Devil Black (3 page)

“Well?” Isobel asked as Catherine climbed into the bed.

“You were right.” Swiftly, Catherine burrowed into the warmth of her sister’s presence. “Father professes himself too busy to accompany me on my wedding journey.”

Isobel snorted. “When has he not been too busy for us, since Mother died? All to the good. When do you leave?”

“A week, only.”

“Ah, it is short time for planning. Never mind. He will send his most trusted retainers for the journey, and they know us very well. This will take some care. I am thinking you shall have to affect a cold and remain swathed in your wraps the while.”

“He will send a maid.”

“He will. Bethan, most like. She can be bought.”

“Think you so?”

“Bought and kept in Scotland, after. She need not return to face Father’s wrath.”

Catherine shivered. “Can we fool the MacNabs?”

“I see no difficulty there. Bertram and his father have not laid eyes on us since we were children, and besides, we are as like as may be in appearance. And it does not matter, does it? If the ruse is discovered, it will be too late for them to do much about it. You and Thomas will be long gone.”

“And you will take the brunt of everyone’s anger, all round.” Catherine threw a protective arm over her sister. “It is too much! I cannot let you!”

Isobel lay silent in her sister’s fierce embrace a long moment and then said, “Cat, you are closer to me than anyone in this world. Dearer to me! I would give my very life for you. Besides, do you know what my future will be, if I stay here, a fixture of Father’s house, always shamed and shunned?”

“Never say you wish to go and wed MacNab?”

“I am not eager to wed him, no. But to go from here might be a fine thing. By the time our ruse is discovered, Bertram MacNab and I may well have come to terms.” She breathed softly into the darkness of the room. “There is scarcely a man on this earth I cannot tame.”

“I believe you are right. And I almost feel sorry for Bertram MacNab.”

Chapter Four

“I almost feel sorry for Bertram MacNab,” said the Devil Black in a tone that indicated he felt no such thing, “finding his bonny bride stolen away beneath his long, skinny nose.”

“You are assuming she will be bonny,” said Lachlan MacElwain, hiking his coat up round his ears. Another foul night full of snaking wind and wet surrounded them, containing demons that played on the mind.

But Dougal MacRae rarely suffered from those kinds of demons.

He laughed. “You must admit, Lachy, ’twill be worth a bit to see his reaction when the news reaches him that his betrothed has been snatched on the road not ten miles from his door.”

“This plan is accursed,” Lachlan stated dolefully, “and you are mad. I always suspected it. Now I am sure.”

Dougal laughed, and his laughter contained genuine mirth. “Come, Lachy! Was it not yourself told me to obey the King’s command and find myself a bride?”

“Not like this. And not some milk-white, simpering miss of MacNab’s choosing.”

“You underestimate the fine Bertram. She is no doubt an heiress.”

“No doubt.” Lachy agreed. “And well bred. She will swoon at the sight of your black countenance.”

“Do you think so?” Dougal smiled, amused.

“Tell me this is but a wicked game—you will hold her a while and then leave it be.”

“Release her to MacNab, you mean?”

“Aye, so.” A particularly fierce gust of wind buffeted them where they sat their horses by the side of the dark road. “Or do you mean to extract a ransom from him? That is your plan, eh?”

“And what of the King’s desires for my future? Am I to thumb my nose at our lord and liege?”

Lachlan snorted.

“I suppose I shall just have to make my mind up after I see the wench. If she proves a beauty, or not too hideous, I may need to sample her before sending her on to him.”

“Ruin her, do you mean? A pallid, fragile, English maiden? You would not.”

“It could be she is no maiden.”

“No chance of that. Highborn lords who deal in wives insist upon their purity. MacNab will have your head.”

“I would like to see him try.”

“By any road, she is doubtless ugly as the bottom of an empty tankard. Such brides usually are.”

“True. A beautiful bride is a rare enough thing.” The thought cast Dougal into a mood blacker than the night.

He remained silent until Lachlan spoke again. “They are late. I thought your man said they left the inn at three this afternoon?”

“Our roads are not what English coachmen are used to. Hark, now!” Dougal cocked his head. “Don your mask, Lachy. And go canny.”

