Chapter 19
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
—“On Another’s Sorrow,” 1789
William Blake (1757–1827)
British poet, painter, engraver, and mystic
The next morning, Isobella heard the rattle and clank of armor and the nickering of horses coming from the courtyard below. She had learned from Marion the day before that Alysandir and his men were leaving on a hunting trip.
She was still fretting about Elisabeth. It had been a week since she was captured, and still there had been no word about her sister or Alysandir’s two brothers. She would have to be patient. If his brothers were anything like Alysandir, they would do their best to find Elisabeth. The only good thing that had happened was that her ankle was healing and she could walk on it with the slightest limp.
She was sitting in the solar with Alysandir’s sisters, Sybilla and Marion, who were becoming her good friends. She was beyond thankful for their companionship and help, for she would have been bored out of her mind and sick of her room, were it not for them.
Coming to the solar to sew with them had become a daily occurrence. Today, they undertook the impossible task of teaching her to embroider. They were working on valances in tent stitch. She watched them quietly stitching with a precision she would never be able to attain.
After about fifteen minutes, she was still trying to get a bit of wool yarn jabbed through the eye of her needle. She glanced enviously at the sisters’ canvases, with their elaborate tendrils of fruit, colorful and exotic flowers, and brilliant foliage winding around tree trunks, and let out a sigh of defeat.
“There seems to be an awful lot of yarn for the wee eye of this needle.”
The sisters laughed, and Sybilla said, “It takes a lot of practice.”
“I don’t think I will live long enough to learn. Perhaps I should try stable mucking.”
When the laughter quieted down, Marion said, “Perhaps ye could read to us while we embroider.”
Isobella shook her head. “My Latin is best read silently. My Gaelic vocabulary is miserably inadequate.”
“Alysandir has a few books in English in his library,” Sybilla said.
Isobella had replied that she liked the idea when they heard a loud commotion coming from the courtyard, followed by the clatter of horses’ hooves, and the ring and jostling of bridles and equipment.
Sybilla sprang out of her chair and hurried to the window. “Alysandir and our brothers are coming through the gates now,” she said. Marion and Isobella joined her to crowd around the window for a look. Isobella recognized Alysandir as he pushed back the hood of his hauberk and the sun drew out the richness of his hair, dark as the wood of the ebony tree.
About that time, another horse snorted and danced sideways, bumping into Alysandir’s horse, which reared, pawing the air with his forelegs. Alysandir acted with swift confidence to bring his mount under control. Gallagher was a lot like his master, for both possessed latent strength and a capacity for violence. The way the two of them worked together was quite a magnificent sight to watch.
“Alysandir is a fine horseman,” Isobella said. He was about to dismount, and she stepped upon a stool to get a better view. Just as she did so, he glanced toward the window and nodded in her direction.
Sybilla gasped and brought her hand up to her chest with open-mouthed amazement. “Did ye see that? Alysandir nodded at ye. I havena seen him do that before.”
Isobella did not want to be singled out, so she replied, “He was being courteous.”
“Nae. He recognized ye in front of all and sundry,” she said, with a shy smile that made her lovely grey-blue eyes shine as brilliantly as the golden locks of hair braided on top of her head.
“I don’t know why. I’ve been nothing but a thorn in his side.”
“That isna what Alysandir said,” Sybilla replied. “He was most full of praise aboot ye.”
Isobella glanced at Sybilla, who smiled innocently, which was her way of letting their visitor know that was all she was going to say on the subject. Isobella was thinking that some handsome knight like Alysandir should be nodding at Sybilla. Her lovely sable brown curls brought out the vivid golden color in her hazel eyes.
“I see Colin and Drust. They must have met up with the hunting party,” Marion said, then added softly, “Oh dear.” She turned to Isobella. “I am sorry but I canna see any sign of yer sister.”
Isobella frantically searched the bailey, but there was no sign of Elisabeth. She could not hide her disappointment. “If those English bastards have taken her!”
Sybilla put her arm around Isobella’s shoulders. “Dinna fret. Alysandir willna give up. They will find her. Alysandir knows Angus Maclean is a shrewd old fox. He will find a way to rescue her.”
