Chapter Six

Isobel felt a tiny jolt near her head and something nudging her cheek just before a wet, scratchy tongue scraped across her jaw. The wee creature apparently needed some kind of attention. Then she found her husband next to her asleep, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.

It was a shame he wore that scowl all the time. Well that wasn’t quite true; she’d spied him when he wasn’t watching her and he was quite bonny when not looking in her direction. Unfortunately, he wanted nothing to do with her. So how had she gotten into the bed the woman he’d once loved wouldn’t want her in?

Inching backward, she slid from the mattress. The kitten pounced onto the floor, following her and squealing so loudly the wee beast would probably wake Grant before she could escape the room. The less time she spent in that man’s company the better. It was time to make a plan and where better to do that than the lists. Early morning sparring always brought clarity.

Scooping up the little ball of fur so it would hush, she moved to the trunks she’d yet to unpack. She picked the lightest weight of the gowns she could find and quickly dressed then grabbed her slippers to put on in the hall.

Once out the door, she set the creature down and walked toward the back steps. They were wide, with just enough room for people to pass each other comfortably. The gray stones were level. Whoever had designed the castle had taken great care not only to give it strong turrets to defend its inhabitants, but to allow agreeable living conditions. The little kitten bounded after her. In the kitchens, she passed a lass preparing something for the morning meal. “Good morning.”

The young woman blinked, likely surprised to see someone else up so early. “Good morning,” she returned.

“Can I trouble ye by leaving this”—she pointed to the cat—“with ye for a bit. I cannae seem to get rid of it.”

The girl laughed. “Aye, but ye will have to come back for it. Cook doesnae like cats in the kitchen.”

“Do ye ken anyone who would want it? I cannae care for a pet.”

“Nae, I dinnae.”

“I’m Isobel.”

“’Tis lovely to meet ye. I’m Jean.”

“Could ye point me in the direction of the lists?”

“Aye, out that door, if ye look out to the left, ye will see the stables. ’Tis just on the other side.”

“Thank ye.”

Isobel went the opposite direction, back toward the great hall. Momentarily forgetting her mission, she studied the finery of the room, the lush tapestries woven with colorful threads of gold, red, and green. They depicted scenes of harvests and triumphs in battles, showing the history and majesty of Clan MacDonald. Wooden benches and tables filled the room and glowed golden in the early morning light streaming in through the tall clear-glazed windows. Grains of red flowed through their smooth surface. The solid structures seemed to be constructed from the trunks of the bonny oaks she’d seen on their journey into the village yesterday.

She pulled her thoughts from the opulence of the room and scraped a chair across the floor, pulling it over to the wall. She reached up and grabbed one of the claymores that had been hung in either a display of vanity or for readiness should an enemy attack. It was a little heavier than her sword, but would give her good exercise.

Skirting back out of the hall and through the kitchens, she made her way out for some time to practice and think. The fresh air seeped into her limbs and brought a peace she’d not felt since being told she was here to become Grant MacDonald’s bride.

Men were already at practice on the well-used fields carpeted with yellowing, flattened grass and patches of exposed chestnut earth. Good. Her new clan would have at least some men ready to safeguard the women and children should the need arise.

She found a spot some distance from them, where an imaginary opponent had been set up. Really, it was just a straw-stuffed post wearing clothing with ropes wound around to give it some stability. It would do nicely.

She pulled her skirts up and tied them off on both sides, well above the end of her shift. She would need the room to move about if she were to train in earnest today. The men were watching her, but she paid them no heed.

She lifted the sword and began thrashing at her mark. At first, it took on the appearance of Torsten Campbell, the bastard who threatened her identity and had gotten her into this mess.

It wasn’t long ago when the Covenanters planned to attack a caravan of Macnabs, including one of her few friends, Kirstie Cameron, on their way to a meeting in Edinburgh. Isobel was determined to keep the lass safe and she hadn’t realized they’d gone after a different group. One of MacDonalds and MacPhersons.

She was normally a spy and only fought in battles when someone she knew was in trouble or if Stew was going to be anywhere near the skirmish. She cared that there was an ongoing conflict between the clans’ loyalties and religions, but she was there mostly to protect those she loved. Usually her brothers, because she rarely let herself get close to anyone else.

By the time she’d realized the Covenanters had attacked the wrong party, the Royalist Resistance had moved forward and she’d been caught in the fray. That was where she’d been distracted by the Highlander giving orders and striking down an attack against one of his own. He had hair the color of the darkest peat and wielded a sword with deadly precision.

