The Chieftain (4 page)

The truth hit her like a sudden cold drenching downpour. It all meant nothing to him, not the kiss, not the passion of his taking of her. For him, it had been only a matter of cold calculation, something that had to be done to achieve his goal. The marriage had been consummated and her fortune would soon be his. That was all she meant to him, all she could ever mean.
 

‘Get dressed,’ he ordered curtly. ‘We’ve a long way to go. Come down as soon as you’re ready.’ And he walked briskly away and disappeared down the ladder.

Shivering, Isobel turned her face into the rough folds of the plaid and wept.

Chapter Three

A dense smoke filled the yard as they rode away on the ponies. They had heaped the heather stems of Isobel’s marriage bed on the weed-grown cobbles and set light to them. Somehow she thought it was an apt symbol, of the past from which she had been so cruelly torn, of the dreams of a happy future, a loving marriage freely entered upon; dreams that would never now rise from the ashes of this summer day. She was Hector MacLean’s wife, and there would be no escape as long as she lived.

The bitter tears of half an hour ago had given way to a numb misery that shut out any interest in her surroundings or the brightness of the day more surely than did the veiling smoke. She no longer cared what became of her, for the very worst had happened. She thought, without interest, that it was strange they should be riding now in the same sunlit afternoon through which they had brought her here. Her life, which this morning had seemed so hopeful and full of possibilities for happiness, lay now in ruins about her. Yet only an hour or two had passed. So short a time, and so complete a catastrophe.

She noticed, too, that the clergyman was no longer in sight. He had done his part and gone quietly home again. Did he have any tremor of conscience at what he had done? Probably not, for her brief and painful acquaintance with Hector told her that he would have made very sure that no suspicion of the truth would trouble the minister. Without doubt he believed them to be a devoted couple, running away to new happiness together.
 

She became aware after a while that the men who surrounded her, on horse or on foot, were fewer than they had been at that dreadful moment in the wood. Hector was there still, of course, silent and preoccupied at her side, as if he had forgotten her existence; and there were four others, as far as she could see without glancing too obviously about her. But the three Highlanders who had acted as witnesses to her marriage were nowhere to be seen, nor most of the men who had brought her here or awaited her arrival at the cottage. She wondered for a moment if Hector would tell her what had become of them, were she to ask. But when she stole a cautious glance in his direction his expression was so forbidding that she did not dare to intrude. Most likely he had felt that too large a company riding together would attract unwelcome attention.

Even less did she dare to ask where he was taking her. To his home, she supposed; to a place called Ardshee, if his name was any guide. But where that was she had no idea. She could only guess that it must lie somewhere to the north of the threatening range of mountains she had never thought to cross. Yet, when she looked about her, she realised that they were not going to cross them even now. They were not riding towards them at all, but parallel with them, in what she guessed to be a south-westerly direction. The level plain grew more hilly, and the hills rose until they met the mountains, but still they did not turn north. Their only change of direction came when, now and then, they made a detour to avoid a town or village or farmhouse. But there was no comfort for Isobel in their unexpected route. The one certainty about it, wherever it took them, was that each mile bore her relentlessly further and further from all she knew and loved.

After a time weariness began to drive out even her misery. She thought of her soft bed at home, her quiet room, the gentle attentiveness of her parents. She began to think that if only Hector would allow them to pause now and rest she would not mind so much about all that had happened. And then she remembered that her bed would no longer be a place of rest and refuge for her, ever. She had a husband now, a husband in every sense of the word, so that she no longer had any right in law to shut herself off from his demands, however coldly calculating they might be, however little she knew him. She was at the mercy of his every whim, to be used or neglected as he saw fit. Despair swept her again, and tears began to run slowly down her face.

If Hector noticed her unhappiness he showed no sign of it. Their steady pace did not flag. It was early evening now, and the sun was full in their faces, a fiery ball sliding down towards the smooth flame-edged line of the horizon, stretching a broad path across... across—

Isobel was jolted in an instant out of her misery. It was the sea that faced them, a few short miles away - the sea dancing in the little evening breeze, sparkling beneath the rosy light of the setting sun. The sea on which a fleet of fishing boats bobbed black on the waves - and further out a larger ship, sails furled, rocked at anchor.

She knew now why they had not crossed the mountains. Ardshee lay across the sea. They would take her from the land of her birth to some bleak island cut off by storms and wild weather for half the year. It would be a banishment more terrible than anything she could have imagined. Instinctively, she gave a little cry, and saw almost at once that Hector’s hand had moved swiftly to his dirk.

Any trouble, and I’ll use it,
said his eyes, and she did not doubt their message. The thought crossed her mind fleetingly that if he were to murder her he would not see a penny of her fortune. But she was not - yet - so desperate as to take that risk.
 

Obedient to his unspoken command she swallowed her tears and the journey was resumed as if there had been no interruption. But that tiny momentary outcry seemed to have stirred some numbed place in her mind to new life, for she was thinking fast.

From the moment when Hector had possessed her in the loft, she had come to a dull acceptance of that fact, and its implications. She was his wife for ever and ever, until death at last came to release her, and a wife must, in law, submit to her husband. There was no way out.
 

But now, like a sudden gleam of sunlight through the dreary fog of her despair, came a reviving doubt. Was that really true? Was there really no escape? If she fled now from Hector, surely the law must protect her? Nothing that had happened today had come upon her by her own choice. She had been terribly, deeply wronged. She had been kidnapped and forced against her will into becoming Hector’s wife. That brief marriage ceremony, the vows she had made, the response of her body to Hector’s
 
mating with her, could surely mean nothing set against those bleak facts.
 

