Chapter Fifteen #2
Ismay knew he apologized for Constantine’s sake and not for hers.
He was always kind and respectful to her because Constantine was fond of her.
She didn’t mind. The lethal Highlander frightened her a bit with his piercing eyes that seemed to penetrate as deeply as twin swords, but he was fiercely loyal to Constantine and she liked that about him.
“If he returns, send fer me,” Constantine told his cousin.
After that, Ismay sat quietly pondering who the patron could be.
There had been some kind servants in her father’s house.
Many of them loved the baron and would likely be on her side.
But who? And did she want Constantine to meet him so he could tell the Cameron chief all about his MacPherson lord and his runaway daughter?
It couldn’t be Chief MacRae, could it? Why would he call her father his lord? Nae. It was not MacRae.
The more she thought about it, the more ill she felt. But she smiled when everyone else did, not wanting to seem anxious or afraid in front of Constantine.
She drank all the wine Lachlan and Fionn set before her. At one point, Constantine turned from his conversation with Geoffry and looked at her just as she was swigging her fourth cup.
She wiped her hand across her mouth and slammed the cup down, harder than she intended, on the table.
She expected him to say something. Ask her if she was well or not.
Tell her to stop drinking. Something. But he was quiet.
Indeed, he let his murderous glare on his two younger cousins do the talking for him.
When Lachlan set down another cup a little while later, they seemed to warn: Take it away before ye canna move another thing fer the next year.
No one offered her another drink. By the time they left, the sun had set and Ismay was a wee bit less drunk than before.
She didn’t protest when the handsome chief offered to help her to his horse.
Though she would admit that when he bent to lift her into his arms to carry her, she doubted she had any wits left to say a word without sounding like a pitifully obsessed admirer.
Cradled against the Lochiel’s chest, she wanted to sleep. Och, to sleep without a care safe in his arms. But she couldn’t sleep because she had to—be sick. Every time she closed her eyes, the ground spun.
“Put me down,” she commanded.
All the men walking close by turned to have a look at her.
“Constantine!”
They all gaped at her calling him with intimate familiarity.
She covered her mouth with her hand. He seemed to understand and set her on her feet. Thankful, she ran the other way, until she realized she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. How could she forget how dark the night could be? Her feeling of being ill disappeared, replaced by fear.
She turned in a circle. The only light came from the lanterns along the inn. There was nothing else in her vision but black. She heard something snap to her right. Another coyote? Chief MacRae?
“Ismay!”
She turned in Constantine’s direction and ran into his arms. “I wasna sure…”
“Aye, that is thanks to all the ale inside yer belly. It’s gone to yer head.” With that, he ran his palm over her head as if she were his favored dog. “Come, now, hold onto me.”
He slipped his arm around her waist and dragged her close beside him.
She held onto him when he led them to the others, then, into his saddle.
She was happy she could not see the men’s faces, staring knowingly at her as their Lochiel mounted behind her.
Did they dislike her because their untouchable Lochiel suddenly seemed… touchable?
He didn’t seem to be bothered by his cousins, if he could see them. Pulling her closer, he flicked the reins of his horse and left for the castle.
She felt queasy being jostled around in the saddle, but she managed to keep her belly quiet.
Though it was past the evening meal, she was not hungry and let Constantine help her to her chambers when they returned to the castle.
She dreamed that he tucked her into her bed and spoke in his low, seductive voice, something she couldn’t remember. She dreamed of other things, like swimming with him, laughing with him, and best of all, kissing him.
Morning came too soon and brought with it the stark ugly truth of day. Constantine would be leaving for battle with the MacKintoshes—and whomever else from the Chattan would help them.
She ate with Hilary and Joan in the Great Hall.
None of the men were there. They all rode with Constantine to Achnacarry to scout out the territory before the fight.
Hilary wept at the possibility of one or both of her brothers not being here for her wedding.
Joan admitted she loved Lachlan and if he perished on the field she could not live another day.
Ismay had lived through terrible loss before. It was a good thing she hadn’t allowed herself to feel anything more for him than a growing fondness in her heart. She didn’t love him. Yet, the thought of him dead brought tears to her eyes and felt like a cold spear through her heart.
She didn’t see him all day. She spent most of her hours alone, preferring it that way over spending hours weeping or listening to others weep.
She sat beyond the tree line at the loch and remembered his gaze on her while she swam and drying off wrapped in his plaid, warm and safe in his strong arms.
She smiled thinking of how he was single-handedly changing her opinion of chiefs. But was it enough to stay here? When he returned from battle—and he would—would he still care for her. Would it ever be enough to pull him from the arms of a ghost?
If it was, what would he do when he found out the truth about her?
She rubbed her belly and moved to stand. Hugh suddenly was there, blocking her way back.
“Are ye worried fer him, or are ye feeling ill, lass?” Hugh asked with sincere concern shaping his features.
“What are ye doing here, Hugh?” she asked, taking a step to the left and clearing her path, but not going forward.
“I saw ye from the battlements, where I stood watching fer any signs of the Lochiel,” he told her.
“And ye followed me because…?”
“Ye shouldna go beyond the gate. It isna safe out in the open.”
She realized he was right. Even Constantine had brought Lachlan to help him protect her while she swam.
Repentant, she hung her head. “I was just about to return.”
“A wise decision,” he said, then stepped completely out of her path. “Let me escort ye back.”
