Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time Sorcha left her near the upper stair to attend to some duty below, Isobel had grown restless again.
The castle had shown itself to her in pieces, but not enough.
Beyond the walls lay the village, and from the windows she had glimpsed roofs, smoke, fields bent by wind, and the pale strip of road that led downward toward ordinary life.
She wanted to see it and she would ask Ruaridh.
The thought irritated her immediately.
It was absurd that she should have to ask any man for permission to walk into a village.
Yet anger did not alter the facts. She did not know the paths.
She did not know enough of Duart to move with safety.
So, she went in search of him, and disliked the sense in herself as much as she disliked the necessity.
His study lay in a quieter part of the castle, removed from the warmth of the kitchens and the constant murmur of the hall. She knew she had found the right passage by the two guards posted near the door, both of whom straightened when she approached.
“Is the laird within?” she asked.
“Aye, me lady.”
One of the guards opened the door, Isobel stepped inside and stopped at once.
Ruaridh was standing over a table spread with maps and scraps of parchment, with one hand braced upon the wood.
A narrow window admitted a grey strip of daylight, enough to catch the dark bend of his head and the strong line of his shoulders.
But it was not Ruaridh that made her stop.
It was the hounds. Two enormous dogs lifted their heads from the hearthrug the instant she entered.
One was black as wet stone, broad-chested and scarred across the muzzle.
The other was brindled, leaner, with pale eyes that fixed upon her with alarming intelligence. Both rose without a sound.
Isobel did not step back. She wanted to. Reason suggested she should. But pride, once again proving itself a poor guardian of life, kept her feet where they were.
Ruaridh looked up. “Dinnae move quickly.”
“How comforting.”
“They dinnae care fer strangers.”
“They are admirably suited tae the household, then.”
His mouth tightened as though he had very nearly done something imprudent, like smile. “Stand still.”
The black hound approached first. Its paws made no sound upon the rush-strewn floor.
It came close enough that Isobel felt the warmth of its breath against her hand.
She kept her fingers relaxed at her side, though every instinct urged her to gather her skirts and retreat with dignity, if not speed.
The hound sniffed her sleeve, then her wrist. Then, quite without warning, it pressed its head beneath her hand.
Isobel stared down. The dog leaned harder, as if this were a matter already settled between them.
Ruaridh stared also. For one startled second, his face lost its sternness entirely. Then it closed again, but not before Isobel caught the look of annoyance, disbelief, and something almost wounded.
She could not help it. She smiled.
“Daes he often mistake enemies fer friends?” she asked.
“Nay.”
The answer came too sharply.
Her smile deepened despite herself. “How humiliating fer ye.”
The hound made a low sound in its throat, not a growl, but a pleased rumble, and pushed its head more firmly into her palm. Its fur was coarse beneath her fingers and warm from the fire. Isobel stroked it once, cautiously. The dog’s tail moved.
Ruaridh looked personally betrayed.
“He likes me,” she said. “Should I be concerned aout his judgment?”
“I am.”
The second hound remained near the hearth, watching her with suspicion enough for both of them. Isobel glanced at it. “That one is more loyal tae yer opinion.”
“That one has sense.”
“And this one?”
“Has disappointed me.”
The black hound, indifferent to its disgrace, leaned against Isobel’s skirts.
Some of the tightness in her chest eased before she could prevent it.
There was a particular comfort in the favor of animals.
They did not flatter. They did not care for clan names, fathers, bargains, or blood.
If a hound chose to place its great head beneath a woman’s hand, it did so for reasons no Council could corrupt.
Ruaridh watched the small exchange with an irritation so unreasonable that it nearly made him appear young.
Then he seemed to remember himself. “Did ye come tae befriend me dogs, or was there another purpose?”
Isobel withdrew her hand, though the hound followed it with clear disappointment.
“I wish tae go tae the village.”
“Nay.” The answer was so immediate that she blinked.
Then anger rose. “I beg yer pardon?”
“Nay.”
“That isnae an answer. It is the sound a door makes when slammed.”
“It is an answer when the question requires little debate.”
She stepped farther into the room. The black hound remained close, apparently having transferred its allegiance in full. “I am nae asking tae cross the sea in a stolen boat. I am asking tae walk tae the village.”
His gaze sharpened. “There may be danger on the island.”
That stilled her more effectively than command. She looked from his face to the maps on the table. Only then did she notice that several stones had been set along the drawn edge of the coast, and that one of the parchments bore marks near a cluster of inlets.
“What danger?” she asked.
“Naething ye need concern yerself with.”
A bitter little laugh escaped her. “How fortunate. I have been married intae an enemy stronghold, watched in every corridor, and forbidden from walking beyond the wall, but I need nae concern meself.”
His jaw flexed. “This isnae about keeping ye confined.”
“Is it nae?”
“Nay.”
“Then what is it?”
For a moment she thought he would refuse her entirely. Something moved behind his eyes, calculation perhaps, or restraint. The fire settled in the hearth with a soft collapse of ash.
“There have been ships seen off the coast,” he finally told her.
Isobel’s anger did not vanish, but it changed temperature.
“Whose ships?”
“We dinnae yet ken.”
“But ye suspect.”
“Aye.”
“Ewen?”
