Highlander Medieval 06 - Her Highland Hero (11 page)

His grim expression told her they were still in grave danger.

***

Marcus wanted nothing more than to pull the bedraggled Isobel from her horse and hold her close, to assure himself she truly was all right and to assure her he was here for her now. But he had to be prepared to fight. He just had to get her somewhere out of this weather before she caught her death. And he couldn’t believe his fortune that not only had they met up with her doomed escort, only able to save one of her knights and kill their attackers, but that they had managed to find her before anyone else did.

“The men,” she said, her words a whisper and over the pounding rain, he could barely hear her sweet voice.

She was as he last remembered her, except wetter and exhaustion was evident in the dark circles beneath her eyes.

“The brigands who attacked your escort are dead.” He didn’t want to tell her what had become of her own men. “One of my men carried one of your wounded knights back to Pembroke Castle.”

“The others?” she asked, so fretful, he hated telling her the truth.

He shook his head.

“The maid?” she whispered as if it hurt to ask.

“Drowned in the river when she tried to cross it.”

Isobel let out a pitiful gasp, her face so pale he thought she might faint. He drew closer and grabbed her hand. Despite wearing mittens, her hand was cold and wet “We must get you out of this frigid wind and rain.” He feared she would be ill before long. “I would have you ride with me, but it would slow us down. I am afraid others may learn you were no’ taken hostage as planned and come for you. I will have to be free to fight. Can you ride alone, my lady?”

If she couldn’t, he would take her in his arms and gladly. But he still felt they would be better off if she could ride her own horse for longer.

“Aye.” Her voice was determined, but she looked as though she would not make it.

“It willna be long.” But he knew it would. Even traversing a short distance would make it seem as though they rode forever in this kind of weather.

“The cottage,” she said.

“Nay.”

She nodded and they traveled side by side in the open meadow, two of his men following behind, Rob ahead of them, Finbar and Alroy flanking them. They stayed close as it was so difficult to see in the pounding rain, they could easily lose sight of each other.

Marcus was grateful they had found Isobel unharmed, but they were far from being safe from danger. He wanted Isobel to talk to him, to ensure she didn’t drift away into a silent, cold death. But he didn’t want to talk to her about her da’s demise, or anything else that might upset her.

“We will return for Mary and take her to my home the first chance we get,” he finally said.

“Mary.”

“Aye. She wishes it. She said Lord Wynfield would not allow you to take her with you.”

“Aye.” Isobel’s voice shook with cold. “Why…why would she want to leave?”

“Because you had left.” He glanced again at her. She was staring at her horse, her head bent in the driving rain, trying to keep it out of her face, her hood hiding her expression.

“You will be my wife.” He’d decided the moment he’d learned Lord Pembroke was dead. Nothing would stop him now. Though King Henry could be a problem if some of her suitors brought the issue to him.

She jerked her head around and stared at Marcus, her blue eyes wide and lips parted.

“If ‘tis what you desire.” He tried to smile, but he was so cold himself, he felt his frozen face would crack with the effort. He wished to give her a choice, but if she was not certain about him, he would ensure she changed her way of thinking.

“But…but my father…he will not permit it.”

With incredulity, he stared at her. Lord Wynfield had not told her about her da’s death? God’s wounds, man. Now Marcus was left with the task?

Marcus had been certain the baron would have warned her about it, and the danger she might face on her journey to see the king.

Och, Marcus could not be the bearer of bad news when she could be near death herself. He would wait until they were safe and dry and warm again. He wanted to wait until they were home in the Highlands, but he felt she should know of her da’s death before that.

Would it ease her suffering if he told her the whole truth? That her da was not who she thought he was? He wasn’t sure that was something he should speak of now. Mayhap never. She believed she was the daughter of a Norman earl when she was truly the bastard daughter of a Highland laird. He wanted her to know she was all Highlander, no part of her heritage being of Norman descent. On the other hand, the knowledge she was a bastard and not an earl’s daughter, raised by a man not her da, and shunned by the one who was—might not be the most welcome of tidings for the lass at this point.

