“It’s safe now, Isabel. We must leave the horses here and walk the rest of the way. I’ll return for them later. But now I need your help with Rory.”
Rory. Isabel leapt off her horse before Alex could offer her assistance and flew to Rory, who was still slumped over his horse. She thought from his position he must have fainted, but at her touch, he opened his eyes and smiled weakly.
“Rory, oh God, Rory. Hold on, we’re almost there.” Craving further reassurance that he truly lived, she grabbed him, clasping his arm desperately. Conscious of his injury, she carefully leaned forward around the arrow protruding from his belly and placed her lips on his damp brow. His skin felt so cold. She could smell the metallic scent of blood. Fear unlike anything she had ever experienced strangled her soul. Surely the capricious fates would not be so cruel when they’d only just found each other?
“Isabel, we must get him to the castle.”
Wordlessly, she helped Alex slide him from the saddle, trying not to cause him more pain than was necessary. Alex slung an arm over his shoulder, and Isabel supported him as best she could on the other side. Rory moved his feet, but Isabel could tell by the spasms of stiffness that racked his body that each step caused him new agony. Huddled together, they struggled along the treacherously wet path of stone and sand.
“Where are we?”
“In an old passageway built long ago by our Norse ancestors. It is rarely used, and few even know of its existence. Only Rory and I know how to find it. And now you.”
She gulped, honored to have been entrusted with such a secret but all the same wishing she didn’t know. She still felt loyalty to her family and would rather not be forced to lie.
Exhaustion threatened to crumple her legs; the large physique that she so admired was definitely a detriment at a time like this. Isabel knew by the way he tried to hold himself away from her that he was attempting not to crush her with his weight. With the amount of blood soaking her gown, she feared he would soon lose consciousness—or worse.
Don’t fall apart, Isabel. He needs you.
Just when she thought she would not be able to take one more step, Alex stopped.
“We’re here.”
She nearly wept with relief. Even in the damp tunnel, sweat beaded on her brow. Wiping it away with her sleeve, she looked around blankly at solid rock.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look up.”
In the roof, perhaps a foot above Alex’s head, she noticed a door.
Alex answered her unspoken question. “I’ll go up first. You’ll need to hold him steady while I try to lift him through the trapdoor. We’ll be at the bottom of a hidden staircase that leads to the kitchens in the old keep.”
How could that be? She’d been over every inch of that tower. Isabel held her tongue, not wanting Alex to question why she’d felt the need to inspect the castle so closely.
“What is that smell?” She sniffed. “Almost like roasted meat.”
“It is roasted meat. A particularly cruel ancestor of mine decided to vent the kitchens into the dungeon to torment the prisoners.”
“Are we near the dungeon pit?” she asked. The only entry to Dunvegan’s dungeon was located in a small room in the great hall above the kitchens. She repressed a shudder. The dungeon was nothing more than a horrific thirteen-foot-deep hole in the rock where prisoners were tossed and left to die. When she’d first arrived at Dunvegan, she’d had many nightmares about that pit.
“We are very close to the dungeon in an adjacent tunnel. The kitchens are part of the barrel vault that runs the length of the old keep.”
“What if we can’t lift him up through the door by ourselves?” she wondered aloud.
“Rory would not want me to bring anyone else down here, but if there is no other choice, I’ll find help.”
But somehow they managed. Rory stirred from semi-consciousness only once, when Alex pulled him up through the hidden door, but it provided them much needed timely assistance up the small staircase. At the top, Alex peered through a small hole in the hidden door to make sure no one was about. Carefully, he pushed open the door and pulled them to safety.
What happened next was lost in the murky haze of confusion that descended when the MacLeods learned that their chief lay dangerously injured. Once Alex checked to make sure no evidence remained of their entry, the cry for help went up and chaos reigned.
Through it all, Isabel refused to leave Rory’s side. Vaguely, she recalled holding his hand as someone—perhaps Deidre?—dug the arrow from his stomach and stitched the gaping wound closed. She must have blocked the rest from her memory, because after that she could remember nothing.
