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I solde closed the door behind them after they entered their bedchamber. She drew in a deep breath as she watched William walk to the hearth, where he paused and stared into the flames as though they were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen.

She wasn’t sure what was wrong. When he’d ridden into the courtyard, she’d been so relieved she had forgotten she was the mistress of a grand castle with expectations as to how she should behave. All that had filled her head was that MacGregor had lied about killing Willliam and winning the battle.

William was alive. He was safe.

All she’d wanted was to wrap her arms around him, feel his heartbeat next to hers, hear him laugh in that way he did whenever she inadvertently amused him.

But he hadn’t smiled at her loss of dignity or even seemed very happy to see her. And instead of hugging him close and breathing in his unique scent of soap and fresh woodlands, she’d come to an awkward halt before him.

He still clutched the shawl MacGregor had torn from her. She could only guess what he’d imagined when he’d found it. But why wouldn’t he speak to her?

Well, they would get nowhere like this. She went up to him and gently touched his shoulder. He turned on his heel to face her, and her hand dropped back to her side. “What is it, William?”

He inhaled a shuddering breath. “I thought I’d lost ye.”

Warmth and, aye, relief curled through her heart at his confession. “I’m sorry for that. I thought it prudent to get away from MacGregor as quickly as I could, but alas, it meant I left my shawl behind.”

He didn’t laugh at her absurd comment. He didn’t even crack the smallest smile. “How in hellfire did MacGregor come upon ye, Isolde? He didn’t breach the castle. Tell me ye didn’t leave the safety of the walls after I left.”

“Of course I didn’t—” She snapped her mouth shut as she realized that she had, indeed, left the walls of the castle. But it wasn’t as though she’d done it to deliberately annoy him. “I mean, aye, I did, but not the way ye—”

“Christ’s bones, Isolde, ye knew the danger. How could ye be so foolish as to wander the countryside when ye knew my enemies were determined to bring me down?”

Stung by his accusation, she reminded herself he was only saying such things because MacGregor had obviously told him the same tale he’d told her. And this was William’s way of dealing with it.

“I did not wander the countryside. There’s—”

He thrust the bloodied shawl at her. “D’ye have any idea what went through my head when I saw this? I trawled through the undergrowth searching for ye, imagining the worst of things. Believing he’d done unspeakable things to ye before—” He swallowed and tossed the shawl onto the rug as though he could no longer bear to touch it. “All that blood. I couldn’t believe ye’d survive whatever injury he’d inflicted upon ye.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind it was gratifying to know how deeply he cared about her wellbeing, but as relieved as she was at knowing he was safe and home again, she didn’t relish being accused of reckless behavior she hadn’t committed.

“It wasn’t my blood.” Before he could launch into another ill-placed accusation, she added, “William, ye must listen to me. There’s another hidden passageway that leads from the lady’s chamber to out beyond Creagdoun’s walls. Right to the forest’s edge. I discovered it just the other day but didn’t have the chance to tell ye about it.”

He stared at her as though she had just spoken in tongues. She tried again. “’Twas secured when I first found it. But after ye left this morn, someone had opened the door that led into the chamber. I swear, I didn’t mean to investigate. I intended to find Patric, but Sjor ran into the passage, and I couldn’t leave him.”

William’s jaw flexed, but before he could respond, servants arrived with their supper. Instead of the usual light meal, she’d directed the cook to ensure a hearty stew was provided for the returning men. But her husband barely gave the meal a second glance.

As soon as the door shut behind the servants, he spoke. “Ye should have left him.”

For the first time, anger sparked. “I would never leave him if I thought him in danger.”

“He wouldn’t be in danger, Isolde. MacGregor wouldn’t care about a dog that’s beneath his notice and could easily escape him. But ye—ye’re a prize he’d never imagine would fall so easily into his clutches. I cannot believe ye were so foolish.”

“Foolish, was I? ’Twas only by following Sjor I discovered MacGregor’s intention was to invade the castle through the secret passageway. To be sure, ’twas doomed to failure since ye thwarted his plan at Glen Clah, but I didn’t know that at the time.”

