Devil Black (7 page)

Once inside, Meg closed the door and turned to regard Isobel carefully.

“This is a bad night’s work,” she said. “I tell you now, I cannot influence my brother. Even God—whom Dougal refuses to acknowledge—cannot influence him once he has something in his head. But I swear, if he is forcing you to this, I will do my utmost to stop him.”

Isobel heard no sympathy in Meg’s voice, no softness—just the same savage certainty that emanated from Dougal MacRae.

“I appreciate that,” she said.

“Oh, I do naught for you—and I stopped fretting for his soul long ago. But he is taking you to further a dangerous feud, and if he winds up on the losing end, it shall benefit me not at all.”

I have landed in a nest of vipers
, Isobel thought,
each more selfish than the
other.

Cautiously, she said, “This feud of which you speak is with MacNab?”

Emotion sparked in Meg’s eyes. “My brother may be many things—hot tempered, hard-headed, misguided—but his memory is long and his mind set on revenge. You find yourself, now, a pawn in his game.”

“For what does he seek revenge?”

Meg shook her head. “That is not for me to tell. But know MacNab once took something that was Dougal’s alone. He has waited long to strike back.”

Isobel’s mind raced, trying to make sense of disjointed thoughts and emotions. “And I am the means of striking back?”

“So it would appear—at least for the present. What he may do anon, even the devil cannot say.”

“Can you get me out of here?” Isobel asked frankly. “Persuade him to send me home?”

Meg shook her head. “I might convince him to ransom you, though quite frankly I doubt it. If you ask me, woman to woman, I will try.”

And there lay the dilemma, thought Isobel, in the starkest of terms: marriage to Bertram MacNab, for which she had already steeled herself for Catherine’s sake, or to this man who turned her bones to water with a single glance. A choice—at last.

She must go to the bed of one man. Which would it be?

She drew a ragged breath and took a turn about the barren room. If she honored her agreement with MacRae, faced the priest with him, would he lie with her in her bed this night? So had he vowed. She found the prospect as thrilling, and terrifying, as that of an approaching storm.

Meg waited, impatience radiating from her.

This, Isobel thought, may be the only choice I am given to make in my entire life. If she went to MacNab, at least she had hope of seeing her father again, perhaps even Catherine, some day, and Catherine’s child. If she threw her lot in with MacRae, she chose unknown danger and darkness. And passion, curse it—there was the passion, as well.

“Send me your tire woman,” she said, looking at Meg again. “I have nothing to wear for a wedding. All my luggage was lost.”

She heard Meg draw a breath, sharp with surprise. “You choose him? You are certain? I warn you, once the choice is made, I abandon you to your fate.”

As I have long been abandoned, Isobel thought, and nodded. “Send your woman.”

Without another word, Meg went out. Isobel stood where she was, wondering at herself. Surely she had gone mad, in this place of madness. But her soul—at least that would be her own.

Meg’s woman, who arrived soon after, proved nothing Isobel expected. A virtual child, with pale hair and fey eyes, she wore a cap and a dove grey gown. She carried an armload of clothing, and she cast a measuring glance over Isobel as she entered.

“My lady sent me, Lady Catherine,” she said softly.

And Isobel thought—Catherine. They think me Catherine. When the drunken priest arrived, when he performed the ceremony, he would marry Catherine Maitland to Dougal MacRae. Would that be binding, would it stand?

“Shall you bathe?” the maid asked, and Isobel considered it. In a manner completely unanticipated, she went to her marriage bed this night. Unprecedented intimacies would open her to that man downstairs.

She looked at the maid. “Tell me your name.”

“Nell, lady.”

“Nell, I am ill prepared for this. I have no belongings, I am not sure—”

Briskly, Nell dumped the clothing on the bed. “My lady sent some things of her own that you may borrow.” She pulled out a gown of pale green, embroidered all over with patterns of leaves. “I will tell the men to bring hot water.”

Nell turned away, and Isobel examined the gown, stroking it with numb fingers. Her wedding finery.

Sudden tears filled her eyes. Seldom had she felt more alone, nor, if she admitted it, more frightened. She could not let herself give in to the fear. It would avail her nothing. She told herself she did this, too, for Catherine’s sake. She knew she lied.

