Page 24

I t was midafternoon, and still no word had arrived from William. Isolde paced the courtyard, breathing in deep as she waited for Sjor to finish his business. The weather was dull and damp, and she shivered as they returned to the hall. Even though William had promised to be back before nightfall, it was very possible he’d decide to stay at the earl’s manor. She just hoped he’d send a messenger to let her know all was well.

Please God, let all be well.

“I’ll fetch ye a dry shawl, milady,” Emer said, and she dragged herself from her wretched thoughts and smiled at her maid, who looked frozen to the bone.

“No, ’tis all right. I’ll go myself. See if ye can find something warm for us to drink.”

Emer nodded and made her way to the kitchen, and Isolde went upstairs. As she entered the antechamber, she pulled off her shawl and draped it over a chair near the hearth before going into the bedchamber and wrapping a dry shawl about her shoulders.

Her glance caught on the unicorn tapestry that covered the wall. It was too grand for a bedchamber, and that was a fact, but she did love how welcoming it made the chamber. And along with the fine rug she’d brought with her from Sgur before the hearth, the chill in the air was scarcely noticeable.

It was, indeed, her favorite corner of Creagdoun. But it’d mean nothing to her if William did not return.

Why did she keep thinking that? She’d learned, throughout her girlhood, how to conduct herself and order her household through any contingency. But how different it was in reality, to put her personal feelings aside when this marriage was so much more than a mere political alliance.

Had she told William that? She had the terrible feeling she hadn’t. All she’d ever said to him was how she despised his deception, when he hadn’t deceived her at all.

But surely, he knew she believed his word now? How could he not realize how she really felt about him? In her heart, he was her Njord, and despite everything that had happened between them, that had never changed, even when she’d wanted to hate him.

A name was everything. She knew that. But in a secret corner of her soul, it didn’t make any difference whether she called him by the ancient Norse name, or his God given one.

It didn’t change the man he had always been.

She drew in a ragged breath in an attempt to compose herself. She couldn’t hide up here, when the servants needed to see her about the castle doing her duties. It wasn’t her place to indulge in secret fears. It was her responsibility to ensure she maintained a facade that all was well.

When William returned, he would have no cause to reproach her behavior. Because of course he would return. The odds were stacked too heavily against the MacGregors for any other outcome to be considered.

She clung onto that irrefutable fact, and as she left the bedchamber, Sjor darted across the floor and barked at the door that led to the lady’s chamber.

“Come,” she called, but for once her faithful lad ignored her. She sighed and followed him before dropping into a crouch and scratching him behind his ears. “Is it a mouse ye hear?”

Shaking her head, she opened the door. “Go on, then. Flush it out, lad.”

Sjor raced inside, and she squinted into the gloom before lighting a lantern and following him. Far from chasing an unfortunate rodent, he was scratching frantically at the tapestry that covered the secret passageway.

“Hey,” she admonished him, but again he ignored her which was... odd. She went over to him and lifted the tapestry.

Nothing was amiss. The panel was in place. What had she expected?

She glanced at Sjor, who gazed up at her expectantly. Unease twisted through her stomach, and she slowly ran a finger along the panel. There was nothing to see here. Why then could she not simply leave?

Sjor whined, and she shook her head in exasperation. “What are ye playing at? There’s nothing here. Look.”

She released the clasp and pushed open the panel.

The concealed wooden door was open.

Stupefied, she stared into the darkness beyond, while her mind scrabbled to make sense of it. She’d locked the door the other day. She was certain of it.

Her stomach pitched and ice spiked her blood as the truth clawed through her.

Someone had opened it.

There could only be one explanation. It was whoever Alan MacGregor had working for him within William’s circle of men.

She needed to relock the door, find Patric, tell him of this passageway and—

Another thought struck. Dear God. Had they opened the gate at the far end of the passage?

Of course they had. Damn it. She spun about. Patric. She needed to find him.

“Sjor.” She glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see her dog disappear into the tunnel. “ Sjor . Come.”

An eerie silence was the only response. She gripped the lantern tighter, indecision shredding through her. But only for a moment. She would never leave her beloved Sjor, although God help her, she’d give him a damn good talking to when she got ahold of him.

She stepped into the tunnel and hissed his name once again. This time he responded with an excited bark. Curse him. She strained her eyes, but the only light ahead came from the same obscured arrow slit as last time.

Could it be possible she was overreacting? That somehow the hidden door had swung open of its own accord?

The door has two bolts. And I secured them.

She sped up, even though the path was treacherous and seemed even longer than before. But finally, she saw the door ahead.

It was shut. She very nearly collapsed with relief.

“Sjor, ye wicked creature, come here.”

Sjor whined and scratched at the door. With an impatient sigh, she marched up to him. And stopped dead.

The wild grass had been ripped asunder. The iron bar was propped against the wall, the two bolts drawn back, and the door, far from being shut, was opened a crack.

