Sleat swore, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to clear the residue of wine. So, his disloyal niece returned under guard—she must have been discovered. ’Twas as he had expected, then. The chit had failed. Silly wench, to succumb so easily to the wiles of a handsome face. He shrugged with disgust. Well, what could you expect from a woman? Women were good for only two things: providing a substantial tocher and providing an heir. Good thing he was smart enough not to wager his quest for the Lordship solely on the capabilities of a lass. An alternative plan was already in position.
He drew his fingers across his chin, considering her return. Isabel knew where the secret entrance was to Dunvegan—of that he had no doubt. Mackenzie had followed the three retreating MacLeods after the latest attack until they had simply disappeared right into the face of the rocky cliff beneath Dunvegan. The Mackenzie chief had searched the area exhaustively for the entrance, to no avail. But Isabel would be able to find it. He would watch his dear niece closely. And wait. She might be of some use yet.
Another bungled attempt on MacLeod, he thought, disgusted. The man was proving exceedingly difficult to kill. He’d had high hopes that this last attempt might succeed, until his informant had apprised him of the MacLeod’s miraculous recovery. Sleat did not believe it was actually magic that had enabled MacLeod to evade death so many times, but he would take no chances. That bloody flag had defeated the MacDonalds before; it would not do so again. Magic or luck, it did not matter, it would run out soon enough. All was ready—soon he would reclaim the Lordship and rule the Western Isles. It wouldn’t be long now before his dream was fully realized.
The great Rory MacLeod would not stand in his way.
Chapter 24
Isabel waited for a reprieve that never came. Though her head knew differently, her heart refused to accept that he might not forgive her. Bessie had urged her to give him time, time for his anger to dissipate and understanding to take hold. But Isabel had waited long enough. If she waited any longer, she might find Rory wed to another.
A sharp pain pierced her chest, as it always did whenever she thought of him—which was constantly. She yearned for perspective, the bittersweet dulling edge of time, but it had been only a little over one week since he had sent her away.
That meant enduring five days alone with her uncle, forced to wait for her family to arrive at Dunscaith and escort her back to Strome Castle. Not that she looked forward to the impending confrontation with her father. No, she had failed doubly, letting her family down and losing Rory. But at least the arrival of her family would bring a stay from Sleat’s daily interrogations. She sensed hat her uncle was merely biding his time, waiting for her to make a mistake. Clearly, he did not believe her tory that she was so deep in shock after the attack by the Mackenzies that she could not remember how to access the secret entrance to Dunvegan. Sleat was planning something. If only she could find out what.
She stood, as she had for days, at the window in her bower, overlooking the beautiful loch, staring north past the great Cuillin in the direction of her forsaken heart. Scanning always for a rider, someone to bring her the news she longed to hear.
Instead, a loud rumbling knocked her out of her dreary reverie. Instinctively, she clasped her hands over her stomach as it beckoned noisily for sustenance. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of food. Admittedly, she had not eaten much over the last week. The pungent smells of food turned her stomach, but she knew by the looseness of her clothing that she had lost too much weight. She would need to be strong if she was going to fight for Rory.
Was she going to fight for Rory? Her eyes widened. She felt a bud of awakening in the wintry slumber of her anguish—and a trace of something else that could only be termed excitement.
She had to do something; she could not go on like this. Isabel needed to let him know how sorry she was for what she’d done and find some way to make him understand. If only she could make it up to him and prove that she was worthy of his trust…and his love. She headed downstairs toward the kitchens. First, she needed to eat. Then she would be able to think. And plan.
“Good morning, Willie. Are you going somewhere?”
A very distracted Willie had just exited her uncle’s solar when Isabel greeted him on her way back from the kitchens. She felt much better after the small meal she had managed to force down and was ready to begin planning.
Startled by the sound of her voice, Willie stumbled, and the stack of missives in his hands flew up in a parchment rainstorm over his head, scattering haphazardly around him on the floor. After a stunned moment, he managed to collect his thoughts enough to speak. “Good morning, my lady.”
She did not have the heart to correct his improper address. He looked flustered enough as it was. “It appears you are off to deliver some messages.”
“Yes, my lady.” He managed to right himself, still staring at her. Recognizing the look, Isabel reluctantly gave up on conversation. She bent down to help him collect the jumbled letters strewn across the rushes. Suddenly, her eyes caught sight of the familiar script and distinctive seal: Per Mare per Terras.
Were the capricious fates smiling on her at last?
Her heart beat furiously with anticipation, and her eyes widened when she noticed whom it was addressed to. Please let this be what I’m praying for! Carefully, she craned her neck to make sure Willie could not see what she was doing as she slipped the letter between the folds of her gown. Handing the remaining letters to Willie, she smiled with genuine delight—for the first time in over a week. Distractedly, she wished him a good journey and tried not to race up the stairs.
Isabel had been gone for only a little more than a week, and Rory had done nothing more than sit before the fireplace and drink rather copious amounts of cuirm. He ran his fingers through unkempt hair, snagging on a few knots along the way, and swept it back from his face.
