The Chieftain (11 page)

Best of all, every man who had left Ardshee on that summer morning was alive and well and enjoying a well earned rest in Edinburgh. He and Hugh, their chieftain explained vaguely, had returned on a small but urgent matter of business and would stay a day, perhaps two, before setting out again for the glorious end to the adventure.

After that, the singing and dancing and stories and poetry flowed as they never had before. Whisky was brought out, and chickens roasted, and the piper’s small son played merry tunes on the little pipe on which he practised his father’s craft. Isobel sat quietly, her eyes on Hector, noting how his appearance bore out his words, for he looked like a man who had seen victory, and knew he would see it again. Happy, relaxed, his eyes glowing in his tanned face, he lent his voice to the singing with deep fervour. And now and then he looked her way, and his eyes seemed to be sending her warm and tender messages, so full of meaning that a shiver of anticipatory delight ran down her spine.

At long last the company took their leave, and Hector and Isobel were left alone, facing each other across the fireside.

‘I am thinking,’ whispered Hector softly, ‘that it is bed time, my wife.’

Again that delighted shiver. She put her hand in his and went with him, soft-footed, up the winding stair to their room. There, with great care, he gently closed the door, and then turned to her. He undid the brooch from her plaid - the smaller plaid Mairi had made - and let the tartan folds fall to the floor. Then his strong slender fingers set neatly to work on the lacings of the gown, and the petticoat. And then he carried her, wild with desire, to the bed.

He knelt at her side, and brushed the corn-gold hair from her forehead, and whispered: ‘My wife,’ in a voice as caressing as his hand, as it made its exquisite way over her smooth tingling skin. And then he made love to her as he had never done before, with a consuming passion that yet held a lingering tenderness, answering the flame of her desire with a sweet generosity that was entirely, delightfully new. This time, when at last he drew back, she felt no shame, no dismay, only a blissful happiness, a drowsy contentment.

Nor did Hector simply turn away, his body satisfied. Instead he lay beside her, leaning on one arm, running his finger with idle tenderness down her cheek.

‘Wife of my heart,’ he said softly, and it struck her how well suited the Gaelic was to words of love. ‘You have pleased me more than I can say. You are indeed worthy to bear my name.’

The first cloud slid between them. Isobel felt a quiver of irritation that even at this moment his pride in his name was still uppermost in his mind. But she smiled, saying nothing. She did not want to break this new mood of tenderness.

‘Do you know why I came back to Ardshee?’ he went on. She shook her head lazily, still smiling. Would he say: “because of you”?

‘To take you back with me,’ he said, and she thought that she had almost been right, though the words startled her.

‘Back with you?’ she repeated. ‘Back where?’

‘To Edinburgh, first,’ he said. ‘For a little while we shall remain there, to allow more men to come in. There will be balls and merry-making. Many wives have come to be with their husbands, and I should like to have you, too, at my side. Let the world see that you have honoured me with your hand, and that we have found joy together.’

‘You have honoured me.’ That, Isobel thought, was a new way for him to look at their marriage. Until now - even a moment ago - he had made it clear that all the honour had been for him to give. She felt elated, happy at the prospect of company, and balls, new clothes perhaps, and— ‘Perhaps I could see my parents. It is not far,’ she said eagerly, and then wondered with a little chill if she had said too much.

But Hector only smiled the more warmly. ‘That too, my heart. We shall meet them together, so that they will know you are in good hands.’
 

She was a little doubtful as to whether they would be so easily convinced, but she said nothing.

‘Then,’ Hector went on casually, avoiding her gaze, ‘they will know that they can safely entrust your fortune to me.’

Chapter Eight

A chill fell on Isobel’s spirit like a winter frost. The last vestiges of contentment, the budding happiness within her, shrivelled and died. The full implication of Hector’s words worked its way steadily to her heart, leaving bitterness in its path.