He did not answer quickly enough. Her stomach tightened. The hound at her side nudged her hand, as if impatient with the sudden stillness. She barely felt it.
“Are there men on the island?” she asked.
“There may be.”
Isobel looked toward the narrow window. Beyond it, the village lay somewhere below, with smoke rising from hearths where people were living lives she could not yet reach. Her resentment remained, but it had nowhere clean to go.
She turned back to him. “I am nae a child.”
“Nay. A child would have sulked less impressively.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Dinnae attempt wit when denying me freedom.”
“I wouldnae dare.”
“Ye are daring at this very moment.”
The hound gave another pleased rumble, perhaps approving of the exchange. Ruaridh glanced at the animal as though even that was an act of treason.
Then his gaze returned to Isobel. “I will take ye.”
She stared at him.
“Tae the village,” he added. “But only when it is safe.”
The answer wrong-footed her so entirely that she had no reply ready. She had expected dismissal, perhaps further command. She had not expected an offer.
“With ye?” she asked, too wary to hide it.
“Aye.”
“So that I may be paraded?”
“So that nay fool in the village mistakes silence fer permission tae insult ye,” he corrected her.
That struck differently than she wished it to.
He looked at her, and for an instant the room seemed too quiet around them.
The firelight caught one side of his face, leaving the other severe with shadow.
She became abruptly aware that they were alone except for two hounds, one of which had already proven himself unreliable as chaperone.
Then, a knock came at the door.
Ruaridh didn’t look away from her immediately. Then he called out. “Enter.”
The door opened, and Torin stepped in with Sorcha at his side. They were laughing with the easy intimacy of two people who had forgotten, for one foolish moment, where they were and whom they served. Sorcha’s face was bright with it, and Torin, usually solemn as carved oak, looked almost boyish.
Then they saw Ruaridh and Isobel, and their laughter died at once. Sorcha flushed so deeply that even the dim room could not hide it. Torin’s color rose more slowly, but no less damningly, to the tips of his ears.
Isobel looked between them.
I kent it.
Ruaridh, too, appeared to notice. His expression remained stern, but something dry entered his eyes.
“Me lady,” Sorcha said quickly, dipping a curtsy that was nearly a stumble.
“Torin,” Ruaridh addressed him. “Stay.”
Torin straightened as if grateful for command, since it saved him from the far greater danger of explanation. Sorcha glanced at Isobel, then at him, then at the floor.
“I am needed in the kitchen,” Sorcha told them, then escaped with admirable speed.
The change in Ruaridh was immediate. Whatever faint amusement had touched him vanished. He moved to the table and set one finger upon the map.
“Ships were seen off the eastern point,” he said. “Three, perhaps more. One may have made shore behind the skerries.”
Torin’s embarrassment disappeared.
He stepped to the table at once. “When?”
“Near dawn. The watch lost sight of one.”
“Ewen?”
“Likely.”
The name moved through the room like a draught beneath a door. Isobel stood very still. She had not been dismissed. That was the first surprise. The second was that, though Ruaridh did not look at her, he did not soften his words for her presence.
“Brodie is sending scouts inland,” he continued. “I want ye on the lower paths. Take men ye trust. Check the burn, the old chapel track, and the hollow above the village. If anyone came ashore, they will need cover before dark.”
Torin nodded. “And if we find tracks?”
“Follow far enough tae ken their direction. Dinnae engage unless ye must. I want prisoners if they can be taken. Dead men answer fewer questions.”
The cold steadiness of him made Isobel’s skin prickle. This was not the man who had traded barbs with her over hounds or village walks. This was the laird of Duart, and she saw, perhaps for the first time without the obstruction of hatred, why men obeyed him.
Torin looked once toward her, then back to Ruaridh. “Daes the castle close?”
“Nae yet. Quiet preparations only. I want nay panic in the hall. If Ewen has ears nearby, I willnae have them carrying him our fear.”
“Aye.”
“And Torin.”
The other man paused at the door.
“Watch the village.”
Torin’s face hardened. “I will.”
He left at once. The door closed behind him, and the room seemed to hold the echo of danger after his departure.
Isobel turned to Ruaridh. “What is happening?”
“I told ye.”
“Ye told him more.”
“He has tasks tae perform.”
“And I have only nerves tae soothe?”
His gaze came to hers. “I didnae say that.”
“Then say something useful.”
For a moment, irritation sparked in his eyes. Then, to her surprise, it faded into something wearier.
“There may be men on the island who shouldnae be here. I am sending men tae learn whether that is true. Until I ken, ye stay inside the castle or within the inner yard.”
“Because I am MacDonald?”
“Because ye are me wife.”
The words landed too plainly. She hated the leap her pulse made at them.
“I am nae afraid,” she told him.
“Then ye are less intelligent than I thought.”
She should have been furious. Part of her was. But beneath the anger there was, inconveniently, a steadier feeling. He had not told her there was no danger. He had not wrapped a falsehood in comfort and offered it as protection. He had given her little, but what he gave had the shape of truth.
That mattered, and she did not want it to matter.
Silence grew between them, charged now by danger and by all that had gone unsaid since the wager in the yard. The hound, sensing perhaps that humans had made the room unnecessarily difficult, came again to Isobel and pushed its head against her hip.
She seized upon the distraction gratefully.