Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Dae all MacLean suppers end with half the hall pretending nae tae stare, or was that in me honor?” Isobel inquired, as they left the dining hall.
Ruaridh glanced at her. “In yer honor, I expect.”
“Ah,” she mused. “How generous of them.”
“They are generous people,” he shrugged.
Isobel should not have found that amusing. She was too angry, too tired and too thoroughly aware that every stone around her belonged to the enemy. Yet the corner of her mouth threatened to move, and she quickly looked ahead before he could see it.
The passage beyond the hall was colder than she had expected. The warmth of the fires faded behind them, replaced by a draft that came sliding along the stone as if the sea itself had found a way inside. She folded her arms, refusing to shiver.
Ruaridh noticed anyway. He noticed too much for a man who appeared carved from weather and bad temper.
He said nothing at first. Simply unfastened the heavy cloak from his own shoulders and settled it over hers as they walked. The wool felt warm and dark around her, smelling faintly of smoke, salt air, leather, and him.
Isobel stiffened. “I didnae ask fer that.”
“Nay.”
“Then why give it?”
“Because yer teeth were near chattering.”
“They werenae.”
“They were considering it.”
She pulled the cloak closer before she could stop herself, then hated him for seeing that, too. “Ye are very certain fer a man wrong so often.”
“I look forward tae learning where I erred.”
“Taking me from Inveraray seems a place tae begin.”
His expression changed only slightly, but she saw it.
The torchlight caught the shadow of stubble roughening his jaw and the dark hair tied carelessly at the nape of his neck.
He looked exactly like what he was said to be: a man bred of sea cliffs and steel, too handsome in a harsh, inconvenient way, and far too aware of nothing except the path ahead.
It was deeply irritating.
“The wedding will be tomorrow,” he informed her.
Isobel stopped. For a heartbeat, she thought she had misunderstood him.
“Tomorrow,” she echoed.
“Aye.”
“Ye tell me this as though informing me of the weather.” She turned to face him fully. “I willnae marry ye tomorrow.”
His eyes remained on hers, steady and infuriatingly calm. “The claim is sealed.”
“I was there.”
“Then ye ken what it means.”
“I ken men enjoy pretending parchment is the same as consent.”
His face darkened. It made him look even more severe, and more striking, as the torchlight cut across the planes of his face, making him seem half shadow and half flame.
“The longer this waits,” he told her, “the more room there is for Ewen, yer faither, or the Crown tae interfere.”
She resumed walking because standing still felt too much like weakness. “So I am tae be married quickly fer convenience.”
“Fer safety.”
“Yers?” she inquired.
“Duart’s.”
“How touching.”
“And yers,” he added.
She looked at him sharply. “Dinnae dress this in kindness.”
“I shall avoid offending ye with it again.”
“Excellent.”
They climbed a short turn of stairs. Isobel was aware of him beside her in a way she did not like at all.
He did not crowd her, yet his presence filled the narrow passage.
He was too tall, too broad-shouldered, too impossibly composed after the day they had endured.
The same cloak that was now warming her had hung from him as though made for war rather than comfort.
When they reached her door, he stopped.
“This is yer chamber.”
“I remember,” she answered.
“I thought ye might. Ye have the look of a woman who collects grievances carefully.”
“I have begun a list,” she spoke, as her eyes flashed at him. “Ye feature prominently.”
He pressed his hand to his chest playfully. “I am honored.”
“Dinnae be.”
For the first time, his mouth curved. It changed his face in a way that annoyed her more than his scowl. The harshness remained, but something warmer passed through it and vanished too quickly.
She did not care for that. It made him look less like a monster and more like a man. That was inconvenient.
He reached past her to open the door, but did not step inside. “Sleep if ye can. And ye can keep me coat.”
She lifted her chin. “I will keep yer cloak only because this castle is indecently cold.”
“Of course,” he nodded.
“And nae because ye gave it.”
“Naturally.”
“And tomorrow I shall return it.”
“If it pleases ye.”
“It will.”
“Then I await the event with great anticipation.”
His tone was so dry she could not tell whether he mocked her or merely existed in that state always.
Isobel stepped into the room and turned back.
For a moment, they looked at one another across the threshold.
He stood in the passage, all dark wool and controlled strength.
There was nothing soft in him, nothing easy.
Yet he had not taken her brooch. He had given her his cloak.
He had told the hall, without saying it, that she would not be stripped of everything tonight.
It did not make him good. It only made him… confusing.
She shut the door before confusion could grow teeth. For several seconds, she stood with one hand still pressed to the wood. Her chamber was warm enough now, but Ruaridh’s cloak remained around her shoulders.
She should have thrown it onto a chair. She did not.
She circled the chamber for a few moments, unable to come to terms with the fact that she would marry him tomorrow.
Determined to ask him to give her a few more days, she turned sharply and opened the door.
Two men were standing on either side of it. Both straightened at once.
“Are ye guarding me,” she asked coldly, “or the door?”
One of them swallowed. “Me lady?—”
That was enough.
She stepped into the corridor and turned toward the adjoining passage Sorcha had mentioned. “Where is his chamber?”
“Me lady, the laird said?—”
“I didnae ask what the laird said.”
The second guard looked briefly as if he would block her path, then reconsidered with admirable intelligence. Isobel swept past them, with Ruaridh’s cloak dragging behind her like stolen authority.
She found the door easily enough. It was not far. He had put her beside his chamber as though she were a parcel best kept within reach.