He was a born leader, and it was obvious by the way the men around him flanked out in a fighting formation that he was in complete control and held their respect. For a moment, she’d wondered what it would be like to fight by his side and be under his protection, because the motley band of the Resistance couldn’t be trusted. Although the men respected their leader, Alex, each member held their own agenda.

Then a tall Covenanter with reddish-brown hair had blocked her view and reminded her of the battle raging around them. Shock registered when she recognized Torsten Campbell.

“Isobel MacLean,” the man had said with derision then a pleased grin spread across his face. “Argyll has been looking for a reason to bring yer clan to its knees. Imagine what he’ll do when he discovers the notorious woman of the Resistance is ye.”

She’d tightened her grip on her short sword, preparing to fight—her family’s well-being depended on it. If he walked away, she, her family, and her clan would be targets for the Covenanter leader. Raising her sword, she countered, “Ye willnae live to tell him.”

The man thrust with his sword, connecting with hers and trying to knock it free from her hands, but she held, despite the massive size of the brute. Spinning, she came back around swinging, but he blocked her progress. “I will live, and what do ye think he will do to ye when I bring ye to him alive?”

She swung around low, aiming for his legs, but he angled his bigger sword just in time to deflect yet another blow. Laughing, he pushed back and she stumbled.

“Of course I’ll have some fun with ye before I deliver ye to the earl.” His eyes had raked down to her chest.

Now knowing he wanted her alive, her mind had churned as a plan developed. He was larger than most men and, despite her skill, she couldn’t beat his brute force, so she would need to get him close enough to sink her dagger into him. That meant letting him believe she was helpless.

“When I bring ye to him, he’ll finally give me the recognition I deserve,” Torsten had jeered.

“I willnae be going anywhere with ye.”

“Ye will, lass. Ye are the key to what I’ve always wanted.”

“And what is that?” She held her sword out in front of her, preparing to attack.

“My cousin’s respect. When he sees what I’ve brought him, he’ll make me a general.”

This time when Campbell lunged, she let him knock the sword from her hand, but she’d misjudged his momentum and the point of his blade sliced into her shoulder. It wasn’t a deep cut, but blood spilled from the wound, coating her shirt as the man moved in to grab her other arm. She almost had her hand on her blade, readying to sink it into his unsuspecting gut, when the commanding Highlander leaped forward and knocked the man backward, freeing her from his grasp and thwarting her opportunity to take him down.

The leader regained his control, lifting a claymore and moving into a battle stance between she and her mark. The Campbell steadied his footing then stood to face off with the Highlander.

A call came for retreat. Torsten Campbell turned and ran. She started after him but the Highlander grabbed her arm and twisted her around. “’Tis no’ safe, lass. He’ll kill ye.”

“I had it in hand.”

She’d tried to pull free, but his grip was firm, determined. His regard turned to her crimson shirt. “We need to get ye to a healer.”

She didn’t have time for this. “I have to kill him,” she blurted as she tried to ignore the striking blue of the man’s eyes.

His sapphire gaze had darkened, pinning her, and his rough voice ordered, “Stand down.”

“Ye have nae right to order me about.”

He started to say more, but his attention was drawn to something behind her. His grip tightened for a moment and his glare clouded, then he let go of her and she ran after the Campbell, but he was gone.

Returning her focus to the list and the present, she imagined her target was now her husband, the man who had stopped her from protecting her family and stolen the rest of her life. “I dinnae want to be wed to ye, either,” she continued and thrust at the mark.

“I dinnae belong here.” She thrust again.

“Ye let him get away.” The heat of her efforts flushed her, but she continued to pound out her frustration.

“I have to go find him.”

Now it was her own face she saw.

“Ye failed again. They will be hurt because of ye.” Wetness trailed down her cheek.

“Ye canne let him get to them.”

“’Tis all yer fault.” Winded, she swung so hard when she struck this time, the force reverberated back into her arms, stinging her elbows and shoulders.

“Wife.” A commanding voice intruded, and she pivoted, then let the sword dangle to her side as she blinked to bring Grant into focus.

…

Sword in hand, Isobel spun around to face Grant as if an enemy were about to attack. It was like she’d been in a battle for her life and not merely sparring with the straw man she’d hacked to pieces.

“What the hell do ye think yer doing?”

Sweat beaded on her brow. She blinked as her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, drawing his eyes down to the gown haphazardly laced and showing more of her shift than it should. Gaze drifting lower, he studied the way she’d tied her skirts up on the sides. The bloodthirsty wench couldn’t go two days without looking for a victim.

Something odd caught his attention—a tear trailed down her face, not sweat from exertion. He wanted to move closer, to comfort her, but then he remembered how she’d rejected his offer of help when she’d been injured in the skirmish.

