Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) (7 page)

7

Maida appeared behind Leith, almost bumping into him, a pile of fresh linens cradled in her sturdy arms. When her eyes fell on Isobel, she let out a gasp.

“The witch-child has turned herself into a woman!” Dugald cried, his voice choked. His big, round face turned as red as his hair and his beard and he looked away. Leith did not.

His eyes slowly touched every part of her wet body, lingering on the swell of her breasts and her up-thrust nipples, her trim waist, touching on the scars she always hid, and traveling down her slim legs before his gaze came back up to her face and fell on the pendant circling her neck.

He frowned and met her eyes with frankness while Maida scooted around him with the linens, placing them next to the tub. She quickly retreated to the hallway.

Isobel knew she did not compare to the Lady Katherine. She felt her face flush as she reached for the linen and wrapped it about herself, averting her eyes from his. She knew
exactly
what he was thinking. She was sure she had disgusted him. If there was one thing she had learned about men, it was that they prized perfection and beauty above all else. She had seen it time and time again as men in her own clan, her
former
clan, had all vied for the hands of the prettiest maidens, ignoring those who were plainer despite any charms, intelligence, or wit they may have displayed.

Though he had saved her life, Isobel already disliked Leith intensely. He was a man who would scorn sentiment and romance, who was used to ruthlessly taking what he thought was rightfully his, a man who believed everyone else looked at life with the same calculating, practical interest.

There was great virility there, to be sure—he was a warrior whose prowess was known all along the misty coasts of Scotland. For a while, it seemed that the Macleans were
embroiled in every disturbance in the western isles.
She found his presence overpowering.

“Dugald, dunna be daft,” Leith said. “She dinna use a magic spell to turn herself into a grown woman.” His eyes dipped to the creamy swell of her breasts once more, and he lifted his hand to briefly caress the pendant at her neck. The touch of his long, lean fingers was alarming. “Ye are no child. Ye ne’er were. Ye deceived us.”

Isobel arched a golden eyebrow and he withdrew his hand. “I didna lie, Maclean. I ne’er claimed to be a child. Ye all assumed I was and I dinna correct ye. Ye saw what ye wanted to see. What did it matter if ye thought I was child or woman? Would it have changed anything? Would ye have left me to burn if ye knew I was a woman and no’ a child?” A note of effrontery crept into her voice. She could not help it. “And do ye ne’er knock before ye enter a lady’s chamber?”

He noticed the change in her voice, in her tone, and it seemed to amuse him rather than anger him. She was sure her own eyes flashed with anger and indignation. She had never found it easy to disguise her feelings.

“E’erything in this castle belongs to me,” he said. “E’erything. E’ery room, e’ery stick of furniture, e’ery tapestry, e’ery candlestick. I am responsible for e’ery life here, for e’eryone’s comfort and safety.”

“Then it must surely rankle yer arrogant hide that ye own e’erything in this keep
except
for that stag’s head on the wall.”

Isobel saw the corners of Maida’s lips lift in surprise, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle. Isobel watched a fuller smile blossom on Leith’s lips, and just as she’d imagined it would be, his smile was both brutal and mesmerizing.

“I do have an arrogant hide,” he said. “Surely ye’ve heard it said that a rare thing is a Maclean without boasting, a Macdonald without activity, or a Campbell without pride. I’m also headstrong, brazen, calculating, and possessive. If yer going to insult me, at least do it properly.” He frowned. “I ha’e to be all those things. It’s my duty to keep my clan safe and to consider what is best for them. Therefore I canna worry what people think of me when I make decisions to protect them. Including bringing ye here, Isobel.”

He stepped closer to her. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, and his long-lashed amber eyes drew her in. She was aware of the water droplets sliding down her skin and she shivered, though she knew it was not from the cold.

“Ye’d best get used to my boorish ways, for ye’ll be spending a lot of time by my side.” He raised his hand and this time caught one of her errant, ragged curls in his fingers. “Curious. Is this how Seers wear their hair?”

Isobel was forced to move yet closer to him. She could see his hard face clearly—the shadows beneath his luminous eyes, the grooves around his mouth—and her eyes were inadvertently drawn to his scar.

He released the curl abruptly and she pulled away from him.