What a fool she was! Just for a short while she had thought he cared for her, that his pride in her achievements, his admiration for her beauty, had kindled some real affection in him. That ardent lovemaking with its new tenderness had seemed to promise a true flowering between them.

And now she knew that it had all been a ruse. She had been told that Highlanders were sly, not to be trusted. Hector had proved that even in their most secret moments it was true. The thought that he could lightly make a pretence of passion and love to gain his ends was devastating, shattering. All that tenderness, for money!

The momentary chill gave way to a fierce consuming anger. She pushed his caressing hand away, recoiled from him, began quickly, furiously, to dress.

‘You are a snake!’ she hissed. ‘A poisonous, slimy, vile snake! That was all you wanted, nothing else, all this time. I hate and loathe and detest you more than I can ever say. Go back to your Prince, and I hope they hang you as a vile rebel and leave your bones to rot and the birds to pick out your eyes!’

She spoke in English, but her words had all the venom of the Gaelic curses Hector knew from the old tales. She saw him whiten, and knew her anger had struck him as surely as any blow. His mouth tightened, colour rose in his cheeks and his eyes shone with a deadly light. He leapt from the bed, and she shrank back against the panelling, breathing fast with fear, yet holding her head defiantly.

She was sure he would strike her - his hand was raised, his eyes blazed. But instead he froze, clenched his fist, drew a deep breath; and slowly, reluctantly, lowered the raised arm, as if every inch of the move was a painful struggle.
 

‘As God is my witness, wife,’ he snarled through clenched teeth, ‘insult me again and I shall break every bone in your body!’

Isobel tossed her head.

‘Do your worst!’ she threw at him. ‘I’m not your slave or your chattel. Everything you do only puts you further in the wrong. One day you’ll answer for it, and then you’ll wish every word and deed undone. Get away from me. I wish to dress.’

His fingers closed inexorably about her wrist, and against her will his eyes held hers.

‘You will do as I wish,’ he said in a cold soft voice, deadly with menace. ‘You will come with me and act the dutiful wife, and take me with you when I ask to visit your parents and show them how happy you are. And you will bring your fortune to me, every single penny of it.’

‘And what if I do not?’ she demanded, only with a great effort keeping the tremor from her voice.

‘I shall be at your side, Isobel, every moment of every day and all night long. And Hugh will be at your other side. And there are many secret ways to die.’

She shivered, and swallowed hard. ‘What will you do when you have the money?’ she taunted him, though her voice sounded cracked and unnatural. ‘Spend it on the whores of Edinburgh?’

She saw his free hand move up again as if to strike.

‘Foul-mouthed bitch!’ The words had all the force of a blow. ‘It is no business of yours what I do with it.’

‘It is my money!’ she exclaimed indignantly.

‘And you are my wife. Everything you are, all you have, is mine by right and duty.’ He saw the flame light her eyes as she opened her mouth to speak, and realised he would not reach her that way. His voice took on a less strident, faintly pleading note: ‘Isobel, the Prince has need of your money. We march on England, and supplies are low. The men need food, and arms. We were promised French support, and it has not come. Your wealth could mean so much.’

‘So that’s it!’ she cried, illumination dawning. ‘You want my money to finance your treasonable rebellion against your lawful King. I have never been anything but a loyal and true servant of our good King George II, and I don’t intend to change that now. The only possible outcome I pray for and long for - the only thing I’d give my money for - is so that your pretty Princeling should go back into exile and stay there. He and his family have brought nothing but trouble on this land for over a hundred years. It’s time it was brought to an end, for good and all.’

‘What can you possibly know about it?’ he sneered.

‘I have ears, and a brain, and a father who thought long about these things, and talked about them with me. Just because you forced me into marriage and possessed me with your body does not mean that you have my mind and heart prisoner too. Whatever you do to me, Hector MacLean, I am free of you, free to think as I chose. And you shall not lay hands on one penny of my money.’