“We should put away our sewing for today,” Marion said, rising. “It is almost time for supper.”
Isobella hurried to her chamber to find a dress. Choosing one wouldn’t be a difficult decision since only three dresses graced her trunk. A seamstress had taken her measurements and fabrics had been chosen, so her sparse wardrobe would soon be adequately replenished. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she chose the deep blue gown, without ornate trim, over the ruby silk.
She was a bit apprehensive about seeing Alysandir at dinner. They had not had much contact since her arrival. Yet she knew he would not wait forever to hear her story. After her bath, her skin was baby soft and just as pink, and she smelled faintly of heather. She took extra care with her hair, twisting it into a bun of sorts, and missed the big mirror she had at home. She eyed the small hand mirror and reminded herself that by sixteenth-century standards, she was most fortunate to have even that.
With trembling hands, she slipped the blue silk over her head and was grateful when Sybilla and Marion came and helped her with all the buttons. When they entered the Great Hall a few minutes later, Marion and Sybilla lagged, leaving Isobella to make her entry alone.
The moment she stepped into the hall, everyone stared and all conversation died away. Across the room, Alysandir heard the whispers and then the silence. He looked up and saw a beauty walk into the hall with his sisters not far behind. She looked familiar, and then the realization hit him with the swiftness of a striking sword.
“Is that Isobella?” Gavin asked.
“Aye. Every desirable, beautiful inch.”
“‘Twould seem ye are the envy of every man in the hall,” Ronan said. “I can certainly see why.”
“Do not take a fancy to the lass,” Alysandir warned.
Ronan laughed and slapped his brother on the back. “Not to worrit. I value my life too much.”
Alysandir swallowed, his hand almost crushing the silver cup in his hand. He knew the beauty was Isobella, but his mind could not seem to accept the idea. All he could think was, it had been a good thing she wasna dressed like that in the glen because he wasna certain he could have kept his gentlemanly manners.
He saw her uncertainty and knew she did not know what was expected of her or where she should sit, but having him come to her rescue would do her more harm. Thankfully, Marion and Sybilla appeared, and flanking her, they accompanied her rest of the way.
He had never seen a dress fit a woman so well. He had not thought about it, but now he could see that she was well blessed where she should be, filling out the bosom of her dress and leaving plenty of enticement above the décolletage. There wasn’t a ripple or a loose place anywhere. The dress almost looked like it had been painted on her.
She carried herself like a queen,: graceful, regal, and dignified. She was all woman and every inch a lady, and he had never seen her equal, not even in Paris. He was thinking she would make the perfect mistress, but at the same time, he wondered if she would accept such a role. Beautiful, arousing, and complicated meant nothing but trouble.
Isobella took the seat, while Alysandir watched her from across the hall. She found it a bit disconcerting, but by the time supper was over and the tables were cleared, he was no longer there. The experience became rather like performing a play with no one in the audience.
In his absence, she was lighthearted and gay, and although she would have loved to join the dancing after the meal, she did not want to stress her ankle, nor was she ready to draw unnecessary attention to herself. Instead, she engaged in conversation with members of Alysandir’s family and a few of the bolder clan members who came to meet her, curious about her strange speech and sudden appearance at the castle.
At one point, Drust rescued her. “We must let the lass rest,” he told the others. “She has done naught but answer questions fer the past week. ’Tis a wonder she doesna have crossed eyes from all of it.”
“Oh, but I do,” she said and crossed her eyes and joined in the laughter.
During the ensuing lull, she studied the hall, especially the murals, which were painted in vivid, prime colors to depict heraldic, religious, and historical themes. Carved stone corbels bore the arms of the Mackinnons including those through intermarriage. The huge fireplace, with its stone-carved lintel, depicted the face of the ancient Celtic green man, leaves sprouting from his head.
Above the lintel was an overmantel hung with a shield bearing the chief’s crest. The flagstone floors were thankfully bare, free of reed mats or the flowers and herbs typically scattered over the floors during this time period.
