Chapter Six
“I shall escape from here,” Isobel vowed to herself, a promise muttered under her breath. She could not, however, imagine how. She surveyed her surroundings and felt desperation arise and threaten to choke her.
She had been given a sleeping chamber in the monster’s keep. Shortly after his outrageous declaration, his threat of marriage, the woman—his sister—had cursed him, employing words no decent woman might utter, and marched from the room.
Dougal had then called a servant, an ancient man wearing a filthy kilt, and instructed him to make their guest comfortable in the “best bedchamber.”
The “best” proved rough, indeed. The room, though spacious and lofty, contained few comforts.
The stone walls seemed to radiate damp; the furnishings consisted of a wardrobe with warped doors, an ancient chest, and a bed, about which Isobel barely dared think.
The servant kindled a pitifully small fire in the hearth and abandoned Isobel to her doubts and fears.
As soon as she found herself alone, she began to tremble, the remnants of her courage deserting her abruptly. Panic filled her heart as she struggled to make sense of her situation.
The MacNabs awaited her arrival: that one truth nothing could change. Someone would discover the wreckage of the coach containing her attendants—injured or dead. Her fate would eventually become evident.
She paced the chilly room, trying to remember what her father had said about this region of Scotland.
Lawless, infested with bandits, yet he had been confident MacNab, advantaged by his connections with the King, could protect Catherine.
Obviously, even her father had misjudged the temerity of a bandit who would snatch a woman supposedly under MacNab’s protection.
Isobel cursed her father for his careless arrogance.
It was typical of his high-handed tendency to assume no one would interfere with him, or his.
He should have sent a small army rather than a coachman and a pair of attendants.
Or MacNab—curse him also!—should have sent an escort, since presumably he knew the dangers of these roads.
But none of that would help Isobel now. She must deal with what lay in her hands, and it did not look pretty.
She knew nothing about her captor, save his first name.
She knew little enough of where he had brought her after leaving the road, through rough country, much of it, and incipient darkness.
He possessed this keep, which argued some measure of wealth, yet this place was shabby, ill kept, and possibly ill staffed.
She knew a guard stood outside the door of her chamber, for she had heard the exchange between him and her captor after she had been shut in.
“She goes nowhere, Geordie, understand?”
The guard replied with a grunt that needed no interpretation.
The only windows in the room were two slits so high Isobel doubted she could reach them even if she climbed onto the chest. She found herself caught and fairly, like a trout in a net.
But…why? Her captor—this lawless, terrifying man—said he meant to wed with her, but that was illegal without her consent or that of her father, and it made no sense. What sane man would snatch a stranger for a bride?
Chances were he was not sane. That thought caused Isobel’s knees to wobble; she sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed.
She knew madness when she saw it. Despite her father’s platitudes and praise, neither of her brothers had been completely sane.
For that matter, her father possessed a streak of madness, come on since her mother’s death, that made him cold and unreasonable.
Isobel considered herself capable of dealing with difficult people, but not in this case, not when the stakes promised confinement and forced marriage.
Which, to be truthful, did not differ so terribly from what Father had planned for Catherine. This chamber might as well be located in MacNab’s house, and Catherine could be sitting here awaiting her fate, to be bedded by a stranger.
Isobel closed her eyes for a moment, grateful she had at least been able to spare her sister that.
And what would happen now? That question dominated her mind.
Presumably the coach had wrecked at the bottom of the hill.
And, presumably, MacNab would eventually go searching for his son’s missing bride.
Should any of her attendants survive the wreck, he or she would tell of the bandit on the dark road.
Only Bethan, though, knew Isobel’s true identity, that she had taken her sister’s place. The odds of rescue coming—finding her here—were so slight, it made Isobel feel ill.
The Black Devil, he called himself. She shivered again; the name seemed all too apt.
****
“Of course you will not actually marry her,” said Meg, her eyes narrowed to slits. “This is another of your games, a particularly vile one. You are doing this to get at MacNab.”
Dougal made no answer. He shot his sister an unfriendly look and poured himself another tall whisky.
“This will rebound on you,” Meg predicted. “You have done a fair bit of thieving in your time—cattle, aye, ponies, jewels, silver, even whisky. But a woman? And from MacNab, of all men. You know full well he shall run, at once, to the King.”
Dougal shrugged carelessly.
“And,” Meg seethed on, “how will you collect the ransom without telling the world of your guilt?”
“I do not mean to ask ransom,” Dougal replied.
