Chapter Eighteen
“I do not need you. I do not want you! Be a sensible man and keep out of my life.” The whisper vibrated through the cold silence of the great hall and stopped Dougal in the doorway, unseen.
The dawn, just past, had come muffled in deep snow; the couple in the hall, who spoke with their heads close together, stood nearly lost in deep gloom.
Yet, Dougal knew them: his sister, Meg, and his friend, Lachlan—who obviously did not know what was good for him.
As if to prove it, Lachy whispered, “I cannot! You have bewitched me. Do you have any idea how I want you?”
Dougal, unwilling eavesdropper, almost groaned. He—fresh from his wife’s bed and another endless night spent struggling not to touch her—understood the meaning of frustration. But he knew his sister also, and Lachy would get nowhere by begging.
As if to prove him right, Meg laughed. “All men want me, most to their sorrow. Do yourself a favor, Lachy, and give it up.”
Lachlan’s voice trembled when he replied, “I do not think that’s possible.”
Dougal saw his sister reach up and touch Lachlan on the cheek, a gesture of unaccustomed tenderness. “Lachlan, I have known you since we were both children. You are like a brother to me, almost.”
“Do not say that!”
“I stipulated ‘almost.’ We teased and tormented each other as bairns. I know your mind and your considerable failings, as you know mine.”
“Surely that is to the good?”
“I think not. You are fickle as the wind and want always what you have not, simply because ’tis withheld from you. You have never formed a serious attachment in your life, save that to my accursed brother. And what does that say of you?”
“Never, perhaps, until now.” The throb of passion in Lachlan’s voice opened Dougal’s eyes wide. “I would sell my soul for you, Meg.”
“A fine declaration. But I have no interest in your soul.”
Dougal knew he should withdraw; this scene was not meant for his eyes, or ears. Yet wonder kept him rooted to the spot.
Lachlan shook his head. “I am helpless in your hands. Prudence and wisdom—what little ever I possessed—fly away from me in your presence.”
“Do not play the fool!”
“And if I cannot help myself?”
“We can always help ourselves, Lachy, if we try. Do you know what I am? What they say of me?”
“That you are a witch,” Lachlan said, so low Dougal, still listening shamelessly, barely heard him.
“A witch, aye. And a murderess. Both are true of me, Lachy. So keep clear and save yourself—for the sake of our old friendship.”
“You surely have enchanted me.”
Poor sod, Dougal thought, shaking his head. Lachy never learned. Yet he saw his sister, cruel as fate and twice as fierce, fall into his friend’s arms and then, while they were wholly distracted, Dougal did withdraw, for decency’s sake.
The incident remained much on his mind and later that day, when he and Lachlan, who seemed, now, virtually to live at the keep, were busy inspecting the fortifications one more time, he tried to broach the subject.
Knowing Lachy had stolen at least a kiss from the object of his desire, Dougal expected him to be enthused and energized. Yet as they stood together on the walk that ran along the keep’s top battlements, Lachy seemed quiet and morose.
“What is troubling you, then?” Dougal asked impatiently. “Are you sickening for something?”
Lachy rolled his eyes like a wayward pony. “Sick, aye, ’tis a terrible sickness.”
“What is?”
“Love.”
Despite what he knew, Dougal almost choked on his tongue. “Please say you do not fancy yourself in love wi’ my sister. It is a sickness indeed, one that will destroy you if you let it.”
“Oh, aye? And I apprehend you do not in fact feel the same toward your new wife?”
“I do not,” Dougal declared bitterly. “I am, aye, attracted to her, and she serves to warm my bed.” Though not lately. “But you know very well I believe not in ‘love.’ ”
Lachlan looked stubborn, one of his worst moods. “You did, once.” He spoke the name Dougal wanted never to hear again. “Aisla—”
Pain rushed through Dougal in a staggering wave, and he reacted in the only way he could—with anger. His hand flew to his sword and he rounded on his companion.
“I was a lad then,” he growled, “a deluded fool.”
Lachy’s blue eyes met his, unflinching. “And you loved her. I daresay you do yet. We all loved her—who could fail to? Will you betray her by denying the truth, the value of what you felt? Must you, Dougal?”
Dougal’s rage nearly strangled him. His voice sounded rough as gravel when he spoke again.
“I do not deny I thought I loved her. But I assert such love is an illusion, a false emotion. How did any love I thought I felt for her benefit her, Lachy? You speak of betrayal—aye, I carry that sin every day of my life.”
Lachlan’s expression turned to one of regret. “I did not mean that. God knows, you did what you could.” His voice lowered, even though they stood isolated in the cold wind at the top of the keep. “I know—”
“You know nothing! And you will forget what you think happened. I warned you before, if ever you speak of it, I will slit your throat, friend or no.”
Lachy glared. “Have I ever spoken a word, all these years? I am not sure what happened, by any road—only that you made a bid—”
“And failed,” Dougal said, like a man stabbed to the heart.
“My own conviction in the power of love availed me nothing then, Lachy. If you want to buy into the delusion for the sake of your loins or your conscience, though by the devil’s horns, I do not know why, then find yourself some meek miss who can decide herself equally besotted with you and give you a crop of sons.
Do not entangle yourself with my sister. ”
“So you have advised me, over and over again. And I say to you, Dougal, love is more than the side effect of a stiff crotch. ’Tis a kind of magic, that strikes where it may. You canno’ choose it, or refuse it.”
“You truly are a fool.”
“So you have also advised me, repeatedly.”
