When the Laird Returns (9 page)

The MacRaes had left Gilmuir.

Leah would miss her daughter, but offsetting that quiet grief was a greater joy. Iseabal would be beginning a new life.

Yet Magnus was celebrating not because his daughter had wed well, but because he’d gained a fortune and the use of MacRae land. With the news that Alisdair MacRae had left Scotland, Leah had no doubt that her husband would quickly issue instructions to send the flocks back to Gilmuir. A suspicion that was borne out by his next words.

“If the fool thinks I’ll not take what is rightfully mine, then the MacRaes have bred idiots.”

“Did he not pay you for the land, husband?” Leah said.

An expression of displeasure flickered over her husband’s face. No doubt because she questioned him. Leah had not ventured a criticism of him in years, choosing instead to remain safe and silent. Now that Iseabal was gone, there was
no such constraint on her words. What could he do to her that he had not already done?

Setting her needlework down in her lap, Leah gazed up at Drummond. Her eyes were open and direct, with no attempt to mask the loathing she felt for him.

For an instant he looked surprised; then his face fell into the usual stern lines.

The men sitting on either side of Magnus turned their heads and glanced at her. Two-legged curs, she thought, licking Drummond’s boots as if he were their master. One of them was his cousin Thomas, linked not only by blood but by inclination.

His long, thin face reminded her of a starving dog, his rotting teeth sharpened and feral. Even his voice, raspy and hoarse, seemed less human and more like an animal given speech. He might have been a comical figure with those enormous ears of his, had not his character overwhelmed his appearance.

Thomas was the worst of them, even more so, perhaps, than her husband. He carried out Magnus’s orders with both alacrity and enthusiasm. His hazel eyes, close together and too small for his face, stared at her now, his tankard halfway to his lips. They shared looks, neither hiding the antipathy for the other. Her aversion for Thomas seemed to amuse her husband, yet his cousin’s insolence toward her was never remarked upon. Magnus reserved his loyalty for those who served him.

The remaining five men seated at the table were staring down into their whiskey, pretending that they did not notice her.

“What I do, or not do, is none of your concern,” Magnus said curtly.

“You would go back on your word?” she asked.

“Who is to stop me?” her husband said. “Even if the MacRae sends part of his clan back to Gilmuir, I will force them out.” He took a sip from his tankard, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not with my sword, wife,” he added, grinning. “But with the law.”

As they stared at each other across the width of the hall, Leah abruptly wondered if she was partly to blame for Drummond’s nature. She had married him willingly all those many years ago and had taken her vows to heart. Being a chaste wife had been easily accomplished, since she’d no wish to lie with another man. But Drummond had known that she’d loved another and that her heart was forever blocked to him.

Once, he had been a kinder man. Long ago he’d had other interests such as building and the writings of scholars to occupy him. Now, however, all his energies seemed narrowed and supplanted by his greed.

Would Drummond have been a better man if she’d been able to love him?

Leah stood and left him then, shocked at the thought.

T
he day had passed quietly, the empty cabin a place of reflection and thought. Iseabal had had hours of solitude in which to contemplate the future. The longer she spent thinking of it, the worse her prospects seemed.

The door began to open, and Iseabal stiffened her shoulders. She wasn’t prepared for any more of the young cabin boy’s overt disapproval, nor did she welcome the MacRae’s presence.

She winced at the sudden brightness, having become accustomed to the gloom of the windowless cabin. The MacRae stood there, one hand on the edge of the door, the other resting on his hip. His hair had been disheveled by the wind, and he’d removed the jacket he’d worn earlier. The bold colors of his tartan vest suited him, contrasting against the light blue shade of his eyes.

The fading rays of the sun spilled into the doorway, send
ing ribbons of pale light gleaming on each of her chisels. Arrayed from smallest to largest, they lay ready for her selection. She had spent most of the day examining the marble, trying to see what it might become. Nothing had occurred to her, and that realization had frightened her a little. But then, her thoughts were on her future, not on her carving.

“You didn’t lift that yourself, did you?” Alisdair said, frowning at the block of marble resting on the table.

Staring down at the leather sling holding her tools, Iseabal could not help but wonder what kind of man wished to sever a marriage and yet worried about her health.

“Rory,” she said, the one word an explanation. The cabin boy had opened the table and slid a chair beneath it, placing the marble block where she needed it. All these chores performed with a mulish expression and eyes that revealed, only too clearly, his disdain for her.

Iseabal had thought Fernleigh inhospitable, but it was nothing compared to the
Fortitude
.

“I need to treat your side,” Alisdair said, closing the door. He moved to the lantern, lit it, opening all of the shutters. Iseabal wished, fervently, that he had left the room darkened.

“I feel much improved, thank you,” she told him cordially, her smile hard-won but fixed in place.

“Nevertheless,” he countered stubbornly, “I need to reapply the dressing.”

“It’s truly not necessary,” she said, concentrating on the block of marble before her.

“It is, unless you’ve suddenly become able to move your left arm without pain,” he said in a clipped voice.

