Authors: Prince of Danger
“I’ll say no such thing, lassie. Your sisters are welcome at Lochbuie any time they choose to visit here.”
“Thank you.”
“You are adamant then about rejecting this marriage?”
“Aye, sir, I am.”
“Very well, then you may go off to bed and I will make your apologies to the others. I’ll also tell Sir Michael that your decision is firm. Since he expects his men to catch up with him here tomorrow, I warrant he’ll depart soon afterward.”
“Aye,” she said, thinking that it would be exactly like Michael to do that.
H
aving slept poorly and awakened far too early, Isobel arose and dressed without troubling to send for a maid. It occurred to her to wonder how her woman would manage to return from Chalamine to Lochbuie and to hope Adela would somehow persuade Macleod to send her, but she knew she would be wise to find someone else to tend her needs for a while.
These thoughts and others of their ilk soured her mood to the point that she had no wish to inflict her company on any other person, let alone on the multitude of those who were currently disappointed in her. So after she donned her shift and an old gown that fastened up the front, she put on boots stout enough for a long walk, took her cloak from its hook, and set off to seek the morning sun and solitude.
Half expecting to meet Hector or Cristina, especially since the latter frequently arose early when Lochbuie entertained visitors, she was grateful to escape the confines of the castle unnoticed by anyone except a gillie or two, one guard on the ramparts, and the solitary sentinel at the postern gate. To the sentinel, she explained that she was going to walk along the shore near the harbor. Since she frequently did so, and since guardsmen on the ramparts commanded a wide view of the area, the gate guard made no objection.
Breathing deeply of the freedom she felt outside the curtain wall, she hurried down the path to the bay. MacDonald’s galleys were gone, and the tide on the turn, so the water was at its lowest point, and the muddy, rock-strewn shore stretched into the bay halfway to the far end of the long pier that began at the bottom of the path. Galleys, longships, and smaller craft rocked gently on incoming waves.
At this time of year, the morning twilight that began not long after midnight lasted hours, just as dusk did. Thus, land and sea were as visible as on any overcast day, although the sun’s first rays were peeking over the eastern hills. Puffy pale-pink-and-gold clouds drifted overhead in what promised soon to be a bright azure sky.
A lad coiled rope on the pier. Another fished from a rocky outcrop on the sharp eastern point at the mouth of the bay, but Isobel saw no one else about.
Catching up her skirts, she hurried along the shore toward the bay’s western knolls, scattering shore birds as she went. A streaky-brown curlew that had been contentedly probing the mud with his long, curved beak in search of breakfast screamed a curt
“kvi, kvi, kvi,”
as he took flight in protest at the intrusion and as warning to his fellow scavengers.
As she smiled at the bird’s outrage, her mood lightened, and she remembered why she loved the sea with its ever-changing moods. Breathing deeply of the salty air, she felt a stir of pleasure at sight of nearly hidden pink blossoms of thrift and sea spurge peeping from the short-cropped, grassy foliage of the knoll ahead. At this time of year, even the sandy, nearly barren shore exploded with color.
Avoiding sprawling, gray-green clumps of spiny sea holly, she climbed the knoll and paused at the top to watch a gray seal swimming just off shore. A moment later, a colony of puffins floated into view, their triangular orange bills as large as their faces. Moving carefully, so as not to startle them into flight, she found a flat rock and sat to watch them.
Michael will most likely leave today.
The thought entered her head unbidden, and with it memory of his warm smile, the twinkle in his eyes whenever she said something that amused him, his calm acceptance of all that had occurred, and the way his sensual, honey-smooth voice could arouse physical sensations deep within her body that she had never felt before meeting him. If he left, she would never see him again or learn his secrets, for surely it was not only his relationship to the future Prince of Orkney that made men want to flog information out of him. There were other mysteries to solve, too, not least of which was the effect he had on her after such short acquaintance.
What was it about the man, she wondered, that brought thoughts of him to fill her mind so often and so completely? At least once during her restless slumber the previous night, she had dreamed she slept beside him, so close that his body enveloped her with a fiery warmth that had all but consumed her, making her want to touch him, even to caress him, and to beg him to do the same to her.
Not that she would ever beg any man for anything.
