Chapter Seventeen
“Thistle, Miss Drummond?” Lady MacMillan sneered at the embroidered flower on Ismay’s handkerchief. “Can you not think of a more delicate flower?”
Ismay looked at it and sighed. She was weary of contending with this woman.
The MacMillans were supposed to leave the same morning Constantine left, but Baron MacMillan, Alison’s father had fallen ill in the night. The castle healer insisted the baron stay at Tor and recuperate. So, five days later, they were still there.
Five days may not be overly long, but in that time, Lady MacMillan had taken over the embroidery room, scrutinizing the ladies’ sewing, especially Ismay’s.
When she wasn’t sucking her teeth at Ismay’s sewing skill, or her taste in what she sewed—like thistle instead of the primroses everyone else sewed—she followed wherever Ismay went and always found something about Ismay to criticize.
“Delicate flowers die too easily,” Ismay told her, without looking up. “I prefer something more hearty that will live through the winters of its life.”
For a moment, Lady MacMillan looked about to faint.
Ismay leaped from her chair and reached for her. “Are ye all right, my lady?”
Lady MacMillan, with cheeks as red as a summer sunrise, hauled back her hand and slapped Ismay across the face. “How dare you liken my Alison to something weak and pitiful!”
Ismay furrowed her brow at her. “What? What are ye talking about? I was speaking of flowers!”
But Alison’s mother didn’t want an answer, nor did she wait for one. Taking a step closer to Ismay, she spoke through clenched teeth. “I will see to it that you never step into my daughter’s shoes.”
Hilary, who bolted to her feet when Ismay was struck, stepped forward.
“And how will ye do that, my lady? The Lochiel willna listen to ye. He already cares fer her! Quit holding my cousin hostage to yer guilt. Yer daughter died giving birth. I’m sorry to say it happens all the time.
Alison was not weak because she died. Ye know that isna what Ismay was saying.
Ye simply want to hate her because the Lochiel likes her. ”
As usual, Hilary said too much.
Lady MacMillan gasped in a succession of three deep breaths that Ismay thought might make the older woman faint for certain. And then she left the embroidery room.
Alone with the other women of Tor, Ismay covered her face. She wasn’t embarrassed by being slapped. It wasn’t the first time. But she had never fought a ghost’s mother before. It felt terrible, weighing more on Ismay’s shoulders every day.
Where was Constantine? Was he fighting or on his way back?
She missed his face, always so impassive, softening into humor or fondness at the sight of her.
She was becoming the only thing soft about him.
She liked that most, being his soft spot.
But wasn’t a warrior’s soft spot his most vulnerable, most valuable possession?
Just how dangerous would it be for the Lochiel if she owned his heart? Hurting her would be the easiest way to hurt him.
Contemplating leaving Tor was becoming easier with each day Constantine wasn’t there.
There were so many reasons she should continue on her path to the safety of a convent.
She wasn’t made to be a wife. What if he was abusive toward her after time passed?
What if he stopped loving her, or even grew to hate her?
What if he ordered her about and forbade her look askew at any man but him or he would take a knife to her tresses?
She shook her head. Could she avoid what she feared so many times in her life? Aye, but it was only guaranteed if she left.
But Constantine Cameron laid all her doubts to ruin. He would not physically hurt her. He was soft and thoughtful.
“I’m not hurt,” she said looking up at the other women there, including Bethia. “She is in worse pain than I. Imagine losing yer child and yer grandchild hours apart?”
“Ismay, ye’re a better person than I am,” Hilary told her with a slight blush across her cheeks. “I wouldna fergive her fer striking me.”
Ismay wondered painfully if Hilary would forgive her when she discovered she’d murdered a MacDonald chief.
“It looks to be a beautiful day,” she remarked looking toward the window and needing some fresh air. “Let us go out.”
“All right!” Hilary exclaimed and clapped her hands. “We can read!” She leaned in closer to Ismay’s ear. “I’m in possession of banned books in support of the monarchy under King Charles ll.”
Ismay was in support of the monarchy, so she agreed happily and looped her arm through Hilary’s to leave.
They invited Joan to join them under the great oak tree but before long, reading became giggles about the Lochiel, Lachlan, and Hilary’s betrothed, John.
The afternoon passed without incident with Lady MacMillan.
Ismay thought she might like to spend the rest of her days with Constantine resting under this tree.
