Devil Black (12 page)

The chamber they now shared felt warm and cozy; she had made a few changes these last weeks—chairs, and an upholstered bench before the fire, a rug on the cold, stone floor, and a hanging blocking the cold air from the window. Part of him appreciated that, desired the comforts almost as much as he desired her.

She spun to regard him, wild-eyed. “Now we are alone, will you speak to me?”

“Aye.” Damn it, he was still hard; being in her presence acted on him like black magic. “But I will tell you ahead of time I do not appreciate a woman’s moods, nor being held victim to them.”

“Moods?” she echoed, outraged.

He examined her briefly. “I apprehend this unfortunate display is born of your...monthly sensitivities?”

“No! I am not—” In an effort to control her anger, she paused and drew a breath. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of suffering from ‘sensitivities,’ monthly or otherwise.”

“Well, I do no’ appreciate this ill temper.”

“And, am I supposed to worry about what you appreciate?”

Dougal felt his own anger—a dark and terrible thing—sharpen. “Presumably.”

“Think again. Because you care not for my feelings—shut up in this terrible place virtually alone, fated to provide you comfort, and you will not even answer for me one question.”

“I will, if you ask it in a sane manner.”

“Sanity? He asks for sanity, in this madhouse? Why did you wed with me?”

Dougal turned away from her and poured a cup of whisky from the flask that stood ready. “You know why. The King decreed—”

“That is not the reason! A man like you—a robber, an outlaw, a thief of cattle and women—cares nothing for what the King bids him. You hate MacNab, and you wed me to get back at him, to hurt him, did you not?”

Dougal drank deep. “Why ask me questions, if you already know the answers?”

“So. It is as I said before, I am nothing more than a weapon, like a sword or a dirk. Why sleep with me, then? Why not just keep me prisoner, kick me into a corner? Would it not serve the same purpose?”

Annoyance blossomed in Dougal’s head. He sneered, “I sleep with you, woman, because it is my right. Because your body pleases me, and because MacNab will eventually discover you are here. When he does,” Dougal let his gaze flick her again, “I would make sure you already carry my son.”

She gasped and wrapped her arms about herself in a defensive gesture. “That—that is your aim?”

“He will not want you back, if you carry the black devil’s get. Neither will your father, if he turns up looking.”

“My father?”

“Had that no’ occurred to you? I figure ’tis but a matter of time. Someone in this household will talk, and word will get abroad that my new wife looks remarkably like Catherine Maitland.”

“So—” she sounded as if she had been struck, “you sleep with me to…to stake your claim?”

He shrugged with indifference he did not really feel. “Aye, and will you complain of it? You were willing to give yourself to Bertram MacNab for your sister’s sake. Him, or me—where, in your view, is the difference?”

Eyes burning, Isobel stared at him and said nothing.

“You know full well MacNab wanted sons. Should I be any different?”

“So I am naught but a…a breeding sow, am I?”

“A valuable sow, aye.” His eyes were on his cup, so he nearly missed it when she flew at him and aimed a blow with one hand. His instincts being what they were, however, he caught her wrist before the blow could connect, and glared into her eyes.

“Ah! I will not take abuse from you,” he snarled.

She refused to back down. “Yet I am fated to accept abuse from you?”

“How and when have I abused you, Wife?” He had been right; her anger inflamed him and made him want her more than ever. He now felt so hard he might burst. “By giving you my kisses, which you returned full well? By removing those garments you could not strip off quickly enough?”

“Curse you!” she spat.

He stared into her eyes. “Too late! I was accursed long before ever I met you.”

“Take your hands from me!” She strove to pull away from him.

For an instant he thought about holding her, kissing her as he had longed, feeling her melt against him into a pool of desire, as he knew she would. But no. He would not force her. Let her ask him for it.

He released her as if touching her burned—as it did. Turning away, he began stripping off his clothing—leather tunic, soft wool shirt, overly-tight trews and, finally, the kilt. When he’d finished, he turned toward her, flagrantly displaying his manhood, which surged to attention.

She looked her fill and swallowed hard. “What are you doing?”

