Page 61 of Devil Black

“I mean, to make sense of aught that happens—well, it cannot be done. Women, for instance. Has ever a man made true sense of a woman? I speak in particular of your sister. Shall I tell you, Dougal, what passed between us last night?”

“Please spare me!” Dougal drank from his own mug. The ale tasted sour on his tongue, but then anything would, following the honey he had so recently tasted.

“I met her—by chance, so I thought—in the solar before she went up to bed. We exchanged a few kisses, as I told you we have been doing. This time, she did not seem inclined to stop. I thought—well, I need not say what I thought. Indeed, I doubt my mind kept working at all. I begged her to put a spell on me—life is short and uncertain, I told her—and she… I can barely stand to speak of it!”

“Pray, do not.” Savage emotion rose in Dougal’s breast. He must spend this cold, wretched day riding his borders when he wanted, himself, only to return to Isobel’s chamber.

She would be lying abed still, no doubt warm and willing. Just the thought of her gave him a rod of iron beneath his kilt, despite the fact that she had drained him dry mere hours ago—thrice.

“And then,” Lachlan continued to confide, oblivious or indifferent to Dougal’s mood, “while still my flesh tingled from the caress of her lips and mouth, on at least a particular part of my flesh, she arose, looked me in the eyes, and told me not to suppose ’twould ever happen again. Said she cared not a whit for me, and would I cease following her like a hound pup deserving a kick.”

“Then stop following her,” Dougal advised, thinking about Isobel’s mouth and tongue, with which she did such remarkable things—and aching with need.

What would she say if he came to her later, when this day was done? Would she deem it an unjust use of her? Would she once more claim him, as she had last night? He thought he might be able to survive whatever the day ahead brought him, if he might promise himself Isobel at the end of it.

And aye, Lachlan might be right in that the world was a mad place. His feelings for his wife—which, he told himself, consisted mostly of lust—might be mad as well, but, by the devil’s horns, she was a lovely thing with that wild, red hair and those eyes that sparkled with humor, desire, or intelligence. She might not be soft and gentle like Aisla, fragile as porcelain. But then, there could never be another Aisla in this world.

Or, perhaps, another Isobel...

That thought startled him so much he barely noticed when Lachlan asked him, “So, man, do you think I should?”

“Eh?” Dougal responded vaguely.

“Ask her.”

“Isobel?”

“Nay, you gormless fool, have you not been listening? I speak of your sister, still. I thought of bearding her tonight, asking where I stand with her.”

“You stand nowhere.” Dougal looked Lachy in the eye. “No man stands anywhere, with Meg. Have you no’ learned that yet? If she pleasured you last evening, it is because she sought to pleasure herself.”

“Aye, well.” Lachy did not look so crushed as Dougal felt he should. “I am willing to let her take her pleasure wi’ me again.”

Dougal experienced a flash of annoyance with his friend, and then wondered whether he, himself, did not represent his sister, Meg, in his own relationship, and Isobel represent Lachlan... Yet he did not think less of Isobel for her willingness to accept him into her bed. The words he might have spoken to Lachlan died on his lips and he said, instead, “Talk to her, Lachy. Speak honestly and earnestly. Deal with her as you mean to go on.”

Lachlan looked surprised, but Dougal gave him no chance to comment. “Now, come. We have borders to ride, and MacNab clansmen to put to the chase.”

The day proved as lengthy and wretched as ever Dougal anticipated. A keen wind blew from the northwest, sweeping over hill and moor like a drawn sword, cutting him to the bone. The sun barely struggled over the horizon, lending no warmth. Shortly after midday, he and his band encountered a group of MacNab warriors on his western boundary and gave hard pursuit. They seemed to disappear of a sudden, just as an icy rain began to fall, and Dougal turned his party for home, with a sense of having accomplished nothing.

He reached his own land to see a single rider approaching from the direction of the keep, coming hard. When she drew near enough, he saw she was Meg, stretched out along the back of her pony with her hair flying like a black banner, and urging her mount desperately.

He and Lachlan rode to meet her, the rest of the band trailing them more slowly.

Meg’s hair glittered with icy rain, and her face looked white and drawn. Her eyes met Dougal’s without prevarication.

“I came at once to tell you—she is gone. Taken! She must have been walking in the kitchen garden. Days ago, I suggested she take the air there, where ’tis sheltered, and she has been doing so from time to time. If you want, you can blame me. But who thought she would be in any danger, with the guard all about? Rab has found a trail leading out from the woods behind the keep, and has gone in pursuit—”

“Who?” Dougal asked, even though his plummeting heart proved he already knew. “Who is taken?”

“Isobel! Rab found the guard assigned to patrol the rear wall dead, with an arrow through his back, and there can be no question whoever killed him seized Isobel.”

“Nay!” Dougal protested fruitlessly. “It cannot be! She should have been safe anywhere inside our walls. Have we not been out all this while defending the borders?” Aye, just to keep her safe.

Meg glared at him impatiently. “Do you really want to argue about it now? Be grateful she is well and warmly dressed in the cloak and fur boots she had when she arrived. Rab and three others have gone after her, as I say, but whoever took her was mounted—”

Dougal’s blood, inside him, turned as icy as the rain. “MacNab—I will kill him!”

“You will need to catch him first. Come!”