“I have no illusions, Lachy, about my wife’s affections. She has thrown in her lot wi’ me—to her own benefit, did she but know it. I would not wish to see even a half-Englishwoman in MacNab’s hands.”
“No.” Lachlan abruptly sobered. “Half English?”
“She tells me her mother was Scots.”
“And how goes she between the sheets? Sweetly?”
“We will not speak of that.”
“Aye, but, Dougal, you are the Devil Black—your exploits round the district are well recounted. Besides, do I not tell you about the ladies I entertain?”
“Aye, often, in nauseating detail. This is different. She is my wife.”
“Aye, so?” Lachlan lifted his brows. “And can you imagine I would so much as look at another woman, with your sister in the same room?”
“Just behave yourself.”
Miraculously, Lachlan did. The ensuing dinner, so Dougal later thought, proved among the more ordinary he could ever recall taking place beneath that roof. Meg, dressed for the occasion, looked bonny enough to strike Lachlan silent for the first half of the meal. Meg and Isobel made conversation, and O’Rourke, still in residence, enlivened the proceedings by becoming richly drunk. Both his brogue and his wit thickened, which Lachlan, predictably, found amusing.
Not until the end of the meal, when Meg and Lachlan began arguing over some nonsense O’Rourke introduced, did Isobel lean toward Dougal and say, “Well, Husband—you are very silent. How went the search for Catherine Maitland?”
Dougal raised moody eyes to her face. “Not well. ’Twas a long, cold trail, and no trace to be seen of that particular lady.”
Isobel’s eyes glinted blue fire. She had piled her russet hair into a knot atop her head, and managed to look both dignified and fetching. The hair, too heavy to stay up, now slid down the back of her neck and made Dougal’s fingers itch. He wanted to touch her, so badly it hurt.
“I do not doubt,” she murmured, “the lady in question is miles away from here and will never be found.”
“And what of any sister of hers who might be in the district? Do you think she would want rescue from her present predicament?”
“I am sure not. I warrant she is enjoying her present predicament immensely.”
“Oh, aye?” Dougal paused, a cup of whisky halfway to his lips, in order to eye her. Was she saying what he thought? His eyes lingered on her lips before dropping to the neck of her gown, where he could see her pulse throbbing. “Enjoying it? Is that so?”
“There is so much of interest to occupy a lively mind.”
“Is it your mind needs occupying?”
“Among other things. Only look—” She nodded toward where Meg and Lachlan still squabbled. “Is that not a fascinating display of emotion?”
Dougal nearly choked on his whisky. “Lachlan pants after my sister like a dog, but she has no interest in him.”
“You think not? And I supposed you a clever man.”
“So I am.”
“Well, but you cannot read women. She bothers to argue with him because he attracts her.”
“I fear you are wrong, Wife. She bears no soft feeling for him, nor any man.”
“A lack of soft feeling does not argue indifference. Do you, my Laird, ever wager?”
“A bet, you mean?”
“I bet she will have him in her bed before month’s end.”
Dougal struggled to conceal his surprise. What manner of woman was this, who discussed such exploits and wagered like a man?
“Meg would eat him alive,” he said dismissively.
“Perhaps, but she will do so in her bed.”
“Wicked!”
“Sir, are you afraid to bet?”
He raked her with his gaze. “Hardly, given you are wrong. But what is the wager? Have you jewels, or gold?”
“I have not, but perhaps something better. The loser shall—” She leaned close and whispered in his ear, words that sent a rush of heat through him and caused all the blood in his body to pool between his legs.
He could not keep from shooting her another incredulous look. “You are not in earnest!”
“Am I not? Do you consider the prize unworthy?”
“I do not.” His honesty made him add, “Indeed, you will have me hoping to lose that bet.”
She laughed, and the sound further enflamed him. He glanced at the big case clock in the corner. Barely eight of the evening, and too soon to retire, he supposed. But by the devil’s own flail, she made him eager for it.