“Going to bed, Wife. Surely that is permitted?”

“Here?”

“Have I not the right?”

“Yes, but—I thought you only stayed here when we… I warn you, I will not agree to accommodate you this night.”

He lifted a brow. “You complain when I stay only to ‘use’ you, and then you complain when I stay to sleep.”

She flushed again, the color staining her beautiful skin.

“Sleep where you will. I care not. I only want you to understand what will and will not happen this night.”

“Oh, aye, you have made yourself clear.” He climbed into the bed, taking up as much space as possible. He closed his eyes, feigning weariness. In truth, he felt anything but tired.

Isobel stood where she was for several moments, as if rooted, then went and sat in the chair by the fire.

Time slowly drew out, and Dougal’s body relaxed. The long miles ridden that day began to catch up with him, and his thoughts drifted toward sleep.

He nearly slept when he half heard, half felt Isobel move about the room. Peering between his lashes, he watched as his wife removed her clothes and donned her night rail, some of his drowsiness leaving him as a consequence. He knew that body of hers now, could declare the soft weight of those breasts, the silk of her long legs wrapped around him. Desire pricked at him like a fever.

She climbed into the bed, her long hair loose around her. Carefully, she strove to make herself small and assure her body avoided his.

He thought of the many mornings this fortnight past when he had waked to find her limbs twined with his, and the delectable feelings thus occasioned. He had only to reach for her now…

Yet he had vowed he would make no such move until she showed her desire—and a woman locked into a tight ball at the edge of the bed showed none such.

He was a grown man, was he not? A man who had endured tremendous pain in his life with stoic resistance. Surely he could endure this.

Yet he swore at himself bitterly before he closed his eyes again, and he had to force himself to form the mild, ironic words, “Good night, Wife—and be sure to sleep well.”

Chapter Seventeen

“MacNab is at the door with that accursed son of his in tow. They demand entry.”

Meg delivered the announcement with her back pressed against the closed door of the dining hall and her head high. The four of them had been at dinner. The hour being late and the weather continuing foul, the last thing Isobel expected was this kind of interruption.

Yet Meg, who had gone out to direct one of the courses, returned and shut the door as if against an invading army.

Lachlan MacElwain, their sole guest, exchanged glances with Dougal and straightened in his chair. Isobel, her heart leaping, looked to her husband also.

Dougal stirred, a small, ironic smile touching his lips, picked up the dirk with which he cut his meat and slipped it neatly into his sleeve. “Leave it to the impolite MacNabs to disturb my dinner,” he drawled. “Well, Sister,” he continued to Meg, “and have you left them on the doorstep?”

“In the hall,” she replied, only the glitter in her eyes and the high color in her face betraying her emotion, which Isobel could not quite identify—terror, or excitement?

And surely she saw anticipation in her husband’s eyes. Lachlan looked thoughtful but not appalled. Was Isobel, herself, the only one frightened by this awful development?

Dougal looked at her, just as if she had spoken the question aloud. Three days had passed since that night they had spent together and yet apart, in her bed, and they had not had relations once. The wild thought now blossomed in her head: perhaps, finding he had no use for her, Dougal would just hand her over to MacNab after all.

Yet, on his feet, he turned to one of his retainers. “Alert the men, if they are not already aware of our…visitors. Make sure everyone is armed, and close the gates.”

He looked at Meg. “How large a party has MacNab brought?”

Meg shook her head. “Not large: just himself, the abominable Bertram, and two attendants.”

Dougal’s smile sharpened. “Very bold—or very foolish.”

Lachlan, now also on his feet, said, “You cannot take him prisoner, Dougal, nor murder him. In all conscience—”

“I have no conscience, a fact MacNab knows right well. And I have anticipated this from the first.” He turned to Meg. “I will see him there, in the hall.”

Meg nodded, and her eyes moved to Isobel. “Shall I stay with your wife, upstairs?”

Dougal feigned great surprise. “Why would you do that?”

“To keep her out of MacNab’s sight, of course.” Meg asked Isobel directly, “Will he recognize you?”

Isobel nodded, but Dougal gave her no chance to speak.

