Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ruaridh found Isobel ready. That alone might have been enough to unsettle him, had he been a man more easily spared by beauty.
She was standing near the hearth in a gown of deep blue, with firelight touching the dark fall of her hair and the proud line of her throat. Her MacDonald brooch gleamed at her shoulder.
He noticed it. He also noticed that her hands were clasped too tightly.
“Are ye ready?” he asked.
Isobel lifted her chin. “I am dressed. Whether that is the same thing remains tae be seen.”
Sorcha, standing behind her, looked much too pleased with herself.
“Come, then. They will be here soon.”
Isobel crossed the room to him with all the dignity of a queen approaching an execution. He offered his arm. For a moment, he thought she might refuse him out of habit, but after the smallest hesitation, her hand came to rest upon his sleeve.
The touch was light. It still went through him.
They walked down together, through passages warm with torchlight and the rich smell of roasted venison, ale, fresh bread, and beeswax. Below, servants hurried with platters and cups, but every step toward the entrance seemed to draw Isobel quieter beside him.
“They are nae cruel people,” he felt the need to say.
“I wasnae about tae accuse yer friends of anything before meeting them.”
“Nay. Ye were saving it fer after.”
She glanced at him. “I prefer tae judge with evidence.”
His mouth curved.
They had only just reached the front hall when the first riders were heard in the yard. Wind came in as the doors opened, sharp with rain and sea, and with it came the sound of men greeting one another .
Colin entered first, damp-haired and grinning. “MacLean. Ye look grim. Is the feast poisoned, or have ye merely missed me?”
“I was enjoying the quiet.”
“Then ye should have invited quieter friends.”
Behind him came Niall, broad-shouldered and solemn enough to appear sensible until he spoke.
“He did invite me,” Niall grinned. “Ye just followed the smell of food.”
“And praise,” Colin added. “I am fond of both.”
Domhnall came last, with Margaret at his side. Ruaridh watched Isobel then, because he could not help himself. He saw the quick taking in of strangers, the careful stillness and the courage she wore as deliberately as the brooch on her shoulder.
Domhnall bowed with easy courtesy. “Lady Isobel. I am glad tae meet ye at last.”
“At last?” Isobel asked. “Then I must assume I have been discussed.”
“Only favorably,” Colin assured her with a smile.
Ruaridh looked at him.
Colin corrected himself at once. “Mostly favorably.”
Isobel’s mouth tilted. “How generous of ye tae improve the lie so little.”
For one surprised heartbeat, the hall stilled. Then, Niall laughed. It was not loud, but it was enough. Colin’s grin widened, Domhnall’s eyes warmed with amusement, and even Ruaridh felt something tight in his chest ease.
“Aye,” Colin nodded, patting Ruaridh on the shoulder. “She’ll dae.”
Isobel turned her gaze on him. “I hadnae realized I was being inspected fer usefulness.”
“Everyone is inspected by Colin,” Niall explained amusedly. “The tragedy is that he never improves from it.”
“Cruel,” Colin tsked. “And before supper.”
“Better before,” Domhnall replied. “After supper ye become sentimental.”
Ruaridh watched Isobel as the words passed between them, quick and familiar as blades in harmless practice. She did not shrink from it. More than that, she listened, weighed them, and then stepped neatly into the space they left.
“If this is how ye greet friends,” she teased, “I begin tae understand why enemies fear ye.”
Domhnall gave a low laugh. Niall looked at her with open approval, and Colin placed a hand over his heart.
“MacLean,” Colin joked, “yer wife wounds me.”
Ruaridh looked at Isobel. There was color in her cheeks now, but not from distress.
“She has better aim than most,” he said.
Her eyes flicked to his. For a moment, the noise of the hall seemed to dull around him. He saw the question there, and the surprise, as if she had not expected him to praise her before them.
Then Margaret stepped forward, warm-eyed and smiling, and took Isobel’s hands as though no uncertainty existed between them.
“I am very glad ye are here,” Margaret spoke cheerfully. “Men are poor company when left too long alone. They begin tae mistake themselves fer interesting.”
Isobel’s smile came more easily this time. “I suspected as much.”
“Come sit by me at supper, and I shall give ye proof.”
