Chapter 15
An ally has to be watched
just like an enemy.
—Attributed to Leon Trotsky (1879–1940)
Russian revolutionary
Alysandir caught the ambrosial scent of her hair and smiled at the crooked part. Like her face, her hair was beautiful, in spite of its unruly state, and he was glad she did not bind it with cords of blue or ribbons of a rosy hue. They suited her, these wild and rebellious curls flowing in no logical order. He imagined her in a low-cut, tightly laced corset of green, with her hair tumbling down her shoulders.
He leaned closer and inhaled the fragrance that curled around him like a courtesan’s arms. Saint Columba, how he longed to thread his fingers through the mass of it and to hold her fast, bound to him while he ravaged her sweet mouth again and again before he entered her. In truth, he had thought of little else since their meeting.
Like the sphinx, she was an enigma and a mystery to him, quite the most unique woman he had ever met. She appeared na?ve, lush, lovely, and so appreciative that he regretted he could not trust her. But innocent women of her ilk did not wander around glens unprotected, unless they were intentionally placed there for a purpose. What was hers?
He could not help his suspicions. In the first place, she was a woman. Secondly, she had not revealed where she was from or how she and her sister had ended up in the middle of his quarrel with the Macleans. At one time, the sacred belief that people were innately good had existed in his heart, but actions can quickly shatter faith. He had learned the hard way that those who appear the most innocent are often the most suspect.
The greenness of his youth was gone. Trust and confidence were now plants of slow growth within the bosom of an older and wiser man. God help him, but he knew in his heart that he dared not trust anyone save his brothers. The axe forgets, but the cut log does not.
He knew she was no common whore, but would she soon offer her body to hide her true purpose? It angered him to think that she had been thrust into the hands of a stranger, risking her life, to accomplish a goal. If this be true, then she was naught more than a pawn—a beautiful woman being used for the advantage of those she served. Or was she forced into such to protect her family?
Nothing would save her but the truth. But God help her if she took him for a fool. Now wasn’t the time to question her, but once they reached Màrrach, things would be different. Be she spy, witch, or maleficent, he would know her story.
“Do you think your brothers will find my sister?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Aye, they willna come home until they do, unless, of course, the English have taken her. If so, my brothers will return with the news and not yer sister. But dinna worrit. ’Tis difficult, but no’ impossible to steal her back from old Angus Maclean.”
“I would hate to think anyone could lose their life trying to rescue her. Elisabeth would abhor such action.”
“When dealing with Angus Maclean, one must always use guile and deception. When entering the den of the fox, ’tis best to play the fox.”
She said a quick prayer that the English would be far away from wherever Elisabeth was and that her twin would not be hostile toward the Mackinnons when they rescued her.
Isobella breathed deeply. “Where are we, exactly?”
“Why,” he asked, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “Do ye need to get word to someone?”
She fought the urge to melt against him. “No, of course not.”
“Then does it really matter where we are? Wherever I choose to take ye, whatever I choose to do is far better than yer prospects afore I found ye.” He guided his horse around a boulder and headed in a new direction. “’Tis a strange manner of dress ye are wearing, lass. It doesna cover much and leads the thoughts of a man astray. Why is it the fashion for ye, while yer sister was dressed differently?”
“It was a quirk of fate that we made different choices yesterday,” she replied and hoped he had no more questions.
“Ye are a strange lass with a strange way of talking and a strange manner of dress. If ye are not English, then where is yer home?”
“America,” she replied, thinking he had never heard of it. She felt an immediate stiffening of his body.
“Ye canna be from America, for according to the Spaniard Juan Ponce de León, there are no people there but tribes, and there are no towns or villages. It is said also that he did not find the Fountain of Youth. So, tell me, mistress, where do ye call home, for it canna be America.”
Damn Ponce and his big mouth! “Truly, I am from America, but not the same America of Columbus or Ponce de León.” She decided not to add that her America was in the twenty-first century.
This time, his body went rock hard and the muscles of his arms flexed powerfully. ’Tis a dangerous game ye play, mistress. I think ye are spying for the English.”
She was shocked. He had been so nice to her. Did he really think she was a spy? “I am not English! My ancestry is Scottish, Italian, and Irish. And I am not playing a game.”
“Ye are no’ telling me the truth, either.”
“I haven’t told you all of the truth, but I haven’t lied.”
“Then tell me the rest of it.”
“I cannot. Not because I don’t want to tell you or that I am hiding something. It’s a long story, and I am quite weary. I would rather wait for another time and place to tell you because you will have many questions and I am not up to answering them. I am not being evasive, but it is an incredible story. However, I can assure you that every word of it is true. I know this because I have difficulty believing it myself.”
“Is that yer way of saying ye are no’ a spy?”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Who brought ye here?”
“You would really find that preposterous and…”
“I speak Gaelic, English, and French, but I dinna ken the word ‘preposterous.’”
She knew that had to mean the word came into use after 1515. Being here was getting more complicated by the minute. “‘Preposterous’ means absurd, unbelievable, exaggerated, and outrageous.”
“‘Exaggerated’ I dinna ken.”
This communicating thing was going to be her undoing. “But you do understand ‘absurd’ and ‘unbelievable.’?”
“Aye. They are words that describe much I have heard ye say. Am I to believe ye came here from America by magic?”
She nodded. “Actually, that is very close to the truth.”
“And did ye wish to return?”
“I do not know if that is an option available to me.”
“‘Option’ I dinna ken.”
“It means choice, as in I do not have a choice about returning.” She didn’t want to mislead him, but she was afraid he might decide to toss her on her duff and ride on without her if she talked about time travel and a mischievous, meddling ghost.
She caught a glimpse of the russet hindquarters of a deer as it broke cover and darted across the track in front of them. Everything began to weigh down upon her again. She understood his doubt, disbelief, and distrust. She did not blame him. He really couldn’t trust her. She could be anyone, even someone who threatened the security of his family.
Isobella, you are an idiot! How can you possibly expect to pull this off? It’s a lose-lose situation at best.If she didn’t tell him the truth, it was into the dungeon; if she told him, he would not believe her, ergo the dungeon. Either way she lost. Not the best place to be when up against a warrior on his own turf.
“You have been kind. You deserve an answer, and I promise to give you one. Right now, I am hungry and tired from an unbelievably long journey. I ache all over. I’m in a strange place with strange people. I miss my home, my family, my friends, and the life I had. I am worried about my sister. If you don’t want a crying woman on your hands, you would do well to change the subject.”
He put his hand on her thigh and rubbed gently. “Not with your hands, Lancelot. I was thinking more along the lines of conversation.”
He spurred his horse to a faster pace. The silence settled around them like an opaque veil, and the world seemed cold and dull and without luster as he became impervious to her.
She must have fallen asleep, for sometime later, he said, “Wake up, mistress. We will be there soon.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry with anticipation as she caught her first glimpse of a castle still some distance away. Its outline was sharp and clear in the fading light of a summer day—a mammoth in granite, dark, threatening, unfriendly, and unknown.
Your fate sits upon those dark battlements, a ghostly voice whispered in her ear, and Isobella shuddered at the thought.