“You think I mean to hide her? But nay, Sister, I will not hide my wife. Why should I, indeed?”

Now Meg and Lachlan exchanged incredulous stares.

Lachlan spoke, “Because she is Bertram’s affianced wife, whom you stole?”

“Nay, but she is not. I apprehend ’tis one Catherine Maitland for whom they have come looking—my wife’s sister, in truth. Well, Wife, will you greet them with me?”

Isobel narrowed her eyes on his face. So, he meant to brazen it out, did he? And yes, he had anticipated this with great relish, but she had not, and she felt terrified, as if she might lose what little dinner she had taken.

“Come.” Dougal stepped to her side and offered his arm. “You look beautiful, as always. It might be better, however, could you manage to look a bit less frightened.”

“Impossible!” Isobel’s lips felt stiff, and her throat had gone tight.

Now they all stared at her.

“She will be ill,” Meg predicted.

“She will faint,” Lachlan wagered.

“Nay, she has more backbone than that.” Dougal’s arm, beneath her hand, felt like rock.

She gazed up into his eyes. “Perhaps I would do better to wait in my room.”

“Perhaps you would. Yet, Wife, word of your presence has obviously got round the district at last, and now we must play this out. MacNab will not rest until he lays eyes on you. ’Tis best faced now.”

“What must I say to him?”

“The truth: that you chose to wed wi’ me.”

“What if he insists on taking me away with him?” Isobel’s heart violently protested the possibility. Despite her many doubts about her husband, and the seemingly impossible distance between them, she discovered she did not wish to leave him.

Something flickered in the grey depths of Dougal’s eyes. “Then he shall have a war on his hands. You are my wife. I will die before I give you up.”

The words found their way to Isobel’s soul and took up residence, even though she knew the reason he said them had nothing to do with what was in his heart. He already battled MacNab. This was a skirmish he had contemplated. He merely did not want to lose.

Yet she felt her chin lift anyway. What might it be, to be loved by a man such as this?

His gaze quickened as he read the emotions in her eyes. His hand, warm and strong, came up and grasped her hand, which rested on his arm.

“Very well, I am ready,” she told him.

Still, when they began to move, her knees wobbled and sickness rose into the back of her throat. She could hear raised voices in the great hall. They fell silent when she and Dougal entered the lofty chamber and the two men there turned to stare at her.

She recognized Randal MacNab at once, somewhat to her surprise. Tall and carrying enough extra weight to argue affluence, he had a strong, fleshy face and receding hair, now gone grey. Lines scored his forehead and cheeks, but his eyes were those of a young—and angry—man. He wore unrelenting black, no kilt for him, and a sword at his side.

She failed to recognize Bertram, the man she should have married. He had been a man of twenty-one when last she saw him and must be all of thirty now. He had his father’s height but none of his bulk, and reminded Isobel of a whip, cruel and dangerous. His brown hair had just begun to recede and his face might be deemed handsome by some. Well proportioned, he looked proud and haughty, and Isobel saw rage in his eyes. Like his father, he wore a sword. Unlike him, he sported the MacNab tartan, its colors muted in the dim room.

She heard what sounded like a growl come from Dougal’s throat and felt the hate surge through him like summer lightning.

Bertram MacNab stepped forward with a cry. “Catherine! Father, did I not tell you it was so? Catherine, are you well? We searched the district for you. In fact, this blackguard pretended to help us search, all the while keeping you imprisoned here.”

Isobel, still clutching Dougal’s arm desperately, said the only thing she could. “I am not Catherine.”

Confusion reigned for several moments while both MacNab and his son spoke at once, neither giving Isobel fair opportunity to explain. Dougal stood the while, silent as a rock, even when Bertram stepped up to challenge him.

“What have you done to her, MacRae? What foul magic worked upon the poor lass’s mind, that she knows not who she is? I shall have you for abduction and imprisonment.”

“I am Isobel, older sister to Catherine,” Isobel said, determined now to make herself heard. “I was Isobel Maitland and am, now, wife to this man.” Her fingers tightened on Dougal’s arm.