Looking away from the imagined display of emotion, he studied the sword she held. “Where did ye get that?”

“Are ye going to take it from me?” Her shoulders stiffened and her chin tilted up.

“Aye. Where?”

She rolled her eyes and his temper spiked, but he kept it in check until he could get the weapon from her hands.

“Ye have them lying about all over the place.” She shrugged and smirked as if he and his clan were crazy. He couldn’t fathom what she was talking about until she continued, “The hall. They are on the walls.”

He groaned. Perhaps she was correct, but it didn’t seem plausible to remove them all because of one woman. He’d have to think on it some more—she didn’t strike him as foolish, only reckless.

“Ye ken we have wooden swords for practice?” Not that he wanted her using anything.

“And if I had asked for one, ye would have given it?”

He shook his head.

“’Tis what I thought,” she muttered and cast an angry glare his way.

“Come. We have things to discuss.”

She turned toward the straw man as if she wanted one more go at it then slowly pivoted back and moved toward him. When she approached, he held out his hand. She extended the hilt of the sword toward him and let him take it without argument. She must be exhausted; he’d watched her for a good five minutes of nonstop thrusts before he’d interrupted her.

“Dinnae put me in that bed again.” She met his gaze with eyes so dark and cold he imagined her slicing through him with the blade, but then he saw the real emotion behind her argument—she was hurt and he couldn’t blame her after the words he’d blurted out the evening before. Maybe she wasn’t all warrior. Maybe there was a heart beneath. A stab of guilt shot through him.

Still, he’d be dammed if he let her sleep on the floor. “Ye are my wife, and ye will sleep in my bed.”

“Ye dinnae truly want me there.”

He couldn’t respond, because he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He didn’t want to want her, but he did. Even as he’d rushed out to the lists after his father’s guard told him what she was doing, he’d stopped, mesmerized by her grace and control with the weapon. Her hair was tied back, but coming loose from whatever she’d secured it with, and her reddened cheeks gave her the appearance of a woman who had been thoroughly bedded. Even the rise and fall of her breasts as she fought to control her breathing had stirred in him the desire to take her back up to bed and claim his husbandly rights.

He didn’t have to love his wife to want her. Just admitting that to himself opened up the possibility he could still get some enjoyment out of this arrangement. He did have to provide an heir, and maybe she would eventually thaw—she had when he’d kissed her before.

He remembered the tear. Knowing there must be some underlying reason, he asked her again, “Why do ye fight?”

“I have nae choice.” A far-off look claimed her gaze, and he found himself wanting to turn her toward him and reassure her, but he kept his hands and the sword at his side. Instead, he studied the lass who was forcing him to face a range of emotions. Ones that made him feel as if he were bathing in the sun on a warm day then dipping into a cold loch, just to get out and be warmed again.

“Aye, ye do. Ye are safe here on MacDonald lands.”

“Women are never safe.” Her hands had fisted into her skirts. Isobel picked up the pace.

“Ye have a choice. I willnae let anything happen to ye.” And he meant it. If anyone had the right to throttle her it would be him, not that he would ever lay a hand on her; she just drove him mad with her draw-yer-sword-first-find-the-truth-after attitude.

She nodded, but her evasive gaze told him she didn’t believe him.

“Ye must let me go after Torsten Campbell.”

He shook his head. There was no way he’d let her near that man again. Seeing the arse’s sword slice across Isobel’s arm during the skirmish had made his heart skip a beat. What would happen if he saw some danger threaten her now that she was his wife?

“He kens who I am. If he finds me here, he will bring Argyll’s forces with him and I dinnae wish that for ye or yer people.”

“Our people.” The sooner she thought of herself as one of them, the better.

“We must find him before he can tell the earl.”

“Yer time for fighting is over. I’ll deal with the Campbell man.” Her lips pinched together, but he had a solution to the problem he was hopeful would work.

“He is nae a reasonable man and is faithful to his clan. There can be nae truce with him.”

“There may still be an option that includes peace.”

“Then ye are delusional.”

His jaw ticked at her response as his hands clenched and unclenched at his side. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself. “Is it wrong to hope for peace?”

“Nae. The error is to think ye will find it.” This time she didn’t sound judgmental; it was sadness he heard in her voice.

“Ye are mistaken. ’Tis reckless to risk others when ye are responsible for their well-being. I have people to look after and like it or no’ ye are now one of them.” They were back at the castle, and he held his free hand out for her to enter first. “To the hall. We shall break our fast first, then I have someone I want ye to meet.”

Following her into the castle, he braced himself for the argument he knew was coming.