Smoky, mist-filtered moonbeams bathed the solar in ghostly semidarkness. Relishing the quiet, Isabel sat patiently at his bedside. Needing to be alone with him, she’d sent everyone else away. Nothing more could be done for him right now; they would have to wait to see whether he survived the fever that was sure to follow such a horrible injury. That he survived an arrow in his gut this long was a miracle in itself, but it had hit in the perfect spot. An inch or two in any direction, and he would already be dead.
She fidgeted restlessly, trying to find anything to occupy her hands. At a time like this, patience seemed unattainable. He looked so helpless, she thought as she bathed his head with cool water.
Long dark lashes fluttered, then opened to graze his brow.
“Where am I?” he groaned weakly, his blue eyes burning with an unnatural brightness.
The fever had arrived.
“Our chamber.” She shushed him. “Don’t try to talk. You are safe but need your energy.”
He tossed his head back and forth against his pillow as if he fought unconsciousness. “Isabel, you must get Alex. I must speak with him, he needs to know—”
“Shh. Sleep, Rory. You need your rest, you can tell Alex in the morning.”
“No, you don’t understand. I must speak with him now, he will be the next chief.” His voice took on a fevered urgency.
The truth hit her hard. He thinks he is going to die.
“Please, Rory, you must keep calm. If that is what you want, I’ll get him.”
“Hurry, Isabel. After I talk to Alex, I want to speak with you. I need you to know something.”
She found Alex asleep before the fire in the hall downstairs. He looked awful. She hated to wake him. From the dark shadows of weariness around his eyes, it looked as though he had only just fallen asleep.
She placed her hand on his shoulder and shook him lightly. “Alex, wake up. Rory wishes to speak with you. Hurry, he’s quite anxious.” Bleary-eyed, a startled Alex followed her up the spiral stairs to Rory’s chamber.
She motioned him into the room. “I’ll wait outside, he wants to speak with you privately.”
Alex nodded and closed the door behind him.
Anxiously, she stood in the hallway, staring at the door. Watching, waiting for any sound that he might need her. She took a few steps closer and frowned. Did Rory know there was a crack between the door and casing that allowed a sliver of light to shine from the room into the hallway?
The sound of raised voices riled her anger. Didn’t Alex realize how weak his brother was? What could they be arguing about at a time like this? Rory made a loud gasping sound, followed by a gurgled cough. Isabel leapt to the door, peering through the crack to make sure he was all right. Her eyes flew to his face, and she sighed with relief. His breathing was uneven, but there was a fierce, determined glow in his eyes.
It took her a moment to realize what was happening. Too late, she realized her mistake. She wasn’t supposed to see this.
“Reach behind the headboard of the bed and twist the wooden knob that you will find there. It looks like part of a carving…. Yes, that’s it. Now reach under the bed and you will find a hidden drawer has opened. The box is in there. Bring it out and place it on the bed. Careful.” Rory’s voice sounded strained but steady.
Isabel’s heart was
beating at a frenzied pace. She knew she should look away, but she’d already seen enough. She’d learned his secret: where he kept the flag. The solemnity of the moment was not lost on her. He sounded like a king bequeathing his kingdom. He can’t die.
“Now push the carving of the MacLeod badge and the box will open. Take out the flag.”
“Rory, I don’t need to do this, you are going to be—”
“I should have told you where it was before. The flag must be kept safe. Now take it out!”
Alex lifted it up and held it right before her eyes. The prize that had brought her to Dunvegan hung not ten feet in front of her.
Somehow she’d thought a magical talisman would look more impressive. The famous Fairy Flag of the MacLeods was a thin, raggedy length of red-and-yellow silk fabric. Her nose wrinkled. It looked oddly familiar. She could have sworn she’d seen it before.
She watched as Alex reverently replaced the flag in its box and returned it to its hiding place. Well, she thought, he did keep it close, as she had suspected. She just didn’t realize she’d literally been sleeping on it for the last few months.
Isabel stepped back from the door, troubled by what she’d just witnessed. But she knew she would take the secret of the Fairy Flag to her grave. Her uncle would never hear of its location from her.
