Page 3 of Devil Black

“Fourth born, in truth,” said Gerald Maitland tersely. “Are you forgetting I had two sons? The fact that both have predeceased me does not make them any less significant.”

“I did not mean to imply that.” Isobel frowned. The wounds her father bore following the loss of his sons were raw and likely to remain so. The elder, John, had perished fighting valiantly for the Crown, and James scarcely a year later in a fall from a horse maddened by a bee sting. Isobel had watched her father sour thereafter, turning from a reasonably considerate man to one who cared little for anyone’s opinion save his own.

He now had no heirs save his two daughters, Isobel, nineteen, and Catherine, two years younger. Precedent existed for the lands to pass down the female line—the estate had, after all, come to Gerald Maitland through marriage. Isobel’s mother, a strong-minded Scottish heiress, had not lived long enough to see her daughters grown.

With that thought in mind, Isobel now spoke as perhaps wisdom dictated she should not. “Mother would not approve this marriage, not with Catherine’s heart so set against it.”

The look in her father’s blue eyes—the one feature Isobel had inherited—chilled. “Will you cite your mother’s will to me? What do you know of it, girl? For that matter, what does Catherine know about an advantageous union? She is but a child.”

“If you think her a child,” Isobel retorted heatedly, “you have no business sending her off like a bundle of high-priced goods.”

She could see her father struggle to keep his patience. “The MacNabs are a fine family, with ample lands. It is a grand match for her, secure and stable. Randal MacNab is an old friend of mine, and his son, Bertram, a worthy husband.”

“Catherine does not even know him!”

“She met him years ago. Lord Randal and Bertram both came to your mother’s burial service.”

“When Catherine was seven and Bertram nearly twenty. He is too old for her, Father.”

“Nonsense. She is of an age to wed, and men often take brides younger than themselves.”

“His first wife—”

“Bertram’s first wife was a delicate specimen who did not survive childbed. I have promised that whatever else my daughters are—wild-headed and hasty-tongued at times—they are strong women able to bear many sons. I am hoping the MacNabs, being themselves Scottish, will overlook the heedless tendencies your mother’s Scots blood has lent both of you. All my children have suffered for their heedlessness: John, too impetuous in battle, James insisting upon riding that half-broken stallion, you—”

Gerald broke off and fixed Isobel with a hard stare. “You complain to me, daughter, of the fact that your sister will be wed before yourself, when it is you who ruined your own chances?”

Heat raced to Isobel’s cheeks, yet she met her father’s eyes unflinchingly. “I have accepted blame for my sins, Father, and paid for them.”

“Have you? I dare say you will continue to pay, all your life. MacNab wished his son to wed you, and not your sister. I had to put him off with Catherine—hinting at, though not admitting, the truth. Should I admit your shame to even so dear a friend?”

“Is it such a shame?” Isobel could not help but challenge.

Now Gerald’s gaunt face flushed. “I am surprised you can ask that, and it proves, perhaps, what a woeful job I made of your upbringing in your mother’s absence. I should have married again, given you and your sister a gentling influence. Your downfall—”

Isobel bit her lip in an effort to contain her simmering anger. “My downfall, as you call it, cannot be laid solely at my feet, Father. John’s friend was seven years older. He seduced me—”

“You allowed yourself to be seduced! And by the kind of man to whom no sane father would see his daughter wed. A rapscallion, a ne’er-do-well. John, God rest him, should never have brought the blighter here. But make no mistake, my girl. It is your fault you fell victim to him.”

Such had always been his opinion. Isobel sought words to refute without angering him. She had meant to speak on Catherine’s behalf, not her own.

“Send me to MacNab in Catherine’s place,” she asked.

“Do you not think I would, if I could? MacNab wants a virgin. Daughter, must I speak more plainly than that?”

“Bertram MacNab need not know that I…that I am damaged goods. Once we are wed—”

“Marriage is a contract. And the man is no fool—it will be his second wedding night. He knows full well what to expect. Catherine must go.”

“And what of me?” Isobel asked, miserable and humiliated. “Am I to live out my days here as a spinster, unloved and unwanted?”

Her father’s expression softened slightly. “Not unloved, Daughter, nor unwanted. You will make yourself of help to me running our household.”

“And the lands? Will those go to MacNab, with Catherine’s hand?”

“We shall see. I may see fit to settle the estates on Catherine’s son, should she have one. For now, I do not plan on surrendering them to anyone.”

“Of course not.” Isobel looked ahead through years that suddenly seemed stunted and blighted as a barley field after the frost. Was her life as good as over, at nineteen?