Minutes later, she descended the narrow south steps, stepping out into the freezing night air. The south courtyard was dark and mostly deserted, the bulk of the clan having moved toward the roaring orange glow of the western ridge. Thick gray smoke still drifted faintly across the cold stars overhead.
A single dark mare waited near the small postern gate, held by a silent groom. Margaret mounted quickly, throwing her skirt over the saddle. The familiar, rhythmic movement of the horse beneath her steadied her frayed nerves slightly, pulling her back to her senses.
The guard opened the iron gate without question.
Margaret gathered the leather reins in her gloved hands. Then, despite everything, she stopped. Her hand froze on the leather.
Because a small, foolish, dying part of her soul still expected him to appear through the gloom. Expected him to come riding back through the thick smoke on his great bay stallion, to stop her mare, to pull her down from the saddle, and to finally, truly understand what he was throwing away.
The courtyard remained completely empty. There was only the distant, muffled sound of shouting from the west. Only Isobel stood near the dark stone archway, holding Lilly beneath the flickering light of the wall torch.
Margaret looked at them once, carving the image into her mind. Then, she turned her horse toward the southern hills and rode hard into the black night, without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fergus came back to the keep in less than an hour, smoke ingrained in the fibers of his heavy wool clothes, and a profound exhaustion weighed heavily on him.
The fire still burned beyond the hills, a distant, angry orange line against the sky, but the wind had shifted enough. Just enough to slow the flames' advance and allow his men to hold the western firebreak before sparks crossed into the vital barley fields.
It was a temporary containment, nothing more, but the immediate danger to the valley had passed.
He rode through the massive iron gates, his eyes scanning the dark yard, already calculating what still needed to be done before dawn. More watchmen on the northern ridge. A continuous water line from the river. Strict watch rotations during the remaining hours of the night.
Then, his eyes caught the dark silhouette of a heavy carriage parked near the keep steps.
His horse slowed instinctively beneath him, its hooves clattering lazily against the gravel. Something inside his chest tightened, a sudden, inexplicable spasm of alarm.
The courtyard felt entirely wrong.
Alasdair must have sensed the shift too. He dismounted quickly beside Fergus, his black stallion tossing its head, and gazed toward the carriage being loaded with travel trunks near the keep steps.
"Why is that carriage prepared at this hour?" Alasdair asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.
No one answered him. The servants near the steps deliberately kept their heads down, refusing to meet their Laird's eyes.
Then Fergus saw Isobel.
She stepped out from the shadow of the great hall doors, standing at the very top of the stone steps. She was wrapped in a dark traveling cloak, and Lilly was cradled securely in her arms.
And Fergus knew.
He crossed the gravel yard immediately, tossing his reins to a boy without looking. He walked fast, his heavy boots slamming against the ground, his stride so predatory and intense that the servants scrambled out of his path without being told twice.
"Where is she?" His voice came out much sharper, much rougher than he had intended, a raw growl that cut through the quiet yard.
Isobel looked down at him from the top of the steps, her gaze perfectly steady, unblinking. There was no surprise in her pale face when she looked at his soot-stained tunic. Only a cold, profound disappointment.
Alasdair reached the steps a moment later, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword. "What in God's name is goin' on here, Isobel?" he demanded.
Isobel adjusted Lilly higher against her shoulder, her movements calm. The child blinked sleepily at the sharp noise, her tiny thumb hovering near her mouth.
"I promised Margaret I would help her," Isobel said quietly, her voice level. "And I intend to keep me word."
Fergus felt a sudden, icy cold wash through his veins, freezing the sweat on his back. "What does that mean, Isobel? Where is me wife?"
"She asked me to trust her to do this on her own," Isobel replied, her dark eyes cutting into him. "She has left, Fergus."
Nay.