A wee lass had toppled the powerful Rory Mor. He would laugh if the irony weren’t so painful. For a man who prided himself on control and decisiveness, discovering that he was not immune to emotions was a severe blow. Every man had his weakness. Apparently, Isabel MacDonald was his.
The question was, what was he going to do about it?
What he wanted to do was immerse himself in his duties, find a way to repair the alliance with Argyll, and begin plans to resume the fighting with Sleat. Instead, he found himself dissecting every moment of the last few months and analyzing every word of their conversation, unable to focus on anything else.
In repudiating the handfast and sending her away, Rory had acted as he always did: coolly, dispassionately, and decisively. His judgment had been sound. Never had he questioned a decision. But he realized that in this, in determining the fate of someone he loved, he was without experience. He could not simply cut Isabel out of his heart because he wanted to.
She’d wronged him, yes. But when his anger had cooled, Rory realized that Isabel’s treachery was not as clear-cut as he’d first thought. She’d handfasted with him under false purpose, but he could not fault her loyalty to her clan. She should have come to him, though he could understand her hesitancy. She had spied on him, but she hadn’t taken the flag.
But one realization above all blocked his ability to put Isabel behind him forever. Had she truly chosen him over her uncle and her family?
A knock on the door disturbed his reverie.
He glanced up to see Douglas. “A letter, Chief. From the king.”
Rory looked at Douglas blankly, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. It took him a moment to realize what he held in his hand.
Douglas knew as well, for he stood woodenly, awaiting instructions, and would not meet Rory’s glance. Slowly, Rory cracked the seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read. When he’d finished, he let out a pained laugh.
“Well, it appears I have an answer to my proposal.”
“Yes,” Douglas said evenly, with no evidence of the curiosity Rory was sure he felt.
“The king has agreed
to cede Trotternish to the MacLeods as part of Isabel’s tocher upon our marriage.”
“What will you do?”
Rory shrugged. “I don’t know.” It was the answer to his prayers, come too late.
“Should I instruct the royal emissary to wait for your response?”
“No, I need some time to think.”
Dismissing Douglas, Rory reread the passage that had struck him.
Since our dearest Isabel assures us of her happiness, and has also urged the disposition of Trotternish to the MacLeods in her recent missive to the Queen, we are pleased to do so under the conditions outlined in your letter.
Isabel had written to the queen on his behalf? The small crack in his resolve broke open. She had chosen him. And in part thanks to Isabel, he now held the means to reclaim Trotternish for the MacLeods and, at least partially, to avenge Sleat’s dishonor to the clan. If he married her.
But could he find the strength to forgive her?
Rory felt a flicker of something inside him. He recognized what it was immediately: possibility.
Chapter 25
The MacDonald of Sleat was furious to find Isabel missing. He did not like being duped, especially by a lass. He’d been waiting for something like this, but she’d outmaneuvered him. Though, surprisingly, he had to admit that his little niece had impressed him. Janet’s daughter was stronger than she appeared. Sleat was not completely devoid of familial sentiment. He almost regretted that his niece must be sacrificed. Almost.
But it was necessary. His gaze moved calculatedly to his newly arrived guest. The Mackenzie chief would not be satisfied with anything less than Isabel’s death. Isabel’s near rape at the hands of the Mackenzie’s son, the stupid boy, had been another unfortunate cost of war. Sleat stroked his chin, both thoughtful and philosophical. No, Isabel’s death could not be avoided. If she’d done her part, he might have been moved to help her. But, like most women, she’d disappointed him.
It was pure chance that had brought the Mackenzie to Dunscaith only hours after Isabel’s disappearance had been detected. A few hours later and there wouldn’t be a chance of passing her. Fortunately, Sleat had discovered Isabel’s absence almost right away. Another piece of luck. A kindhearted maidservant had thought to entice the girl to eat with special honey-sweetened oatcakes, only to find the chit had disappeared. He’d guessed immediately where she was headed.
“Go after her,” Sleat said to the other chief. “But you will have to travel fast to overtake her. And you must not be seen. A few men, no more. If you are patient, she will lead you to the entrance.”
The Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed. “How can you be sure she returns to Dunvegan?”
Sleat shrugged. “Instinct. She fancies herself in love with him. Besides, where else would she go?” He sneered. “She’ll be careful to make sure that no one is following her, but of course you won’t be following her.”
“I’ll ride straight for the place we lost them after the attack. I know just where to wait. I’ll follow her inside, and my men will wait for you,” the Mackenzie said.
Sleat nodded. “Do nothing rash. We won’t be far behind.”
With the MacLeod dead and a surprise attack on the castle, victory would finally be his.
Perhaps his little niece had been useful after all.
She was almost there. Back to Dunvegan, to Rory, and to what she hoped was forgiveness. For Isabel held in her possession the means to prove her loyalty to Rory.
Excitement and anticipation alone urged her on, as her body had long ago stopped cooperating. Her shoulders slumped, heavy with a deep, bone-aching fatigue such as she had never before experienced. Usually an excellent rider, she struggled to keep herself upright astride the palfrey. When was the last time she’d been able to feel her backside? It must have been miles ago, hours ago. The insides of her thighs would be sore for weeks. But she had to keep a steady pace that would get her there as quickly as possible.