This was Renaissance Scotland on an evening very removed from her time. It was an historian’s dream come true, experiencing this race of hardy people living in a stern and sometimes comfortless manner, always mindful of a neighboring realm that was richer, larger, and more powerful. They lived amid jealous kings and betrayals among powerful families, all vying for control and position.
It was a place of myth and mystery, a place of mountain tarn and moors, of mist-shrouded crags, soaking rains, and never-ending jealousies and feuds between warring clans. And yet, they were a resilient race, strong, robust, hard-headed, quick to draw a sword, resolute, family oriented and distrustful, yet oddly accepting of a stranger in need who was very far from home.
Drust said something to Colin, who replied louder than he should have. “Nae, I wasna born under a lusting planet.”
Everyone laughed, and Isobella’s head went back as her hand came up to her throat. As she caught her breath, she discovered that Alysandir had returned. He was deep in conversation, which gave her ample time to study him. He was absolutely the sexiest man she had ever seen. And wasn’t he just the epitome of elegance in his velvet doublet and white shirt, with his hair neatly tied back?
Then their eyes met, and he gave her a slow grin. She smiled and looked away, for she was growing weary and she had sipped at least two glasses of wine. When Sybilla whispered that she and Marion were leaving, Isobella responded quickly that she would go with them.
Once she was in her room, she undressed quickly and settled herself comfortably in bed. She was barely asleep when a violent storm blew in from the Atlantic. She opened her eyes and yawned, thankful she was safe, warm, and dry, and then fell asleep again. She slept soundly until a sudden crash of thunder jerked her awake. Another ear-splitting boom followed, louder than the one before.
She listened to the roar of wind and the explosive leaps of thunder that rattled the crags in the distance while jagged flashes of lightning ripped across the sky, filling her room with light. Wind roared down the chimney and fanned to life a small blaze, which she welcomed.
Strange though it was, she conjured the memory of the heat emanating from the Mackinnon’s body the night they had slept together in the glen, wrapped in his plaid. She sighed when she remembered the way he had taken her hand and held it against his chest.
A fool’s counsel from a wise head… or is it wise counsel from a fool’s head?
Her eyes popped open, and she looked around the room. She saw nothing, but that did not mean the Black Douglas was not there. Was he trying to warn her? Or was he trying to play the court jester? Where was he?
Now you see him; now you don’t.
“I know you are here, so you might as well show yourself.”
“I have been here for some time.”
She whipped her head around and saw him, a shadow in the dark corner. “Sir James, have you misbehaved and been confined to the dark corner by the gods?”
“‘Far an taine ’n abhainn, ’s ann as mo a fuaim.’”
“I am supposed to understand that?”
“Where the stream is shallowest, greatest is its noise.”
“I have asked you to visit me many times and you’ve never come, and now when I am asleep you pop up.”
“A little neglect may breed mischief.”
“Mine or yours?”
He laughed. “If this poor ghostie ha’ offended.”
“I am not going to ask you about Elisabeth.”
“Then I will tell you that she is well, but then I could be speaking falsely.”
“When are we going back home?”
“Did I say ye were ever going home?”
Her heart seemed to stop beating. “But, you said—you cannot mean to leave us here.”
“Ye make insufficient conclusions from sufficient premises.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Did I say it was now?
He gave her a Mona Lisa smile and vanished.
She was glad he had come, if for no other reason than to know he had not forgotten about her. She stared at the uncovered window, watching the lightning flash bright as the beam of a lighthouse. She wished someone had had the forethought to draw the tapestry. When the next slash of lightning illuminated her room, she decided to close it herself and made her way to the window.
Her attention was drawn to the figure of a man. She frowned, for she was certain it was Alysandir standing there, wrapped in the fury of the wind and swirling mist. He was staring out over the vast darkness, toward where the battered shores of Mull met the waters of the Atlantic.
What was he doing standing on the battlement walk in the midst of a storm? Was a ship running aground? Lightning flashed. She saw his head thrown back while rain pelting his face. And then she had a horrible thought. Was he contemplating suicide?
A storm such as she had never seen was setting in, and still he did not leave. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t tear herself away from the window. There was something achingly sorrowful, even dangerous about his dark figure and the agony she sensed that had drawn him to the water. Another serrated flash of light split the night sky. And at that moment, he turned to look at the window where she stood.