“Nay. ‘Twas no’ always so ugly. Before they set out to burn me, a man cut it off with his dirk. My hair had hung to my hips and I kept it clean. ‘Twas the only pretty thing about me, as ye can now see, being as ye didna knock before ye came in and saw more of me than ye would ha’e liked.”

She frowned, thinking about that awful night when they had tied her to the stake. “After he severed my braid, he held it up for all to see as the golden braid of a witch.” Her lips trembled but she did not tear her gaze from his.

Leith’s eyes narrowed. “Who was the black-souled midden who did this to ye?”

“He is dead. By yer arrow. His name was Bothen. He is the one who would ha’e lit the fire at my feet.”

“At least I will no’ ha’e to kill him twice.” He frowned. “Bothen deserved to die. Ye dunna mourn the death of this Bothen, do ye? Ye dunna feel his death was yer fault?”

“Nay. He was a murderer of women. A caustic swine, crueler than a starving wolf.”

Leith was so close to her now she could feel the heat of his big body. His smoky topaz eyes traveled over her slender form again, and she noticed that dark whiskers had already started to graze his square jaw. He appeared calm, but the scar on his cheek was white. Isobel was glad her scars were covered by the linen.

“Well, witch, at least ye smell better now.” His lips twitched and Isobel wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or insulting her. “So, witch, will ye help me?”

“Help ye with what? To foresee the outcomes of battles with yer enemies? To help heal yer sick and injured after ye carelessly sacrifice them on the battlefield? To help ye discover who killed Logan? To help ye win the hand of the fair Lady Katherine? As far as winning the hand of a lady, I’ve ne’er had a….” Isobel stopped speaking. She’d almost admitted she’d never had a lover, and he watched her with curiosity.

“All of it, witch. But know this. I dunna condone careless and unnecessary bloodshed and the loss of good men in battle. I plan my battles wisely. I ha’e a keen gift for ferreting out traitors. And I ha’e charmed numerous women into my bed.”

“Aye, I can imagine fear of ye practically defeats yer enemies before they e’er have a chance to raise their axes against ye! So why do ye need
me
, a MacKinnon healer?”

“I dreamt of ye and it was a strong dream, one I couldna ignore. I believe ‘twas Logan who sent me the dream. I believe, because of the dream, that somehow our destinies our tied together, witch.”

“I am no’ a witch! Call me
Isobel
, Highlander. It is my
name
.” She bit her lower lip and he watched her mouth intently, causing a strange, warm sensation to flood her body.

“Isobel, do ye need assistance dressing after yer bath?” He offered her a hand so she could step from the tub. She felt her face flame and shook her head.

“Nay, I will dress when ye leave, Highlander, which I hope ye will do now!”

He laughed and withdrew his hand, but not his cool appraisal. He was still waiting for her answer to his other question.

“The Sight is unpredictable,” Isobel said. “I canna control when I ha’e visions or what I see. I dunna always know what my visions and dreams mean.”

He nodded, sensing she had more to say, and waited patiently.

Isobel studied his form. He no longer wore his plaid. A fine saffron linen shirt and dark trews covered his tall, muscular frame, and heavy leather boots were on his feet. His black hair was tied back with a ribbon the color of topaz. He was even taller than she’d realized, his shoulders broad, his chest wide, and his hips narrow. His face was rugged and masculine, his nose straight and arrogant beneath his piercing topaz eyes, and his lips sensual. She felt her face color as she realized he’d taken notice of her perusal. With his dark looks, he was a striking-looking man, and she could understand why Lady Katherine feared him, why people called him the Black Wolf.

“Maclean, I am a healer, no’ a witch. Stop calling me ‘witch’ and I may help ye if I can. I owe ye that for saving my life. But I will no’ stay here forever. I will no’ stay where I am no’ welcome.”

“Ye will stay as long as I need ye to stay.”

Isobel bit back a retort to his arrogance and squared her shoulders. She feared it would be all too easy to see the faint amusement in his eyes turn to anger. He must have a temper. What Scotsman did not? He was used to directing men on the battlefield, used to having his orders on and off the battlefield obeyed without question. She would choose her battles with him wisely.