In any event, as she had reached for him, Lady Euphemia had loomed before her, demanding—in a voice exactly like the shrill, raucous piping of an indignant oystercatcher guarding its supper—to know if she had lost her mind. Rather than answer that question, Isobel had awakened.
After that, she had lain in bed, sternly fixing her thoughts on the walk she would take as soon as the day brightened enough so that she could go outside without causing anyone to wonder at her doing so. She had carefully avoided contemplating this second suggestion of her aunt’s, albeit dream-inspired this time, that she had gone mad. And she did not want to consider madness now.
Nor had she changed her mind about Michael or about marriage.
A deep groan, almost a growl, startled her out of her reverie.
Blinking at the fat little puffin that had strolled up to inspect her, followed by two of his chums, she marveled as she had many times before at how unbirdlike the chubby little creatures sounded and how human they looked, as if they wore white shirt fronts with black jerkins and breeks, and red or yellow stockings. Their eyelids opened and closed as human eyes did, giving them a most comical expression.
More clouds were gathering in the west, promising rain squalls by afternoon, and she saw that other puffins from their colony had come ashore. They stood about now, very upright on their sturdy legs, looking like a group of plump, dignified courtiers enjoying a social conversation.
When the one closest to her cocked its head as if to ask what she was thinking, she said, “You look as if you would offer me advice, sir, just as everyone else does. But at least you will not urge me to marry Sir Michael.”
The bird tilted its head the other way, as if it would hear more.
“Who are the St. Clairs, anyway?” she asked him. “I warrant you know no more about them than I do. To be sure, his brother is to be a prince, but what manner of Scotsman would be a Norse prince? And although Sir Michael is refreshingly
un
-domineering, I have discovered that his inability to think for himself is nearly as maddening as is the propensity of other men to make every decision without regard for one’s wishes. Well, not maddening,” she muttered. “Annoying, though, and who’d
ever
have thought that it could be?”
Her audience was no longer listening if, indeed, it ever had been. The chief puffin ruffled its glossy feathers and wandered off with its chums to join the others, their unhurried, rolling gait making them look no less humanlike from behind.
As she turned away, distant movement to the east caught her eye, and a large galley with exceptionally graceful lines, looking golden in the sunlight, hove into view around the eastern point of the bay. Spray from its flashing oars danced in the sunlight like tiny jewels. A flapping banner waved from its mast.
The distance was too great to discern the banner’s device, but she suspected that Michael’s men had arrived. If so, they had wasted no time, because certainly Ian MacCaig could not have reached Eilean Donan before sundown the previous day, if not later, to deliver his message.
Glancing toward the castle ramparts, she observed increased activity there and knew that if Hector Reaganach were not already astir, he soon would be, and others as well. With a sigh, she stood and shook her skirts free of sand or grit they might have picked up. An impulse stirred to run away as fast and as far as she could go, but curiosity stirred, too, to see what Michael’s man was like. Moreover, she told herself, courtesy demanded that she at least bid Sir Michael a polite farewell.
Walking back down the knoll, she reached the muddy shore again and was picking her way through various bits of flotsam washed up by the tide when she noticed a figure striding down the path toward the pier. Easily recognizing Michael, she stopped where she was, thinking he had not seen her.
If he was in such a hurry to leave that he rushed to meet his men, she decided that she did not care that he had failed to notice her. The galley approached the pier at speed and in grand style. Every helmsman and oarsman took pride in his skills and loved to show them off, but she could not deny that it made a fine picture.
She heard the helmsman shout for his rowers to “hold water!” and then to “weigh enough!” The oars plunged into the water, sharply curtailing the galley’s speed. Then, while the nearside oars stayed in—sculling powerfully, she knew—the bank of oars on the pier side flashed straight up and the boat drifted in until it gently touched the wood pilings and lads rushed to catch its lines and make it fast.
Expecting to see Michael hurrying along the pier, she looked for him.
Footsteps crunching on shingle nearby warned her that he had turned along the shore instead and was nearly upon her.
“Good morning, lass,” he said.
“And to you, sir.”
“You are up early.”
“Aye.” She eyed him warily, wondering if he would say, as so many men would have, that she ought not to have come down to the shore alone.
“’Tis a splendid morning, is it not?”