“He captured ye.” The words burst from him, an accusation, yet the tortured expression on his face caused her anger against him to die. Deep inside, she acknowledged he was right. MacGregor had no use for Sjor, and her darling lad had only gone to attack when MacGregor had threatened her.

Even so, she still would never have left him at the edge of the forest and shut the hidden door against him. William hadn’t been there. He couldn’t understand.

“But I escaped,” she told him. “He didn’t hurt me, William. I bolted the door against him and put Creagdoun on alert for attack. Thank God, ye had already quelled the rebels, but at least ye know yer castle was well defended in yer absence.”

“The castle.” He appeared to choke on the words before swinging about and marching to the door where he paused, his hand on the iron ring. “I’d weather the loss of Creagdoun but—” He snapped his jaw shut before half turning to face her. “Ye were right. Ye should never have left Eigg. This marriage was a mistake, but I’ll be sure to rectify it. Ye’ll return to the isle as soon as it can be arranged.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut, and she stared at him, speechless, as his meaning thundered through her mind in an endless refrain. He wanted to send her back to Eigg? No. She wouldn’t believe it.

“It wasn’t a mistake.” Her voice was hoarse. “Ye don’t mean that.”

“Don’t ye understand? I won’t always be here to protect ye.”

“Ye weren’t here today,” she shot back before she could stop herself. “And I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

His jaw tightened as though she’d hit a nerve. “Aye, but what of another day? I’m giving ye what ye always wanted, Isolde. Why must ye always be so contrary?”

Contrary ?

“Ye’re not giving me anything. Things have changed, William. Ye must see—”

“I do see.” Anger throbbed through each word, and there was a wild gleam in his eyes that dried her protests in her throat. “Nothing’s changed. And there’s nothing left to discuss.”

With that, he pulled open the door and left her alone.

She released a ragged breath and sank to the floor beside the hearth. Sjor came up to her and she wrapped her arms around him, the way she longed to wrap them around William. But it seemed he no longer wanted her.

Yet she was certain that wasn’t true. The way he’d looked at her from the moment they’d entered their bedchamber. The things he’d said.

And the things he’d left unsaid.

His anger was directed against MacGregor, not her. But what difference did it make if he refused to open his eyes and see the last thing she wanted was to return to the isle of her birth?

*

William pulled the door shut behind him, and the sound of the wood slamming against the jamb was a death knell that echoed through his head.

Besides the reddish bruise on Isolde’s forehead, she was unharmed. Thank God. He squeezed his eyes shut, but his heart thundered in his chest, all the same. As though just to remind him how easily he could have lost her.

As if he’d ever forget that.

He ached to take her into his arms. To bury himself inside her welcoming heat and reassure them both that all was well. But he feared if he did, he’d never be able to let her go.

“Ye weren’t here today.”

Her accusation would haunt him until the day he died. He had no defense. He’d promised to protect her when he’d forced her to leave her isle, and he had broken his pledge within a month.

How many times had he assured her she would be safe within the walls of Creagdoun? And yet within weeks, she’d found a hidden passage he’d been ignorant of, that his enemies had intended to use to take the castle from within.

He picked up a lantern and, with damning reluctance, made his way to the lady’s chamber. During the three years he’d been laird of Creagdoun, he’d barely been inside, despite his grand declarations to Isolde on how he’d always intended to make it fit for use.

But he should’ve done his duty as soon as he’d taken possession and ensured every nook and cranny of the castle had been examined for hidden vulnerabilities. Instead, he’d considered the lady’s chamber scarcely worth considering, especially when so many other secret places had been found.

An error that had almost proved fatal.

If not for Isolde.

He entered the chamber and held the lantern high. A tapestry hung at a drunken angle, and when he drew closer, he frowned at the panel it partially concealed. There was no indication the panel was a false door, but he had to start somewhere.

Within moments, he found the latch and the panel slid back, revealing a recessed, bolted door, and guilt chewed through him. Even if he’d searched this chamber, without Isolde’s information would it have occurred to him to give this panel more than a cursory glance?

She’d told him someone had opened the door this morning. They both knew who that was. And once again, it was his fault. If he hadn’t told his men to gather their things before they’d left for Glen Clah, how would MacGregor have ensured the door was unbolted for his incursion?

