Knight In My Bed (42 page)

Ailbert.

Despite her distress, Isolde smiled inside.

“ `Tis true! Our lady is not to be faulted," came another MacInnes voice. "Had we not hauled the blackguard beneath our roof, this would
ne
' er have come about!"

"Aye!" a third joined in. “ `Tis our own fool faults. The MacLean is a known skirt-chaser."

"The MacLean is a known
murderer
!" Struan bellowed, rage swelling his lungs until his outburst silenced all others.

"He is our sworn enemy, and tainted by his birthright to bear the weight of guilt for his clan's misdeeds."

Shouts of approval rose up again. Loud, boisterous, and blocking out the few amongst her clan who'd spoken in her defense.

"And you"- he pointed his finger at her - "you have broken all honor as chieftain. Honor to this house and honor sworn to the proud house of MacArthur."

A thunderous roar rent the hall. Furious foot stomping and the deafening clash of pewter tankards hammering on tables followed.

"A grievous state!" Her uncle raised his arms, shook his balled fists at the heavens. When he turned his heated gaze back on her, a fire to rival that of the hearth fire flared in his eyes. "Plead for yourself and beg forgiveness of Balloch's men, lest you force us to suffer most ungentle indignities on you.”

Isolde clasped her hands tightly before her. As tightly as heart clung to the unbending rod of steel shining deep inside her. Drawing on that strength, his strength, she willed herself to see laughing brown eyes and a slow-spreading smile.

A knight's smile.

Willed it until her eyes stung with the effort.

"I have done naught to plead mercy or beg forgiveness for,” she said, fixing her gaze on the leaping flames of a wall torch across the hall.

Anything to blot out the jeering faces and taunts. "I only sought peace. An alliance to ensure an end to strife." She paused to blink away the burning in her eyes. "And I-I ... followed my heart.”

“An
alliance
?" Struan mocked her, his voice ringing. “The man was taken to serve justice for your sister's murder." His rust-colored brows snapped together. "And you would insult us by stating you followed your heart?"

"Nay, not her heart," a stranger's deep voice, one filled with lewd glee, boomed louder than the rest. "'Tis the heated flesh betwixt
 
'er thighs she's been a-heeding!"

"Whore!" This came so close to her, the
vexer's
hot breath nigh brushed her cheeks. Glancing to the side, Isolde found the man who'd slandered her thus and burned him with a look full of reproach.

Raising her voice above the din, she called out, "Aye, I followed my heart." She drew a deep breath, focused on the burning torch again. "And, my lords," she vowed, staring steadfastly into the flames, "where the heart takes one should be neither denied nor called to shame."

The rumbles around her spiked, then gradually stilled.

Low mutterings and the nervous shuffling of many pairs of feet on the floor rushes could still be heard, but for the moment, at least, the jeering receded.

But not for long.

"Our felicitations, then, fair lady of the heart," a sarcasm-ridden voice oozed behind her. She turned to see Balloch MacArthur's man push his way into the small space within the circle of angry onlookers.

He made her a mockingly low bow. "You speak noble words for a wench who cannot be trusted the width of her spread thighs."

The zing of drawn steel sounded as Niels and Rory shoved through the jostling ranks and placed themselves on either side of her. Swords in hand, but aimed at the floor, they swept angry gazes over the gathered men, MacInnes and MacArthurs alike.

"Our lady did what she deemed best for her people, this isle, and, aye, for herself," Niels called out, his words sending a floodtide of relief coursing through Isolde.

Drawing himself to his full, formidable height, he looked pointedly at Balloch MacArthur's man. "She never wanted the betrothal to your liege. Nor does she owe loyalty to any isle but hers. 'Tis our folly we failed to heed her wishes. She cannot be blamed for refusing to honor a union she ne'er meant to acknowledge."

Balloch MacArthur's man's eyes bulged. Struan's face suffused a deeper red, and the remainder stood dumbfounded. Some muttered agreement, some staunch disapproval, while others appeared cowed into impotent silence.

Fingering the hilt of his blade, Niels seized the lull to look to those who still spewed malcontent. "Any who think otherwise may gladly test my sword arm." He glanced at Rory. "And his," he added, and Isolde was stunned to see Rory incline his head in curt agreement.

"Our lady's honor has naught to do with the MacLean whoreson's misdeeds," Rory spoke up, jutting his jaw. "He has a penance to pay, not our lady chieftain."

Scowls and more jeering greeted Rory's words. Isolde's heart sank, the burgeoning of hope that had been building in her chest swiftly deflated. Pierced and slashed by the furious, self-righteous calls for Donall's immediate execution.

Not on Summer Solstice, but with the rising sun.

On the morrow.

Less than a full night away.

"
Nooooooo
!!" She hurled her heart, her very soul into the cry. "I will not allow it!"

Struan's fingers curled 'round the tender flesh just above her elbow. He squeezed so tight, hot stinging tears jabbed into the backs of her eyes. "'Tis a blessing your sainted mother sleeps above-stairs. Witnessing the truth of your wan-toning would push her further into the darkness she whiles in,” he snarled for her ears alone.

Holding fast to her, he scanned the crowd, his glare fierce. "Donall MacLean dies at cockcrow," he declared, his voice commanding, the words plunging the hall into utter silence. "His death will avenge the loss of our own lady Lileas, and purge the stain our lady chieftain has spilled onto our honor by lying with him."

He turned to Balloch's man. "Send your liege our sorrow for her behavior and tell him the man who dishonored her has drawn his last."

"
You
" - he whirled to face Niels and Rory -"bear as much shame as she for assisting her. You may purge yourselves by accompanying me to the bastard's cell. I want him to spend his last hours weeping and howling. If you can make him entreat us for mercy, you may reclaim your honor."

