When the Laird Returns (5 page)

The thunder was her only ally, booming overhead, rattling the stained-glass window as if in reproach for her submission.

The vows completed, her father passed a small silver chalice to Iseabal. The Drummond tradition of both husband and wife drinking from the same cup signified the joining of two lives. She took a sip of the whiskey before passing the cup to the MacRae. Her mother held out a sheaf of wheat and a square of woven cloth, symbols to indicate that each would provide for their home. She handed MacRae the cloth, while he took the wheat and presented it to Iseabal. The giving and accepting done, she waited for him to speak, a moment rooted in custom. The groom was supposed to praise his new wife and thank her parents.

Instead, the MacRae stepped forward, giving instructions for her belongings to be brought to the hall. There were to be no words of praise, no ceremony, which was as well, Iseabal thought. She disliked hypocrisy.

Her mother continued to smile at her, the look in her eyes one of joy. Behind her, the Drummond clan stood motionless and nearly silent, as did the men the MacRae had brought with him.

Her father made a gesture and one of his ever-present guards appeared beside him. “Fetch her trunk,” he said brusquely.

With such simple words, she was acknowledged wife instead of daughter, and just as easily banished from Fernleigh.

Iseabal walked into her mother’s arms, blinking back tears.

“I am so happy for you, Iseabal,” her mother said gently. “You must be happy as well.”

Iseabal nodded, turning back to her new husband. His gaze was fixed on the window above him, intently studying the glass rendering of a young knight. What did he see when he looked there?

She had not expected a display of emotion from her father, but her departure from Fernleigh was done without a word of farewell. One moment she was standing in the clan hall, the next she was at the door, swept along in a silent tide following the MacRae.

Glancing back at those who stood in the hallway, Iseabal felt a sense of loss she’d not expected. The servant girls she’d known all her life waved their fingers in discreet farewell. Robbie, the stableboy, smiled at her, but her father looked at her as if she were no more than an uninvited guest who’d outstayed her welcome.

T
he MacRae took her arm, albeit gently, and walked with her from Fernleigh.

Her father had offered no horses, and the MacRae had arrived with none. She and her new husband were followed by two men who carried her straw trunk, and behind them at least twenty others, so orderly in their manner that they reminded her of the Highland Regiments assembling in Edinburgh.

The thunder roared again, preceding another cloudburst. In seconds she was drenched, rain soaking through her wedding finery. The MacRae acted as if the storm were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and like their leader, none of the men behind them voiced a complaint.

They headed in the direction of Gilmuir, a journey she knew well enough. Iseabal was forced nearly to a run to keep up with the MacRae. His strides were long and impa
tient, as if he could not wait to reach Gilmuir. Or escape her presence.

The day grew increasingly miserable, with the chill bringing forth a fog that clung to the grass, shielding their feet from view. Occasionally Iseabal would push back her wet hair from her face, wipe her eyes dry, but the efforts were futile. The air was gray with rain and cold with the winds sweeping over the glen and through the branches of the trees.

After a quick sideways glance at her, the MacRae slowed his pace. Still, he walked ahead of her a few feet, with her trailing behind like a well-trained mastiff.

His sodden breeches could not hide the well-developed muscles of his legs any more than his coat could minimize the breadth of his shoulders. Even his hands were large, and she remembered the feel of them, warm against her palms.

What would it be like to lie with him?

She might be a maiden, but she was not ignorant of the deed. A few years ago she’d been courageous enough to ask a servant girl.

“Well, miss,” Mary had said, “the man rises behind you, and inserts himself into your privates. All hot and bothered he is, miss, especially toward the last. Then he sleeps for a bit and wants it again. If you wish to know exactly how it’s done,” she’d confided, “watch the rams. They’ve the same bluster.”

Iseabal had, secretly, taken the maid’s advice. Not only had the ram acted as if the deed were owed him, but the whole coupling had been done in seconds, leaving the ewe bleating and rolling her eyes, for all the world like she was impatient with his posturing.

Surely she could be as placid as a sheep?

Halfway to Gilmuir, the MacRae turned to her. “Would you like to rest?” he asked.