Grimly, he drew back the bolts and stepped into the passage. It went on forever. There was no doubt that this was the primary hidden weapon of Creagdoun. The one known only to a chosen few, the secret passage that could lead the occupants safely away from the castle should it be in danger of falling, or, as MacGregor had intended, to capture it from within.

Finally, he reached a barred door, and he glared through the small window where, from the obscured light of the moon, he could see the dark shadows of the forest.

The place where he’d come upon MacGregor.

Where MacGregor had found Isolde and captured her. Pulled her shawl from her and—

“It wasn’t my blood.”

His tortured thoughts splintered, and he pressed his forehead against the bars across the window. The blood on the shawl wasn’t hers. What the hell had happened? Had Patric followed her and fought MacGregor so Isolde could flee?

She had warned him, before he’d even recalled his own name, that her fighting skills would desert her once she left her isle. But he hadn’t believed her, and even when she’d told him here, at Creagdoun, that she could no longer wield her beloved sword, he’d been skeptical.

God knows, he never wanted her in a position where she’d need to defend herself. It had never crossed his mind she would. Yet he’d taken a fierce pride in her prowess, nonetheless.

But now the full force of it hit him. Whatever had happened, she’d been unable to protect herself when she’d come under attack.

Isolde hadn’t mentioned Patric. But how else could she have escaped MacGregor’s clutches? It explained the blood, if Patric had wounded the other man in a fight.

His shoulders slumped. Thank God for Patric. Yet it should have been him who saved Isolde from his enemy, and he’d never forgive himself for putting her in danger’s way because of his oversight.

Because I brought her here.

A scuffling sound behind him had him swinging about, heart pounding. She had followed him, and God help him, he hoped she had even though every time he looked at her it tore him inside out.

But the passageway was empty. Of course she hadn’t followed him. She was likely already packing her trunks in readiness to leave for her beloved isle.

He lowered the lantern, and Sjor’s dark eyes glinted.

William let out a sharp breath before dropping into a crouch. “What are ye doing? Ye never leave yer mistress’ side.”

He scratched the dog’s neck, and Sjor gave his hand an appreciative lick. It was true. Sjor rarely left Isolde’s side. But he’d run into the passageway, and she had followed him. If she hadn’t, MacGregor would have entered the castle, and even without his men, he could still have inflicted severe injuries on Creagdoun’s inhabitants before he was discovered.

“Good lad,” he said, but the words sounded hollow in this dank tunnel. “Ye take care of her for me, ye hear?”

It was absurd, talking to a dog as if the creature could understand him. Yet Isolde spoke to him and of him as though he could, and when Sjor tilted his head and eyed him solemnly, William had the uncanny certainty he understood every word.

They returned to the chamber, and William bolted the door before sliding the panel back in place. Sjor dashed out of the chamber, but when he followed, Isolde wasn’t there. The dog had disappeared, and the door to the master’s chamber was firmly shut.

It was better this way. The truth was, if he saw her again, he didn’t trust himself to go back on his word and demand she stay.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, but it didn’t help ease the crippling weariness seeping into his bones and clouding his mind. What wouldn’t he give to return to his beautiful bride, wash the grime of battle from his body, and fill his stomach with hot food.

But he was the laird of Creagdoun, and he needed to ensure his men were accommodated and the servants assured that all was well. When he entered the great hall, Hugh and Alasdair approached from where they’d been standing by the fire.

“Lady Isolde’s hospitality is much appreciated,” Hugh said.

“Aye, ’twas a good spread,” Alasdair added.

William glanced at the tables, where several men still sat drinking ale, and the rich scent of the stew they’d lately consumed, which lingered in the air, caused his stomach to growl.

Of course, Isolde had already made the necessary arrangements to feed his men. She’d said as much when they’d returned. But he’d forgotten.

He grunted in response. It was too much effort to find appropriate words. Not that his friends appeared to notice, since Patric strode over and they turned their attention to him.

“Good work.” Coming from Patric, it was high praise indeed.