“Tell me then, Lachlan. If you languish in the pleasurable pool of love, why do you also mope here, showing the aspect of a man who has been kicked in the teeth?”
“You know why. Meg leads me a merry chase. She spends most her time warning me off and then, just occasionally, tosses me a scrap of hope, barely enough to keep me panting after her.”
“So, be a man. Command her, or leave her.”
“As you do your wife?” Lachlan slanted a curious look at Dougal. “I suppose you command all of your emotions, where she is concerned?”
“Of course,” Dougal lied.
“I have to admit,” said Lachlan, who seemed to have a penchant for putting his foot in his mouth this day, “I never expected to see you wed—after Aisla, I mean. And Isobel is naught like Aisla, is she? ’Tis like comparing chalk and cheese.”
“And why should she be like—” Dougal found that even after all this time he could not speak her name.
“Full of spirit,” Lachy went on, oblivious to Dougal’s state of mind. “And I cannot imagine her weeping in that soft way, as Aisla used to.”
“Shut up, Lachlan.”
“Eh?”
“Stop talking now, or I swear I will silence you!”
Lachlan shot him an injured look.
Silence fell on the high walk, save the soughing of the endless wind that seemed to bring the chill of the distant hills.
“All I am saying,” began Lachlan, who never knew when to keep still, then, “is I hope your new wife proves worth it. You do know you have war on your hands? Her father may or may not bring you trouble. With MacNab, ’tis assured.”
“I welcome war with MacNab, Lachy. I have long desired it.”
“You want revenge, and to pay him back.”
“We have established that.”
“And if it costs your lands? Your bonny new wife?”
Dougal shrugged. “The cost be damned. Just so I bring him down—with me or without.”
“Aye, so!” Lachlan tossed his head. “I suppose that proves you have no real love for Isobel.”
“I have told you over and over again, Lachlan, I am incapable of love.”
****
Lachlan’s words returned to Dougal later that evening when he and Isobel sat by the fire in her chamber, prior to retiring.
He felt restless and irritable, and Isobel’s presence acted on him like strong drink, turning his mind.
He wanted her, aye, but he would be damned if he would jump through hoops for the privilege of enjoying her body.
Why did he put himself through this particular hell?
He would be better off taking a turn among the guard he had posted on the battlements, or sitting up alone in the great hall.
Or, if he chose, he could just take her—as her husband, it was his right. But self-prohibition that went beyond conscience kept him from that. And, curse her, she had not reached for him.
She spoke suddenly into the stillness of the room.
“Do you think MacNab truly will bring trouble over our union? I have been thinking about it for days, ever since his visit, and contemplating my rash action in taking my sister’s place.
Perhaps I should write to my father and explain, take all the blame onto myself.
He cares little enough about me anyway. Perhaps he could diffuse the situation with MacNab, since they are such close friends. ”
Dougal turned his head and looked at her in surprise.
She stared into the fire, so he saw her in profile.
She looked like a girl turned into a woman by sorrow, and he experienced a twinge of nameless emotion.
It had been days since he had considered her state of mind or, in truth, anything save his hatred for MacNab and the ache in his crotch.
Now the parallels between her situation and what Aisla had endured long ago leaped at him.
Isobel had fire and courage, and little of Aisla’s gentle spirit, yet she must feel afraid and very much alone, her only companions himself—Satan help her—and his witch of a sister.
He drew a breath and thought, actually contemplating his words before he spoke them. “I appreciate your concern, but I cannot imagine any letter of appeal to your father that might change things now. We are wed, and naught can undo that.”
“No?” She looked at him, her eyes wide and filled with reflected firelight.
By the devil’s horns, she was beautiful, from the hair that tumbled down her back to her bare feet.
“Yet,” she spoke on, “Meg says you could lose everything if this, this war goes badly—this place that means everything to you, your ancestral lands, your life.”
He smiled. “Nothing means everything to me, save revenge. You might as well know that of me now. You had best believe it.”
She lifted her chin. “You could renounce me. Send me home to my father.”
“The marriage has been consummated.”
“So it has. Yet I would be no more shamed than I already was, in my father’s eyes. Make some excuse, say the priest was drunk when he joined us, or—”
“O’Rourke was, indeed, drunk. But that does not render the joining invalid.” He frowned at her. “Do you want to escape me so badly that you would rather choose shame beneath your father’s roof?”
She shrugged. “ ‘The devil you know,’ as the saying goes. At least, if I return home to a life of obscurity, it will not cost you all you value.”
“Allow me to worry about my costs, Wife. I am no bairn, unable to make my own choices.”
“Nor am I.”
Just as well, with the way he felt right now: enflamed, ready to push her to the hearth rug and take her there.
Could she see the desire in his eyes? He had done his best to hide it these past days and nights, but it grew more difficult.
Sleeping beside her proved tortuous, yet he could not keep away.
And even when he did remove himself, pacing the battlements or riding the fields, she obsessed his mind.
He did not know what she saw in his eyes, but she reached out, her fingers barely brushing his sleeve, withdrawing and then grabbing hold, hard.
“You carry old wounds, deep ones,” she whispered. “I would not have you acquire more because of me.”
Astonishment touched him. “You are a merciful woman, I think,” he told her. “Just how much pity, Isobel, do you have in your heart? Naught can heal those old wounds of which you speak. Yet there is a fairly constant ache you might ease.”
He had never come closer to asking, but his blood fair burned inside him, and he found himself awaiting her reply with held breath.
Her eyes fell and then came up to meet his again, spilling over with wicked light. She tumbled forward into his arms and lifted her lips. “I feared, Husband, you would never ask.”