"No." The objection scarce passed Isolde's lips. A mere rasp, not even strong enough to reach her own ears. "N ..." she tried again, but her voice had left her.

Died on her as surely as had her heart.

Withered and vanished.

Worthless and spent.

As useless as the cold lump of melted steel forming in the very pit of her soul.

The sad remains of her shining backbone of steel.

Undoubtedly seeing her defeat, her uncle puffed out chest and spoke again, his words less heated now. Almost jovial. "Kinsmen, men of the great house of MacArthur," he rallied them, "victuals and drink are at the ready!"

He made a broad sweeping gesture with his free hand, indicated the far side of the hall where kitchen lads shouldering in large platters of roasted meats. Others carried jugs of ale and leather-wrapped drinking jacks.

Preparations for a celebration.

A feast to mark the death of Donall the Bold.

"Excuse us while we tend a matter most grievously overdue, then see our lady chieftain to her bed, where she may dwell upon her transgressions." He paused, waited as if he thought some would defy him.

But no one spoke.

The MacArthur warriors eyed the feast goods streaming in from the kitchens, the hunger in their bellies winning out over their desire to serve their liege's vengeance.

Isolde's own kinsmen either looked at the floor or skulked off into the shadows.

"So be it then." Struan's voice rang loud. "Good men, have full pleasure of the feast goods until my return."

Without further demur or hesitation, he hustled Isolde through the throng, his fingers still digging painfully into her arm. Niels and Rory followed glumly in their wake.

They weren't there.

Donall washed down his disappointment with a deep, hearty draw of the cool rain-scented air. A damp chill lay over the high barren ground spread before him.

A damp chill and, sadly, not much else.

Gavin burst through the tunnel's narrow opening a scant moment after Donall's emergence, and he, too, breathed in an audible gulp of lung-filling air. Lugh's tunnel had led them to freedom, but the journey had been arduous.

They'd covered the last quarter of it on their knees.

And that in pitch-blackness with naught to sustain them but a foul, earthy-smelling cloyness. “They are not here," Gavin said beside him, wheezing. Hands braced on his knees, he slid an astonished look at
 
Donall. "Our horses are not here. There's naught to be seen but drizzle and mist."

Donall leaned back against the cold rocks that formed the mouth of the tunnel and scowled at his friend. "Think
 
you I do not have eyes?"

Gavin stared up at the moon. It still rode the grayish sky, a near-full disk, pale and ghostly white, appearing to drift in and out the clouds, as elusive as the full panoply of MacLean men-at-arms they'd both hoped to discover waiting for them.

"I thought they'd be here," Gavin said, his voice still hoarse with the exertion the journey through the tunnel had cost him. "Saints, what are we to do now?"

Pushing away from the. support of the rocks, Donall stretched his arms over his head and flexed his fingers. He stared across the wide expanse of moorland. A gray and black land at this young hour, awash with odd-shaped patches of shadow, the rolling hogbacks and bramble-covered ridges broken only by a few scattered copses of wind-stunted trees.

The whole of it stretching clear across the eerie silence all the way to Baldoon.

His mind set, Donall tossed back his hair and turned to face his friend. "We walk," he said. "If God has any mercy, we shall reach home in a day and a half rather than two."

"And then" - he balled his fists - "and then, we ride back and claim my bride."

“They are not there." Rory peered into the gloom-ridden interior of Donall and Gavin's cell. The leaping flames of the resin torch he held showed his high astonishment. "They're gone."

"They cannot be gone, the door was barred." Niels snatched the torch from Rory's hand and strode into the cell, Rory close on his heels.

"What ... what foolery is this?" came Niels’s stunned voice from the murkiness.

The two men stared out the window, an opening far too small for any man over eight years to wriggle through. They kicked at the empty pallets, dislodging naught but dust and dried bits of straw. Niels gave over first, spinning around to stare at Isolde and Struan.

Both still hovered outside the half-opened door.

Torchlight and shadows did frightful things to Niels's honest, open face, but the bewilderment in his eyes set Isolde's soul free.

It was true, then. Donall and his friend had escaped, were safe.

"Praise God!" the words burst from her lips even as hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Be silent!" Struan gave her arm a rough jerk. "They are gone?" he called into the cell, great waves of black fury rolling off him.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Niels started forward, a dark-faced Rory right behind him. "I know not how, but they've esc-"

The slamming of the door cut off Niels's astonishment. “An accomplishment you traitorous poltroons will not enjoy!" Struan sneered, and dropped the drawbar in place.

Isolde gasped, pure horror washing over her, her elation of a heartbeat before ... dead.

Her flare of hope extinguished. Flat and brittle in her breast. "What have you done?" She stared at her uncle, stricken by the wild light in his eyes.

A crazed light that had naught to do with the flickering glow thrown by the wall torches.

He stared back at her, his hawkish features so familiar, but wholly strange. E'er stern and domineering, he'd never been her favorite, but she'd respected him.

Till of late.

Aye, she'd been losing her esteem for him, but ne'er had she feared him.

Until now.

"What are you doing?" The words sounded clumsy, slurred by the fear swelling her tongue.

"What am I doing?" He gave her an incredulous look as he dragged her away from the cell, pulled her along in the direction opposite from the hall and the safety of numbers. "Ridding myself of you, is what I am doing," he said, and increased the pressure on her arm.

Streaks of terror, black and cold, tore through Isolde, and she dragged her feet, hoping to slow his progress, hoping someone would come, would see them, but no one came, no one saw. She opened her mouth to scream, but fear had closed her throat so soundly, naught came forth but a rasped choke.

He gripped her arm in an iron grasp, his strength rendering her struggles useless, and swept her along with him toward a barred door half-hidden in shadow at the end of the passage.