Ice prickled across her skin and her heart thundered in her ears. She peered through the barred window, but no hostile warriors gathered among the mist-shrouded trees. A small mercy, yet a mighty one. She placed the lantern on the floor and grasped the iron ring, intending to secure the door, but Sjor squeezed through the gap, and she momentarily froze in terror.

Move .

With another quick glance through the window to ensure no danger lurked, she edged out of the gap. The tangled vines and branches that had obscured this entrance for who knew how many years had been torn aside, the final proof that she’d stumbled upon a plot to infiltrate the castle by covert means.

Sjor was some distance ahead of her by an ancient rowan tree. Had the sacred tree been planted here deliberately, one hundred years ago or more, by the hidden entrance to the castle, to protect its inhabitants from evil? Or was it pure coincidence?

Either way, its presence was surely a good sign that she would prevail, and she stealthily made her way over to her dog who was most certainly not going to receive his nightly treat of sliced apple.

She picked him up, and he swiped a wet tongue across her chin. Before she could reprimand him for being a very bad dog indeed, she heard the distinct sound of someone approaching.

Sjor stiffened in her arms, and she pressed her finger across his muzzle. Was it one of her own men out there? Or the unknown enemy? Since there was no way of telling, she pressed her back against the tree and glanced at the entrance to the secret passage.

From this angle, the door looked as though it was still closed. No one would assume otherwise. But if she moved from the protection of the tree, how likely was it she’d make it back to the safety of the passage before she was seen?

If only she dared to peer around the trunk, to see how far away the intruder was. She gnawed her lip as indecision gripped her. But suppose she did, and he was standing right there?

“So, this is the place,” an unfamiliar male voice said, and fear shivered through her as she tried to disappear into the tree itself. There was more than one man out there. How many?

God help her. She hoped they remained where they were and didn’t plan on entering the passageway. They’d need to walk right by her if so.

“Aye. It leads right into the heart of the castle. They won’t stand a chance.”

She knew that voice. Who was it? But the answer wouldn’t come to her petrified mind.

“I’ll wait at the meeting point for our men.”

The sound of them retreating filled the air until all she could hear was the pound of her heart echoing around her head. Agonized moments passed, each one seeming to last a year or more, until she could bear it no longer.

She had to secure the passageway before the attackers returned. And ensure the castle was safe.

Cautiously she stepped away from the tree, clutching Sjor tightly as she quickly scanned the area. No one was there. She’d—

Sjor let out a low growl, his body vibrating with fury as, from behind the very tree where she’d been hiding, emerged Malcolm MacNeil.

“Lady Isolde.” He bowed his head, an incongruous show of respect, considering it was his voice she’d recognized but failed to place just moments ago.

“Malcolm MacNeil.” She had no idea how she managed to sound so calm, when inside she was a churning mess of panic. Here, then, was the man who had betrayed William so despicably. And she had unwittingly walked right into his trap.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My name is Alan MacGregor, my lady, the true-born master of Creagdoun. I’ve come to reclaim what is mine by blood.”

Alan MacGregor? So, he hadn’t coerced one of William’s loyal men, after all. A cold comfort. “Torcall MacGregor’s son.”

“Aye. I’ve no wish to harm ye. I know ye had little say in yer choice of husband.”

Maybe she should agree with him. But his remark rankled, and before she could think better of it, she retorted, “Ye’re wrong. William Campbell is the only man I’d ever choose for my husband.”

His benign expression hardened, and her stomach churned with nerves. Truly, she should have held her tongue, but what did it matter? MacGregor meant her harm, despite whatever insincere words he uttered.

“That’s a pity,” he said. “For I intend to wed ye myself, once Creagdoun is secured.”

His threat hammered through her mind, but it was the implication behind it that caused her heart to squeeze painfully in her chest. No. No, he didn’t mean that William... she couldn’t finish the thought. Wouldn’t allow herself to finish what he implied, and without meaning to, her grip tightened around Sjor.

His growl became louder, and MacGregor cast him a cold glance. “Put the dog down, my lady, and tell it to retreat. Or I’ll deal with it myself.”

His meaning was more than plain, and slowly she placed Sjor on the ground, as far from the man as possible.

“Back.” Her voice was harsh, harsher than she had ever spoken to her darling lad before, but she couldn’t risk him attacking MacGregor. Thank God, Sjor no longer displayed his unusual streak of disobedience, and stood his ground.

“Good.” He took a step closer to her, and it took all her self-control not to back away from him. But she wouldn’t let him see how badly he unnerved her. She was no longer on Eigg, but she was still descended from her fierce Pict foremothers who had once ruled that isle.

Defiantly, she pulled her dagger from its concealed sheath within her skirts, even though she no longer possessed the skill to wield it. Simply holding the familiar weight in her hand gave her a sliver of comfort.