The tears, she promised herself, were tears of anger. Life had not dealt fairly with her, so far—did not deal fairly with her now—but she wanted this one thing, this one man.

She wanted the feelings he had aroused in her with that kiss, and all the desire that accompanied them. Yet if he came to her bed this night, he would discover the truth—she was no tender virgin—and something about the hard honesty she had seen in his eyes made her wish to be honest with him, as well. She did not wish to begin her marriage—sham as it might be—on the basis of a lie. He needed the truth, and he needed to know her name.

“Isobel Maitland,” she whispered under her breath. “Nay—Isobel MacRae.”

Chapter Ten

“Dougal MacRae, you vile sinner!” O’Rourke exclaimed as he entered the hall. “What need has a devil like yourself for a man of God?”

“God does not come into it,” Dougal returned swiftly. The argument, an old one between them, had no end and no meaning. O’Rourke was clearly in his cups, so drunk he could barely stand.

Dougal felt inflamed, fabulously alive, strung so tight he barely knew himself. More than half his attention remained with the woman upstairs who prepared for their wedding.

“You will perform the marriage service here this night,” he tossed at O’Rourke.

The priest, who Dougal knew from experience could handle prodigious amounts of drink, remained sober enough to look surprised. “A marriage, man? Whose?”

“Mine.”

“That is what your man said, but I doubted it. We have not read the bans—”

Dougal glared at him. “You will perform the marriage and swear it true, either at your own behest or at sword point.”

“Ah ’tis like that, is it? Get me a drink.”

“I do not doubt you have had your fill,” Dougal said, but filled a cup with whisky anyway and put it in O’Rourke’s hand. He had known the priest three years, since the fellow appeared in the district without warning or explanation, apparently banished from Ireland for deeds better left unspoken. O’Rourke looked like a leprechaun and had the mind of a lecher.

“Who is the lass?” he inquired. “And why the great rush?”

An interruption occurred then in the form of Lachlan hurrying into the room, his color high and his cravat askew. “Dougal, what in high hell is going on? Is it somewhat to do with—” He broke off abruptly when he noticed the priest. “O’Rourke?”

“Good evening to you, Laird MacElwain. We are here for a wedding, it seems.”

Lachlan’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Dougal. “You are not!”

“I am that. My bride prepares herself as we speak.” Dougal poured more whisky and drank deep. Quite possibly he himself was no longer quite sober.

Lachlan began to laugh, which explained in a nutshell his relationship with Dougal, or so Dougal thought. “Aye, so?”

“You are to serve as witness, you and Meg.”

“I believe I begin to enjoy myself.” Lachlan grinned, then spun about as Meg entered the room. He made her a bow. “Mistress.”

“Oh, aye, just what this farce needed,” Meg said tightly. “A fool.”

“Where is my bride?” Dougal demanded, drinking deep. “I am waiting.”

“She is on her way, and you will wait.” Meg gave O’Rourke a disparaging look and then said to Lachlan, “I do not suppose you can talk sense to my brother?”

Lachy bowed again. “Evidently I am a fool, lady. I speak no sense.”

Dougal drawled, “Does what I do not fit with the King’s decree?”

“The King?” O’Rourke’s eyes widened. “What has that bastard to do with it?”

“Careful, O’Rourke—you could lose your head for such talk. The King, hearing complaint of me, has decided I should wed and settle.”

O’Rourke snorted. “As if any woman alive could make you settle, man.”

At that moment, the bride entered the room. Everyone turned to stare, and Dougal lost all the breath in his body.

Meg and her woman had wrought magic. From out of nowhere they had produced a gown of soft green that clothed the woman’s body like a caress, showing to advantage her breasts and the length of her legs. She came with her head high, the auburn hair piled atop it like a crown, and pride in her eyes. At the sight of her, Dougal felt something strike him, sharp as pain.

Lachlan swore softly. Dougal stood where he was, afraid to move and break the spell.

She approached him, moving like a queen, her eyes clinging to his. Dougal MacRae, devil that he was and never at a loss for composure, nevertheless could find no words.

