Chapter 4 #2
The other woman shook her head. “His mother. The chief has never taken a wife. He was to wed the daughter of Rory MacDonald, a chief from the western isles, but she ran off with a Campbell lad instead.”
“Oh.” Faced with wedding such a fierce man, Isabail might well have done the same. “Where will I find Lady Elisaid?”
“A fine question,” Beathag said. Taking the ladle from the cook, she sampled the steaming liquid from the pot. “When you find her, let me know. She has the key to the spice cabinet, and I’m in need of some flavoring.”
Isabail released a frustrated huff of breath. “What does she look like?”
“You’ll know her when you find her.”
Beathag was being decidedly unhelpful, but Isabail could not take her to task. She had no authority in the MacCurran’s household. “What are you cooking?”
“Venison broth.”
“May I taste?”
The big woman turned to her, a sneer curling her upper lip. “Never had a simple bree, my lady?”
“Of course I have,” Isabail said. “Many times. A well-prepared broth is a staple in the kitchen. You said you were missing some spice. I’d like to taste what you’ve prepared so far.”
The cook took no offense at her request. He ladled a small portion into a wooden cup and gave it to her.
Isabail sniffed it first, inhaling the rich scent of boiled venison.
Then she sipped. It was satisfactory, but as Beathag suggested, a little bland.
“If you are unable to get the spice of your choice, you could consider adding some leek and parsnip.” As Beathag’s eyebrows soared, she added, “Just a suggestion, of course. Good day.”
Isabail scanned the inner close, seeking some sign of the MacCurran’s mother. He was a very large man, so surely the woman who birthed him was also large. Perhaps of a similar size to Beathag. She saw no one who might fit that description.
Marching toward the outer wall, she scanned the people assembled in the outer close. A group of men was laying siege to one another with wooden swords. She recognized the man MacCurran had hailed as Niall among them, seemingly the one in charge. But no women at all.
Down the rocky slope beyond the perimeter wall, she could see a field and, cutting through the field, an icy burn.
Next to the water, she spied a party led by a small, slender woman wearing a blue serge gown and a white headdress.
From this distance, Isabail could not be certain, but the gown looked painfully similar to the one she’d lost. Unable to help herself, she picked her way down the slope and then marched across the field toward the woman, determined to see if it was truly hers.
As she got closer, it became clear that the woman was at least a score of years older than Isabail.
Her hair was hidden beneath a linen wimple, but her skin was thin and pale, her bones sharply defined in her face.
Still, it was not her age that sapped Isabail’s anger away; it was the elegant way the woman carried herself—like she’d been born to privilege and expected no less.
“Lady Elisaid?” Isabail guessed.
The elderly woman ceased her stroll along the burn bank. “Aye?”
It was indeed Isabail’s gown draped over the other woman’s body—the size, especially in the bosom area, was a trifle large. But as Lady Elisaid’s faded blue eyes turned to her, any demand she might have uttered for its return died on her lips.
“I am Lady Macintosh, cousin to Archibald, Earl Lochurkie,” she said instead. “Your son has seized my person in hopes of ransoming me for political gain.”
Actually, she doubted he intended to ransom her, but accusing him of more villainous goals at this moment hardly seemed polite.
“He neglected to mention your presence to me, Lady Macintosh. You are John Grant’s sister, are you not?”
“Indeed.”
The lady waved her over. She kindly said nothing about the obvious stains upon Isabail’s gown, for which Isabail was grateful—if pressed she was not sure she could refrain from pointing out the lady wore stolen clothing. “Walk with me awhile.”
Isabail gave the invitation some thought.
She was fully prepared to dislike Lady Elisaid—for the simple fact that she was the MacCurran’s mother—but she was not above using any and all methods at her disposal to win her freedom.
Perhaps a mother could influence the man where a sense of fair play could not.
Isabail fell into a step alongside Elisaid MacCurran.
“Were you wed to young Andrew Macintosh?” the older woman asked.
“Aye.”
“An unfortunate death that was, to be felled by a wound gained at a faire. How long had you been married?”