Her fury sharpened. She did not knock. She threw the door open and stepped inside.
“I willnae be kept like a?—”
She stopped. Ruaridh stood near the bed, with his shirt half-drawn over his head, and one arm still caught in the linen. His chest was bare. He was broad, scarred, and muscled in a way that made every thought in Isobel’s head collide at once and perish.
For one appalling moment, she could only stare.
He lowered the shirt slowly, not putting it on, merely freeing his arm and holding the linen in one hand. “Dae MacDonalds always enter rooms like invading armies?”
Isobel’s face went hot. “Why are ye undressed?”
He looked down at himself, then back at her. “Because I was alone in me chamber.”
“Well…” she snapped, gesturing at him wildly. “Ye… ye should have said something.”
He lifted an amused eyebrow. “I didnae realize ye required warning before breaking intae it.”
“I didnae break in. Ye left the door unlocked.”
“A grave tactical error, clearly.”
She crossed her arms, then immediately remembered she was still wearing his cloak. That somehow made everything worse. She lifted her chin and refused to look lower than his face.
Unfortunately, his face was no safer. He was too handsome like this, rough and unguarded in the firelight, with his dark hair loosened from its tie and his shoulders marked by old scars. He looked less like a laird and more like a warrior interrupted between battle and bed.
Her thoughts had no business noticing any of that. She seized upon anger. It was far more reliable.
“There are guards at me door.”
“Aye,” he nodded.
“So ye admit it.”
He shrugged. “I rarely deny what is obvious.”
She refused to allow her gaze to wander below his neck, but that was becoming increasingly more difficult.
“Ye said I was under yer protection, but what ye meant was imprisonment.”
“Nay,” he denied. “The men are for protection.”
“From what?” she scoffed. “The furniture?”
“From anyone in this castle foolish enough tae forget me orders.”
That gave her pause, but only for a moment. “How convenient. I am both protected and unable tae leave.”
“Ye left easily enough,” he pointed out.
“I am here because they were too frightened of me tae stop me.”
His gaze moved over her, and the faintest amusement touched his mouth. “A sensible fear.”
She lifted a finger at him. “Dinnae laugh at me.”
“I am nae laughing.”
“Ye are thinking it,” she said furiously, but all she could focus on were his muscles.
“I cannae be held accountable for crimes of thought,” he seemed to be teasing her, and it was driving her mad.
“Ye can if they show on yer face.”
He tossed the shirt onto a chair instead of putting it on, which was a deliberate act of war. Isobel’s eyes betrayed her by dropping once. She immediately looked at the wall.
“Put on a shirt.”
“This is me chamber.”
She could feel her cheeks blushing. “Ye could at least have the decency tae be embarrassed.”
“I have been wounded, threatened, and cursed. A woman barging in while I change daesnae rank high among me trials.”
She hated that his voice had lost its teasing edge. It made it harder to fight him cleanly.
“I barged in because ye imprisoned me,” she retorted, realizing that she was dangerously losing focus.
Why did he have to be so devilishly handsome? And on top of that, half-naked?
He stepped closer, and Isobel refused to step back.
“If ye were imprisoned, ye would have found the door locked. If ye were imprisoned, the guards would have dragged ye back before ye reached this room. If ye were imprisoned, I wouldnae be standing here explaining meself tae a woman who nearly knocked me door from its hinges.”
She glared at him. “I dinnae want them there,” she told him.
“I ken.”
Her anger returned in full. “So this is how it will be?”
“Fer taenight, aye.”
“Because yer people might harm me?”
He sighed, as if he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say.
“Because me people have bled fer generations against yers, and grief isnae always wise. Because half this castle learned ye were here only hours ago. Because Ewen may yet have men nearer than I like. And finally, because ye are too proud tae call fer help even if ye need it, and too angry with me tae trust that danger can exist where ye dinnae wish it tae.”
She had no immediate answer. She hated that most of all.
The fire cracked behind him. Its light moved over his bare chest, catching on the pale lines of scars and the dark strength beneath his skin.
He did not seem embarrassed. He did not seem triumphant either, only tired, serious, and immovable.
That made her feel suddenly overexposed, though she was the one fully clothed.
“Ye… should have told me,” she found herself saying more quietly. It seemed that she, too, was tired.
“Aye,” he replied after a moment. “I should have.”
The admission robbed the fight of some of its force.
She pulled the cloak tighter around herself. “I dislike ye,” she added for good measure.
“I gathered.” His mouth twitched.
Isobel looked away first. “I will return tae me chamber.”
“A wise retreat.”
She stopped by the door. “It isnae a retreat.”
“A strategic withdrawal, then,” he shrugged.
“Dae all yer conversations end with ye being insufferable?” she asked with a slight pout.
“Only the successful ones.”
At the threshold, she paused and glanced back despite herself. He was still standing by the fire, shirtless, broad and rugged and far too steady for her peace of mind. The sight did something irritating to her stomach that had nothing to do with the sea.
“Just… lock yer door next time,” she ordered.
His gaze lowered briefly to the cloak around her shoulders, then returned to her face. “Knock next time.”
That insufferable… She stopped herself before thoughts became words and left, closing the door with more care than her entrance deserved. The guards outside her room straightened when she returned. Isobel gave them a look sharp enough to make both men stare at the opposite wall.
Then she went inside, shut herself in, and leaned back against the door.
Only then did she realize she was still wearing his cloak.
And worse, she was still warm.