He knew very well that she could not. The Chinese medications might have aided her, but they could not produce miracles. She would need longer than one day to heal.

She glanced up at him. “I truly do not wish your help, MacRae.”
Nor would it be proper to have you treat me now,
she thought. She’d already bared herself to him, and could only pray that he would forget that incident quickly.

“Then I shall fetch Daniel,” he threatened, standing with his feet braced apart, hands behind his back.

Her eyes widened at his words, but it seemed he was not finished with his intimidation.

“Or pick another,” he continued. “It doesn’t matter who as long as you’re treated.”

“Why do you care?” she asked curiously.

“Because you are my responsibility,” he answered. “As long as you’re my wife.”

A burden, a millstone, an obligation. Irritation bubbled up again from beneath her veneer of composure.

“Thank you, no,” she said, her voice even.

Instead of leaving, however, he wedged himself behind her, reaching around to the front in order to unfasten her jacket. She brushed his hands away, but they returned, implacable and as obstinate as the man.

She should stab him with one of her chisels, Iseabal thought. “Please leave, MacRae.”

“After I’ve wrapped you again, Iseabal,” he said, his voice as even as hers.

Her mother’s oft-repeated remark echoed in Iseabal’s mind. Men were warriors who had no hesitation in causing wounds; they simply did not wish to be around when they were treated. Such a statement might have been true at Fernleigh, but not here in this cabin.

Dressing had been a chore this morning, and donning her jacket had been a triumph of sorts. She’d relinquished wearing her stays, since she couldn’t lace them over the wrapping.

MacRae, however, bent and removed the dirk from his boot, as if meaning to slice through her clothing again.

“Will you stand, Iseabal?” he asked, bending so that his mouth was close to her ear. “Or shall I simply cut your clothing from you?”

“Daniel,” she said abruptly.

His hands stilled on her shoulders, making her wish he stood in front of her so that she could read his expression.

“I wish Daniel to help me,” she said. The first mate’s presence in the cabin would cause her only embarrassment, not this consternation of the senses, as her heart raced and her breath felt as if it were stolen from her.

He didn’t say a word, simply moved to stand in front of her.

“Cut or remove it, Iseabal?” he said, his mouth thinned, his eyes narrowed in irritation. She felt the same but bit back her words.

That, evidently, was to be her only choice. Not who should treat her, but how she might be treated. Stubbornness would be impractical, since she had only one shift remaining besides the one she wore.

He was standing too close, his presence overpowering. Iseabal waved her hand in the air, a silent gesture for him to move back. He did so, and slowly she rose to stand in front of him.

“I will not hurt you, Iseabal,” he said.

Merely discard her like an unwelcome parcel, she thought. Her father’s sheep were treated with more prudence.

Closing her eyes, she stood compliant as he pulled her jacket free.

“Can you raise your arms a little?” he asked, his voice
sounding absurdly gentle for this moment and this occasion. And this man, she told herself.

She did so, feeling the soft shimmer of material over her skin. Crossing her arms protectively over her breasts, she stood uncomplaining and docile. Like a lamb, and not a ewe after all.

Carefully he began to unwind the wrappings, extending both hands around her. The fabric of his shirt brushed against her heated cheeks. He smelled of fresh air and salt water, and of his own scent, one indescribably male.

“Why did you marry me,” she asked quietly, “if you planned to end the marriage soon enough?” Curiosity was unwise, but at least it would stop her from thinking of how close he was.

He straightened, and she opened her eyes to discover him staring at her.

“You could have claimed yourself affianced,” she said. “Or even married.”

“Neither of which is true,” he said.

He would not be the first man who lied to escape his fate. Honor had made him her husband, yet it did not keep him one. Obligation placed him at her side, and responsibility had him standing too close, and too intrusive. If he had only been less noble, she would be at Fernleigh now, not standing nearly naked in front of a man destined to remain a stranger.

“Is the pain becoming more manageable?” he asked.

She nodded wordlessly.

“I’m going to press here,” he said, gently placing his finger against her skin above her top rib. “Is there any pain?” he asked.

“No,” she said. He was so close that she could see the
growth of beard on his cheeks. She wanted, rashly, to place her hand against his face, fingers following the edge of his jaw.

She wanted, also, to measure the breadth of his shoulders, and perhaps even trace her hands down his arms to gauge the circumference of his wrists.

His knuckles brushed over the swell of her breast and she held her breath at the touch.

“Forgive me,” he said a second later, his voice sounding constricted.

Hurry,
she whispered in her mind, truly wishing now that someone else were performing this chore. She bent her head, outwardly waiting in serene silence, the pose as much a sham as he believed their marriage.

More than once she’d seen a servant girl staring out the window at the carpenter’s shed, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen. Or a stableboy glancing up at Fernleigh’s third floor, a look on his face speaking of his need. The emotion she felt was easily identified, but not so simply understood. How could she long for a man who had cast her aside before ever coming to know her?