A twinge of sadness pinched her just beneath her breast. She hadn’t thought of Andrew for several months. “A year and a month.”
“And there were no children?”
“Nay,” said Isabail softly. “We had not been blessed.”
The older woman shot her a curious look. “It upsets you to speak of him. My apologies. I assumed it was an arrangement, not a love match. Your father gained a powerful ally in the Macintoshes.”
“It was an arrangement,” Isabail confirmed, “but we were well suited.”
Although Andrew had been dead for four years, every moment of their time together was a treasured memory.
The handsome, capable man had swept her off her feet, professing his love from the moment they met and treating her with an honor and respect she’d been unaccustomed to.
The year she had spent with Andrew had changed her irrevocably—for the better.
She’d gone into the marriage a shy, tentative girl and left it a confident, sure woman.
“You’re young to be a widow. Have you considered another marriage?”
Isabail shrugged. “I’m in no hurry to wed again. My dower estates were given to me to hold, and they more than pay for my keep. Playing chatelaine to my brother kept me busy.”
Lady Elisaid’s expression was shrewd. “Your cousin has a wife and you no longer have a household to run. Surely that suggests you are open to new arrangement.”
Isabail frowned. “Such thoughts are premature. Although I have recently put aside the colors of loss, I still mourn my brother’s passing.”
“My son needs a good wife.”
Isabail stopped short and stared at the older woman. Was she truly suggesting . . . ? Surely not. “Your son stands accused of murdering my brother, Lady MacCurran.”
“A false charge.”
“Any mother would say the same,” said Isabail coolly. “But the law disagrees. You insult me to even hint of an arrangement between our families.”
“Nonsense,” the other woman dismissed. “I am merely seeking a peaceful resolution to our troubles. How can that be insulting?”
“My brother was a good man. He deserves justice, not to be forgotten the instant his memory becomes inconvenient.” Isabail felt her grief rise in her throat, nearly choking her. “Good day, madam.”
Turning on her heel, Isabail lifted her skirts and prepared to stomp off.
“Did you approach me for a particular reason, Lady Macintosh?”
She froze, her heart pounding a mournful dirge in her chest. She’d completely forgotten her mission.
Pivoting slowly, she did her best to wrestle her emotions under control.
“Aye. A ransom prisoner is due every courtesy while held by her captors. I wish to examine the stores for items that might ease my ordeal. I understand you hold all the keys.”
Lady Elisaid frowned. “Do I?”
The man standing just behind Lady MacCurran bent toward her and whispered in her ear. The frown eased. “Apparently, I do. Master Tam will give them to you. Take whatever you like, but I assure you, comfort is a scarce commodity in this ancient pile of rocks.”
Master Tam, slowly and with obvious reluctance, handed Isabail a small iron ring hung with four rust-spattered keys.
Isabail nodded sharply to Lady MacCurran. “I will return them presently.”
Then she departed, her stomach knotted so tight she could barely breathe. The gall of the woman, suggesting an alliance between their families. Her fiendish son had stolen away the one true friend she had in this world, felling him in his bed. John was dead.
Tears blurred Isabail’s vision. And Lady Elisaid thought she could simply brush those horrid memories aside. Impossible.
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and marched up to Beathag. “I have Lady Elisaid’s permission to examine the stores. Show me where they are.” Determination added weight to her demand. “Now.”
* * *
Once he was confident that the defenses of the hill fort were as strong as they could be and that Niall’s men were diligently keeping an eye out for MacPherson’s patrols, Aiden returned to the keep.
Although he knew Isabail was weary from her journey, he could not afford to give her a lengthy respite.
The names she held in her head were all that stood between his clan and safety.
The inner close of the ruined palace echoed with his boot steps. Crumbling stone walls and the towering crags of the mountainside gave rise to eerie sounds.
He knocked on the lintel of the roundhouse assigned to Isabail, then ducked inside. The room was empty, save for a neatly covered pallet and a bucket of water. There was no sign of Isabail or her maid.
“Beathag,” he roared.
The large woman arrived at the door with surprising speed. “Aye?”
“Where in the bloody hell is Lady Macintosh?”