Chapter Eight

After leaving Isobel with his mother and the new maid, Grant kept himself busy, sitting in on discussions with his father, then heading out to the lists to let some of his frustrations out. Thankfully, his friend Ian was more than happy to oblige.

While in mid-thrust, his friend skidded to the side, smirked, and said, “I saw yer wife out here this morning.”

Caught off guard, he faltered for a moment, which was enough for Ian to smack the wooden practice sword on his back. Groaning, he straightened and faced the man head-on. “’Tis no’ proper for a lady to be doing such things.”

“She seemed to handle herself quite well.” Ian chuckled. Grant thrusted and his friend deflected the blow meant to connect with his side in retaliation as he dutifully ignored the man’s verbal jab. He continued, “She’s nothing like Lyall.”

“Nae she is no’.” Swinging hard, he aimed the blow to land on Ian’s shoulder, but his friend deflected yet again.

“I think that’s a good thing.”

He stopped. “Lyall was the perfect wife.”

“Aye, she may have been, but ye two seemed indifferent to each other.”

“What does that mean?” Grant tightened his grip.

Angry now, he returned to their sparring and sliced through the air to collide with Ian’s practice sword, the sound of wood splintering and cracking as Ian explained, “It’s like ye were both doing yer duty but there were no emotions involved.” Looking down at his damaged sword, Ian shrugged then leveled him with a playful gaze. “I see a spark of interest when ye look at Isobel.”

“Are ye sure ‘tis no’ loathing ye see?” A laugh bubbled in his chest, but it didn’t quite make it to the surface.

“If ye truly hated her, ye would have found a way to get rid of her.”

He’d had no choice, or at least that’s what he’d told himself. But there was something about his wife that had piqued his interest, which had begun on the road to Edinburgh.

“I see it when she looks at ye as well.” His friend didn’t let up.

“What do ye see?” Twack. Ian’s wooden blade split in two just as it collided with his leg. Damn, the man knew how to throw him off balance.

He couldn’t even be angry because he was so stunned at Ian’s next words. “That ye two are going to fall hard for each other.”

…

After returning to the keep, he went to his room and cleaned up. Isobel’s trunks had been removed and he smiled, glad she was becoming more established. Maybe his friend was right and they could make this work. Ian was wrong about one thing, however: he might have to share a bed with Isobel, but he would never give her his heart.

That evening, strolling into the hall, he found his wife sitting next to his mother, but she looked different. The maid had worked. Thank God he didn’t have to imagine her clothes falling from her body any longer. But as he got closer, he realized it wasn’t going to help.

Isobel’s light chestnut locks were pulled up, a tendril escaping and framing her high cheekbones, calling attention to her exposed neck where tiny traces of his mark lingered on display for others to see. When she glanced up at him, he noticed for the first time how long and dark her lashes were, giving her eyes a sultry exotic appeal. She was dressed as a lady should be, but his thoughts turned to mussing up the hair and pulling those full red lips onto his.

The changes didn’t stop there. Her gown had been tied properly, but instead of giving her a more sedate, demure appearance, it pushed her breasts up and into focus. He hadn’t realized before how large they were. Suddenly, he wanted his hands on them, his mouth on them.

Annis might have to return to the village, because her work had not lessened his desire for his wife, it had increased it. Disgusted with himself, he tore his eyes from her and took the seat near his father, several down from Isobel.

“Have ye thought any more on yer trip?”

“I spoke to Ian today. He, Owen, and Boyd are going to come with us.”

“And ye’ll take yer wife?”

“Aye.” He guessed he’d have to take Annis now, too; obviously it had been a mistake to force a maid upon his wife, but he couldn’t think of an excuse to send her away.

“Ye willnae have long before the rest of the signatures reach Edinburgh. If ye wish to convince our Parliament not to accept this agreement with England’s, ye will have to make haste.”

“We shall leave in two days. I think ’twill give us enough time to prepare. I may be delayed returning.”

“Why is that?”

“I need to seek out the man who kens Isobel was with the Resistance.”

“Do ye think he will tell Argyll?”

“Since it appears he hasnae yet, I’m hoping he’ll be open to a peaceful solution.”

His father shook his head. “Ye ken ’tis yer wife’s life we’re talking about if the man goes to the earl? And if he comes for her the whole clan will defend her.”

“I have to try.”

“I dinnae want war. If he is not amenable, ye may have to take his life.”

“I ken what has to be done and will be prepared if need be.”

As he finished dinner, Isobel and his mother stood to leave the table. His gaze was drawn to her waist as she left the room, which was small in comparison to her well-formed hips. His last wife had been tiny and frail—he’d had concerns she might not survive giving him an heir. Isobel’s body seemed as if it was made for him to grip her waist and pull her down on top of him, and her hips looked wide enough to comfortably carry many a bairn.

He needed to do his duty and carry on the MacDonald legacy. Tonight was a good night to start. After taking one last swig of ale, he wiped his mouth then set the empty cup back on the table and made his way toward his chamber to claim his wife.

He was surprised to discover Isobel missing. Even the small things that belonged to her on the dressing table were gone. He marched over and opened the wardrobe where her clothes should be hanging. Nothing.

His wife was gone.

…

“Where is she?”

When Isobel heard Grant’s thunderous voice boom, she flattened her back against the door of the room just across the hall from her husband’s.