Even if he did consider her an unappealing peasant, a witch of sorts, at least she had the satisfaction of knowing he did not find her a simpering, fearful one. There was a current of ruthlessness and stubborn determination about him and she felt sure he recognized the same in her. She could not have survived the life she’d lived thus far without it.

“Who gave ye that pendant?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at it again.

“My father. He’s dead now.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I know how it feels to lose a father.”

He turned to leave and then stopped to cast an amused glance at her over his shoulder. “Make no mistake. I own that stag’s head, too.”

As he left, Ranulph’s booming voice carried up the stairs from below.

“What’s all the screaming about? Did the witch-child turn poor Maida into a toad?”

8

Despite her exhausting ordeal yesterday, Isobel had risen early.

The castle was astir at daybreak. Roused from their straw pallets, servants lit fires in the kitchens and sculleries and in the great hall. Sleep-tousled men, women, and children began to fill the tables and benches, and Isobel sought seating as far from the others as possible.

She sat in the shadows near the hearth, where a group of hounds lounged and waited for scraps of food. The dogs were much better trained than those of the MacKinnon clan. More than once Isobel had feared being attacked by Bothen’s hounds, for Bothen had treated his animals the way he’d treated his women—savagely. He’d often said cruel things, like there was no difference between a woman and a mangy hound; both would be loyal to their master for scraps of meat and occasional attention.

Isobel had risen, washed, and now wore clothing finer than any she’d ever owned—a soft chemise and hose beneath a full-length, green linen tunic. She’d also been given a decent pair of leather boots. There wasn’t much she could do about her hair until it grew. It was probably just long enough to pull back with a short ribbon, but she was not about to ask for something costly.

She finished her bread and cheese and waited for Leith to appear in the hall. She needed to discuss her duties here. She could not sit around idly day and night simply waiting for visions.

She marveled at how different the great hall of the Macleans was compared to the great hall of the MacKinnons. Here there were oak paneled walls, intricate tapestries with images of men hunting, and silver cups. The great hall was clean and well cared for, the rushes fragrant even in winter. The Macleans had their own minstrel, who played softly during and after meals and thus far had not appeared drunk. The MacKinnon minstrel had only played on special occasions, such as Hogmanay’s, and he was often loud and worse for drink, forgetting tunes halfway through them and having to start over. Sometimes he even fell asleep while he was playing.

‘Twas obvious the Maclean laird prized orderliness and cleanliness. He ran an efficient household. Servants seemed well fed and generally content. Here, the beams were painted, not stained and streaked from years of smoke, and there were torches to light the way to beds covered with warm blankets. They were a proud and fierce clan.

Once her own clan, the MacKinnon, had been so. But ‘twas a long time ago. Isobel thought about the legend surrounding the castle of Dunakin near Kyleakin. The castle was supposedly built by a Norwegian princess known as “Saucy Mary”, who married Findanus, the claimed ancestor of Clan MacKinnon. The princess collected the tolls of ships sailing through the narrows between the castle and the mainland, though Norse ships did not have to pay the toll. To ensure her taxes were paid, a chain was stretched across the kyle. On her death, she was buried beneath a cairn on
Beinn na Caillich
, the “mountain of the old woman”. The MacKinnon clan had defeated the Vikings at
Goir a’ Bhlair
, on the eastern slopes of the Beinn.

Now the clan was scattered, and all within and without their keep was in disarray. Isobel thought sadly of the gardens she’d often tended, how they’d surely be neglected come spring. She thought the gardens here must be magnificent in the springtime, bursting with color and life and well-tended. The skies would be bright blue, and the Island of Mull would look like something from a fairytale with its misty mountains, fir-clad glens, and white clouds floating above fields of foxglove, harebells, and heather. Isobel hoped, however, that she would be gone from here by then, the task of helping Leith to win Lady Katherine’s hand somehow accomplished.

From the little she’d observed so far, Lady Katherine would not be swayed by logic or practicality. She was in mourning, and clearly no lover could compare to Logan. She would need grand, romantic gestures and words of poetry. She would need to be flattered with rich tokens of regard.

Low feminine laughter drew Isobel’s gaze to the great table, where Lady Katherine now sat next to Leith’s war councilor, Errol, their heads bent closely together in discussion. Both stared openly at Isobel.