Her eyes met his and, almost as if she could read his mind, she said, “You have had a long and wearisome day, Husband. Do you think our guests would mind if we withdraw soon?”
“The devil take what they mind,” Dougal replied, and meant it.
Chapter Fourteen
“So, I am nothing more than a weapon to you, am I?” Isobel murmured. “Something to be used cruelly and then put aside again?”
Her husband made no answer. He slept deeply, like a man struck between the eyes with a length of cold iron—as he should, following his exertions. Isobel, herself, felt weary to her bones, yet her tangled emotions kept her awake.
There was much her new husband did not yet know about her—they had so far been intimate in every possible physical way, but he remained largely unacquainted with the woman she was. Over the years in her father’s house she had become adept at hiding and pretending, producing smiles to protect herself from her father’s disapproval, and sometimes to cover Catherine’s misdeeds.
Tonight at dinner, she had pretended that Dougal’s words, earlier, had not hurt her, that his casual dismissal of her importance had not cut deep. He told her he was an honest man, which only made it worse. For he’d spent two nights making generous, wild, and demanding love to her—three nights, now—only to admit she meant nothing to him beyond a weapon to use against his enemy, MacNab.
It stung. Her careless, slightly naughty demeanor at dinner had been difficult to maintain, and when they were alone in the bedchamber, her promises still fresh in his ears, she had expected to feel some lingering resentment.
But all that flew from her when he touched her, stripped her clothing away gently, and lifted her onto the bed. There a kind of madness ensued, from which she only now surfaced, while he slept.
And even now all she wished was to look at him in the dying light of the fire. She should be exhausted and hurt, she should feel used, yet she knew only this desire to drink him in.
What sort of man had she married? Angry, clever, intent, devious, honest, incredibly talented with his hands and other parts of his body, and carrying some secret burden that virtually obsessed him. All these things contributed to Devil Black MacRae. He had taken her to wife in order to further some agenda of his own; she could not expect his consideration or concern. The attraction, she supposed, was a side benefit he would not allow to affect his plans.
He wanted to harm MacNab; it was the only reason Isobel found herself here with him.
And that hurt. The woman in her, the part of her he brought so successfully to the fore, wanted him to want her for herself. Her grasp of reality argued that would not happen.
While he rode out, today, with the other searchers, she had toyed with the idea of refusing him when he came back to her bed, of seeking to punish him the only way she had. She told herself to be cleverer than that, though. Her physical hold on him was the only one she possessed. She needed to further that, not curtail it.
Never mind the sheer pleasure of doing so—the way her fingers craved touching his hot, naked flesh and her innermost senses cried out for the taste of him. She reminded herself it was all a game, one he had set, at which two could play.
Still, he made a glorious sight lying there in sleep with his black hair streaming across the pillow, one naked arm flung out toward her, and a half smile curving his lips—oh, those clever lips! Portions of her body still tingled from their touch. She did not doubt him the devil he claimed to be. Only a devil could prompt her to such excesses. Only a devil could be so beautiful. Surely only a devil would possess mist-grey eyes in which she wanted to lose herself, and black lashes longer than her own.
And one did not fall in love with a devil, not if one had a scrap of self-preservation. Isobel, a survivor from way back, had more than a scrap. She had wed him in order to survive. She would find a way, in this madhouse, to make circumstances work for her. If he used her, then, yes, she could use him as well. And pleasure might be a side benefit for her also. But she must guard herself fiercely.
He stirred then, his eyes came open, and he caught her looking at him. The lazy smile on his lips deepened, and he reached for her.
“Come here, Wife.”
Isobel did not move. Her entire body responded to the temptation, yet she remained where she was, propped on one elbow.
“The hour is late, Husband, and surely you are weary.”
“I begin to think weariness loses all meaning in your presence.” He paused, reading her expression with those quick, clever eyes. “Never say you are sated with me?”
She was not, but now made as good a time as any to pretend. “And if I am? Have you, sir, only the one use for your wife?”
No fool, he. He withdrew his hand, and she could almost see him thinking over all that had passed between them.
