Chapter Twenty-Two

Grant jerked awake and startled Isobel. “I have to go.”

“Why the hurry? ’Tis storming something fierce out there.” She didn’t want him to leave. The thought of him out with Torsten tore at every fiber of her being.

After giving her a small kiss on the lips, he slid from beneath the covers and while she stayed beneath them, cold started to creep in.

“I have some things I need to see to. Dinnae leave the castle. I’ll tell ye when ’tis safe to do so again.”

Ah, he had most likely been in with the other men this morning devising their final strategy for facing Torsten.

“What is the plan? I can help.” She sat up to watch him pull his shirt over his head, holding the blankets near her chest as it beat uncontrollably.

“Ye can help by staying safe.” He didn’t understand. Her heart might stop while he was out there without her. She had to be there to keep him safe.

“’Tis my fault he is here.”

“I have a more than fair offer for him.”

“He willnae accept.”

Once he’d pulled his plaid on, Grant pinned it in place then reached for his stockings and boots. “I will do what must be done.”

“Ye will let me come.” She flung back the covers, jumped out of bed, and grabbed her shift, hastily donning it as she hopped toward him, pulling on her own stockings. He was already dressed and standing.

“If ye are there, I will be distracted. ’Tis what happened when Lyall’s brother died. ’Twas my fault, because I was watching ye that day. And if something happened to ye because I was distracted, I would never forgive myself.” His brows shot up and a sad sheen entered the depths of his eyes. “Ye will stay here and the matter will be dealt with by the morning.” He drew her in and held her close. She was somewhere between the verge of tears and the tirade of a tantrum.

He headed for the door and paused. Without turning to look at her, he said, “I cannae watch ye die.”

Then, peeking over his shoulder, added, “I have some business to see to. Will ye meet me for the midday meal?”

“I will.” She relaxed as she realized he wasn’t rushing out to face the threat now.

After pulling open the door, his gaze turned away as he stepped out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

Hours later, after they had taken a mostly silent meal together, he escorted her back up to their chamber. Once inside, he took her in a passionate embrace. The kiss was so intense, it left her feeling pliant as she molded into his body, searching for more.

Grant drew back, but still held her in his arms.

“Ye and our babe are the most important people in my life. If something happened to ye, it would destroy me. Ye will stay in this room until I return.” It was an order, from her husband, from the man who would one day be laird. It held all the weight and authority of the position and her mind told her to listen, but her heart couldn’t.

“Nae. Ye canne go out there alone.” She leaned in and dug her head into his shoulder, shaking it back and forth.

“I willnae be alone. He is surrounded and has naewhere to go.” Grant gave her another small kiss. “Trust me.”

“I do trust ye. I dinnae trust Torsten.” A knock sounded from the closed door.

“I need to go now.” He ran his fingers through her hair.

“I love ye, Isobel.”

She wanted to say it, her mouth even parted, but fear intruded. He let go and was leaving. He wasn’t going to come back. Somehow, she knew if she said it right now, she would never see him again.

Then he was gone, and the door closed behind him. A key scraped into place on the other side and she heard a click as the bolt on the door locked into place, pinning her in as fear wound its way around her heart.

About half an hour later, she stopped at the window to inspect the rain as she deliberated what to do. A crushing weight pressed on her chest and she couldn’t breathe, which reminded her of the man sitting on her all those years ago.

A boat crossing the divide between Skye and the mainland slid gracefully across the waters. It was almost eerie, given the clouds still roiling in the sky despite the reprieve from the heavy rains.

Panic took hold.

She ran to the door and started banging on it. “Help.”

“’Tis all right, Isobel,” came a voice from the other side. Ian.

“Ye have to let me out. Torsten will kill him. He cannae be trusted.”

“Grant isnae going alone. There are more than a hundred men over there to keep him safe.”

“Nae, ye have to let me out.”

“I cannae do that, lass. I have orders.”

She pounded on the door again, but Ian ignored her.

Stepping over to her dressing table she reminded herself to think. Her lungs threatened to seize as she fought the helplessness. She was going to fight back. This wouldn’t be like before.

The pendant Grant’s mother had given her caught her eye. This was her family now. She belonged here with the MacDonalds, with Grant. She was a MacDonald and their laird’s heir needed help.

Sliding the ruby and pearl inlaid MacDonald crest on, she cleared her panic and prepared to do battle.

She grabbed a pen knife used for sharpening writing instruments then knelt at the door. Her rose-colored gown bunched around her like petals on a delicate flower. She cursed there was no better option for dressing, but all of her men’s clothing had been taken and she’d become accustomed to the excess material.

After sliding the pointed end of the knife into the keyhole, she closed her eyes to concentrate. She’d never been good at picking locks, but if her husband ever did this to her again, she would become the best lockpick in all of Scotland. The instrument just fit and shortly she heard a click.

The door flew in as she pulled, and she came face-to-face with her husband’s best friend.

When the bigger man blocked her way, she stood her ground. “Torsten is going to kill him. Ye have to get me over there.”

“What makes ye think that? Grant is taking him a fortune.”

How did they not know? “He doesnae desire riches.”

“Everyone wants coin.”

“Torsten has all the coin he needs. The only thing he wishes is the recognition of his cousin, the Earl of Argyll. Turning me over is the only way he’ll get that. Ye have to trust me, Ian. He’s in danger.” Moisture pooled in her eyes. “Ye ken I can defend myself.”

“Aye.”

“And ye ken I am just as prepared as all those men out there to fight in battle.”