Lady Katherine’s hair was upswept and held in place with ivory hairpins and a glittering, golden comb. She wore another black mourning gown, no less brilliant than the one she’d had on last evening. Gold, silken threads reflected the candlelight. And despite the fact that it was a mourning gown, it displayed her ample bosom as she leaned over her cup of ale. Errol’s eyes dipped to her creamy mounds of flesh and she did not seem to mind his admiring glances. She whispered something to him and he laughed out of his crooked mouth.

“I guess we shouldna laugh at the poor girl,” she said, more loudly this time. Errol had reluctantly torn his ice-blue eyes from Lady Katherine to once again stare at Isobel with undisguised malice. “After all, Leith has decreed the witch is to have a position here as lofty as yer own, Errol.”

“She’s a liar, a tale-spinner. Nothing more. I question my laird’s judgment in bringing a MacKinnon Seer into our keep. It makes me wonder if Logan’s passing has affected him too deeply.”

Lady Katherine frowned at him. “It has affected us all deeply, Errol.”

“Yea, of course it has. I just meant that to bring a
MacKinnon witch
into our own keep is an insult and perhaps evidence of our laird’s questionable judgment. His sorrow is deep and he isna thinking clearly.”

“Do ye also question yer laird’s judgment in bringing me, a hated Campbell, into yer keep?” she asked, her voice sultry.

“Nay. Ne’er, my lady. Ne’er that. I can understand why he brought
ye
here.”

Isobel met Errol’s eyes. She wondered about a war advisor that would question his laird’s sanity when the laird wasn’t present. ‘Twas easy to be brave when the subject of yer insults was out of sight and earshot.

Errol was obviously a fastidious man when it came to his appearance—his red hair and red beard were well groomed and there were many rings on his fingers. She wondered if he’d pried the rings off his dead enemies’ hands. His hair was tied back neatly with a dark green ribbon that matched the richness of his white shirt
,
which had numerous folds and flowing sleeves and was neatly stitched with expensive green thread. A bejeweled dirk hung from the belt at his waist, and his trews displayed the powerful muscles of his legs. His boots were made from boiled leather.

Errol sat back in his chair, placing an arm behind Lady Katherine’s back. “It’s no’ just that she’s a tale-spinner. She’s odd and about as comely as a toad, unpleasant to look upon. Look at her hair. Not fair and womanly like ye are, my Lady Katherine, even though ye be a Campbell, those greedy, unscrupulous, perfidious bastards.”

“I think ye confuse us with the Macdonalds,” Lady Katherine said, smiling without warmth.

They lost interest in Isobel as Errol lazily lifted a hand and caressed a dark curl at Lady Katherine’s temple. She looked momentarily alarmed and he quickly dropped his hand.

“Pay them no mind,” Maida said, approaching Isobel and offering her ale. “Beauty without a heart is cold. And Errol? He’s one to judge others. This summer past he was caught with his trews down by several enemy clansmen in an apple orchard. He was takin’ a shit. He only survived by riding away, bareback. His arse was red as an apple for a week. Ye think about that when he opens his cruel and thoughtless mouth against ye.”

Isobel laughed, and this time it was Lady Katherine and Errol who turned their heads in curiosity.

“Maida, I need something to do here. I plan to speak to Leith about it this morning. I canna sit idle all day and e’ening, waiting for visions. I canna cook; I was ne’er vera good at that. In fact, once, I tripped and fell into the fire. A pot saved me from a worse scorching of my face.” She lifted a curl on her forehead to reveal a small scar. “But I am good at other things. I can sew and carry wood and change the rushes. I know how to treat earaches and stomach aches and toothaches. I know a lot about herbs. I know how to treat battle wounds and….”

“Och, nay. Leith has forbidden it.”

“He…
what
?”

“Ye are no’ to lift a finger in menial tasks. He wants all yer attention focused on yer visions for the good of the clan. He wants nothing to interfere with that.”

A man bellowed from the kitchens about burnt, lumpy oats and Maida frowned. “’Tis true that a Maclean can fight all day on the meanest, plainest porridge but, oh dear, if it’s no’ just right, Cook throws a fit. I’d better go and soothe his temper. If ye need anything, please let me know. Even if it’s just a friendly smile once in a while.” Maida returned to the kitchens.