A voice calling her name shattered her pleasant thoughts. She looked toward a lass she recognized as one of the servers at the Doomsday Inn and Tavern. Coleen! Ismay smiled and waved at her as she hurried closer.
“Coleen, is everything well with ye?” she asked after seeing the gel’s anxious gaze.
“I remembered his name, my lady.”
“Who, Coleen?”
“The patron at the tavern who asked about ye,” Coleen let her know.
Aye, the man of mystery who—
“He said he was called MacRae, Alistair MacRae. From where, I canna recall,” Coleen said regretfully.
Ismay stumbled back. Joan hurried to catch her. It was Chief MacRae. Ismay knew it. She knew if she stopped or slowed down he would catch up to her.
“Och, my lady,” Coleen lamented seeing Ismay’s reaction to the news. “Who is he? He didna seem unfriendly or dangerous at the tavern. Is he not a friend?”
A friend. Why had he pretended to be a friend looking for her? So as not to rouse her suspicions if she found out he was close by, she told herself. And it had worked.
She cast a nervous glance around the perimeter of the back garden. Was he near? Och, Constantine, where are ye?
“We should go inside,” she suggested to the others and herded them in, looking over her shoulder as she went.
She gave Coleen a brief explanation about why she did not want him to find her. To Joan and Hilary, she said even less. They knew who Alistar MacRae was. She’d told them just last night.
What if he showed up here? Would he hurt these women without the young men here to save them? She knew what she had to do. If he hurt Joan or Hilary, or any of her other friends…she couldn’t think of it. She had put them all in danger by coming here.
If Constantine were here—but he wasn’t.
“Joan, please tell Hugh not to let in any strangers, no matter who they say they are, until the men return.”
“Ismay,” her friend began, reaching for her.
“I’m fine, Joan. I just need to think. Alone.” She looked from Joan to Hilary.
“If no one lets him in,” Hilary noted, “there’s no way fer him to know ye’re here.”
Ismay shook her head. With each passing moment, her heart beat faster. “Someone may tell him. The baker and the tanner come and go. One of them could mention me if he describes me. I have to think,” she added when her two friends gave no rebuttal but stared at her.
“I’m going to my chambers. Joan, please dinna ferget to tell Hugh.”
When the chambermaid nodded, Hilary took both their hands in hers. “We will keep ye safe, Ismay. I will kill him if he somehow finds ye.”
Ismay could almost hear Constantine’s voice promising to keep her safe. She wanted to throw her arms around her braw friend and thank her, but she also wanted to scold her. Ismay could not live with herself if Hilary was hurt…or worse, because of her.
After sending them on their way, she nearly collapsed while she ascended the stairs as thoughts of running overwhelmed her.
She didn’t want to run away. She liked it at Tor Castle.
She liked her friends and she liked the Lochiel—very much.
But she had always known that her stay here was temporary.
It was best for everyone, even without the threat of Alistar MacRae. Hadn’t she already decided that?
Aye. It was time to stop being idle and indecisive. It was time to leave.
She didn’t mention her plans to Joan or Hilary when they visited her chambers later that evening.
She wanted their last night together to be spent smiling and laughing together.
She also didn’t want anyone to try to change her mind, which her friends would no doubt do.
Her resolve was too weak. She would never leave if they wept over her. But the threat had become very real.
“What was the Lochiel like in his youth?” she asked Hilary, since Hilary was his cousin and they had all grown up together.
“Och, he was mayhem with a heart.”
Ismay laughed at such a description. “Explain, if ye please.”
“When he was just eleven summers old,” Hilary began with a furtive grin, “he robbed the chicken pens of almost every MacKintosh clan from Lochiel to Inverness. Him and his wee accomplices—my brothers and some of the other lads—werena caught fer a year and half a year after that. But what was Gilbert to do aboot it? He loved his brother and wouldna punish him, and I think he secretly admired his little brother’s courage.
“When his chicken thieving days were over, he was always away fighting or raiding cattle. He even took to robbing others on the road. Whether on horse or in their fancy carriages, Constantine took everything they carried with them. But he left them alive. He was trouble away from home, but the moment he stepped back inside Tor, his heart was restored. He was good-natured and he smiled often.”
“And he changed so much after Alison and his babe died?” Ismay asked, knowing by now what it had done to his heart to lose them.