She didn’t say anything more, and he lapsed back into silence.

After they had traveled for some miles, Isobel warily asked, “Why are we not headed for Pembroke Castle?”

He thought she realized he was not taking her home. Not when Lord Wynfield had the notion of sending her away. What if he did so again? Marcus knew she’d be in danger all over again. He would not permit it.

“Nay, too risky.”

“I do not understand. Traveling beyond the castle walls is dangerous. Surely we would have been to my castle by now. And it would be safer there.” She paused and stared at Marcus. “Who attacked us? And why? If your man takes my knight home, my father will be concerned as to why I have not been taken there as well.”

“You were no longer at the site of the battle, my lady. My clansman left with no knowledge of what had become of you. While he took your knight to your castle to seek aid for him as quickly as he could, we had to chase you down. We will go to my hunting lodge, which is closer by a day’s ride, and then to Lochaven after that.”

“You did not answer my question. Why are you not taking me home? Marcus?” she asked, staring at him now. “What…why were you there? My father did not send word for you, did he?” Then her face paled. “My father has not returned home. What is wrong?”

“My lady…Isobel—”

“Riders,” Rob warned.

They could barely see the men in the gray rain drenching the glen, but they could hear the horses’ hooves, and Marcus feared the riders might have been with the men who had attacked Isobel’s escort.

But then he could make out their clothes and realized they were Highlanders, some wearing furs, their tunics belted at the waist, some with beards, all with longer hair.

Seven men swarmed around them as Marcus and his men readied their swords.

“Who would be out in foul weather like this other than men thinking to steal our cattle…,” the red bearded man, who appeared to be in charge said, shifting his stern gaze from Marcus to Isobel, “…
or
our women?”

“We are just passing through,” Marcus returned in Gaelic. “The lady is my bride.”

Isobel glanced at Marcus, her eyes wide, and he realized her mother must have taught her some Gaelic. Though he had not known it was so. Unless she really didn’t understand what was being said and was only surprised to hear him speaking Gaelic.

“And who are you?” the man asked Marcus.

“The McEwan.”

“Ah.” He leered at Isobel. “Then where have you stolen the lady from? No one except for a clansman who wished a stolen bride would be out in this weather, bringing his woman home when so far from there.”

If Marcus said she was Lord Pembroke’s daughter he feared the word would reach English ears too quickly that he had her with him and where he was headed.

“I have not taken her against her da’s will,” Marcus said.

The man shook his head. “She appears to be with you of her own accord, but I still dinna believe you.”

Which was not an ideal situation for Marcus and his men and Isobel to be in. “From which clan do you hail?” Marcus asked.

“Kerr.”

God’s knees. The Kerr clansmen were known to be cattle thieves. No wonder they thought the same of Marcus and his party. Though men did not haul a woman with them when stealing cattle. So he suspected something else was untoward.

“We have a hunting lodge this way. Come and we will get out of this weather.” He smiled at Isobel. “She is quiet. Subservient? I like that in a woman.”

“I am neither,” Isobel said in Gaelic, her voice terse.

Marcus smiled a little at her, unable to curb the urge, and glad she did indeed know Gaelic.

The Kerr clansman laughed. “And spirited.”

Marcus had no fight with the Kerr clan as they lived too far from where Marcus’s lands were and so they did not bother
his
cattle, but he still didn’t wish any of them knowing Isobel’s background. They might not wish any trouble with the English if they should take offense that the Kerr took them in.

“Which clan are you from?” the Kerr asked Isobel.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Marcus said for her, “MacArthur.”

Isobel closed her gaping mouth.

Her mother was of the Clan MacArthur. But her da was Laird Laren MacLauchlan, unbeknownst to her.

