Page 81 of Devil Black

One of the men bearing the litter answered her, though she caught perhaps one word in ten. They had come under attack by a large number of MacNab’s warriors under the leadership of Bertram MacNab. Lachlan had fought valiantly, as had they all, but once he fell it became a battle on the part of the others to get him away.

“They came like an army,” the man told Rab. “They mean to attack while the Devil is awa’.”

Isobel’s heart clenched in her chest, but she had eyes only for Lachlan.

She lifted her voice and called, “Meg! Meg, come quickly!”

The two women ran from the solar into the ghastly scene. Isobel watched the color drain from Meg’s face.

Meg wasted no time with questions and instead gestured to the men. “Bring him into the solar, where ’tis warm. Carefully, now!”

“How sore hurt is he?” Isobel asked her sister-in-law. “Can you save him?”

Meg shook her head. “Who can say? There is healing in these hands, as well as harm. I cannot tell if ’twill be enough.”

The men bore Lachlan off, and Isobel turned to Rab. “If MacNab attacks the keep, it will hold, yes? Can he breach the defenses?”

Rab shrugged and his gaze turned uneasy. “We will fight to the man to protect you, Lady—and die if need be.” He grimaced. “Better death by the sword, I am thinking, than to face the ire of the Devil Black.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“So, that is the King of all England and Scotland,” Thomas said wonderingly, and not for the first time. “He was in a right foul mood for himself, was he not?”

“As vile as this weather,” Dougal replied. The two men, with their escort of warriors, traveled home following an audience with the King during which Dougal had his knuckles slapped quite sharply. He knew he should be grateful—he might have received far more than chastisement. And he was aware much of the credit for it might be laid at the feet of the man who rode beside him.

Thomas had proved quite forthright and eloquent in his explanations and defense of Dougal, managing to convince James that Dougal had not, in fact, abducted Bertram MacNab’s betrothed since she had never traveled north from Yorkshire and had, at the time, been wed to Thomas himself.

The King, with a written complaint from Gerald Maitland in his hands—Isobel’s father had not been present—listened and lost a shade of his bad humor.

“All for the sake of love, was it?” he asked. “Who can fault that? It does not mean, Master MacRae, you can go about snatching women from carriages.”

“I rescued her from the wreck of a carriage, your highness.”

James did not swallow it. “You, sir, have a reputation that precedes you. Your neighbors complain ceaselessly of your activities. We tire of listening.”

“I assure you, Sire, I am mending my ways and have wed just as you, yourself, instructed. I hope for a family soon and mean to devote myself to tending my children and my lands.”

James grunted, “Do not let us see you here on any future complaint, or it will go badly for you. You have been warned. Now, waste no more of our time.”

Recalling it now, Dougal narrowed his eyes. “Aye, Thomas—that is the very man who wields the power of life or death over us. This time, thanks to you, he proved lenient. You have a place wi’ me so long as you need it.”

“Thank you, MacRae. I promise to serve you as bailiff, faithfully.” Thomas gave Dougal a quick smile. “And perhaps I can help you keep your nose clean, eh?”

Not while either Randal or Bertram MacNab draws breath, Dougal thought bitterly. Oh, aye, he would act the part of the responsible landowner to the best of his ability, if only for Isobel’s sake. But there were still a number of scores to be settled, and the anger inside him would find no rest until it knew revenge.

Right now, however, he just wanted to get home, to reach journey’s end and be with his wife. It astonished him how much he longed for that moment and how he ached to see Isobel, hold her, crawl into bed and avail himself of her warmth.

That desire sustained him through the many miles from Stirling, through cruel wind and driving sleet. Weary, he and his party reached their own lands just at nightfall, and Dougal knew from crossing his borders that something was amiss. Instinct told him so, a kind of sixth sense acclimated to the land, as well as the absence of the guard.

He called to his warriors at his back, “Something is very much wrong!” And they pushed their tired mounts hard through the gathering dark.

For all that, when Dougal beheld his own gates he stared in disbelief. They lay in ruins, charred and broken, and beyond them the forecourt of the keep lay in darkness, a yawning black hole.

His heart began to pound as if it would force its way out of his chest. He dismounted just inside the forecourt and began to bellow, “Rab! Lachlan! Here, to me!”

Silence met his ears, but for the sharp wind whistling round the stones. He heard his men mutter to one another and dismount behind him. He stared, transfixed, at his front door.

Battered, broken like the gates, one of the stout panels had fallen, charred, and there on the threshold he saw the stain of blood.