“No,” she said agreeably. She’d made the journey on foot yesterday, and she could do it again today. Nor would she utter a word of complaint about the weather or the cold. Slogging through the mud was not such a trial after all. The only difficulty was the pain in her side, but, Iseabal decided, she could bear it.

His expression lightened strangely enough, his scowl fading. “I meant to offer no insult,” he said. “I only asked after your comfort.”

She looked up at the sky, the rain pounding on her face. Comfort? Where was there comfort?

Despite the rain, and in abject disregard of the storm above them, the MacRae walked to stand beneath a gnarled old tree. Iseabal shrugged and followed.

“Are you not worried about lightning?” she asked.

He smiled, the expression out of place for this dreary day. “When you’ve been aboard a ship in a storm, you begin to think yourself invincible.”

While she felt as vulnerable as the exposed root on which she sat. Spreading her filthy petticoat over the tops of her equally ruined shoes, she folded her arms across her knees and sat staring at the men around her. They stood uncomplaining in the rain, as docile as sheep.

“Who are those men?”

“The crew of my ship,” he said shortly, then amended his statement. “The men of the
Fortitude.
”

“Your ship?”

He nodded in response, leaving her to wonder if she should be satisfied with that.

“You are a sea captain?” she asked cautiously, wondering
if her prayers had indeed come true. A marriage to a man who was often gone from home would not be an onerous thing.

“I am,” he said shortly.

Evidently, Iseabal thought, she was not to ask questions of him.

A few moments of silence passed before Iseabal stood, eager to complete the journey. At least at Gilmuir there was a spot or two that was still impervious to rain. And a fire would be doubly nice.

The remainder of the journey seemed to take hours, made in half steps through the mud. The fortress appeared suddenly, oddly surrounded by a white mist, as if Gilmuir were floating on a cloud.

They crossed the land bridge and only then did she begin to hear sounds from the men behind her. Some laughed; some uttered words of relief; still more began to talk freely, as if rendered mute in any place other than Gilmuir.

Iseabal walked inside what had once been the courtyard and beyond to the trellised archway.

“Prepare for departure, Daniel,” the MacRae said to one auburn-haired man. He nodded and continued walking. Not one of the men was making an attempt to light a fire or prepare shelter for the night.

“Where are we to live?” she asked. She’d given no thought to the future, more concerned with getting through the ceremony to worry about more.

He looked at her with chilled eyes, as if she’d transformed herself into her father. “Not here,” he replied curtly.

“Then why did you buy the land?” she asked, caution fading beneath curiosity.

“Because it belongs to the MacRaes,” he said, striding
through the archway to the priory beyond. He turned to stare at her when she remained in place.

In her mind, Iseabal had always been brave. Her thoughts, reckless and occasionally daring, had been held within, where they couldn’t lead to punishment. Rarely did she act upon them, having learned to be cautious and circumspect with her words and deeds.

She’d married a man she didn’t know and had been led from her home uncomplaining, across the muddy glens to Gilmuir. All done without a word of protest. Surely she merited answers. Before her bravado escaped, Iseabal clenched her hands into fists and stared at her new husband. “We’re to live aboard your ship?” she asked, confused.

“No,” he said. “We’re going to England.”

She blinked, astonishment robbing her momentarily of words. England? A destination she would never have imagined.

The rain still fell, soaking into the ground of the promontory, pattering on the fallen bricks. At that moment it was as if Gilmuir were chattering around them, admonishment in every soft raindrop, a scold in the wisp of the wind.

He held out his hand, a dozen steps separating them. The journey, however, was longer than that, Iseabal realized. She was not yet a wife, but the man who stood looking at her was her husband. A man to whom she owed her allegiance, her obedience, her trust.

But she remained in place, her hands now at her sides, her face carefully devoid of any expression.

A moment later he retraced his steps until he stood in front of her. “There will be more comfort aboard ship, Iseabal,” he told her patiently. “A shelter from the storm, at least.”

Was she to sacrifice all she’d ever known? Give up her country as well as herself? Perhaps she was, and supposed to do so willingly, accepting her fate with quiet compliance.

A thought slipped from its sanctuary, one steeped in caution and restraint.
Ask him for the stone.
She had asked for little, no consideration, few answers. Her silence and her acceptance, Iseabal decided, deserved some reward.