Laren had denied his daughter’s existence when her mother was with child and Marcus didn’t want the Kerr clansmen to learn MacLauchlan had a daughter now. What if now that the man who had raised her was dead, the MacLauchlan would want to claim his daughter and give her in marriage to one of
his
loyal men or to encourage clan ties with another clan? Bad blood would always exist between them after some of the MacLauchlan clan killed Marcus’s da and his men as they were attempting to cross their lands to reach home. Marcus swore his mother died from a broken heart shortly thereafter—her will to live gone. If he hadn’t been voted in to take over the clan when he was six and ten and needed to keep his anger at bay, he would have led his men into MacLauchlan territory and killed every last one of the brigands. But he didn’t know who had actually murdered his da or the three men with him.

Marcus was sure Isobel’s surprised expression had all to do with his mentioning her mother’s Highland clan and ignoring that she was the daughter of the earl of Pembroke.

The Kerr had been watching the exchange, and Marcus was afraid he’d gather more from what was not said and draw his own conclusions. The man finally smiled. “Come.”

They rode off in the pouring rain that never let up, not even when Marcus was helping Isobel down from her horse at the wooden two-story hunting lodge, nor when they hurried as fast as humanly possible inside.

A maid led her away, but Marcus couldn’t help feeling unsettled when Isobel was out of his sight. But she had to get out of her wet garments and warm herself before a fire. Still, he feared she’d suddenly just be taken away and he’d lose her again.

She glanced back in his direction, her face anxious and she looked as though she had the very same concern. He would not lose her again, ever, he vowed.

Chilled to the bone, Isobel followed a female servant to a room where the woman started a fire, and she gave her a plaid to cover herself while she dried her clothes by the hearth.

A small staff was preparing a meal for her escort while Isobel waited in the room, her wet clothes dripping on the stone hearth. She shivered while she pondered what was going on that Marcus had been reluctant to talk with her about.

The maid said, “I will bring up a meal when ‘tis done.”

“Thank you,” Isobel said, and the lady quickly left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Isobel drew closer to the fire, tired, feeling anxious. She knew Marcus was also.

Only a short time had passed when someone knocked on the chamber door. Expecting a servant had brought up a meal, though she hadn’t thought it would be ready this quickly, she called out, “Come.”

Marcus quickly opened the door, and she let out a small gasp. He entered the room and shut the door, further shocking her.

“What…what are you doing here?”

He took in her appearance from her wet hair to her body wrapped only in the plaid, and her bare feet. “Isobel…” He moved across the floor, his gaze focused on hers.

This was so unlike him and she was afraid of what she’d learn now. “What has happened?” she whispered, knowing that something terrible had to have happened or Marcus wouldn’t have come for her and rescued her, nor would Lord Wynfield have sent her away before her father had arrived home. Nor would Marcus approach her alone in a chamber when she was nearly naked.

Marcus drew close, rested his hands on her shoulders, and looked down at her. “I didna wish to be the one who gives you these ill-tidings. I thought Lord Wynfield had apprised you of the truth. Apparently he hadna.”

“What truth? Tell me.” She barely spoke the words, fearing what she would hear, that like her mother had died…

“Lord Pembroke is dead.”

“Dead?” She stifled a cry, her eyes instantly filling with tears. She felt her knees buckle and Marcus instantly swept her off her feet and sat down on the edge of a bed, holding her in his lap.

Her heart breaking, she had sensed that more had been wrong the night Lord Wynfield had been so distraught, and believed he had known something awful had come to pass. Yet she couldn’t believe it was really true. And that Lord Wynfield hadn’t told her. She loved her father and she didn’t want to believe it.

“Nay. He could not be.”

“‘Twas the word we received, lass.”

“How…how did he die?” Her words were filled with anguish, forced out against her will. If he had died because his heart had given out, or some other such malady, though little comfort that would be…but if not…

“He was murdered. A witness said the men who killed him were dressed as Normans and wore clothes befitting nobility. Lord Pembroke…” Marcus rubbed her arm and held her tighter. “Isobel…”

Her body chilled to the core, she bit her lip to hold back the tears, trying to make sense of it, hating to hear the truth. The men who had attacked her own escort—Normans also? The same men who had killed her father? Then killed her escort? Was the same man in charge of the ones who had tried to murder Marcus?