“Have I implied it?” he asked then, diffidently.
“Do you not know?”
“Ah.” The grey eyes darkened with caution. “You are upset with me. And, like any woman, you decide to withhold pleasure.”
“Withhold it?” Isobel could not keep back an incredulous stare. “Do you forget what happened before you slept, and before that?”
“I could forget naught of what happens when you touch me.”
“Then do not accuse me of being stingy with you.”
“Fair enough.” He folded his arms behind his head and regarded her in a new way. “Why do you not tell me what troubles you?”
So, he meant to listen? She scarcely believed it. Heatedly, she said, “A score of things trouble me. Yet all you care for is pleasure.”
“’Tis not all I care for, Wife, ’tis what happens whenever we are alone together.”
“You could prevent it, if you chose.”
“So could you. In fact, you just have done. Do you claim you have had enough of me? ’Twas a short honeymoon.”
“I say, concern for other things pushes desire from me. I wonder what will happen when Randal MacNab tells my father that I—that Catherine is lost. He will already be half mad with anger because I am missing from home.”
“Anger?” the Devil questioned. “Not worry?”
“You do not know my father. Worry translates to anger, most times. It has been his foremost emotion, anyway, since my brothers died.”
“How is it the servants in your coach thought they were escorting Lady Catherine Maitland to wed wi’ MacNab, and I got Lady Isobel instead?”
“It is a long tale.”
“Since we have suspended the pursuit of pleasure, I have naught to do but listen.”
“You would do better sleeping.”
“If you will not relieve the ache in my flesh, will you not at least satisfy my curiosity?”
She cast him a withering look. “I cannot imagine how you yet retain any ache at all.”
“Then you can imagine little. I would guess, knowing you these three days, you came to Scotland in an attempt to protect your sister.”
That made her stare at him. Did he begin to know her, after all?
“Randal MacNab and my father have long been friends,” she began. “I do not know how or when the association began—it was founded before I was born.”
“Both King’s men, no doubt. Such men do band together.”
“After his son Bertram’s first wife died, MacNab decided Bertram should wed my father’s daughter.”
She sensed that Dougal stiffened where he lay, but intent on her story, she hurried on. “He requested me, the elder sister. But my father knew me to be…shamed, and convincing MacNab I had other faults, he contracted Catherine to Bertram, instead.”
“What faults?” Dougal’s eyes examined her frankly. “I can, myself, declare you without flaw.”
“Save my overbearing lack of virginity.”
Dougal waved a dismissive hand. “Your father did not tell him that?”
“I believe he mentioned an incident while riding that brought into question my ability to bear children. MacNab wants many sons.”
Dougal’s eyes moved over her again, more slowly. “And, is it true?
“It is not. The women in our family conceive and bear easily.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Catherine did not wish for the marriage, did not want to come to Scotland. She had formed an attachment with the youngest son of our bailiff and wished to marry him.”
“A doomed romance. Surely your father would insist on better for her.”
“Yes. But, you see, Catherine found herself in dire straits indeed, carrying her lover’s child.”
“The penniless bailiff’s son? Aye, so. Did she tell your father?”
“No. She told me, and I…I hatched a scheme for us to trade places. I would come to Scotland, while she ran off with Thomas.”
“Ah. So you sacrificed yourself for your sister.”
Isobel dropped her eyes. “It was no great sacrifice. My life was in ruins.”
“And, now? Do you sacrifice yourself to me, on her behalf?”
She did not lift her eyes and felt him capture her chin in his long, strong fingers and force her to meet his eyes.
“Well, Wife?”
“I do everything I do for Catherine.” Isobel’s color mounted with the lie. “Just as you do all you do for anger.”
The expression in his eyes changed, grew more distant. “Just so long as we understand one another.”
He released her, and she turned her face away.
“So,” he resumed after a moment, “how did you deceive your father’s servants, who believed themselves to be accompanying one Catherine Maitland?”
“Our maid—Bethan—knew the truth. I bought her off with a ruby necklace that belonged to my mother.”