Borne on the gusts of wind, and intermittent, came the sound of a carriage climbing up the hill. Dougal MacRae eased his sword from its scabbard, feeling a surge of energy flood his veins.

He had done this a hundred times—played bandit, a role that was, aye, in his blood—waylaid travelers on the road and neighbors in their own drawing rooms. But never for such stakes as this. He’d stolen his share of cattle and horses, but a bride? Never.

An unholy grin split his dark face as he eased his horse out into the road and raised the sword high.

No need for shouted commands—the silhouette of him there in the road, stark and threatening, had the coachman hauling on the reins almost before Lachy took the place at Dougal’s side.

Everything went abruptly silent. The creaking of the coach springs ceased; the horses rolled their eyes but held their ground. Only the coachman’s soft, heartfelt curse competed with the gusting wind.

“Drop it,” Dougal said, his casual tone belying the excitement racing through him. The second man on the box had drawn a sword. “Throw it into the road!”

Neither the coachman nor the guard moved. Dougal urged his horse closer and poised the point of his blade at the coachman’s throat. “Now.”

The guard’s sword clattered as it hit the road.

“Come now,” Dougal urged. “Any other weapons as well, if you value your lives.”

Lachlan, well enough versed in his role by now, rode round to the back of the coach, where Dougal heard him order a second guard to surrender his weapons. “Welcome to the festivities! Divest yourself of any weapons, and your life shall be spared.” A knife and dagger followed the man’s sword into the road.

The coach door flew open and a lass, only dimly seen in the weak light, leaned out. “Daniel? What is going on? Why have we stopped? Are we—? Oh!” She caught sight of Dougal, black as sin, sitting his equally black horse. He heard the breath catch in her throat. For a score of heartbeats he waited for her to scream, wail, sob, or perhaps swoon, which in her present position would deposit her in the road. She was, after all, a gently born English miss.

Instead, she swung the door wide. He saw her skirts thrash as she scrambled down, without benefit of steps or assistance, to face him.

“What is the meaning of this?”

She looked tall standing in the road, and he could not see her face clearly in the gloom. Her voice surprised him. It shared little with those of any English ladies he had encountered in the past and held a strange lilt, as well as an edge that might slice granite. Her coach had been halted on a strange road at dusk by two armed bandits but, by all that was holy, she did not sound afraid.

Dougal’s lips curved in a grudging smile. “This, lady, is a robbery.”

“Yes?” She glanced over her shoulder into the coach, where someone had begun to shriek. “Well, I must say you have terrible judgment. We have virtually nothing to steal.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. I really hate to disappoint you, Sir Bandit, but I am on a wedding journey, and my dowry was sent ahead last week. You should have intercepted that courier.”

“I see,” said Dougal, feeling amusement race through him in the wake of the excitement, a strange sensation.

“I do have a few pieces of jewelry on my person that I am willing to hand over—not terribly valuable, I fear, and I have no emotional attachment to them.”

“Why do you not keep them for the moment?” Dougal suggested.

“Keep them? Why?” She turned her head again. The shrieks inside the coach had risen to an alarmingly shrill level. “Oh, Bethan, do get hold of yourself.”

“Might I ask, lady, who is in the coach?”

“My maid, a bit disconcerted at present.”

“Tell her she has naught to fear. She shall remain unharmed. I mean to steal but one object this evening.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

Dougal bowed low from the back of his horse. For answer, he edged the beast nearer the coach, closer to her. He longed to see her face, the color of her eyes. He suspected she must be homely as the back end of a sow. No woman could possess such courage and beauty besides.

She stiffened when he looped his arm around her and scooped her up effortlessly out of the road. He felt indignation flood her and—was it fear, at last? He had no opportunity to tell, because she turned immediately into a wildcat, twisting, hissing in fury, and beating against him with both hands.

One blow landed on his chin, a respectable thump. Others rained down on his forearms and battered his chest. She made a soft, tempestuous armful, all right, and to his surprise he felt himself grow aroused. Ah, and he had not even seen the wench’s face.

