Page 20 of Devil Black

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.”