Roderick smiled charmingly.“Andhere she is, my lord. Isobel MacDonell.”
Lord Kincreag continued to stare at Roderick. Finally, his gaze flicked to Isobel, examining her with disinterest before scanning the corridor.
“She comes alone?”
Roderick placed a palm on his chest. “What am I, my lord? I’m here to vouch for her maiden safety.”
A dark brow arched slowly, sardonically. “And who will vouch for her maiden safety on her journey from England to Lochlaire?”
“My lord?” Roderick queried. “I dinna understand.”
“I’ve been told she traveled with three men—and no one else.”
Isobel’s face flamed. “What do you accuse me of? Are you doubting my—and Sir Philip’s—honor? My father sent him because he could be trusted with my life. He would not have sent someone who would debauch me at the first opportunity.”
That cold gaze moved to her, eyes narrowed. “It’s not always the men who are doing the debauching.”
Isobel let out an incredulous breath, but her cheeks and neck burned. He insinuated she was some whore who debauched men? And just what had she been doing with Philip—with her eager kisses and wicked thoughts? What was she contemplating doing that very evening? She fought to keep her expression insulted, rather than revealing the horrified embarrassment she truly felt.
She looked at her uncle for support, but even he seemed at a loss. Finally, he said, “I assure you, Isobel comes to you a maiden—innocent of the ways of men. Sir Philip Kilpatrick would never dishonor Alan in such a fashion.” When Lord Kincreag still eyed them skeptically, Roderick said, “Perhaps we should come inside so you might become acquainted with Isobel.”
The earl put his back to them and disappeared into the room. Roderick urged Isobel forward, giving her a grimace of sympathy.
No candles were lit. Only the light from the fireplace. But seconds later a candelabra slowly came to life. The earl tossed the tinderbox on a table and turned to her.
“Let us be clear. You are a witch, and I am a murderer.”
Isobel’s mouth went dry. What did he mean? “I…I am not—”
“I have no intention of talking to you about my first wife, so do not bother asking. Nor will I ask you why everyone believes the MacDonells of Glen Laire are witches. I don’t care.”
“If you think I’m a witch, why would you want to wed me?”
“I did not say I think you’re a witch, I’m merely repeating what everyone else says. If you…thinkyou are, once again, I do not care to know.”
Isobel clasped her hands tightly before her. This was not going as she’d imagined. In spite of the warnings she’d received about him, she’d never expected him to be so cold and unfeeling. “But…but we are to be married,” she protested. “Am I not allowed to ask about your life before me?”
His sleek black hair was tied back at his nape. Neat, severe almost. Just like his attire. For a man who was disgustingly rich, he dressed simply. Black breeches that fit close to his lean and muscular body, black hose and shoes, a black doublet relieved only by small silver buttons. Only a simple falling collar, smaller than any she’d seen, tempered the oppressive blackness of hisclothes, fitting close to a dark, corded neck. His glacial and uncompromising features were undoubtedly handsome, as Gillian had said, and they did make her swoon—but with dread. She saw no kindness in this man. No warmth. He was heartless and cruel. He would never love her, and he would never welcome her love. She was not at all certain she was interested in giving it to him.
“This is a marriage, not a friendship,” he said. “I offered for you, and your father accepted. You are mine now. You will live by my rules.”
Isobel placed a surprised hand on her mother’s pendant. Waves of fear and agony—her mother’s—washed through her, but she held the emotions at bay, searching for her mother’s strength, the courage she went to the stake with, to bolster her in this.
“You offered for me?”
“Well, one of you. I did not care which. Your father is my friend—one of the few I have. He fears greatly for you and your sisters’ safety. I offered for you because I can protect you—all of you—if you are my family. No one will harm you while I live.”
Isobel was not comforted. She was deeply dismayed. The hope she had tried desperately to preserve—that she could somehow find happiness, or even a sort of contentedness, with Lord Kincreag—was crumbling before her eyes.
“Uh…thank you, my lord.”
He dismissed her thanks with an indifferent nod. “Very well. We are finished then. We’ll be wed in a week’s time. The banns are being said already.”
It was moving too fast, her heart cried. A week? “But…that’s May—it’s bad luck to wed in May.”
He looked at her as if she were a foolish child. “Luck will notmake this bearable, Mistress MacDonell. For either of us.”
When she just stood there, gaping at him, he said, “You are dismissed.”
