Chapter 13
As they approached the Inverlochy Castle walls, Lachlan counted the number of guards on the battlement walls between the towers where Comyn flags flew.
At least a dozen walked back and forth atop the fortress, stopping to stare down at them with openly hostile faces and drawn weapons.
Given the circumstances, their reaction was a comfort.
If the Bruce suspected there was an enemy within, he wouldn’t send the niece he was trying to save straight into the lion’s den.
“Who are ye and what do ye want?” a guard, looking like he’d had one too many pots of his mother’s stew, called down from over the gate.
A heavy iron portcullis below it guarded thick wooden doors, and the bridge that led to the doors was slightly raised over full moat.
Another guard, hair standing on end, came to stand beside the first, bow drawn, arrow aimed right at Lachlan’s heart no doubt.
The two of them together looked like some mad jest.
“The Bruce sends us,” Lachlan said. “Lachlan MacLeod.”
The men conferred briefly, and Lachlan wished like hell he could hear what they had to say. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.
It was no secret that there was a political rivalry between the Bruce and Comyn’s clan, which was perhaps why the Bruce was attempting to marry his niece to Comyn in the first place.
The alliance would not be the first political farce to help forge an alliance in blood.
But that still didn’t mean it sat right with him.
Somehow Lachlan needed to remember that this was all a political game.
That he and Lady Isabel were players, and if he wanted to win, he had to play by the rules.
Except, someone else had bent those rules at Falkirk.
Despite his orders, there was a tickle in the back of his brain that made his gut clench, and he vowed not to trust a single person beyond that gate.
Lachlan turned to Angus and said low enough the men on the walls couldn’t hear him, “Be cautious. We canna be sure Comyn was no’ behind the betrayal at Falkirk.”
Angus and his men nodded, and Lady Isabel looked at him sharply, her keen intelligent eyes relaying that she’d picked up on what he’d said.
There was only one positive in this particular moment. There were enough guards on the walls that they would not have to worry about the English banging down the door and threatening their lives. At least for tonight. He hoped.
Unless these men let them in.
He shook off the paranoid thought.
His men were exhausted, and so was he. The lady and her maid looked like they were going to fall off their horses.
After the grueling ride, and a battle they’d barely had time to recover from, staying at Inverlochy meant shelter and food for the night.
Such an occurrence could still happen. Slim a chance as it might be.
If, in fact, Comyn was the enemy they were looking for—then that chance grew.
But as they entered the main gate, Alistair Comyn stood with a smile on his face and open arms. He greeted them confidently, with long black hair that flowed around his shoulders in a way too casual for a warrior.
Lachlan and his men kept their hair tied back and away from their faces, so it did not obstruct their view.
“Ah, the Wolf of Skye, and the lovely Lady Isabel. I’m so glad that ye’re here.” He sauntered forward, and held up his hand for Isabel, and Lachlan bristled as he helped her from her mount, his greedy hands roving over her waist and hips. “The Bruce has sung your praises, my lady.”
Alistair finally set her down, her feet planted on the courtyard ground, but then he bowed over Isabel’s hand, kissing it, his lips lingering a beat longer than was proper.
Long enough to make Lachlan instantly hot with an angry jealousy searing through his belly.
Rather than draw his sword and chop of Comyn’s lips, he fisted his hand in his plaid, and dismounted, so he could be closer to Isabel should she need protection.
Elsa fussed with her lady’s skirts, straightening them.
A reminder, he suspected of both her presence and propriety.
“Lady Isabel, your uncle’s letter spoke of your wit, but no’ your beauty.” Comyn’s voice dripped with a syrupy sweetness that came off with one single purpose: to disarm her.
Lachlan grimaced, grinding his teeth together. He spared a glance at Angus and James, who made the same look, having grown protective of Isabel over their journey. They were both on alert for anything untoward and any signs of betrayal.
But mostly Lachlan was staring at Comyn’s attention to Isabel.
Isabel, however, responded politely as she might to any courtly man.
“Ye are too kind, my lord.” Just as a well-trained lady would, but notably without being moved, a terse smile and not even a crinkle of pleasure in her eyes.
There was nothing giddy or girlish in her response, and Lachlan was unexpectedly pleased about that.