MacGregor paused, and then he laughed, a mocking sound that slashed through her like a mortal blade. “Ye’re a fiery lass, and I don’t disapprove. Ye’ll warm my bed well enough and bear me many sons who’ll learn to despise the name of Campbell as I do.”

“Stay back.” She angled the dagger at him, and although he didn’t come any closer, his amusement was despairingly plain to see.

“I’ve witnessed yer incompetence with a blade. ’Tis a sad thing to behold, my lady. But rest assured, when we are wed, ye’ll not be permitted to indulge in such fancies.”

She waved the dagger at him even though she knew the folly of angering him further. Yet a thread of fury burned through her, and she could not remain silent. “I am already wed, and I’ll defend Creagdoun against ye until the last breath leaves my body.”

His face twisted into a cruel grin. “Ye’re no longer wed, my lady. Did I not tell ye? The Campbells and their allies rode straight into our trap and were slaughtered like pigs. I killed William Campbell myself. There’s no mistake. My men are on their way, and we will take Creagdoun.”

MacGregor’s callous taunt sucked the air from her lungs, and a burning pain seared her from the inside out. She would not believe it. Her Willliam wasn’t dead. As if to reinforce its impossibility, his face swam before her eyes, his black hair whipping across his face in the wind, and his carefree laugh filled her head.

Mo chridhe.

My heart. Yet she had never told him, not even when he’d whispered that precious endearment to her and she’d held it close, treasuring it, thinking she had all the time in the world to tell him—one day—how very dearly she loved him.

One day . . .

That day had never come.

“Come now, lay down yer wee knife, there’s a good lass.”

His mocking voice scraped along her nerves like gravel across an open wound. A wound that would never heal, now she had lost the only man she could ever love. Her fingers tightened around the hilt, and the ancient runes that had been carved into the wood so long ago scorched her palm. Reminding her of who she was.

Where she had come from.

And where she was destined to go.

MacGregor swaggered closer and grabbed her shawl, hauling her to him. “Mind yer blade, lass, I don’t want ye to injure yerself.”

I love ye, William.

Time slowed; and as the sound of Sjor’s frenzied barking faded, primal power surged through her, a power that came from the core of her being and the years of training she had dedicated to the memory of her formidable foremothers.

William had always believed in her. She would not prove him wrong.

As MacGregor’s leering face loomed over her, she swung her head forward, connecting squarely against his nose. At his roar of pain, she thrust the dagger upwards, all but severing his ear, then twisted free from her shawl that he still grasped in his fist.

“Ye pox-ridden MacDonald whore,” he spat. Blood splattered his face and murder gleamed in his eyes, but she hadn’t finished yet. Her only hope of surviving was if she could escape him and secure the castle.

If only she had her claymore and could avenge William in the way he deserved.

Her husband. My love.

She hiked up her skirts and kicked MacGregor between his legs with all her might.

He collapsed to the ground like a felled tree, and reality once again crashed down around her. There was no time to weep for what she had lost. William had loved Creagdoun, and she would protect it in his memory with everything she had.

“Sjor.” Her voice was hoarse as she turned and ran to the entrance that led directly to the castle. With Sjor at her heels, she squeezed through the gap before pulling the door shut, securing the bolts, and heaving the iron bar in place.

Panting, she peered through the window. MacGregor was on his knees, pushing himself forward, and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze caught hers.

Her death would not be swift, should he catch her.

She turned and raced through the passageway, her erratic breath filling the enclosed space with eerie echoes. By the time she reached the lady’s chamber and bolted the door, her chest was tight and ached so deeply she wondered how she could even breathe through the rock lodged inside her heart.

As she stumbled into the antechamber, Emer emerged from the master’s chamber, looking distraught.

“Milady,” she gasped. “I’ve been searching for ye.” Her eyes widened as she took in her disheveled appearance. “God help us all, what’s happened to ye?”

There was no time to explain. “I must find Patric.”

She rushed from the chamber and found him in the great hall, along with several of the men that had accompanied them from Eigg. As soon as he saw her, he strode over, a harsh expression on his face.

“Emer was concerned,” he began, but she brushed his words aside.

“Malcolm MacNeil is Alan MacGregor. He’s not to enter the castle, Patric. He’s the one who betrayed William, the one—” Her voice cracked, and she hitched in a sharp breath, desperately grasping at her jagged thoughts. Now was not the time to fall apart. “I fear the MacGregors may attack Creagdoun. We must be ready for them.”

Patric didn’t waste time asking her how she could possibly know such a thing. He merely gave a single nod.

“Aye, my lady.” He turned on his heel and the men followed his lead.

Sjor sat at her feet, and she sank to her knees, pressing her throbbing brow against his head. If he hadn’t led her outside, she wouldn’t have discovered the identity of Alan MacGregor, and one way or another, he would’ve gained entry to Creagdoun and taken it down from within.

Her faithful dog had done his part. Now she would do hers.

For William.