“Will you grant me a favor?” she asked daringly. Cupping her elbows in her hands, she waited patiently for his answer.

“What favor?” he asked, frowning.

Turning, she walked back to the entrance to the ruined clan hall, hearing his boots on the brick flooring behind her. When he stood at her side, Iseabal walked out into the storm again, carefully skirting the edge of the pit.

Rain pounded the ground, creating pools among the pocked stone and a lake of mud in the courtyard. Streams of water poured into the foundation, flooding the base of the pillars.

“That,” Iseabal said, pointing to the gleaming black stone barely visible above water level.

“A rock?” he asked, turning to her.

“A rock,” she answered, surprised at the note of resolve in her voice.

“This is important to you, Iseabal?” he asked in amazement.

“Yes,” she said, tightening her arms around her waist.

He shrugged but didn’t question her further. Instead, he nodded, gripping her elbow and leading her back to the corridor. A request not to be granted, then. At his impatient look, Iseabal followed him into the priory.

This area of Gilmuir had become unsafe in the past years.
The yawning hole in the middle of the structure didn’t surprise her. She’d heard her father crowing of his discovery and of the secret cove the MacRaes had hidden all these years.

This was how the MacRae had entered the fortress, yet she’d never questioned his sudden appearance. He’d simply been there, a rescuer not unlike the Raven, a Samaritan to help her from the consequences of her own folly.

The rain was louder here, slapping against the slate floor.

He sat, dangling his legs into the hole beneath him, his hands braced on either side. Slowly he disappeared into the blackness. Peering over the edge, Iseabal could see only a darkness that mimicked the grave. Unexpectedly, his head popped up, startling her.

She’d never taken the staircase before. But then, Iseabal thought, this day had marked a number of first occasions. She sat on the adjoining slate, dangling her feet just as he had. His hands wound around her legs, then to her waist as she slid down into his arms. Their soggy clothing did little to shield curves and angles, muscle and flesh.

His hands tightened against her waist, the unexpected pain surprising her. Drawing back, she pressed herself against the wall, taking shallow breaths to minimize the discomfort.

He seemed to stare at her in the darkness, but said nothing before turning and beginning to descend the steps. Once again he stopped when she made no move to follow him.

“Please, Iseabal,” he said, evidently exasperated into politeness. “It is safe enough. Although the stairs are steep, all you need do is watch your footing. The passage is a narrow one, and you can hold onto the walls.”

He thought her afraid. She should tell him of her injury, Iseabal thought. But this day had been marked by humilia
tion and the surrender of home and pride. She’d just as soon keep her pain to herself.

Slowly she followed, her right hand outstretched against the wall, her left held tightly at her side. The staircase was enshrouded in a darkness so profound that it made no difference if she closed her eyes.

“Take your time, Iseabal,” he said, his voice disembodied and echoing. “The rain has made the steps slippery.”

A marriage to a pockmarked, toothless old man with a bald pate seemed a blessing at the moment. At least an old husband wouldn’t march her from Fernleigh to Gilmuir in a drenching storm, travel down this damp and pungent staircase, intent upon taking her to England.

Perhaps this was a dream and she lay abed now, recuperating from her injury. The thunder was her father’s roar. The clammy wetness of her garments, the result of a breaking fever. And this descent into the darkness was the embodiment of her secret fear of going to hell for not honoring her father. But the MacRae’s voice, loud and commanding, would have summoned her to wakefulness, which meant this was real and not a nightmare.

At the bottom of the stairs was a cave, darkened by the weather and the gathering storm. Two of his men stood beside the entrance, waiting.

“Are the rest of the men on board?” the MacRae asked.

“Yes, Captain,” one said.

MacRae turned to her. “Iseabal,” he said. Only that, a summons in the speaking of her name.

Iseabal followed the three of them, ducking through the rounded entrance to the cave and emerging into the cove Drummond had discovered all those years ago. Ringed by
cliffs and guarded by a giant’s teeth, the rain-dimpled water sheltered a ghost of a ship.

He turned to look at her, his smile undimmed by the storm.

“The
Fortitude,
” he said, pride lacing his voice.