This man had saved his life twice, and today he had saved Isolde’s. And although Patric had known Isolde all her life, had given his pledge to her father to protect her, and would lay down his life for her, right now William was simply deeply, selfishly, grateful the man had rescued her so he didn’t need to face the nightmarish horror of laying his bride to eternal rest.

He grasped Patric’s arm. “Ye have my thanks. I owe ye everything.”

“The castle was well prepared, and any stray MacGregor skulking nearby will have long since fled back to the safety of their clan. Even if ye had not subdued the rebels, Lady Isolde’s discovery of MacGregor’s plan gave us an edge.”

“Aye.” It was all true. But it wasn’t what he meant. Even though he should keep his mouth shut, since Patric had acknowledged his thanks, and as warriors that was the end of the matter, he couldn’t do it.

He had to ensure Patric knew how deeply he was in his debt. “And I thank ye for it. But for ensuring my lady remained unharmed when MacGregor attacked her, I swear to God, in my eyes ye are my blood kin.”

A frown creased Patric’s brow, and his eyes narrowed, an unexpected response. Had he inadvertently offended the older man?

“Ye’re unaware,” Patric stated, and from the corner of his eye, William saw Hugh and Alasdair exchange wary glances. Patric exhaled a long breath. “My lady had no help in eluding capture or securing the secret passage. She found me here, in the hall.”

His gaze locked with Patric’s as Isolde’s words once again reverberated around his head.

“It wasn’t my blood.”

Her comment, made so casually, hadn’t registered in his mind at the time. And later, in that secret passage when the words had haunted him, he’d assumed Patric was the one who’d drawn enemy blood.

But Patric hadn’t left the castle. Isolde had faced MacGregor on her own.

And she had escaped him. On her own.

He had to get out of there. Clear his head. He swung on his heel and marched outside, and the frigid air was like being flung into an icy fog.

But it didn’t clear his head. If anything, the images that plagued him of Isolde’s possible fate, from the moment he’d found her shawl, grew sharper, driving out the shreds of sanity that reminded him she was safe.

Grimly, he trudged on, and only after he’d spoken to every man who stood guard over the castle, checked the horses, and ensured the armory was secured, did he make his way back to the hall.

It was late, and the hall was deserted. The glow from the banked fire sent shadows scuttling into dark corners and the silence as the inhabitants of the castle settled for the night sank into his bones.

During the last three years, he’d lost count of the times he’d returned to an empty hall after doing a late night round of Creagdoun. Always, the sense of peace and satisfaction had assailed him at the knowledge he was laird, and his people were well.

Tonight, he should be thankful MacGregor had failed and his castle was secure. And he was beyond grateful that Isolde was unharmed. But a deep ache consumed his chest, guilt and regret, and twisting through it all was the uneasy conviction that he was missing something fundamental.

He shook his head in a futile effort to dislodge the insidious certainty. Christ, what was he thinking? He wasn’t missing anything. But by God, he would miss Isolde when she left Creagdoun, and the knowledge that soon she would be gone from his life burned like acid through his chest.

Through his heart.

He opened a leather pouch that hung from his belt and pulled out his mother’s ring. There would be no gathering of the clans for a magnificent wedding at Dunstrunage castle now. No opportunity for him to give his bride his beloved lady mother’s ring.

He closed his fist over the engraved band, and the gold dug into his palm. It had always been destined for his wife. But here, standing in the gloom of his great hall, it wasn’t the symbolic joining of Campbell and MacDonald the ring would represent should Isolde wear it that filled his mind.

It was knowing the woman he loved would forever have a link to him, no matter how far apart they might be.

A small comfort. But it was something, and at least he’d know, when she was safely back in Sgur, she would never be in danger because of him again.

He went up the stairs and entered their antechamber, and despite his resolve to spend the rest of this cold, lonely night on a chair by the hearth, he went to the door of their bedchamber, like a cursed moth to an unattainable flame.

All he wanted was to hold her one more time, to breathe in her evocative scent, and pretend, for a few short hours, that she’d choose him over her beloved isle.

His hand was inches from the iron ring when the door was wrenched open, and Isolde stood there. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a molten river at sunset, an ethereal fantasy from his wretched imagination.

But she was no fantasy. She was his wife.

And he had to let her go.