Dirt and dust streaked her face. With the back of her arm, she wiped away the sheet of dampness on her forehead. There was little she could do about the beads of perspiration collecting under the large ball of hair bound at the back of her neck. It was too hot. She wore a broad-brimmed hat, but after the long, sunny days in the saddle, even that had been unable to prevent the crimson burn now staining her nose and cheeks.
At least her cramped hands were protected from the sun by the thin gloves she usually wore with her habit. Unfortunately, the fashionable thin leather gloves might protect her from the sun and the midges, but after long hours of constant hard use, they weren’t protecting her from much else. The voluminous skirts were hiked up to her thighs to accommodate her riding astride but were otherwise too cumbersome for such a long, difficult journey. She dearly wished she’d been able to find a pair of breeches and sturdy leather gloves, but there hadn’t been time.
She had traveled north for two days and nights, over fifty miles along the road—at times path—from Dunscaith located on the western peninsula of Sleat. Two days traveling for a journey that normally took three full days or more. She recalled the nervous excitement she’d felt when she’d cautiously snuck out of a sleeping Dunscaith armed with proof of her uncle’s perfidy. The letter she had stolen from Willie was more than she could have dreamed. She doubted even her father was aware of Sleat’s plans. With this letter, Rory would have the means to destroy her uncle. It would give him the weapon he needed to extract Sleat from the king’s favor. And in doing so, Isabel would hand him what he wanted most of all—a way to avenge the dishonor done his clan at the hands of Sleat.
And Isabel hoped it would indisputably prove her loyalty to him.
Anxious to leave, she’d nonetheless been forced to wait, making sure that Willie had left to deliver the rest of his messages before she set out—she wanted to make sure no one was aware of a missing letter. But Willie left right after their collision in the hall, enabling her to sneak out that very night.
Now it was late morning on the third day of the journey, and she was only a few furlongs from her destination.
She patted her mount fondly along the side of its warm neck. Her uncle’s stables were among the best in the Highlands and Isles. This purloined palfrey was undeniably a magnificent animal. She knew she’d used it badly, but she had no other choice. She had to keep moving, to keep well ahead of any pursuers. She had allowed herself and the horse a few hours of sleep at night but otherwise kept stops to a minimum. She couldn’t allow her uncle’s men time to catch up to her if they were following. She dared not risk stopping during the day for longer than the time it took to water and feed the exhausted animal.
The meager food supply she had managed to save from her last dinner at Dunscaith had run out yesterday. The persistent headache she’d had since then from lack of food had subsided a bit, but she knew that once she dismounted she would fight dizziness.
At least she was familiar with this part of the road. At times, she worried that her poor navigation skills would lead her down the wrong road. On her first day of travel, she had narrowly avoided taking the wrong fork in the path—heading toward Port Righ instead of Dunvegan—at the base of the great Cuillin Mountains. She was much more careful after that. During the day, she used the path of the sun to keep her heading due north, but navigation was more difficult at night. She dared not stop and ask for directions for fear that her uncle’s men would use this to track her.
That they had not caught up with her was surprising. For the first few hours after sunrise on the day she’d left, when she’d known they must have discovered her missing, she’d jumped at every sound, looked warily at every village, and caught herself looking behind her so much that her neck had begun to hurt. She had brought her bow for protection but so far had not needed it. Either her uncle was not aware of where she was headed or, more likely, he must have decided to wait for her father to arrive before following her.
Utter weariness prevented her from noticing the lavish bounty of the cou
ntryside spread out like a banquet before her. The hills were scattered with a kaleidoscope of summer wildflowers. Lavender bunches of heather formed a natural border to the road. The sea sparkled on her left, and the green, grassy moors undulated with the gentle breeze on her right. The lush density of the forests beckoned ahead of her.
A sudden inexplicable chill, perhaps the cold wind of remembrance, crept down the back of her neck. This was just about the place where the Mackenzies had attacked Rory.
Dunvegan was just ahead.
She steered her palfrey off the trail and headed into the copse.
She would take no chances. She would have to use the secret entrance. She dared not risk that Rory might refuse her entry to the castle. This time she would not give him a choice: Rory would listen to her whether he wanted to or not.
Isabel focused on the task before her, concentrating on remembering the way to the entrance. The closer she drew to the hidden entrance, the more she checked her surroundings. Nothing. There was nobody following her; of that she was sure. She retraced their steps along the inlet of the loch and paused before the dramatic rocky cliff.
Dunvegan, in all its forbidding splendor, sat perched high on the rock above her. The walls were situated so close to the edge of the cliff, it looked as if it might slide off with only the slightest nudge. The sheer, thick, gray stone edifice hardly offered a warm welcome. But rather than dissuade Isabel from her purpose, the sight of that grimly beautiful pile of rocks filled her heart with bursting joy and brought a broad smile of accomplishment to her weary countenance. Her back straightened as she drew up her shoulders.
Dunvegan. Rory. She’d made it.