Page 40 of Devil Black

“The truth: that you chose to wed wi’ me.”

“What if he insists on taking me away with him?” Isobel’s heart violently protested the possibility. Despite her many doubts about her husband, and the seemingly impossible distance between them, she discovered she did not wish to leave him.

Something flickered in the grey depths of Dougal’s eyes. “Then he shall have a war on his hands. You are my wife. I will die before I give you up.”

The words found their way to Isobel’s soul and took up residence, even though she knew the reason he said them had nothing to do with what was in his heart. He already battled MacNab. This was a skirmish he had contemplated. He merely did not want to lose.

Yet she felt her chin lift anyway. What might it be, to be loved by a man such as this?

His gaze quickened as he read the emotions in her eyes. His hand, warm and strong, came up and grasped her hand, which rested on his arm.

“Very well, I am ready,” she told him.

Still, when they began to move, her knees wobbled and sickness rose into the back of her throat. She could hear raised voices in the great hall. They fell silent when she and Dougal entered the lofty chamber and the two men there turned to stare at her.

She recognized Randal MacNab at once, somewhat to her surprise. Tall and carrying enough extra weight to argue affluence, he had a strong, fleshy face and receding hair, now gone grey. Lines scored his forehead and cheeks, but his eyes were those of a young—and angry—man. He wore unrelenting black, no kilt for him, and a sword at his side.

She failed to recognize Bertram, the man she should have married. He had been a man of twenty-one when last she saw him and must be all of thirty now. He had his father’s height but none of his bulk, and reminded Isobel of a whip, cruel and dangerous. His brown hair had just begun to recede and his face might be deemed handsome by some. Well proportioned, he looked proud and haughty, and Isobel saw rage in his eyes. Like his father, he wore a sword. Unlike him, he sported the MacNab tartan, its colors muted in the dim room.

She heard what sounded like a growl come from Dougal’s throat and felt the hate surge through him like summer lightning.

Bertram MacNab stepped forward with a cry. “Catherine! Father, did I not tell you it was so? Catherine, are you well? We searched the district for you. In fact, this blackguard pretended to help us search, all the while keeping you imprisoned here.”

Isobel, still clutching Dougal’s arm desperately, said the only thing she could. “I am not Catherine.”

Confusion reigned for several moments while both MacNab and his son spoke at once, neither giving Isobel fair opportunity to explain. Dougal stood the while, silent as a rock, even when Bertram stepped up to challenge him.

“What have you done to her, MacRae? What foul magic worked upon the poor lass’s mind, that she knows not who she is? I shall have you for abduction and imprisonment.”

“I am Isobel, older sister to Catherine,” Isobel said, determined now to make herself heard. “I was Isobel Maitland and am, now, wife to this man.” Her fingers tightened on Dougal’s arm.

“Married? You wed wi’ her?” Isobel thought Bertram would explode; the point seemed far more valid to him than her actual identity. It was clever-eyed Randal who stepped forward and said, “Why are you here, Isobel? My son’s marriage contract was with your sister, Catherine.”

“Just so.” Dougal spoke up for the first time. “And you have no business here, having no contract of any kind concerning this woman, my wife.”

“One moment!” Randal MacNab held up a hand. “She will explain to us before we go anywhere. Where is your sister, lass? And had your father knowledge of this?”

Isobel shook her head. “My sister and I hatched the scheme between us, to change places. No one knew, save our maid who, I believe, died when our coach crashed.”

“Everyone died,” Randal said grimly. “The coach overturned in a ravine. We were not sure but you—or rather your sister—had perished as well. We had men search the roads for days.”

“And all the while,” Bertram seethed, “this bastard knew—”

“Aye,” Randal denounced in a hard tone. “And yet he pretended to search, by our sides. Explain that, man. And also why you saw fit to wed with this woman if, indeed, the marriage is no sham?”

Dougal lifted his head arrogantly. “I wed as the King himself bade me—in response to your complaint of me, I believe, MacNab. And the marriage, performed by the priest, O’Rourke, is legal, as well as consummated.”

MacNab stiffened like a horse feeling the whip. “O’Rourke? That drunken sot! I believe any ceremony performed by him could well be called into question.”

“And the consummation?” Dougal sneered. “Will you question that, as well?”

Bertram turned what appeared to be half crazed eyes on Isobel. “If, Lady, he raped you—well, my father has the King’s ear. He shall hang for it!”

For the first time, Isobel felt Dougal tense beneath her touch. The words she spoke now, she knew, could mean his demise—and her freedom.

If she wanted freedom from him, that was.

She drew a breath that seemed to vibrate through her, then leaned toward Bertram and met his eyes, her own narrowed.