “Ye neednae pretend this was mercy.”
Ruaridh kept his gaze ahead. “I dinnae pretend.”
“Good. I would hate tae think ye expected gratitude.”
“I dinnae.”
“Because ye willnae have it.”
“I ken.”
She turned on him then, fierce enough that the mare tossed her head beneath the sudden pull of the reins. “Dae ye? Dae ye truly? Because men like ye are very fond of naming possession protection when it suits them.”
His hands tightened once on the leather.
Around them, he felt his men listening while pretending not to. He did not raise his voice. “Ewen MacDonald would have been worse.”
“And that absolves ye?”
“Nay.”
The answer came too plainly. She stared at him.
He looked back only briefly. “It changes naething about what was done tae ye. But it is still true.”
Her laugh was low and bitter. “How comforting. I have been taken by one enemy instead of another, and I am meant tae praise the wisdom of it.”
“I said I expect nay gratitude.”
“Yet ye speak as if I should understand.”
“I speak because ye asked.”
“I asked fer none of this.”
The words tore out of her before she could smooth them into anger. For the first time that night, Ruaridh heard something beneath the fury. It was hurt, raw and newly opened.
“Me brithers are dead because of yers,” she squeezed through clenched teeth.
At that, the men nearest them went very still.
Ruaridh’s jaw hardened. “And me faither is dead because of yers.”
Her face changed, struck by the answer. “And ye would still take me tae Duart?”
“I am taking ye tae Duart because leaving ye behind is nay longer possible.”
“Because ye paid fer me.”
His gaze cut to hers. “Because if I hadnae, Ewen would have and it would have been worse.”
She flinched at the name. Ruaridh saw it and hated that he had.
“I dinnae need yer pity,” she snapped, as if she had read the thought before it had fully formed.
“Then ye shall be pleased tae hear I havenae offered it.”
“Nor kindness, clearly.”
“Kindness wouldnae help ye taenight.”
“Nay. And I suppose a MacLean wouldnae ken much of it.”
The insult landed among his men like a spark dropped into dry straw. Brodie shifted in the saddle behind them. Ruaridh did not turn, did not permit reaction.
Instead, he said, “Careful, Lady Isobel.”
Her eyes flashed. “Or what? Ye will punish me fer speaking plainly?”
“I will remind ye that men have killed fer less between our clans.”
“Then let them try.”
There it was again. That reckless, furious courage. The kind that could keep a woman alive or get her throat cut, depending on the room.
Ruaridh looked at her for a long moment.
“Nay one will touch ye while ye ride with me,” he told her.
Something in her expression tightened further, as if even that offended her.
“How noble.”
“Nay, practical. Dead wives cause difficulties.”
Her mouth parted in outrage. The remark was crueler than he had intended, or perhaps exactly as cruel as needed to rebuild the wall between them. Better anger than terror. Better hatred of him than the wounded silence her father had left behind.
“I hope yer horse throws ye,” he heard her say, and he almost smiled.
“He is better trained than that.”
He faced the road again and gave his horse a touch of heel. The line began to move faster. Beside him, Isobel rode rigid with fury, refusing to look tired, frightened, or defeated.
Ruaridh gave her no comfort. She would not have accepted it.
And, truth be told, he had none gentle enough to offer.