Amanda Scott (7 page)

“Relax, lass,” Michael said. “’Tis better, I think, if you go back to sleep. We’ll soon enter the Sound of Mull, and the wind is so strong that the helmsman has said he expects us to make Lochbuie Bay shortly after Compline.”

She shook her head. “I am rested, sir. Moreover, these men will require supper before they leave Lochbuie, and they will spend the night, and—”

“Gowrie said they carry their own rations and need sleep only a few hours on the beach before departing for Ardtornish,” he said. “Their mission is to make sure you arrive safely, nothing more.”

She nodded but insisted that he return to his former seat. Nor did she sleep, wanting to be certain both galleys passed Ardtornish Castle, seat of the Lord of the Isles, and Duart Castle, the seat of Lachlan Lubanach, without stopping.

She had never been more sincere than in telling Gowrie she did not want to explain the situation more than once, so it was not until they had left the Sound of Mull behind them that she let herself doze for the rest of the journey.

Despite the late hour when the oarsmen rowed into Lochbuie Bay, the sun was just sinking below the western horizon, painting the waves in the bay with fading rays of golden light. At this season, the dusk that followed would linger past midnight.

As usual, numerous galleys and longships rested at anchor in the harbor, but their own boats put in alongside the long stone-and-timber pier, and as they did, Isobel saw a surge of activity on the ramparts of the castle at the top of the rise.

Soon men descended the hill, the guardsmen above having easily recognized MacDonald’s little-black-ship banner.

Within moments, Isobel was thanking Gowrie’s men and happily greeting the Lochbuie welcoming party, most of whom were old friends she had counted as family for years. She introduced Michael as a cousin from the north desiring to pay his respects to the Laird of Lochbuie, thus giving her excellent reason to return home betimes.

If a few skeptical looks greeted this explanation, she paid them no heed, knowing none of her audience would question her—not so publicly, at all events.

Gowrie’s men saw to their galleys, lowering the sails and putting up the oars for the night in racks along the centerline of the pier, as Isobel led the way to the castle where she had spent the happiest years of her life, with Michael a step behind her. Certain as she was that Hector and Cristina would understand the necessity for bringing him to Mull, she was nonetheless a bit nervous about explaining it to them.

Michael had been quiet for some time, and she wondered if it had occurred to him that Hector was likely to be impatient with his secrets and demand a full and immediate explanation of the incident at the cave.

“Lass,” he said so quietly that the word reached her ears alone as they neared the castle entrance, “about that tale you spun Donald Mòr Gowrie . . .” He hesitated.

“Aye, what about it?”

“We cannot employ such a strategy with Hector Reaganach.”

Impatience stirred, and not for the first time. The man was as handsome as any she had ever met—more handsome than any mortal man should be. Moreover, he was exactly the sort of man she had always insisted she would prefer a man to be. He listened to her when she spoke, never dismissed her opinions or showed the typical masculine tendency to patronize or correct her. Indeed, he seemed not to have a domineering bone in his body. So why, she wondered, did he so often stir a desire to box his ears, shake him, and demand that he think for himself?

With more patience than she felt, she said, “I am not such a noddy, sir!”

“I never meant to imply that you were,” he said, his voice still low and calm. “It just occurred to me that since you did spin that tale, and since Hector is likely to meet Gowrie at some point in the future—mayhap quite soon—”

“Aye, sir, and for that very reason I shall tell him exactly what I said to Gowrie. Indeed, I mean to tell him everything that happened. He will perfectly understand why I told Gowrie as little as possible, I promise you.”

“I hope so, but I fear he may not as perfectly understand why you have done me the honor to concern yourself so deeply in my affairs.”

“Of course he will,” she said. “I have only to tell him exactly what happened to us. Gowrie’s men will say naught of what hap—”

“Aye, lass, but will he listen?” He spoke louder, and she cast a guilty glance at the Lochbuie men nearest them, realizing that she had nearly said more than she should. But the men were talking amongst themselves and paid little heed to her or to Michael, who added, “I have grown increasingly certain these past hours that I shall walk into the hall at Lochbuie beside you only to hear Hector order me cast into a dungeon or carried off to the nearest hanging tree.”