Perhaps she too had caught on to Alistair Comyn’s game.
“Come inside. We’ve rooms aplenty, and Cook is preparing a hearty meal for us to feast upon.
My soldiers are quite well trained. This castle will hold against any English patrols that happen by while we sup.
” Comyn offered Isabel his arm, then turned when she placed her hand on his forearm, beckoning them to follow him.
“How many men did ye bring with ye?” Comyn asked Lachlan as they crossed the wide stone-arched threshold that led into the great hall.
Lachlan wasn’t sure if this was a question to find out how many they would have to take down, or if Comyn needed to know so he could make certain they had appropriate accommodations. His men lingered in the courtyard, murmuring amongst themselves, and it was rather obvious how many they were.
“There are twelve of us staying with ye,” Lachlan said.
Comyn nodded looking speculative, his opposite hand laying over Isabel’s where it rested on his arm. Lachlan tried hard not to react as he watched Comyn stroke her hand like one might a cat.
“Makes sense. Were ye followed? Which road did ye take?”
Isabel’s cheeks were growing pink, her neck splotched as she was clearly feeling uncomfortable.
Her other hand clenched at her side and Lachlan thought it possible she might take the dagger he knew she hid in her sleeve and stab Comyn right in the center of the great hall, his body dropping before his roaring hearth.
Just then, as if sensing her distress, her lady’s maid let out the biggest sneeze, stumbling backward into Angus.
Isabel wrenched her arm from Comyn and leapt to her maid’s side. “My goodness, Elsa, God bless ye.”
The maid smiled shyly. “Apologies, my lady.”
“None at all, let us get a drink.” Isabel nodded to Comyn. “Where is your kitchen?”
Comyn looked annoyed as he nodded toward the back of the great hall, and Lachlan watched as Isabel and her maid hurried away with one of Comyn’s servants leading the way, their heads bent together in what looked like whispers.
Angus sent a discreet nod in Lachlan’s direction and followed behind them.
Lachlan cleared his throat, pulling Comyn’s attention back to him. “We were no’ followed. My scouts doubled back to make certain.”
Comyn contemplated, stealing glances toward the rear of the great hall where the two women had disappeared.
“However,” Lachlan continued, “there were men at the inn asking questions about a woman traveling with a group of Scots. They are definitely looking for Isabel.”
Comyn frowned, a cloud passing over his face. Perhaps it was something possessive, knowing there was talk of him marrying Isabel.
“How can ye be sure?” Comyn asked looking skeptical. “Surely there are many more women and Scots in the country than your small party.”
Lachlan was surprised by the man’s response, but he didn’t let it show. “Of course. Alas, if it ends up being true, then ye will assure us that your walls are well guarded, your gate firmly closed.” It was not a request, but a demand.
“Rest assured, if anyone were to come creeping about my guards will see they dinna obtain the fruits of their labor.”
What an odd way to respond. Lachlan narrowed his eyes, about to ask Comyn to expound on his odd statement, when the man interrupted his thoughts.
“Well then, my seneschal will see ye to your rooms,” Comyn said. “And after ye’ve rested, we shall feast.”
Isabel, Angus, and her maid returned just then, to Lachlan’s relief, since in the brief conversation with Comyn he’d had a flash of her abduction. Hot on their heels, the ladies were shown to a room first, up three levels of a narrow circle stone staircase. Comyn stayed below, thank the heavens.
When Lachlan was certain she was secure in the small chamber she was assigned, noting the exact number of steps on the stone floors from her chamber to his–one floor above, almost directly over top of her–in case he had to rush to her, he followed the seneschal to a chamber where a hot bath was already being prepared for him.
“Do ye need assistance?” the seneschal asked.
“Nay,” Lachlan grunted. He was not happy about being a floor above Isabel. If anything should happen, he had stairs to contend with, even if he was only forty-seven feet away. “Where are ye housing my men?”
“In the barracks, my laird. By the stable.”
So nowhere near him or Isabel either. Despite that being typical at any castle he might visit, with Comyn it felt like a threat.
While her chamber had appeared small and comfortable, Lachlan’s was a damned garderobe. At least the stench was just as bad, the walls just as narrow. He guessed he’d been given a servant’s quarters. A message from Comyn that was well received.