Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ruaridh remained below to bring the feast to its proper close, though Isobel suspected propriety had suffered enough for one evening.
She went to their chamber alone, carrying with her the warmth of the hall, the murmur of voices, and the secret heat of what had passed in the shadowed alcove.
The room was quiet when she entered, lit by a low fire and a single candle beside the bed.
For a moment, she stood very still, pressing her fingers to her lips as if she might find the proof of him there.
A knock came.
“Come in,” she said quickly, lowering her hand.
When Sorcha came in a few moments later, Isobel noticed at once.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were too bright. She kept her gaze lowered as she crossed the room, and when she reached for the pins in Isobel’s hair, her fingers were not quite steady.
Isobel said nothing. It cost her some effort.
Sorcha worked in silence for nearly a minute, removing one pin, then another, though twice she seemed to forget what she meant to do next. Isobel watched her reflection in the looking glass and felt her own mouth threaten to soften.
At last, Sorcha stopped altogether.
“Me lady,” she said.
Isobel kept very still. “Aye?”
Sorcha drew a breath. “Torin… he…”
“He what, Sorcha?” Isobel asked, and the corner of her lips threatened to break into an immediate smile.
“He… kissed me.” The words came out slowly, as if she herself couldn’t quite believe them.
Isobel turned at once, delight breaking through every attempt at composure. “Oh, Sorcha.”
Sorcha pressed both hands to her cheeks. “I ken. I look a fool.”
“Ye look happy.”
That made Sorcha’s smile tremble. “I am. I think I am. I dinnae quite ken what I am.” She laughed softly, looking utterly breathless and bewildered. “It was only a kiss, but it didnae feel like only anything.”
“Nay,” Isobel said warmly. “I dinnae imagine it did.”
Sorcha looked at her then, shy and shining at the same time. “Saying it aloud makes it feel real.”
“It is real.” Isobel took her hand and squeezed it. “And I am so very glad fer ye.”
For a moment, Sorcha only stared at her, as if such open happiness on her behalf was a gift she had not expected. Then her smile came fully, sweet and helpless and bright enough to warm the whole chamber.
“He said he has had feelings fer me fer a long while,” she whispered.
“Then Torin has more sense than I gave him credit fer.”
Sorcha laughed, and the sound loosened the last of her nervousness.
Isobel turned back toward the glass, still smiling. “Now, come. Finish rescuing me from this gown, and tell me everything that may be told without making us both blush beyond recovery.”
Sorcha returned to the laces, and her hands appeared steadier now. “That may leave a very short tale.”
“Then begin with the kiss.”
And as the castle quieted below them, Sorcha did.
The morning of departure came too soon.
Isobel would not have admitted it aloud, not when Colin was entirely too fond of making remarks from very little evidence, but she had grown accustomed to the sound of Ruaridh’s friends in the hall.
Their laughter had filled corners of Duart that had once seemed too severe for such warmth, and Margaret’s presence had become, in only a few days, something Isobel knew she would miss.
So, when it was decided they should ride once before the guests departed, she agreed immediately.
The stables were cool and dim, smelling of hay, leather, horseflesh, and the sharp salt air that came in through the open doors. Outside, the day was clear enough to make the sea glitter beneath the cliffs, though the wind remained brisk.
Ruaridh was standing beside his horse, with one hand resting on the animal’s neck while he spoke with Torin. He looked, Isobel thought with some irritation, entirely at home there, broad, dark and composed.
“I hope ye dinnae intend tea lead the ride too slowly,” she said.
Ruaridh turned his head. “Dae ye complain before every pleasure, or only mine?”
“I merely wonder whether I must be patient with yer pace.”
Colin made an immediate sound of delight. “Oh, this has promise.”
Ruaridh’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his mouth did not move. “Me pace?”
“Aye.” Isobel moved closer, running a hand over the nose of the mare brought for her. “I can ride better than ye.”
Niall laughed under his breath. Domhnall looked far too interested. Margaret, traitorously, smiled into her glove.
Ruaridh regarded Isobel with grave attention. “Can ye?”
“I can. And if ye win, it will only be because yer horse is faster.”
The silence that followed was very satisfying. Then, Ruaridh stepped away from his mount and handed the reins to her. Isobel blinked.
“There,” he urged. “Take mine.”
Her confidence faltered for the smallest instant. “What?”
“I shall take yers. Then we may race properly.”
Colin actually clapped his hands once. “Excellent. I kent I came here fer a reason.”
“I thought it was the food,” Niall grinned.
“That also.”
Isobel looked at Ruaridh’s horse. The animal was taller than her mare, strong and restless, with a glossy black coat and a proud arch to its neck. It looked like the sort of horse that would permit no foolishness and very little negotiation.
Ruaridh’s playful gaze remained on her. “Unless ye have reconsidered.”
That settled it.