They remained as they were, each staring at the other for a moment or two, before he drew together the cape that whipped wildly about him and turned away. Then, he did something that made her heart stop. Instead of turning back to the castle, he walked closer to the edge and leaned out over the embrasure.
Terrified he was going to jump, she grabbed her cape and hurried down the stairs, rushing past two surprised guards and a drowsy hound before she reached the door that led to the parapet wall.
Alysandir felt the yank on his arm and turned to see Isobella standing beside him, wild-eyed, as she tugged on his sleeve.
“Don’t do it! Nothing can be bad enough for that. Once you jump, there will be no going back.”
Alysandir stared at her, not understanding her gibberish until he saw the terrified expression on her face just before she threw her arms around him. She looked pleadingly into his eyes and said, “Please, I beg you. Don’t jump!”
Jump?He was about to laugh outright, or at least chastise her, and then order her back to her bedchamber. But something about the desperation in her voice touched him and gentled his spirit. He looked down at her upturned face, and the blood began to run thick and heavy in his veins as an aching need for her gripped him low in his belly.
Her braids had come undone, and her hair fell in a wet, tangled mass down to her waist. Water ran in streams over her face, causing her eyelashes to clump together, but her trembling mouth, so soft and full, was his undoing.
With a muffled oath, he took her in his arms and crushed her against himself, consumed with dark, primal lust. Her mouth tasted sweet and lushly potent, and he was consumed by an aching desire to know what it felt like to be inside her. He wanted to absorb her into himself, to possess her in a way that she would never be able to forget. Nor would she want to.
Her slender arms were clamped tightly around his neck. In spite of the two cloaks between them, the hard press of her body inflamed him. He kissed her again as all about them rain poured down and the wind blew.
Her mouth was wild and hunger-laced and equal to his wild craving. She was achingly beautiful with her lips swollen from his kisses, and he could see desire burning deep in her eyes. Was he dreaming? Was this the woman of his wild fantasy? Was she his dream lover? Or was this truly Isobella he held?
Mayhap she is the granite crag upon which thou will wreck…
For a moment, her image seemed to blur before him. Whichever she was, she was here in his arms, and he did not care if she was a fantasy or not. He wanted to devour her with more than just his eyes and taste more than her lips.
“Come inside,” she pleaded. “We can talk about it.”
Part of him wanted to turn away and leave her. Part of him wanted to carry her back into the castle and make love to her until the sun was high in the sky. No part of him wanted to talk. “I want to do more than talk, lass,” he said, and he swept her up and into his arms.
He carried her inside, his body hard and throbbing with desire. He wanted to fill her with himself and spill his seed in the bed of her warmth. Her delicate arms were still wound around his neck, and she laid her head against his chest until he pushed the door to her room open and carried her inside. She lifted her head and looked around. “I thought we were going somewhere to talk.”
“We are somewhere. We can talk here.”
She lifted one eyebrow so doubtfully that he wanted to laugh. But he held the urge in check, for his desire to bed her superseded all. The humor drained away. He lowered her to her feet in front of the fireplace, surprised to see the fire still blazed so far into the night, something he accepted as a boon.
Firelight adored her face and tinted the copper spirals of her wet hair with the brilliance of rubies. He closed his eyes and imagined her standing thus, the golden glow of the fire upon her naked skin, and wearing naught but his mother’s ruby necklace. He would bathe her in the nectar of brandewijn and make himself drunk on the taste of her velvety skin.
The bottle he had sent to ease the pain of her ankle still stood upon the tray near the bed. He filled a goblet from the bottle, and when he turned toward her, he was breathless at the sight of her. Her cape had fallen open to reveal a nightgown the color of the sun—pale and amber—the damp fabric draping her damp body and flirting with her hips. He drank deeply, wanting to warm his blood and stoke the fire in his loins.
His head felt light and his body hot. He frowned and gazed down at the goblet still in his hand. He did not drink enough to be drunk, and he wasn’t dreaming. Yet the lines separating what was real, what he dreamt, and what he desired had disappeared. All was illusory.