“She will be returned to yer room when ye provide her with a bed she can be comfortable sleeping in.” Fenella MacDonald’s soft but stern voice, just audible, crept through the crevices around the wooden frame that had been bolted from within. She was growing quite fond of Grant’s mother.

“What?”

“’Twas an awful thing to say that Lyall wouldnae have wanted her in it. Did ye even think how that would make a lass feel?”

There was no reply from Grant.

“She has the right to be given a fair shot at being a good wife to ye, and I willnae let ye make her think she is anything less than yer first wife.”

Still no response, and she wished for just a moment she could see his face.

“Have ye even gotten to ken her yet? She’s actually quite nice. A bit shy, but I can tell she has a good heart.”

The kitten at her feet started to meow. Afraid it would give her away, Isobel picked it up and held the creature close.

Grant’s voice was more subdued, but it still carried through the hall. “Ye havenae seen her wield a sword against a man in a battle she had nae place being in.”

“Are ye angry that she is a warrior or that she is capable of defending herself without yer help?”

“Nae, ye ken that isnae true.”

“Then figure out what bothers ye so because she’s no’ going anywhere, and until ye admit that and leave the past where it belongs, she can stay in another room.”

A light tapping filtered under the door as Grant’s mother retreated down the hall. Shortly after, the door on the other side of the hall slammed shut. Closing her eyes, she said a quick prayer of thanks then made her way toward the bed that had once been Grant’s cousin’s.

Relaxed now, she undressed down to her shift and crawled beneath lush green covers woven from luxurious threads that cradled her flesh in soft relaxing warmth. The cat snuggled in beside her. Sleep evaded her and when it did come, visions of a lass she’d never met taunted her. The woman said she would never have Grant’s heart, that she was a monster, and that she looked like a boy. Then came the dreams that Annis was being attacked and there was nothing she could do to defend the lass because a cow sat on her chest and she couldn’t breathe.

…

The next morning, she awoke to a light rapping on the door just before Annis let herself in with the key Grant’s mother had given her.

“Good morning,” she said as she sat up and stretched.

“Good day to ye. Did ye sleep well?”

“Aye,” she lied. No need to tell the lass she’d had dreams the girl had been attacked and she’d done nothing to help.

“I think the blue dress will do nicely today. What do ye think?”

“Sure ’tis fine.” She really didn’t care what color she wore.

“Yer kitten is playful this morning.”

“Aye, but ’tis nae mine. Can ye help me find it a home? I cannae care for it.”

“Why no’? Ye seem to be doing a great job and it loves ye.”

She wanted to say because things I care for always end up hurt, but she held her tongue as she picked up the cat and pulled it in close.

“Ye should give it a name.”

“That would mean I was keeping it. I couldnae do that.” She set the kitten down as Annis pulled the gown over her head.

“I think the laird’s wife wishes to show ye around some more today.”

She nodded. Nimble fingers tightened her laces, and she took a seat at the dressing table.

“Is this place like yer last home?”

“Aye, ’tis very similar.”

Och, she wished the girl would stop talking because she was adorable and innocent and charming and would be utterly helpless if a threat was near. After what felt like ages of the girl’s chatter, poking, and tying of ribbons, Annis let her up from the chair.

“Ye look lovely.”

What was the girl thinking? No one ever said anything like that to her. “I look like a boy.”

“And who told ye that? ’Tis nae true. Ye are very bonny.”

“Thank ye.” She wasn’t going to argue with the lass who had apparently made it her mission to pretend that, along with being a good wife, Isobel could actually be desired by someone.

As she studied her hair in the mirror, pinned up at impossible angles with intricately threaded ribbons, she asked, “What happened to Grant’s first wife? Nae one has told me, and I dinnae feel right asking him.”

“Oh, aye. It makes sense, they wouldnae want to talk about it. She was a wee thing and didnae look healthy from the start.” Chills spread through her arms as Annis continued, “They were only married a couple of months. There was nothing to be done for her. She’d been coughing when she arrived and just got worse until she wasted away.”

“Did he love her?” Of course he did. Why would she even ask? The man had insisted his previous wife would dislike her.

“I dinnae ken. I think ’twas an arranged marriage like yers, but he was good friends with her brother, the MacPherson heir. The two were inseparable when they got together. ’Twas always fun to watch the pair of them when the MacPhersons came to visit—Tomas always getting them into trouble, and Grant always finding the way out.”

She remembered hearing the MacPherson heir had died in the melee where her husband and she had met for the first time. Maybe he thought the Resistance had started the conflict, and it was his reason for hating her.

Glancing at her face in mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. She looked like the lady her mother had always wanted her to be. Had this been her parents’ plan all along? She wouldn’t put it past them. Smiling, she touched her temple; the curled tresses Annis had left loose bounced gleefully.

For a moment, she was the little girl who had wanted this world, had held hope for the future, and thought it was enough to be a lady and do her duty as a wife. But then Annis came to stand beside her, beaming, holding out the scent she always wore, the one that reminded her of the past and what she had lost, when she had stopped looking in mirrors and dreaming of a peaceful, happy life.

“I found this in yer chest. ’Tis a lovely scent, and I think it matches ye perfectly.”

“Thank ye.” Her smile faded as she took the bottle and applied the jasmine oil to her wrists and neck.

Gazing at the mirror one more time, she sighed and shook her head. The lass looking back at her let bad things happen to people she loved. It wasn’t who she was anymore. Isobel turned her back on the reflection.