Burning with frustration at her clear-eyed defiance, he grasped her fiercely by the shoulders, his face close to hers. ‘You will do as I say, woman!’

‘If I come to Edinburgh,’ she returned quietly, steadily, ‘I shall make it only too plain what you have done to me and what I think of you. And I shall tell nothing but the plain truth to my parents. And if you kill me, well then you will still not lay your hands on the money, nor will you any longer be able to hope that you may have it one day.’
 

His hands fell to his sides, and he stood gazing at her in silence, acknowledging her triumph. She thought, even, that she saw a trace of a grudging admiration in his eyes. She knew she had won.

Hector’s next remark, spoken in a low despondent tone, full of weariness and regret, took her by surprise.

‘Then there is no hope for us,’ he said, and turned away from her.

Without another word, or a glance in her direction, he dressed quickly and left the room, closing the door firmly but quietly behind him. The click of the latch had an odd note of finality that brought a new and unaccountable chill to Isobel’s heart.

After a little while she undressed again and went to bed. She felt overwhelmingly tired after her long defiance. It had cost her far more than she had realised at the time to meet his threats with courage and anger. But sleep eluded her for a large part of the night. She felt depressed, downcast by all that had happened. It was the harder to bear because of the little flower of hope that had blossomed on Hector’s return. At least, though, she was no longer afraid. Some instinct told her that Hector had already done his worst and, having found it a failure, would at least leave her alone in future. It was some comfort.

A storm blew up during the night. The wind howled wildly about the castle, hurling rain like stones at the small windows. The roar of the waves on the rocky shore outdid even the wind. In an odd way, Isobel found, the sound of the tempest was soothing, belittling the trivial disagreements of the human beings sheltered within these stone walls. She fell asleep at last with the crash of the sea like a lullaby in her ears.

Mairi woke her soon after dawn, coming into the room with a sad mouth and reproach in her eyes. Isobel was struck for the first time at how much her gaunt features resembled Hugh’s. Clearly he took after her. But it was her foster-son who was uppermost in her mind at present.

‘You have angered him,
’
said Mairi sadly, without other greeting, standing at the foot of the bed.
 

Isobel felt a twinge of guilt, and then repressed it. She was surely not to blame that she would not allow Hector to use her as callously as if she were an inanimate object!

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, untruthfully, but wanting to regain Mairi’s approval. She sensed that the old woman blamed her for the rift. ‘I did not choose to anger him, but it happened that way. Perhaps you can help us to be friends again.’ It was a forlorn hope in the circumstances, but she thought it might console Mairi.

Mairi shook her head. ‘It is too late. My sons have gone.’

At that Isobel sat bolt upright, her eyes wide.

‘Gone? But when? Hector said nothing— And the storm—!’ She thought of the waves lashing on the rocks and shivered. For all her anger she did not really wish him to be battered to death on his native shore.

‘They went before the storm,’ said Mairi. She hesitated, rubbing the folds of the bed curtain between her fingers, eyes lowered.
 

Isobel realised she was trying to find words to convey something unpleasant. She felt a little twinge of fear.

At last Mairi raised her head, drawing a deep breath as if gathering strength.

‘My foster-son gave orders that you are to remain here in this room,’ she said without emotion.

Isobel was puzzled. ‘What do you mean, remain here? I never doubted that I was to do so. It has been my room since I came, except when we were at the shieling.’

‘You are not to leave it,’ Mairi explained, still in that same even tone.

Realisation hit Isobel like a blow in the stomach. ‘Not to leave it? Not at all? You mean I am a prisoner?’

Mairi nodded, and said with difficulty: ‘Yes, that is so. It is his wish.’

Isobel longed to leap from the bed and rage and stamp and shout in fury at the senseless vindictiveness of the order. What possible purpose could it serve, when she was in effect already a prisoner here? What possible purpose except to satisfy a mean, small-minded desire for revenge?