Page 14 of Devil Black

“Had I known you would spout only complaints, I would not have had you brought hence. Sit, please, Lady Catherine.”

Isobel remained standing, stiff with anger.

“By God,” he said, eyeing her scathingly, “I may have done MacNab a service. I doubt you are the meek English maiden he envisioned as marrying his son.”

Indeed, Isobel thought, she differed in every way from that image, being but half English, certainly no maid. And her name was not even Catherine. She felt a small smile of satisfaction curl her lips.

Her captor narrowed his eyes. “Now, what does that look denote, I wonder? I will have you know, Lady Catherine, beneath this roof I am the law. Your fate rests squarely in these two hands.”

“And what of your fate? Can you steal a woman’s freedom with impunity, even in lawless Scotland?”

“Is that what they tell you back in England, that we Scots are lawless? Fools! Our laws are far older than any constructed by their foolish king.”

“The King is a Scotsman!”

“And our clan law predates his advent by a thousand years. I am Laird, here. My authority is absolute.”

“How very convenient for you. I hope the knowledge will comfort you when the King separates your head from your shoulders.”

He evinced no reaction to her words.

“Please sit, Catherine. I wish only to speak with you. But if you prefer, I will send you back to your room.”

“My prison, you mean? Before we speak of anything, you will answer my questions. Is there news of my attendants? Are they alive or dead? Has word come from MacNab? Will he ransom me soon? When shall I be released?”

“Sit! Can I offer you a drink? I regret there is no tea. We do not bother with it here. But I have some fine whisky.”

“Stolen, no doubt.”

He blinked at her.

“Oh,” Isobel seethed, “I know what you are—nothing more than a bandit, who has set himself up as some sort of laird. Did you thieve these lands, as well?”

He looked annoyed, and Isobel congratulated herself. It might not be wise to poke a rabid dog with a stick, yet she could not help herself.

“My family’s ties to this land are ancient,” he spat.

“Oh, yes? If you had any pride in your family, you would at least tell me your name.”

He drew himself up to his considerable height and executed a respectable bow. “Dougal MacRae, also known as Devil Black, at your service, my lady.”

Isobel’s eyes flew wide. “Devil Black?”

A wry smile twisted his lips, lending him a dark attractiveness. “I am told ’tis the name whispered by the locals when they speak of me.”

“And you are proud of that, I warrant? I do not doubt your forefathers would be ashamed—”

“My lady, my forefathers spent their time stealing their neighbors’ cattle and women, and hiring out their swords in battle. ’Tis an old tradition in these parts.”

“I see.” Isobel struggled to think clearly and failed. “So what do you mean to do with me?”

“Seat yourself, my lady, and we will discuss it.”

Slowly, Isobel lowered herself onto the settle that fronted the fire.

“Aye, so.” He poured a glass of whisky and placed it in her hand; his fingers brushed hers and she experienced a shock, like the kiss of a lightning bolt. “Drink.”

Isobel raised the glass to her lips, but then hesitated. She needed to keep a clear head.