Ian sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Let’s go save him. Come with me.”

He still looked reluctant.

“If ye dinnae take me, I’ll break my neck scaling the wall or will drown in the water. The only way ye can protect me is to see me safely to his side.”

Ian must have seen the truth of her resolve because he nodded. Stepping aside, he let her enter the hall as she said, “We’ll need weapons.”

…

As the shore grew closer, Grant thought through the plan one more time. MacDonald men had been dispatched from farther up the coastline to avoid detection, and to cover any means of escape. There were easily a hundred men in strategic locations.

Some had also been sent to their kin of Clanranald to inform them the meeting would take place on their land, and it was a Campbell who wished the clan harm.

Strolling up to the tavern on the outskirts of the village where Torsten wanted to meet, Grant scanned the surroundings, looking for any threats. His men had thoroughly searched the inn last night and had been keeping watch since then to be certain Torsten was alone.

Isobel had insisted Grant couldn’t trust Torsten Campbell and he respected her instincts, but he had to see if they could come to an agreement without bloodshed. In addition to the many MacDonald men who had the surroundings covered, he’d brought Owen, Boyd, and another of his friends along to provide assistance should conversation turn to violence. The men would wait just outside the door. They’d agreed upon a sharp whistle as a call sign for trouble should the need for immediate assistance arrive.

Upon reaching the front, he waited for the signal to indicate Torsten was alone. The bird call came and Grant pulled open the door.

His boots hammered out assurance and defiance as he strode across the room to the man sitting alone at a table with his back to the wall.

A young family occupied one table, wet clothes clinging to them. One man sat at another table topped with a tray holding a pitcher and overflowing plates of a stew. A group of men eyed him from the corner—their presence was unexpected. Other than that, the room was clear.

He dragged a chair across the floor to take a seat. Torsten Campbell’s cold scrutiny was almost unreadable, with only a hint of annoyance escaping the corners of his mouth as he leaned back and crossed his arms. His eyes were blue, a color so light it reminded him of ice that hung from the edge of a roof in winter.

“Campbell.” He’d only briefly seen the man during the melee months earlier, but he had noticed the scar that ran through the man’s eyebrow, cutting it in half.

One of the children complained, “’Tis cold, Mother. I dinnae like it.” The outburst reminded him that there were innocents in the room.

Grant focused on the threat in front of him, but he leaned back to ensure he could still see the other men from the corner of his eye.

“Where is she?” Anger dripped from the arse’s mouth, the last word ground out between clenched teeth.

“I’ve come to make ye an offer of peace.”

“What do you propose?” Torsten picked at his nails, seeming to relax as a smirk turned up the thick lines of his lips.

After removing the bag from his shoulder, Grant untied the top and placed it in the middle of the table, peeling back the folds of fabric to reveal gold coins.

Torsten reached into the bag, pulled out a small handful, and held it out palm up. “This is what ye offer.”

“Aye. ’Tis a fortune. And I offer protection for ye as long as ye live on MacDonald lands. Ye will never want for anything.” He didn’t have to tell Torsten that if he tried to leave Skye, the man would pay with his life. As it was, he was going to be lucky to live through this day.

The man’s fingers closed around the gold, his knuckles whitening. Despite his face remaining passive, Grant could tell there was a shift in Torsten’s mood. The air thickened around Grant as he realized Isobel had been correct. There wasn’t going to be a pleasant ending.

Torsten flicked his wrists, pelting Grant in the face with the coins. Small stings hit his skin and he rose, his chair thunking to the floor. One of the children called out, and their parents bundled them through the door. Good. The family would be safe, and his men would know the negotiations had not ended well.

Once the family had cleared the room, he addressed the red-faced menace in front of him.

Torsten had also jumped to his feet, along with the men in the corner, while the cook and the server appeared from the kitchens to join their ranks.

Hell, where had they all come from? The MacDonalds had thoroughly checked the inn ahead of time, making certain the only one who entered was Torsten, but he’d managed to sneak in a small group.

“I dinnae want yer coin or to live with a clan other than the Campbells. I want the wench.”

“She is a MacDonald now. Ye cannae have her.”

“Ye would risk the wrath of the Earl of Argyll to protect her? She is a criminal.”

“My clan has already suffered the notice of the earl. Let him come to Skye. Ye yerself wouldnae breach our shores. He doesnae stand a chance.” Grant shuddered, thinking of the earl’s ire directly on them, but they had allies and if it were to be war, he’d call on them to rise up and defeat the Covenanters with Clan MacDonald. Besides, these men were surrounded and wouldn’t make it back to the Covenanter leader.

“I want Isobel.”

“Ye cannae have her. Take the money and offer.” He needed to somehow draw the men outside where his men were waiting—he couldn’t take them all in this small space.

The men at the table and the two who had come in through the kitchen drew their swords, ready to pounce. “If ye touch me, ye willnae make it home alive. We have ye surrounded.”

“Then we will take ye until we have the wench and are safe on our own lands. The MacDonald willnae let harm befall his only heir.” Torsten nodded his head to the men.

Grant reached for the knife at his side and pursed his lips to give the whistle, but before a sound emerged a stinging pain slammed the back of his head. As the room blurred, he saw the tavern servant swinging a club. He fell to his knees.

“Bring him,” Torsten said as the men rounded the table, moving toward him. “Let’s show the MacDonalds what they’ll lose if they don’t hand over the wench.” A boot jabbed his ribs, shooting pain through his already dazed senses.

Then arms were around his shoulders, dragging him back out into the waning light.