Ruaridh saw Isobel soften upon hearing those words. It was just a little, but enough for him to notice. The guarded line of her shoulders eased, while her fingers relaxed in Margaret’s hold. And there it was, swift and dangerous in him: relief, pride, and something far deeper than either.
Colin caught his eye and, damn him, understood too much.
“Careful, Ruaridh,” he said lightly. “Ye are looking almost pleasant.”
“I can remedy that.”
“Nay need. The attempt might frighten the servants.”
Isobel turned to Ruaridh with a look of grave consideration. “I confess, I am curious tae see pleasant. Is it painful?”
Niall choked on a laugh. Domhnall looked away, smiling. Margaret pressed her lips together and failed to hide her amusement.
Ruaridh held Isobel’s gaze. “Fer some of us.”
“Then I shallnae require too much of it.”
“Wise.”
The laughter that followed was easy, and for the first time that evening, Ruaridh let himself breathe.
He had brought her there fearing coldness, insult, the old name rising between her and every hand extended in welcome.
Instead, she stood among his friends with her chin high, her wit sharp, and her courage bright enough to make even doubtful men admire her.
And as Margaret drew her toward the hall, speaking softly beside her, Isobel looked back at him only once.
It was enough.
The feast went better than Ruaridh had dared expect. That, naturally, made him suspicious.
The Great Hall was bright with fire and candlelight, the shadows softened along the stone walls until even Duart seemed willing, for one evening, to appear hospitable.
Platters moved down the tables in steady succession, while the air was filled with smoke, salt, wine, and the comfortable noise of men who had known one another too long to trouble with formality.
Nobody seemed to notice the stretching of the ingredients, the little tricks to make the food seem more plentiful and richer than it was.
Colin had begun the evening by declaring the stew too good for Niall. Niall in turn replied that this was because the it possessed more refinement than Colin. Domhnall, with Margaret seated beside him, attempted to restore dignity to the table and failed before lifting his cup.
Ruaridh might have found it all more amusing had he not been watching Isobel.
She was seated near Margaret, as arranged, though the arrangement had soon begun to seem unnecessary.
Whatever nervousness followed Isobel into the hall did not last long beneath Margaret’s warmth.
The two women leaned toward one another as they spoke, their voices quieter than the men’s but no less intent.
Once, Margaret smiled and touched her arm, and Isobel did not draw away.
That small thing held Ruaridh’s attention longer than it ought to have.
“She is well,” Domhnall murmured from across the table, low enough that only Ruaridh heard.
Ruaridh looked at him. “Ye sound surprised.”
“Nay. Pleased.”
Ruaridh said nothing to that, for he did not trust himself to answer lightly.
Margaret’s voice reached him then, softened by the noise between them. “The Masquerade was always dressed prettily enough tae make people forget what lay beneath it.” For she too had been led to such a masquerade by her father.
Isobel’s fingers stilled around her cup.
“Aye,” she agreed. “Pretty things are often used tae hide ugly purposes.”
Margaret’s expression changed, not with pity, which Ruaridh was grateful for, but with understanding.
“Last year, when Domhnall chose me, it set more men against one another than the Crown had patience tae manage. There was anger, challenge, talk of insult and revenge. They wouldnae blame the cruelty of the custom, of course. Men seldom blame a custom that serves them.”
Isobel’s mouth tightened faintly. “So they blamed disorder.”
“Aye. And corrected it by making the cruelty neater.”
“An auction,” Isobel nodded.
The word came without tremor, but Ruaridh knew her well enough now to hear what it cost.
Margaret nodded. “They called it protection against bloodshed.”
Isobel looked into her cup. “There is a particular talent men possess for naming violence by gentler words.”
Margaret’s hand covered hers briefly. “There is.”
Ruaridh had to look away. Tenderness was a dangerous indulgence in a room full of men who knew his face too well.
At his side, Colin had also grown quieter. The jest had gone from his eyes. “Tell us again about the attack.”
Ruaridh set down his cup. “There were three men. Ewen’s, though he has nae admitted it. They came near enough tae the cliffs tae loose an arrow at Isobel.”
Niall’s expression hardened at once. “At her?”
“Aye.”
Domhnall looked between them, then back to Ruaridh. “And the prisoner?”