Isobel took the reins. “I havenae.”
His expression transformed into the near-smile he wore when he was trying not to enjoy her. “Good.”
They set out together not long after, with the party spilling from the yard beneath the bright morning sky.
The track climbed toward the cliffs, where grass bent beneath the wind and seabirds wheeled white against the blue.
The sea below struck the rocks with steady force, sending up silver bursts of spray.
Isobel felt the powerful horse beneath her, and despite herself, a thrill moved through her.
Ruaridh rode a little behind on another mount, and his eyes never strayed from her.
She knew he watched for her safety. She chose to find it insulting rather than tender, for tenderness was inconvenient while racing.
“Ready?” Colin called.
“Nay,” Margaret chuckled.
“Aye,” Isobel answered at once.
Ruaridh’s mouth tightened. “This track is narrow ahead.”
Isobel grinned. “Then keep up before it narrows.”
Niall laughed. Domhnall muttered something that sounded like a prayer. Colin gave the signal.
Isobel leaned forward, and the horse sprang beneath her.
For several glorious moments, there was only speed.
The wind rushed tears to her eyes and tore laughter from her before she could prevent it.
The ground flew beneath the hooves, the cliffs opened beside them, and the sea flashed far below.
Ruaridh’s horse moved like a storm given shape, and she understood at once why he favored it.
The animal fiercely answered the smallest pressure.
Behind her came shouts, hoofbeats and laughter. Then, something happened.
At first, it was only a sense of wrongness beneath her.
The saddle slipped half an inch to the left and Isobel’s breath caught.
She tightened her knees instinctively, but the movement made it worse.
The horse tossed its head, confused by the sudden drag of weight.
The track curved near the cliffside, where the earth dropped sharply beyond a low fringe of grass and stone.
The saddle lurched again. This time, she was certain that something was wrong.
“Ruaridh!” she cried.
The horse reared against the pull. Isobel grabbed for the mane as the world tilted sickeningly. For one terrible instant, all she saw was sky, sea, and the white violence of water far below.
Then, Ruaridh was there. He came up beside her with reckless speed, flinging himself from his own horse before it had fully stopped. His hands caught the bridle as he steadied the panicked animal.
“Easy. Easy, lad.”
The horse fought him, with the saddle hanging crooked and Isobel slipping with it. Her foot tangled in the stirrup. The cliff yawned at the edge of her vision.
“Isobel,” Ruaridh called out, and there was something in his voice she had never heard before. “Give me yer hand.”
She did. He caught her wrist and with one brutal pull freed her from the collapsing saddle and dragged her against him. They hit the ground together, hard enough to knock the breath from her, but his body turned beneath hers to take the worst of it.
For a moment she could not speak. She heard the others arriving, horses snorting, men shouting, Margaret calling her name. But all she truly knew was Ruaridh’s arms around her and the violent hammering of his heart beneath her cheek.
“Are ye hurt?” he demanded.
“Nay,” she managed. “I… nae.”
He drew back just enough to look at her, his hands moving over her shoulders, her arms, her face, as if touch alone could prove that she remained whole.
“Ruaridh, I am nae hurt.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. Then his gaze moved past her to the saddle lying twisted near the edge of the track. His face changed. Isobel followed his look. One of the straps hung loose, cleanly cut where it should have held firm.
Ruaridh rose slowly, still keeping one hand on her as if the ground itself could not be trusted to hold her. Colin reached the saddle first, then went very still.
“Cut,” he murmured.
The word carried more weight than a shout.
Niall swore. Domhnall’s face hardened. Torin, arriving breathless, looked from the strap to Ruaridh.
Isobel looked at the horse.
Ruaridh’s horse.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Ruaridh heard. His eyes came back to hers, and what she saw there hurt worse than the fall could have done.
Guilt.
A terrible, naked guilt that he had given her a death trap.
“It was meant fer me,” he whispered.
No one contradicted him.
Isobel stood, though her legs trembled beneath her skirts. “But it didnae reach ye.”
His jaw tightened as if the words struck him. “Because I gave ye the horse.”
He looked at her then, and for once there was no severity in him, no command, no laird before his men. All she could see was the man who had seen her nearly thrown from a cliff in his place.
The wind moved between them. Below, the sea crashed against the rocks, indifferent and endless. Isobel stepped closer and took his hand before he could retreat into blame. His fingers closed around hers at once, too tightly, but she did not pull away.
“I am here,” she said tenderly.
His eyes lowered to their joined hands.
“I am here,” she repeated more softly this time.
Only then did he draw breath, and even that seemed to cost him.
Around them, the others began to move with grim purpose.
Torin was giving orders, Brodie was examining the track, and Colin and Niall were speaking low together.
The morning had lost all its brightness, but Ruaridh did not let go of her hand.
And Isobel, still shaken, still cold with what might have been, held on just as hard.