Page 69 of Devil Black

“Aye, send Lachy if you will, but I doubt ’twill be quick enough.”

They reached the top of the stairs. Dougal seized his sister’s elbow and gazed into her eyes. “Somewhat else, then. Magic. There must be spells, you will know them. Save her, Meg, and you will never want for anything so long as I live.”

One of her brows quirked. “A bargain? Now, brother, you speak my language—’tis how I live, that. But I do not know if I have the ability.”

“They call you ‘witch,’ do they not?”

Meg tossed her head in scorn. “Ignorant folk use meaningless words. There is a power, Brother, but I do not possess it. It must be sued from one far more elevated than I.”

Dougal studied her hard. “The devil?”

Meg laughed. “And what sympathy might he have for the plight of women? He is but a construct of the priests, a boogie man meant to frighten. I deal with a far older power, the one that makes the doe to run before the hunter, and puts the trees in leaf.”

“Can it save Isobel?”

“It can.”

“Will it?”

“Well, now, that would depend very much on your reasons.”

“She is too young to die so.” Too full of life, and passion.

“You have to need her to live,” Meg told him mercilessly. “And, for the right cause—not because you want a child out of her, or because you do not want MacNab to win in this. You must care for her, herself.”

Dougal nodded. Leave it to Meg to demand the one thing he could not give—his heart, that blackened, damaged stone incapable of what Isobel required.

He pushed past Meg and through the door of his wife’s chamber. The smell of blood assailed his nostrils, raw and intense. He knew then a battle took place in this chamber, as grave as on any killing ground.

A woman from the kitchens sat beside the bed. She rose when she saw him and stepped away, but Dougal barely noticed her. His eyes were all for Isobel.

She lay sprawled like a man in death, her face devoid of color and her eyes narrowed in pain. Dougal had seen warriors who wore that same look as they gazed beyond this world to the next, whence they traveled. Fear—real fear—seized him, and he knew Meg had not brought him a whit too soon.

“Isobel.” He went forward and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand. She turned those distant eyes on him, and he wondered what she saw in his face—rage? Grief? Terror?

“Husband.” Her lips moved feverishly, and the words came in gasps, “I do not know what ails me. I climbed down from MacNab’s prison—I fell part of the way.”

“Did you fall hard?” He wanted desperately to touch her but feared causing more hurt. He reached out and brushed the tangled hair from her brow. Could such a fall bring about a miscarriage?

“Very hard.” Pain gripped her, and she writhed in agony. When the wave passed, her eyes sought his again. “The chamber in which I was held—my prison—was that of another before me—your love.”

“My love?”

“Aisla, she whom you love. The only woman ever you will.” The words hung between them, indisputable. Dougal wanted desperately to refute them but could not. He looked round, but both Meg and the serving woman had gone; he and Isobel were alone.

Gently, for him, he said, “Do not try to talk if it causes you pain.”

“I must speak now, or perhaps not at all. Do you know what is the matter with me?”

“Has Meg not said?”

Wildly, Isobel shook her head.

“She thinks you miscarry.” His voice sounded harsher than he would have liked. But her eyes flew to his, and clung.

“A child? But I was not carrying—”

“Are you sure? Meg says ’twas very early.” Seeing the look that came to her face—one of stunned grief—he gripped her fingers hard. Another wave of pain seized her, and she rode it out in obvious agony.