Moments later, Alex opened the door. “Rory wants to speak with you, Isabel.”
Their eyes met in mutual fear and pain. She knew Alex was thinking the same thing she was. Please don’t let him die.
Rory’s eyes were closed as she approached the bed. His skin glowed pale with a gray tinge in the candlelight, much different from its normal burnished gold. Sensing her presence, he blinked and then opened his eyes. Remarkably, his gaze was lucid.
He must have recognized her fear because he managed a weak smile of reassurance. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever could you be sorry for?” She rushed to his side, taking his hand as she knelt beside him. “You have done nothing to apologize for.” Confusion turned to anger when she realized what he was saying. “Don’t you dare apologize for dying. You are not going to be rid of me so easily.”
“My stubborn little Isabel.” He tried to smile, but she could see how his conversation with Alex had weakened him.
“Rory, you don’t have to explain anything.”
“Yes, I do. It’s not good,” he said, referring to his injury. He drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry that it could not have been different. Sending you back would have torn out my heart.” He winced with pain. “But I need you to know—”
The words stalled in his throat as pain racked his body.
Isabel felt her blood run cold. “Stop. Don’t say anything more. You need your strength.”
“No,” he rasped through clenched teeth, every sound an impossible strain. “It’s important. You need to know that you were not alone in your feelings. I need you to know that I love you.”
That brought her head up immediately. Her entire body seized with disbelief as her eyes fastened on his. “You l-love me?” she stuttered.
“More than I ever thought it possible to love another.”
A wave of happiness crashed over her. For a moment she forgot her fears, allowing the soothing warmth of his words to enfold her. Words she’d ached to hear. But not now. Not at a time like this. Tears blurred her vision. “Why did you not tell me before?”
“I thought it would make our parting more difficult. But I want nothing more between us.”
Guilt tore like acid through her veins. Now was the time to say something. If she was ever going to tell him why she had been sent to Dunvegan, this was the time. “Rory, I—”
The words stuck in her throat. Fear wrapped around her chest. Would he understand? A heavy pause hung between them while her conscience warred with practicality. Rory was dying. Anger would only weaken him. What purpose would it serve to tell him now, when he had just declared his love? She dared not risk that his last memory of her be one of betrayal rather than love.
He stroked her cheek, wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I love you, too,” she said instead. “I will always love you.” She pressed her face into his hand and said a silent prayer for forgiveness.
This was the happiest, most terrible moment of her life. He loved her, but he lay dying. It was so illogical, like a flower blooming in the ashes of hell.
She listened to his pained, shallow breathing growing steadier. Until at last he slept.
Chapter 21
The haunting sounds of the pipers playing their eerie lament for their dying chief echoed through the dark halls. The words of Patrick MacCrimmon gave voice to the anguish of a clan.
My pipe hand me and home I’ll go,
This sad event fills me with woe;
My pipe hand me, my heart is sore,
My Rory Mor, my Rory Mor.
It seemed as though the entire castle dwelt in a state of limbo for months, although in reality it was only a few days.
Endless days of waiting for the fever and infection to run its deadly course.
Endless days of praying for God to take him, to relieve him of his unbearable pain.
Endless days of praying for God to take her, so she would not have to watch him suffer.
In the end, He took neither.
By some miracle Rory survived, finding the strength to defeat the fever.
Never would Isabel forget those harrowing days when she thought she might lose him. Or the infinite joy she’d felt when at last he opened his eyes and his lucid blue gaze, strong and unwavering, met hers.
He took one long look at her and boomed in a surprisingly strong voice, “Get some rest. Now.”
Isabel never thought she’d be so glad to hear that uncompromising voice ordering her about. Ignoring his instructions, she rested her head on the bed and wept with relief. Relenting for a moment, Rory gently stroked her tangled hair. But when her tears had dried, Isabel found herself forced from his bedside, not allowed to return until she’d eaten and slept.