O’Rourke cleared his throat and spoke up. “My good lady, I have been brought here to wed you with this man. I must ask if you come to the marriage freely and in good faith, of your own will.”

A flush stole up her cheeks. Her glance strayed to O’Rourke, then returned to Dougal’s. “I do.”

“Well, then.” O’Rourke swayed slightly. “The witnesses stand ready, as do I. I need only know your name.”

“Catherine,” Dougal said. “Catherine—”

“Maitland,” she supplied. Her chin lifted still higher. “But it is Isobel. Isobel Maitland.”

Had she said she was the daughter of Lucifer, Dougal would not have cared, at that moment. He experienced one flash of surprise, sure that her servants had called her “Lady Catherine,” and then he stepped forward and offered her his arm. When she laid her fingers on it, he could feel the heat clear through his sleeve.

He wondered how many bridegrooms had taken the holy vows with a length of iron between their legs. He saw little holy about this rite anyway, and he was so hard for her he ached. He remembered nothing of the vows, later, only that standing beside her intoxicated him as much as whisky and he burned to take her upstairs.

Afterwards, the witnesses, the bride, and the groom all signed the parchment O’Rourke produced. Dougal stared at her name—Isobel Maitland—and thought, with a staggering wave of possessiveness: Isobel MacRae now. She is mine.

By the time all was finished, the hour ran late. Meg retired, and Lachy began plying O’Rourke with whisky. Dougal knew they would sit by the fire till dawn.

Upstairs, a bed waited. He turned to his wife. “It is done.”

She nodded. All the color had flown from her face, but her eyes burned.

He said, “Shall we complete the night’s work?”

She looked at him with something like wonder. Did it only now occur to her, the step she had taken? Would she whine and weep?

But she nodded again. He offered her his arm, and they climbed the stone stairs to her chamber. No need of a guard, this night.

He closed the door and stood, trying to control his desire.

She turned and looked at him. “We must speak.”

“Aye, later. After.”

“That will be too late.”

He saw her bosom rise as she struggled to breathe. Aye, well, most women about to be plundered experienced some fear, especially those gently bred. He would get her past it.

He unlaced his tunic, shrugged out of it, shot his sleeves and hauled open his shirt. Her eyes widened.

“You said you would not force me.”

“And I shall not.” He approached her carefully, as one might a skittish pony, reached out, and captured her face between his hands. He could see her pulse stir the lace at her throat.

His eyes swept her for an instant before he bent his head and kissed her, intending to keep it gentle and ease her into offering herself to him. He—they both—had felt the heat that simmered. He need only tap into that, then ride her till dawn.

Aye, he meant to be gentle, but the instant his lips met hers that fire came leaping. His mouth turned savage on hers and all the sense in his head burned away.

A fire like this could consume them both.

For a glorious instant, they both hung on the point of flame. Then she drew away and uttered one word: “Please!”

His hands, already at work, had slid beneath the collar of the green gown, pushing it from her shoulders. He craved the taste of her skin and, lovely as the gown was, wanted it off her. With difficulty, he focused on her face.

“Aye, Lady Wife?”

She appeared to struggle with some emotion of her own. “I must tell you—before we... You do need to know.”

“Then speak. I am impatient for you.” And there was a braw understatement. Impatient did not begin to describe his state. Surely she could feel the truth through his kilt and her gown?

Doubt flickered in her beautiful, dark blue eyes—or perhaps it was fear. “I am not what you think.”

“No? Are you not beautiful and desirable, and my wife? I care for naught else now.”

“Is it so? You care not you have married a woman who—”

“Speak, Wife!”

Her gaze fell to his lips, then further still, and she paled. “You will discover the truth when we lie together. I am no virgin.”

Despite his state of double intoxication with whisky and lust, Dougal felt a rush of surprise. Was it so? Would Randal MacNab accept such a bride for his son and heir?

For an instant he froze, his hands still against the silken skin of her shoulders, his desire raging, yet curiosity whispered to him.

“How is it, then, MacNab accepted you as suitable?”

She lifted her eyes to his once more, and he saw pain there, and shame, and hard pride as well. “He did not know. It is a long story.”