The shrieks of the maid, apparently watching from the open door of the coach, doubled. All three coach attendants started up.

“Ah, ah!” Lachy cautioned them and waved his sword. “Is she truly worth your lives?”

“Miss Catherine!” one of the men bleated.

Ah, so that was the firebrand’s name. He restrained her, forcing her against his body using but one arm; the other still employed his sword. He enjoyed using his strength and clearly felt it the moment she decided she had no hope of escape.

She swore bitterly under her breath, causing him to smile again. “Hush,” he bade her with his mouth against her hair. “I will not hurt you—much.”

“Who are you?” At last she sounded shaken. Not terrified, he would give her that.

“Now, lady, you canno’ expect me to tell you that, here before your maid and your attendants.” He gestured with his sword. “All of you, inside the coach.”

They obliged, albeit reluctantly, and Lachlan shut the door and then turned the coach, with some difficulty, in the narrow road. The coach now pointed back down the hill. Dougal had chosen his spot well.

“What are you going to do?” his captive demanded. She had gone very still, watching the scene. He could feel her breathing, though, and he could smell her—a bouquet of pure woman that made his senses swim.

“If they are lucky, they will not be hurt,” he said into her ear, and felt her shudder.

Lachy rode to the front of the coach, took up the coachman’s flail, and hollered at the already spooked team of horses. They tossed their heads and took off at a dead run, the coach bouncing and clattering behind. Dougal could still hear the maid shrieking as it disappeared down the hill.

Catherine made a strange sound in her throat. “They will wreck and be killed!”

“Perhaps not. But they will be a long way distant from here when they stop.”

Lachy had dismounted and was gathering the weapons from the road. Dougal nodded to him, sheathed his sword, and lifted his horse’s reins. He and Lachlan would see no more of one another this night.

“What happens now?” Catherine demanded.

With an unwarranted feeling of possession, Dougal shifted the arm that pinned her so his hand splayed over her breast. Her body pressed against his so fiercely, he could feel every breath she dragged into her lungs, and he wanted to enter her, so badly it hurt.

“Now? Now you come with me.”

Chapter Five

“Welcome, Lady Catherine, to my abode.”

Isobel blinked up at the stones of the structure as the black horse thundered through the gate. Night had now truly fallen; she had seen very little of the countryside during the ride hence and had been almost wholly distracted by the presence of the man pressed to her back, but here torches flared and fear stuttered over her senses. She could not guess where she might be, but the place breathed age.

A keep of some sort, not large, though it gave that impression. The black horse’s hooves clattered on stone, making echoes off the face of the building proper. Tiny windows stared down at Isobel, and her heart struggled within her breast. She did not know for what she had hoped during the long, captive ride, but not this. The grim place offered little hope of escape.

And, of course, escape possessed her mind—escape and gratitude that, at least, Catherine was not here in her place. By now Catherine should be far away from home, perhaps even wed with her Thomas and out of this nightmare.

A lone retainer ran out when the horse entered the courtyard. He wore a rough kilt and leather jerkin, and he hurried to shut the gate against the darkness before catching the black horse’s bridle.

“Well, now,” he growled, peering up at Isobel from beneath a wrinkled brow.

“Give him a good rubdown, will you?” her captor returned. “He’s run hard and carried double.”

“Never bothered him afore,” the man said.

Afore? How often did this monster who had hold of her seize women? Ah, Isobel had heard of such men, in tales told of Scotland’s depravities, yet had never quite believed. Neither, apparently, had her father, or surely he would have sent a stouter escort.

Her captor’s hand, which for miles had splayed across her left breast, at last shifted. She felt the play of muscles in his body as he swung her across the saddle effortlessly and dismounted with her still in his grasp.

Isobel’s feet hit the courtyard and refused to hold her; the long, rough ride had robbed her legs of strength. Her captor grunted. Without a word, he swung her up and over his shoulder. Before she had the breath to protest, he carried her through the door of the keep.

The place smelled of wood smoke and clammy stone, and something that might be wet dog. Isobel could see little enough besides the floor passing beneath her, until they entered a chamber and her captor kicked the door shut behind them, then set her down quite carefully.