He slumped into his customary seat by the fire and stared into the flames.
All he could see, though, was the rage in the eyes of his captive.
Not what he had expected—not at all—and far too good for MacNab.
The wench had courage and defiance. She also possessed a rare beauty that relied not at all on golden curls and simpering smiles.
The very thought of bedding her had him hard as a length of iron.
He wondered who she was. MacNab would choose no peasant for his precious son. Catherine, of no surname. English, though she did not look it with that fire in her hair. He had seen his share of English misses, though he had not yet had one. This one must be a virgin, and overdue for splaying.
Meg laughed, never a reassuring sound. “The King will have your head for this. Is that what you want? Folk hereabouts have just been awaiting the chance to see that.”
She came and squatted beside him, in order to look into his face. “Brother, I long since gave up hope for your soul—”
“’Tis in no greater jeopardy than your own.”
“True. This is about revenge, is it not? You wish to bring MacNab to his knees.”
Dougal felt a grimace pull his lips awry. “MacNab—the grand gentleman,” he sneered. “The man of purported means who can do no wrong.”
“This is about Aisla, is it not?” Meg asked softly, gazing hard into his face.
“Do not speak her name!”
Unexpectedly, Meg’s expression softened. “Do you think I do not understand? She was my friend.”
“I warn you, Sister, I do not wish to speak of this.”
“Can the wound be still so deep, after so long?”
Dougal surged to his feet, nearly sending Meg sprawling. “The wound, as you call it, has no chance of so much as scabbing over—not while that bastard enjoys any measure of success in this world. Do not begin to suppose you understand.”
“You loved her.”
Savagely, Dougal turned on his sister. “What do you know of love? You, who murdered your husband.”
“He betrayed me.” Meg got to her feet and stood, tall and composed as a queen.
“With another woman?” Dougal laughed cruelly. “I am surprised he dared.”
“So am I. He knew what I would do, should he ever prove unfaithful. I told him full well, on our wedding night.”
Dougal stared at her. “I believed the poor sod enamored of you. He never left off talking of your beauty and the poetry of your eyes.”
Meg looked thoughtful. “One cannot trust the tongue of a man. I, myself, would not have believed it, had I not seen the evidence with these poetic eyes.”
“You caught him?” Dougal asked, interested despite himself.
“In the stable, with the young sister of a groom. The lass, no more than twelve, was sobbing. An ugly scene.”
“What did you do to her?” Dougal almost hated to ask.
“Her? Helped her to her feet, dried her tears, and sent her home. She was a child, and one in no fit state for punishment. He, on the other hand...”
The rage in her eyes took Dougal aback.
“Upon inquiring about my household, it proved my husband had long been intent on deflowering every female with whom he came into contact. As time passed, the females became, by necessity, younger and younger. The staff knew, of course—and were afraid to tell me.”
Dougal fully understood why. Even the echo of his sister’s rage daunted strong men.
“Only imagine,” she seethed, “him preferring some unseasoned wench, when he had me in his bed.”
“You felt insulted,” Dougal marveled. “Not broken-hearted?”
“Do not be foolish. You know I have no heart to break. I am like you, in that regard.” Meg’s eyes flashed. “My husband deserved to die, if just for his fecklessness. He knew what I was—what I am.”
“A witch?” Dougal suggested against his better judgment.
“A dangerous woman, one to be reckoned with. But we were speaking, Brother, of your dilemma.”
“I see no dilemma.”
“Oh, I think you do. The wench can identify you. How can you suppose to let her go?”
“Aye, how can I?”
“Yet you cannot keep her captive forever. You have backed yourself into an untenable position.”
“And what do you care, Meg, about my fate? You never tire of saying how you hate me.”
Meg scowled. “I hate the things you have done—and failed to do. However, you do, at present, represent my personal security. Should you find yourself beheaded, with all these lands forfeit, what will become of me?”
Dougal shrugged. “Why not wed Lachlan? He wants you badly enough, poor fool.”
Unexpected color rushed to Meg’s face. “Lachlan?”
“Do not tell me you failed to notice his worshipful glances?”
Meg’s chin lifted. “All men look at me that way.”
Dougal laughed harshly. “Do they, so? What a wonder.”
“I cannot help it. ’Tis easy enough to attract a man. Finding one who will stay honorable and true presents the difficulty.”
“Honorable and true?” Dougal spoke the words with incredulous disbelief. “For the likes of us? Aye, Sister—you must, indeed, be mad.”