Despite Maida’s kindness, Isobel was incredulous. And angry. Who was Leith to decide her fate and how she should spend her days here? Ranulph had told her that Leith was the sort of man who made the future. And he had decided hers. Och, but Isobel couldna stand to be idle. She crossed her arms over her chest and began to tap her foot, thinking about the words she would have with Leith.

The room seemed to grow darker with shadow as she began to talk quietly to herself, mumbling unsavory things about the arrogant, black-haired Highlander.

“Why are ye sitting in the shadows, talking to yerself?”

The rich-timbered, commanding voice startled her. She looked up to see Leith towering above her, amusement in his amber eyes. His plaid was clasped about his wide shoulders with the topaz jewel, as if he planned to leave the castle on an errand.

“I was breaking my fast,” Isobel said. She continued to tap her foot and her arms were still crossed rigidly over her chest.

“Ye seem…perturbed. Did ye no’ sleep well?”

“I slept vera well. The bed is the nicest I’ve e’er slept in, and vera warm. But the room is far too grand for me.”

“’Tis to be yer room while yer here. Ye will no’ sleep on a pallet of straw where ye would be vulnerable. There are some here who may ne’er accept yer presence and so I must protect ye. Did ye dream?”

“Nay.”

He offered his hand. “In future, ye shall no’ break yer fast in the shadows with the hounds. Ye shall sit by my side at my table.”

She stared at his hand. She looked at Lady Katherine and Errol, who were both glaring at her.

“I prefer the shadows,” she said, returning her gaze to his.

His eyes had taken on a hard, gold glint. “I willna allow it. Ye are to be by my side whene’er I wish it. And I wish it now.”

“Nay.”

“What?”

“Nay.”

“I must remind ye there are people here who harbor unpleasant thoughts about ye, Isobel. People who dunna trust ye. Yer a MacKinnon healer. People fear ye. ‘Tis better for ye to be seen constantly in my presence until they grow used to yers.”

“I canna sit around waiting for visions! I need to have something to do.”

He reached out his hand again. “We’ll discuss it at the table.”

Though she wanted to scream at him, she finally took his hand and he led her to the dais.

“Errol, move down.”

“My laird?”

Leith pointed to another seat. “The Seer sits by my side from now on.”

Errol’s face flooded red as bog berry but he nodded. “As you wish, my laird.” He removed himself to the other side of Lady Katherine as Leith sat down next to the woman he desired. Isobel remained standing.

“Sit,” Leith said, pointing to the empty chair next to him.

“I’ve already eaten.”

“Yea, but I have no’. Sit.”

Isobel sat.

“In times of feuding, ye surround yerself with women?” Errol spat.

“Yer within arm’s reach, Errol. Certainly I can hear yer booming, irritating voice. Would ye rather we handfasted? If we were betrothed, I fear ye would nag me to death.”

Lady Katherine laughed, but it was not a nice laugh.

Errol frowned. “My laird, we have strategic matters to discuss. The Reivers have continued to strike through the winter months, when the nights are longest and the cattle and horses fat from having spent the summer grazing. The raids have been too close for comfort, involving at least a dozen men. I fear for the safety of our cattle and horses. The Reivers ride on hardy nags and ponies that can pick their way over the peat pots. I think the Reivers may be of Clan Ranklin. I dunna think the Campbells would risk attacking us with Lady Katherine here as our guest. And for sure they are no’ English, for the English are far too busy losing their war against France. They ha’e little appetite for tangling with us Scots now.”

“Aye. Though the truce with England is but a scrap of parchment, I dunna think they would bother with us just yet. Clan Ranklin, despite being part of our own clan, has been a wild thorn in our side. Though they dunna have their own chief, they continue to want to war with us. They may be involved. Rolph and his patrols still plan to return on the morrow?”

Errol nodded.

“Then ye and my uncle Rolph have the situation well in hand. Now, I’ve promised Isobel my ear.”

Errol had already spent a good part of the morning red-faced. Isobel didn’t think it was possible, but his face flamed an even deeper shade of red.