She had no illusions about her future, even without Hector. Soiled as she was now, no other man would ever want her - not even gentle John Campbell, for he was the most correct, the most upright of men. But if somehow she could escape, if the law would free her... Oh, for peace and solitude, and the loving care of her parents! She could ask for nothing more.

Yet there ahead of them lay the sea, and on its shores perhaps a boat to take them to Ardshee. If once Hector had her on board she knew that her hope of escape would be lost.

She glanced round. Hector’s expression was as preoccupied as ever, but she did not allow herself to be misled. That catlike instinct of his would warn him of any false move on her part, almost before she made it. Another man, on horseback at her other side, was very likely as prepared for any emergency as his chieftain. And the other two Highlanders who loped tirelessly behind and in front of her would not even be handicapped by the need to control a frightened mount in the event of trouble. In any case, one of them had a firm grasp on her pony’s bridle.

Yet if there were other people about, onlookers, who might see her need and come to her aid—Would Hector dare to use that long-bladed dirk if there were impartial witnesses to seize him and swear to his crime in a court of law?

Ahead of them lay a little cluster of houses, neat and white, gathered on the shore. Isobel prayed that this time they would not pass them by.

They were close enough to see clearly the small figures of a woman and child in one of the gardens, when Hector gave the soft-voiced instruction to turn into a little wind-scarred wood at the roadside. Isobel’s heart sank. Was this the end of her final desperate hope?

They crossed the wood and emerged into a meadow on the other side. The wind had risen now, blowing fiercely off the sea into their sun-dazzled faces. Now - if only they were closer to some kind of help -
now
was the moment to risk an escape. But the houses were still some way off, and the fields were deserted. If she tried to break free from them they would retake her easily. As they rode she gazed longingly at the little settlement, now well to their right. On their present course they would reach the shore several hundred yards from the houses.

And then, just as the last grains of hope were sliding from her, they turned again, northwards, straight towards the village. A thin line of wind-blown trees shielded them from inquisitive eyes as they approached a low stone cottage set a little apart from the others. Hector must have friends there, she thought. Yes, for on the narrow stretch of beach beside it a boat was drawn up, and a knot of people waited, dark against the low sun. A wall reached from the shore to the house, providing a screen from prying neighbours.

Isobel’s eyes swept rapidly over the scene, seeking for anything that might offer her that final chance. A gateway - an open space from which they could be seen by someone who might, just possibly might, help—

She found it at last. A narrow rutted lane was just visible through a break in the trees as they came nearer. It must link the cottage to the other houses, to whatever passed for a village street, perhaps. It ran along the inland side of the cottage and bent sharply, close to the neighbouring house, before disappearing from view. It was just possible...

She tried not to turn her head that way, for she dared give no clue to Hector, but her eyes never left the lane as they rode steadily nearer. All her thoughts were on it, and the hope it offered.

Please,
she prayed silently,
please let me find a way!

Ten yards to go, before they must follow a little path to the shore, and the waiting boat. Ten yards... nine... eight…The man holding her pony stumbled briefly on a half-hidden stone in his path. Just for that moment his grasp was less than firm.

Just long enough for Isobel to reach out and drag the halter into her hands, dig her heels firmly into the pony’s rough sides—He snorted, shied, and broke into a headlong gallop.

Isobel thrust her fingers into his mane and held on. She could not begin to guide him, at that frantic pace. She could only be thankful that he was carrying her inland, towards the gardens where they had seen the woman and child.

Behind her came shouts, and the thudding of hooves. She kicked the pony again. Better a broken neck, than to be back in Hector’s hands—

Three women stood talking at a back door. She called out: ‘Help me! Oh please help me!’

She saw the faces turned towards her, white, open-mouthed. And then the thudding hooves were upon her, passing her—

A pony swung across her path, a hand reached out—

Her mount came to a shuddering halt, almost throwing her, and she looked up at the tall Highlander who faced her. She remembered him dimly from the ruined cottage - one of the witnesses to that mockery of a marriage. She gave a cry and threw herself from the pony’s back, running as fast as her legs could carry her, towards the women—

But he was too quick. His hand was on her arm, she struggled wildly - and a fierce blow sent her down into whirling darkness.

She came to rest at last on a hard prickly surface. Her head throbbed fiercely, each cruel spasm passing through her so that it seemed as if her body was never still. She opened her eyes to darkness, but even that little effort hurt her, flooding her with a wave of nausea. She closed them again, and lay while the throbbing lessened slightly, waiting for the dizzy pounding to cease.

It was some time before she realised that the movement was not all in her head. The whole room was swaying, rocking from side to side with strange rhythmic creaks and the whining of wind. A deep
 
pulsating sound, like the distant eerie chanting of ghostly voices, underlined each rise and fall. She opened her eyes again, letting them grow accustomed to the dark, and sent out exploring fingers at her sides.

She found that she lay in a small enclosed space, on a rough mattress on a hard wooden floor. All she could see, even now, was a faintly discernible square of lesser darkness, deeply blue and lit from time to time with stars: the night sky, passing from sight with each tilt of the room.
 

Then she understood. She was on board a ship.

She sat up sharply, forgetting her head until a sickening clangour made her raise her hand to her eyes and groan aloud. It was only then that she discovered she was not alone. A dark figure emerged from somewhere below that dim square, and took shape, towering blackly over her. She heard him fumble around for a moment or two, then a sudden flame shot into the dark, steadied, and the glow of a lantern lit the cabin.

The face that now looked into hers now was the one she had last seen before darkness closed in. It was pale and grotesque in the lantern light, the strong bones white against the fiery shades of the hair. Instinctively she shrank back as he bent closer. But all he did was to scrutinise her carefully for a moment before placing the lantern on the floor and going to the door. He had to bend to go through it, she saw.