Over the long weeks that followed, Isabel nursed Rory during his recovery, her happiness tempered only by the fact that she knew she might lose him still. He loved her, but he still had not promised to marry her. Each day that passed was like the tolling of a bell reminding her that the time of reckoning drew near. Would Rory go through with the repudiation? His silence on the subject of their future seemed only to confirm her fears.
Her uncle’s threat to tell Rory of her perfidy weighed heavily on her mind. Sleat acted with the single-minded purpose of destroying the MacLeods, heedless of her happiness or security. She had no doubt her uncle would hold to his promise if she did not bring him the flag by the end of the handfast period. If he waited that long. Isabel knew she had to do something about her uncle soon. She would do whatever was necessary to protect her secret until she was sure that Rory would not send her back; only then would she dare risk his anger.
Rory had given her his love and trust, and she had not been completely honest with him. She should have told him that night as he lay dying, but she’d been too scared. Their love was too fragile. There were too many forces trying to keep them apart. Isabel didn’t have much experience with love, nor was she confident that she could hold the love of a man like Rory. The scars of her past were too deep to erase with words spoken in the face of death…and not repeated. How could she be confident in the strength of his love when the threat of repudiation hung like a reaper over her head?
She needed to buy time. Time to ask the queen for her help in the disposition of Trotternish and time to dissuade her uncle from blasting a hole right through the delicate bond of their love. But how could she satisfy Sleat without betraying Rory?
The answer had come to her unexpectedly, while praying for Rory’s recovery. Bessie walked into her room wearing an old silk shawl, and Isabel had her divine response.
That was where I’ve seen it. The flag that she’d glimpsed through the doo
r looked just like Bessie’s shawl. A plan formed quickly in her mind. She would write to her uncle and tell him that she’d found the flag. But instead of the flag, she would give him Bessie’s shawl, or if her uncle insisted the spy retrieve the flag for himself, she would switch it temporarily. Once her uncle’s spy removed the “Fairy Flag,” Isabel would replace the true flag and tell Rory the truth as soon as possible.
There were many risks, but she could think of no other way to satisfy her uncle that would enable her to stay at Dunvegan. No doubt the ruse would eventually be discovered, but by then she would have garnered precious time. And hopefully by then the issue of the repudiation would be solved by marriage vows. Vows that, unlike a handfast, could not be easily set aside. She quashed the wave of guilt at her deception, telling herself it would all work out in the end.
So nearly a month after the attack, when Rory had recovered enough to attend meetings with his men, Isabel sat down at the desk to compose a carefully worded letter to her uncle and another to the queen. Moving some papers out of the way, she glanced down at a letter Rory had left unfinished only that morning. The name leapt off the page: The Earl of Argyll. She read the words that confirmed her worst fears: “I’m recovered…must see you to discuss the alliance.”
He still intended to go through with the marriage to Elizabeth Campbell. The knowledge stung. But it also made her sure that she was doing the right thing. Repressing the urge to crumple the offending letter into a ball, Isabel carefully put it to the side and began the letters that would garner her precious time.
Though frustratingly weak, after weeks confined to his bed, Rory was anxious to resume at least some of his duties. It was not simply the endless cosseting of women that made him restless, though there was that, but while his wound healed, Rory had begun to implement his plan. It could be a solution to all his problems, one that might enable him to marry Isabel and do his duty to his clan. But even if it failed, Rory knew that he would never be able to let her go. It was time to inform his men of his decision.
Careful not to reopen his wound, Rory slowly made his way down to the library, as Isabel had threatened to do him bodily injury if he attempted to take one step out of the Fairy Tower. But he would not have a council with his men in his bedchamber. Alex, Douglas, and Colin were already waiting for him. Rory was glad to see that Colin had recovered from the injuries he’d suffered at the hands of the Mackenzies. Two of Rory’s other men had not been so lucky, though Rory knew it could have been worse. It was Colin who’d noticed the band of Mackenzies following his chief through the forest. He’d pursued, slowing Rory’s attackers and enabling their escape. Once Rory, Alex, and Isabel had disappeared into the rocks, the Mackenzies had fled, preventing any further injuries.