The daring Iseabal, the one who explored Gilmuir and held great thoughts, wanted to bend forward and place her lips on his throat, right there where the pulse beat seemed the strongest. If he held the right to touch her by dint of obligation and responsibility, surely she could claim the same privilege, formed from inquisitiveness and an unsettling feeling of yearning.

Bending closer to untie the knot in the bandage, he brushed his chin against her shoulder. An abrasive touch, one that should not send shivers through her. Alisdair moved
away, retrieving the strange bottles, placing them on the table beside her tools.

“Tell me about your carving,” he said, pushing the chisels aside.

“There is nothing much to tell,” she replied.

“When did you begin?” he asked, unstopping the dragon jar.

“When I was a child,” she answered, turning away from the smell. “I used to make garden stones for my mother. Little frogs and toadstools,” she added, smiling in memory of those years. Each and every carving, laboriously done with a piece of iron she’d taken from the smithy, had been greeted with enthusiasm by her mother. Some of her earlier efforts still remained in the garden, sentinels among the towering plants.

“Is that why you were at Gilmuir that day?” he asked absently, beginning to wrap her again. “To gather material for your carving?”

“Yes.” Iseabal always found the best stones there, limestone in shades of brown and ivory, marble in variegated patterns. But she’d never before seen anything like the ebony stone she’d stared at all day.

“I thought you a ghost,” he admitted with a small smile. She stared at him, bemused. His smile belonged to a troubadour, or to a young shepherd asleep on a hill and dreaming of his sweetheart. Iseabal glanced away, wishing that he were a different man. Crude and brutish and even cruel. Someone like Thomas, one of her father’s kin and toadies.

I thought you were a god,
Iseabal confessed in the silence of her thoughts.

For long moments there was no sound in the room other
than the sputtering of the lantern. He opened the rabbit jar and she tensed, expecting the heat of the mixture against her skin. But there was less burning than on the night before. Curious, she turned her head and glanced down at herself. The bruising had faded to a rainbow of hues, from gray to red to a mottled yellow to blue.

“There must be something magical in that potion,” she said, amazed.

“Less magic than centuries of knowledge,” he said, placing the stopper back in the jar. “The Chinese are skilled in the art of healing.”

Without asking for permission, he untied her petticoat, letting it drift to the floor, then retrieved his nightshirt from where she’d hung it this morning. Bunching up the cloth, he draped it over her head, raising her left arm gently into the sleeve.

The back of his hand brushed over her nipple and it tightened in response, sending heat to her cheeks and throughout her body. She looked away, pretending that it had not happened, that the warmth of his hand was not so close that she could feel it still.

Finally, thankfully, the other sleeve was done, her hand peeking beyond the wrist of his nightshirt.

“Can you remove your stockings?” he asked. “Or do you need help?”

“I can do it,” Iseabal said, shaking her head almost frantically.

“I’ve cleared off a space for you to sit on deck tomorrow,” he told her, stepping back. “Behind the cabin, toward the stern.”

So that she would not be seen and frighten his men?

“The area is sheltered from the worst of the breeze, and
you might wish to work there,” he added, his words instantly shaming her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Nodding, he repacked the jars behind their doors, and left the cabin.

Shameless, Iseabal thought, to be repudiated and still wish to be touched.

She walked slowly to the door, daring herself to open it and call after him. If she did, would he come back? Or would he stand there and smile at her kindly as if she were an injured sparrow? What would he say if she spoke what was in her mind?

Kiss me, Alisdair. Give me that, at least. A memory to tuck away and savor when I’m no longer a bride.
Rejection, she decided, was overwhelming when it fit inside a single word. Annulment.

If she were a woman of uncertain virtue, or one more courageous in deed rather than thought, she might have gone to him.

“Keep me with you,” she would say, and then enumerate all the reasons he should. She would be a good wife, tidy and understanding and supportive. Complaints would never fall from her lips, and she would be content enough in their life together. Happy, perhaps.

Or she might claim his pity, but the idea soured her stomach. He either knew the truth and dismissed it or never realized what his decision would mean. From the moment he severed their marriage she would be a ruined woman. What man wanted a compromised bride? Her only salvation was to become a paid companion or a mistress to a man willing to give her that title, at least.

Opening the door quietly, she stared out at the darkness.
Dawn came without warning aboard ship, and night fell as quickly. There was no middle ground, no gloaming, no morning mist.

She fingered the wooden latch of the door, her hand slipping damply against it. Gradually she pushed the door closed, remaining there for a moment, staring down at the shadows of her hands in the lantern light. Before she could act upon her impulse, Iseabal pressed down until the latch engaged, the sound of the faint click a death knell to her thoughts of courage.

Fergus MacRae awoke as he usually did, before dawn. Sleep was never so valuable to him as the time awake. Once, he’d come too close to sleeping forever.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached for his wooden leg, strapping it on with an ease that came from years of practice. He knew, from the pain in his limb, that he would only be able to use the wooden leg a day or so longer before trading it for his crutch.