She nodded, feeling strangely shy. Then, damping suddenly dry lips, she said, “I thought that must be your boat, but I suppose it is too soon for it to be here.”
“That’s the
Raven
, sure enough,” he said. “But I saw you walking over here and wanted to speak to you before you meet Hugo.”
“Is Hugo your man, the one who was staying with you at Eilean Donan?”
“Aye, in a manner of speaking,” he said with a warm smile. “But here he comes now, nearly on the run, so I expect we should go to meet him.”
The man striding toward them along the pier did not resemble any manservant Isobel had ever seen. He was as tall as Michael and looked a lot like him. With the rising sun behind him, his light-brown hair danced with red-gold highlights, and as he drew near, she saw that his eyes were the same cerulean blue as Michael’s.
She looked up at the latter, noting that a muscle twitched near the right corner of his mouth as if something had disturbed his usual calm. Although he did not look at her, she sensed that he knew she was looking at him.
“Michael, lad!” the other man exclaimed. “How fortunate you are that I find you safe! Whatever were you thinking, to disappear like that?”
Not a manservant then. Menservants did not address their masters in such a familiar way. Clearly, she had been wise to refuse marriage to a man who evaded the truth as Michael so clearly had.
“Well met, Hugo,” he said, reaching to grip the man’s outstretched hand and to clap him on a shoulder as well. “I’m sorry to have put such a fright into you, but I collect that our courier reached Eilean Donan in good time.”
“What courier? If you mean that young scamp Ian MacCaig, we met him in Glen Mòr along with a lovely young lass who was arguing with him about which direction they should take. Ian would have whisked her off the path at our approach, but the lass stood her ground as if she owned the place.”
Isobel pressed her lips together at hearing this disrespectful description of her elder sister. She said nothing, though, curious to see how far the man’s sense of humor would take him.
Michael said calmly, “Take care how you speak, Hugo. My lady, I hope you will forgive my cousin’s bad manners and allow me to present him to you.” Without waiting for yea or nay, he went on, “Little though he has recommended himself, this is my cousin Sir Hugo Robison of Strathearn.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” Isobel said. “I did not know Sir Michael had a kinsman hereabouts. He told me only that he’d left a manservant at Eilean Donan.”
Sir Hugo raised his eyebrows and said with a mocking look at Michael, “Manservant, eh? You overstep the mark, lad, if you think I’ll serve you with anything but what you deserve for such an impudence.”
To Isobel’s surprise, Michael chuckled. “You may try, of course. But I do sincerely apologize to you, my lady, for my prevarication.”
“I am sure it is of no consequence, sir,” Isobel said with the same politeness she had shown his cousin. “You had no reason to confide in me. Indeed,” she added, gathering dignity close so her true feelings would not reveal themselves, “I am sure you must have private matters to discuss. I will take my leave of you.”
“Wait, lass,” Michael said, putting a gentle hand on her arm as she turned away. “Tell me first if you are still of the same mind as you were last night.”
“Indeed I am,” she said. “You have merely given me further reason to believe I chose the right course.”
“Very well,” he said. “Then we’ll depart as soon as the tide turns again, for I see no reason now to delay sailing to Kirkwall. However,” he added when she started to pull away, “you need not hurry on ahead. We’ll escort you properly.”
“Indeed, Lady Isobel,” Sir Hugo said when she hesitated, “you must not run away, because I am charged with all manner of messages from Lady Adela. I should have realized from your strong resemblance that you were her sister.” His eyes danced. “I do hope you will forgive me. I vow, I meant no disrespect.”
Smiling flirtatiously at him and ignoring Michael, Isobel said, “If you met Ian and Adela in Glen Mòr, sir, I assume that you were there searching for your cousin. That also explains how you managed to arrive here so quickly. I’m only sorry that you could not arrange to bring my maidservant with you.”
“Lady Adela did suggest such a course,” Sir Hugo said with a reminiscent gleam. “
And
practically handed me my head in my lap when I told her I could not delay even the single hour she insisted it would take me to fetch the lass, because I knew that Michael would expect me to lose no time catching up with him. Had I known he was enjoying himself and not keeping nervous watch lest his seekers find him before I did, I might have dallied longer.”