She nodded, then lifted her head again to offer him a smile. She guessed Hugh wasn’t so bad. He questioned his chief, but some men did, even if just in their hearts. Constantine did not throw him out or have him killed for his opinions. She would put them aside too.
“Ye said ye were watching fer the Lochiel’s return,” she reminded him. “Is there a reason—”
“He has guests waiting fer his return. I sought to warn him.”
She stopped and looked up at him. “Warn him of his guests’ arrival? Why?” she added when he nodded his head. “Who are they?”
“His wife’s parents.”
Ismay swallowed. The knot in her belly tightened. His wife…why did hearing those words prick and slice her as if she’d just fallen into shards of glass?
“Why have they come?” she asked with hesitance softening her tone.
“Most likely to remind him that he hadna loved their daughter enough and whatever other things they usually throw at him.”
“Do they take pleasure in hurting him?” she demanded.
“I dinna know about that, Miss Drummond, but I know they use the guilt they cause him to squeeze his coffers. He allows it, of course. And in the meantime Tor’s coffers will soon run dry.”
Ismay stared at Constantine’s steward. Were Constantine’s in-laws truly here to squeeze his coffers?
Did his steward have any sort of loyalty to Constantine, or was it solely to Tor’s coffers?
She had heard him questioning the chief about draining the coffers the morning she had followed Constantine out into the mists.
Her brow dipped over her eyes creating shadows in their depths, like turbulent seas under a charcoal sky.
“’Tis best if ye do yer best to avoid the MacMillans,” the steward told her, “and dinna look at them as if ye have been keeping company with a savage.”
She blinked and confusion washed over her. Did the steward like Constantine, or hate him? The chief’s own men were not certain, and neither was she.
“Do ye consider the Lochiel a savage?”
He picked up his steps again and didn’t look at her when he spoke. “A man who could cut down a regiment of enemy soldiers with nae other help than from his arm has to be a savage. Dinna ye think? Surely ye have been around savages before. Ye are running from one.”
How did he know about MacRae? Had Constantine told him? Had she and she didn’t remember? Was he even referring to MacRae?
“No’ a savage but a soldier with a skilled arm and a strong will to live,” she corrected him.
He smiled but there was more mockery in it than merriment. “Does the Lochiel strike ye as a man with a strong will to survive, then? Nae,” he answered for her, “ye didna see him when he returned from battle covered from foot to crown in the blood of others.”
She shook her head as if to chase away images Hugh conjured in her thoughts.
“Should he have laid down his sword and died then?” she challenged, tired of hearing his treacherous talk coated in false compassion.
“Hugh, has it not occurred to ye that he suffers? Ye have heard his night terrors, I’m sure.
Even the chambermaids have heard him crying out.
Ye say he doesna smile or speak much with others, and then ye tell me how his in-laws accuse him of heinous lies.
Do ye truly believe he doesna suffer? Is it not enough fer ye? ”
The steward did not stop or even slow his pace, but continued on to the castle. He left her side when a silver-haired woman left the Great Hall, saw her, and came nearer to circle her like a cat.
Ismay offered her a slight smile and took a step to leave. The woman’s words stopped her. “Are ye the homeless wench who thinks to take my daughter’s place?”
Ismay wondered for a moment where she had come up with that notion, but then she spotted Bethia leaving the gGeat Hall next.
“I assure ye,” Ismay said slowly, returning her attention to the silver-haired woman, “no one can take yer daughter’s place in the Lochiel’s heart. He was verra dedicated to her.”
She said this because of what Hugh had told her was the reason they were here: to remind him that he hadn’t loved their daughter enough.
The woman raised her brow as she assessed Ismay. She appeared to come to a distasteful conclusion. “Then why did she die alone, Miss Drummond?”
“Because she married a soldier, Lady MacMillan,” Ismay said in a soft voice.
It appeared that Lady MacMillan was not able to conceal her ire the way Ismay could and was doing right now.
The older woman tightened her lips and balled her hands into fists.
“Listen ye trollop. Are ye trying to blame my Alison fer dying alone?” She could barely deliver her question without trembling, and for a moment Ismay thought she might shatter and break.
“My lady, I am truly sorry fer yer loss. I canna imagine—”
“Ye are correct, ye know nothing of the loss my husband and I suffered. I am warning ye now to stay away from my son-in-law.”
Watching her storm away, Ismay wanted to say something else, but truly, it wasn’t her place. She didn’t know if she was anything more to Constantine than his friend…whom he kissed.
She left the hall and heard Joan calling out to her as she ascended the stairs.
“Dinna pay any attention to that old crow,” Joan advised her, catching up with her on her way up the stairs.
“I think Bethia sent for her,” Ismay let her know her suspicions. “Lady MacMillan accused me of trying to take her daughter’s place with Con—” she paused, hating to appear overly close with the chief and hating even more that she believed she needed to hide it—“the chief.”
“Well, if ye do take her place, ’twill be a good thing fer the Lochiel. Ye have been nothing but good fer him.”
Ismay smiled at her reassurance but inwardly she cringed. She still could not see her future. She thought he was the one man she would like to marry. But she had spoken the truth to Lady MacMillan. No one could take her daughter’s place in the Lochiel’s heart.
It was a truth she was going to have to either accept or refuse.
Joan agreed to bring supper to Ismay’s chamber to keep Ismay from having to speak to Lady MacMillan again, and left her friend to see to the task.
But after a few moments of thinking it over, Ismay ran her fingers through her unruly hair in an effort to make it a bit less wild, then left her chambers.