“Hereabouts,” Isobel said dulcetly, “felons who deserve such punishments are cast from the highest cliff to certain death in the sea.”

“Just so,” he said. “I must say, though, that that information does not reassure me.” He sounded serious, but she saw his lips twitch.

Then, as their eyes met, he smiled, and as always, his smile warmed her to her bones. Her impatience melted, but she shook her head and said, “I do wish you would hearten yourself more, sir. Indeed, I do not know how you get on in life when you are always so sure the worst will happen. Why, you put me forcibly in mind of Adela when you speak like that.”

“Do I? Is that such a dreadful thing?”

“Of course not. I just wish you would be more resolute.”

“Do you want me to explain our coming here?”

“No, no, I’ll do that,” she said. “I know exactly how to manage Hector. I do hope, though, that he and Cristina are alone tonight, because it will be best if I can make things clear to him at once. Rory,” she said, raising her voice to draw the attention of the nearest guardsman, “the laird
is
at home, is he not?”

“Aye, m’lady, and he said for ye to go straight to the hall. That is to say, he told us to bring whoever be sailing into the bay under his grace’s banner to him straightway. I’m thinking he’ll be that glad to see it be yourself.”

Assuming from those words that Hector and Cristina were alone, she saw no reason to stir curiosity among his men by asking if they were. That she heard no minstrels or chatter as she hurried up the narrow, winding stone stairway to the great hall reinforced that assumption, so she entered that cavernous chamber confidently with Michael just behind her, only to stop a step later in sharp dismay.

Except for one gillie who tended the roaring fire on the great hooded hearth in the east wall near the candlelit dais at the far end, the lower hall was dark and empty, but the dais certainly was not.

Despite the hour, Hector and Cristina lingered at the high table, but they had moved from their customary places midway along the board to the end near the fire, and they were not alone. Four others sat with them. Lachlan Lubanach and his wife, Mairi of the Isles, sat with their backs to Isobel, but she recognized both instantly. Facing her were her aunt, Lady Euphemia Macleod, and Lady Mairi’s mother, the princess Margaret Stewart, daughter of Robert, High King of Scots.

“Mercy, Isobel, is that you?” Cristina exclaimed, jumping up and peering toward her through the lower hall’s gloom. “I’m delighted to see you, darling, but what are you doing here days before your time? Is aught amiss at Chalamine?”

Michael had almost run into the lass when she stopped so abruptly. Glancing at her, he saw that she had paled, but she regained her composure quickly and, hurrying forward, said, “Nay, Cristina, all is well, and Father is preparing to travel north with the girls—and Adela, too, I hope. I am sorry if our unexpected arrival startled you into thinking otherwise. I did not mean to frighten you.”

Michael noted that she glanced more than once at the large man who rose to stand beside Lady Cristina, and he easily recognized Hector Reaganach. Not until the others turned toward them did he recognize Hector’s twin brother, Lachlan Lubanach, Lord High Admiral of the Isles, and Lachlan’s lady, Mairi of the Isles.

Then, to his further surprise, he saw that the woman sitting across from Mairi was her mother. He had no idea who the thin, middle-aged lady next to Princess Margaret was, but it had already become abundantly clear to him that matters were about to become more complicated than either he or Lady Isobel had anticipated.

Hector opened his mouth, but the lady next to Princess Margaret forestalled him, saying, “Really, Isobel, you are growing to be quite as thoughtless as our Mariota used to be. You ought to have known that it would frighten Cristina to see you so unexpectedly and at such an hour. What else was any of us to think but that you’d brought bad news from Chalamine? And who is that fellow with you? Surely, you did not travel so far with only a manservant to look after you. So inappropriate! Wherever is your maidservant?”

Hector’s steady gaze shifted to Michael, stirring a chill of guilty discomfort that he had not felt since before his father’s death. He straightened his shoulders much as he would have in older times, bracing himself to meet that look, and for the first time since leaving Glenelg, he gave thought to his clothing, wishing he had had something other than a shepherd’s shirt and jerkin to wear with his breeks.

Isobel dismissed her lack of a maid with an impatient gesture, saying, “Michael is not a manservant, Aunt Euphemia.”