Torin, who had taken a place near the end of the table but listened to every word, leaned in slightly. “One of the men was taken alive. We held him below. He escaped before we had all we needed.”
“Escaped,” Colin repeated, in the tone of a man tasting something sour.
“With help,” Brodie said.
“From inside?” Domhnall asked.
The question chilled the space around them more thoroughly than any draught from the door could have done.
Ruaridh’s jaw tightened. “Possibly.”
Niall’s hand closed around his cup. “Then Ewen has reach where he shouldnae.”
“Aye,” Ruaridh nodded. “And he kens it.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. From the other end of the table came Isobel’s voice, clearer now, touched with dry amusement.
“I begin tae think surviving the Masquerade requires more diplomacy than charm.”
Margaret laughed softly. “Charm helps only with fools.”
“Then it is fortunate I have little of it.”
“Little?” Margaret asked, smiling.
Isobel lifted one shoulder. “I have been accused of many things. Charm hasnae troubled the list often.”
Domhnall smiled into his cup. Colin’s mouth curved despite the gravity of their conversation.
“She holds well,” Colin gestured at Isobel.
Ruaridh did not answer. He had no wish to hear his own pride spoken aloud.
Instead, he forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “Ewen will try again.”
“Aye,” Niall confirmed. “But nae plainly.”
“Nay,” Domhnall agreed. “A plain attack makes him answerable. A shadowed one lets him deny everything.”
Colin leaned back, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “He wants ye tae strike first. He has always had the look of a man who sets the snare and then complains loudly when another bleeds in it.”
Ruaridh’s mouth thinned. “He threatened me wife.”
The words left him before calculation could soften them.
“And because he threatened yer wife,” Colin said, “ye must nae hand him the advantage.”
Ruaridh disliked the truth of that so much he nearly rejected it from habit.
Brodie looked no happier. “So we sit and write letters while he sends arrows?”
“We prepare,” Torin said. “And we write. Both.”
Domhnall nodded. “Send word tae the Crown. Make it clear Ewen is breaking the very peace they imposed.”
“The Crown may dae naething,” Brodie said.
“The Crown often daes naething,” Colin replied. “But it daes enjoy being obeyed in public. If Ewen is seen tae defy an arrangement sealed under its authority, they may trouble themselves long enough tae slap his hand away.”
Niall grunted. “Better than giving him war before we are ready.”
Ruaridh looked across the hall again. Isobel was listening to Margaret with an expression he had not seen upon her face often enough: unguarded interest. The candlelight touched the MacDonald brooch at her shoulder and the curve of her cheek.
She did not belong to Duart because the Crown had said it.
She belonged nowhere by force. Yet she sat beneath his roof, speaking with his friends, and he wanted her to feel safe there.
He pushed back his chair. The movement drew Isobel’s gaze immediately. Whatever Margaret had been saying stopped. Isobel watched him across the table, and he saw the question in her eyes before she asked it.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay,” he said.
Her brows rose with elegant disbelief.
Colin, curse him, leaned toward her. “He always looks like that, me lady. One must learn tae distinguish his moods by degrees of thunder.”
“I see,” she said. “And which degree is this?”
“Letter-writing thunder,” Colin said gravely. “Rare, but survivable.”
Niall made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Ruaridh looked at Colin. “Dinnae make me regret feeding ye.”
Isobel’s mouth tilted, though concern still lingered in her gaze. “A letter?”
“Tae the Crown,” Ruaridh said. “About Ewen.”
At that, the amusement faded from her face. He saw her fingers tighten upon her cup.
“Will it help?” she asked.
“It may.”
“And if it daesnae?”
“Then we try something else.”
It was not a full answer. It was, however, the only one he could give her before company without turning the feast into council and the table into a field of war.
She seemed to understand. Her chin lifted a fraction. “Then write clearly. Men in power are inclined tae misunderstand anything that costs them effort.”
Colin laughed outright. Domhnall looked at Margaret with amusement, and Margaret gave Isobel a smile bright with approval.
Ruaridh felt his own mouth threaten to soften. “I shall use small words.”
That earned him the look again, the one she gave when she was not sure whether to be pleased with him and disliked that uncertainty very much. He bowed his head slightly, more to her than to the room, and turned away before he could be tempted to go to her.