He could not go back to his life as it had been before. Her coming had changed that. It was not her fault, nor was it his. It was not the fault of desire or the lack of it. It was not the fault of having a woman in his life or having none. The fault lay with this woman, because she was different.
She filled his thoughts by day and tormented his sleep at night. He desired her, and the yearning rose in him as the sap rises in a tree. He wanted that part of her that was warm and na?ve, kind and curious, considerate, and full of empathy. He welcomed her lightheartedness and her laughter and the companionship he had with her. He enjoyed her odd way of expressing herself and, yes, even her outspoken ways. But he did not want to.
“Ye came to me on the parapet. Was it to tempt me?”
“It will take me the rest of the night to dry my clothes and hair and to warm my body—a little extreme for sport. I thought you were going to jump. I wanted to prevent it if I could.”
He almost laughed, until he saw the way her eyes glistened as she drew the cloak tightly about herself and turned toward the fire. “I think you should go now. It will be daylight soon. I need to dry my hair and get out of these wet clothes.”
“And would it have bothered you if I had jumped?”
She whirled around, her eyes flashing angrily. “Of course it would! I am not a hard-hearted wretch! You saved my life. I owe you a tremendous debt. How could I hope to gain anything by your death when you have treated me with every kindness and sheltered me in your home?”
“Those are the only reasons?”
She shrugged. “I like you. You are brave and strong, yet your heart is kind, your manner gentle, and your heart pure. You have a great future ahead of you. Your clan and your country need you. And I am indebted to you. Why would I want to watch you jump if I could prevent it?”
He gazed down into her upturned face, mesmerized by her eyes, huge and luminous, and he felt another little part of him open to her. Looking into her eyes was like staring into a clear loch, for beneath the surface there was nothing he feared, nothing that troubled him or made him distrust her.
“And if I wished to collect upon the debt ye owe me this verra night? What would ye say?” He fought against the dizziness of desire. Och, he could take her right now, standing up, on the floor, straddling her in the bed, tupping her backed against the wall.
He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face and saw that her expression was watchful, almost fearful. The lamplight filtering through her long lashes left a fringe of a shadow upon her porcelain cheek.
There was honesty in her eyes, and he knew her capable of telling the truth, yet something did not sit well with him. It was like a burr that pricked at him each time he moved, a reminder that he needed to dig deeper, to find the real reason she was here. And therein lay the crux of the matter.
He wanted to learn the truth, but he wanted her to tell him because she wanted to, not because he forced it from her. “Ye have naught to fear from me.” He wanted to be close to her on this night. He needed her warmth, her softness, her understanding, her tolerant manner to make him forget the women in his past, if only for a short while.
She studied him with eyes green as the mossy stones in Macquarrie’s burn. He needed no further prompting, for simply talking to her turned him to stone. His thumb stroked the fullness of the mouth he had wanted to kiss since she walked into the hall tonight, wearing the gown that fit every supple inch of her.
His mouth slid over hers in a hard kiss that grew more demanding as he felt her arms go around him. She groaned, and his body leapt in response. His hand covered her breast, and he felt her softness through the thin fabric of her gown. He pulled away from her and whispered Gaelic phrases in her ear.
“Let me make love to ye.”
“No…”
“Aye,” he said, and his hand lifted the damp gown so he could touch her smooth skin. Her softness made him groan. He touched her gently, insane with wanting. “Ye are denying what ye want, and yer body is the proof.”
“It isn’t the first time my body and my mind did not agree.” She pushed against him. “I can’t.”
He wanted to teach her to make love with him and to him, to bring her pleasure and to show her how to bring pleasure to him. He knew it would be perfect between them, and he would give her anything she desired…
Except marriage…
He pushed the thought aside. His hand trembled when he lifted one copper curl and rubbed the damp, silky texture between his fingers. “So lovely to look at. So desirable to touch. So impossible to trust.”
Her look of confusion turned to shame and remorse, born of a brief moment of pleasure. He sensed the sudden shift, the cool withdrawal. She wasn’t going to give in to him now. What kind of sorceress was she? For she tempted him even with her denial.