“Then who is he, lass?” Hector asked in a deceptively calm voice.

“He . . . he is Michael, sir,” she said, evidently realizing that anything more she might say about a man she called only Michael would be insufficient to satisfy them. “If you will let me explain, I can make everything clear.”

“When did you last eat?” Cristina demanded.

Again, the lass dismissed the question with a gesture as she replied, “Sometime around midday, but that does not matter, because I must tell you—”

“Come and sit down, Isobel,” Hector said in a voice that brooked no refusal. “Take that seat beside Mairi. As to your companion, I’d prefer to talk to him without your explanations. You will not mind engaging in a brief conversation with me, will you, lad? Privately, and at once?”

“I welcome the opportunity, my lord,” Michael said, belatedly remembering his manners and bowing to the table at large.

He nearly made a separate bow to Princess Margaret but decided against it, since no one had made him known to her. He had seen Hector and Lachlan more than once before, but no one had ever formally presented him to them, either, and he doubted that they would remember his presence at any of several overcrowded events they had chanced to attend at one time or another.

Hector crossed the dais, saying, “We’ll adjourn to another chamber, I think.”

“Do you want me?” Lachlan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’d prefer that you stay here,” Hector said. “Isobel, your transport consisted of two of his grace’s galleys, did it not?”

“Yes, sir, but the men will rest and leave by morning. I
can
explain,” she added.

“I have no doubt that you can, and your oarsmen are welcome to camp below, but I still want a word with your companion before you explain anything. You may order food whilst I talk with him, but first tell me from whom you had those ships.”

“From Donald Mòr Gowrie of Kyle Rhea,” she answered.

He nodded. “Very well. Welcome home, lassie. I neglected to say I’m glad to see you, but you need have no doubt of that. Sit down now. We’ll not be long.”

Michael waited patiently as Hector stepped from the dais and came toward him. He had always thought himself a tall man, but Hector the Ferocious was both taller and broader. With a touch of relief Michael noted that he was not carrying the legendary Clan Gillean battle-axe that men said accompanied him everywhere.

“Isobel, do you not think that you should change your dress?” Lady Euphemia asked. “You have been traveling all day, child, and you look it.”

Michael watched Hector.

Lady Cristina, chuckling, said, “She has no need to change, Aunt Euphemia. I want to hear all the news from home. Ivor,” she said to the gillie at the hearth, “pray tell them in the kitchen that Lady Isobel has come home with a guest. Ask them to bring supper for them both straightaway.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

Hector’s gaze had not left Michael, and Michael was aware that Lachlan likewise kept his eyes on him, as did Isobel and doubtless the others as well.

Hector gestured toward a doorway in the west wall. “We’ll talk yonder, lad.”

Michael nodded, realizing that he was to precede him, which told him that Hector did not trust him. Although under the circumstances he could scarcely blame the man, the knowledge did give him pause. The next few minutes, no matter what conversation took place, were bound to be uncomfortable.

Since the lass had kept her dirk, he lacked even a weapon to protect himself, not that he would attack any man in his own castle, or that he could be certain he would prevail against Hector the Ferocious. To be sure, Hector was nearly fifty years old and doubtless no longer as skilled as when he had acquired his nickname, but he wielded sufficient power to be a formidable adversary, and Michael had already drawn more enemies than any man could want. He wanted no more.

Hector followed him into a small chamber containing little more than a heavy table, two joint stools, and a back stool—clearly a room where he dealt with lesser men. Shutting the door, he moved to the far side of the table, folded his powerful arms across his chest and said sternly, “Now, lad, suppose you tell me what game you’ve been playing, traveling about with Lady Isobel as you have?”

In the most diffident manner of which he was capable, Michael said, “I give you my word, my lord, that her ladyship suffered no ill at my hands. I found myself in great jeopardy, and Lady Isobel risked her own safety to intervene. Fortunately, we were able to escape and, with Gowrie’s help, we came directly here. That is all.”

“Is it?”

Hector spoke the two words gently, but they stirred a tingling chill at the base of Michael’s spine. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mayhap you would like to ask me something more, my lord.”