Page 74 of Devil Black

To Dougal, it seemed all he had done these many days past was fight. Aye, so, and he had no quarrel with that—the anger inside him desired expression with the sword or any other weapon that might come to hand.

Three weeks had passed since Isobel’s miscarriage, since what Dougal thought of as his final declaration of war with MacNab. By any account, his wife should be regaining her strength and her health. Dougal had spent most of the intervening time out riding his borders in the blustery cold, stealing MacNab’s cattle and setting fire to his outbuildings. He had also, in no uncertain terms, repulsed not one but three visits from Isobel’s father, the first in Randal MacNab’s company on the day after she miscarried.

“You allowed this to happen to her,” he accused, staring Gerald Maitland in the eye. “As far as I am concerned, you are no longer Isobel’s father, and I will die before I see her in your hands. As for you,” to MacNab, himself, “the next time you darken my door—you or that misshapen demon you call a son—I will see you dead!”

After that, Gerald Maitland came alone, to be turned away with alacrity. A period of filthy weather ensued, and Maitland did not show his face again. Dougal did not know, and little cared, if he remained at MacNab’s keep or had returned home to Yorkshire.

What did worry him was his wife’s state, both mental and physical. She languished in her room, took little to eat, and worst of all refused to see him.

“What has Meg told you?” he asked an uncharacteristically quiet Lachlan now. “I know you are sleeping with her—’tis the talk of the household.”

“Is it?” Lachlan raised a brow, along with his cup of whisky. The hour being late, the two men shared spirits and a fire in an attempt to defrost their toes.

“Aye. In the kitchens, the maids whisper of little else. They all fancy you, it seems.”

Lachlan smiled briefly. “The maids will have to languish in vain. I waited fifteen years to get into your sister’s bed. If you think I mean to stray from her now, you are very much mistaken.”

“Oh, aye?” Dougal’s attention, very nearly snagged from his own grief, focused on his friend. “So, ’tis love, is it?”

“I thought you did not believe in love—or so you swear, over and over again. Call it enchantment, and have done.”

“I am pleased for you.” Dougal added in mock disgust, “But you may wish to keep a muzzle on your cries of joy—the two of you can be heard all over the keep.”

“What can I say? Your sister is a magnificent lover.”

“Stop, else you will turn my stomach and ruin my sleep.”

“You have not been sleeping anyway, from the look of you.” Lachlan eyed him wisely. “You’re spent.”

“Aye.” Dougal could not tell when he had felt so tired, weary to the bones. His worry for Isobel haunted him. She had sent away the physician, declined to leave her chamber, begged off seeing him. He felt as if he had lost her, though he could not express that even to Lachlan.

“My wife should be recovered by now.”

“Meg says the loss of a child takes women in strange and various ways,” Lachlan offered diffidently. “It follows no map, no set time.”

“Aye, so. But why must she shut me out?” Broodingly, Dougal stared at the fire. “’Tis almost as if she dreads seeing me.”

Lachlan shrugged. “Go to her while she sleeps, be there when she awakens.”

“With my sister guarding her like a mastiff?”

Lachlan slanted a look at him. “I happen to know that in approximately one hour your sister will be well occupied elsewhere. She gives Isobel a sleeping draught—which, I understand, rarely works but does serve to calm her fears—and then retires to her own chamber to wait for me.”

“Aye?” Isobel should have no fears needing calming, Dougal thought, not under his roof and his protection. Yet he had failed to protect her, had he not?

“Aye,” said Lachlan decisively, and put aside his cup.

Some time later, Dougal climbed the stairs to his wife’s chamber, where he had not slept in many nights. The keep was very nearly silent, as if even the night held its breath. Outside, for once, the wind had stilled, and his warriors quietly stood their watch.

Reluctant to frighten Isobel, he eased the door open and slipped in. The room, lit only by a low fire, also lay in stillness. He heard Isobel sigh and shift in the bed even as he closed the door softly behind him.

What dreams possessed her rest, if rest she found? And why would she not turn to him for comfort?

Softly he moved across the room and called her name. “Isobel, ’tis I. Are you awake?”

She murmured something, and the bedclothes rustled. Disrobing as he went, he approached the bed, slipped in, and took her into his arms.

Instant warmth swamped him, and comfort such as he had not known in days. By the devil’s horns, he had missed this—had not realized how much. Still not certain if she slept, he cradled her carefully, as one might a treasured child.