“We are spared a siege this night,” he said, lowering his hand from his nose. “But ‘twill no’ last. Each day brings Longshanks and his rabid dogs closer to our door.”
Isabel nodded. She had already known this much was true. Still, hearing him say it aloud made something inside her chest tighten. If only she could summon the powers of Merlin and eradicate the enemies from Scotland.
His gaze fixed on hers. “Ye canna remain here.”
Uncle Robbie’s words struck harder than any blow. Isabel straightened, certain she hadn’t heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“’Tis no longer safe for ye.”
Not safe. Isabel’s pulse quickened, a dozen possibilities racing at once. Where in blazes was he going to send her? North, perhaps? One of his more distant holdings, far from the fighting. She opened her mouth to argue but the resolute expression, the stiff set of his mouth, had her close it again.
A sudden thought burst through her panic, this one, equally riddled with alarm. What if he intended to wed her off to someone else? To have them protect her so she was no longer his problem?
Swallowing the earlier hesitation, she questioned. “Ye are better served with me here, uncle.”
Uncle Robbie shook his head. “Nay, lass. And I’m too exhausted to spar with ye. I’ve made my decision.”
Perhaps it was a good thing she could not summon the magic of Merlin, for her uncle might no sooner have said those words than croaked like a toad on the floor. “I’d like a say in where ye sent me.” She had a cousin in France, and she’d been meaning to brush up on her French.
“Nay. Ye’ll go to the Isle of Skye.”
Isabel blinked, confused. “Skye?”
“With Lachlan MacLeod, as soon as he is able to travel.”
An incredulous breath escaped her. That edict made absolutely no sense. MacLeod wouldn’t be able to travel for a month. Longer, if a fever took hold. That was if he survived the next twenty-four hours. Every other healer within a hundred hours’ ride would say the same
“I shall have Elsa and the staff prepared for me to leave in the next moon cycle.”
Her uncle’s expression did not change. “Ye underestimate the man. Ye’ll leave within a sennight.”
Or perhaps ye, uncle, overestimate the man. Isabel bit the inside of her cheek to keep the words from slipping out. Whether or not the man could ride was not the issue at hand. It was that her uncle wanted her gone, and she wanted to stay. So badly, that he would rather send her away like cargo with a man who was nearly dead on his table this morning. If his goal was to see her buried, there were easier and quicker ways.
“Pardon my saying so, but ye’ll no’ want to tax the man. I shall attend him until he is ready, as ye said, which will be much longer than a sennight.”
The men in the room shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, drawing Isabel back to the audience. Well, she decided she didn’t care if they were here. With no one else to advocate for her, Isabel had to advocate for herself–even if it meant through the life of the Wolf of Skye.
“My goal,” he said evenly, “is to keep ye alive, and your goal is to keep him alive.”
Isabel swallowed a disbelieving laugh. A man hovering at death’s door is my surest protection? She knew she was exhausted but even she wasn’t that stupid to believe such a thing.
Uncle Robbie held her gaze. “That man has survived worse than this. And when he stands again, there is no safer place for ye than at his side.”
Isabel’s pulse faltered briefly before she forced a scoff.
“MacLeod is no’ simply a warrior,” her uncle continued. “He is loyal, to me, and to Scotland. There was a betrayal on the field of battle today. Men I thought I knew turned away from us.” His jaw tightened. “MacLeod is among a few men I trust without question. If I must send ye away, it will be with a man I know will no’ fail ye.”
Isabel crossed her arms tightly over her chest, as if to ward off her uncle’s ridiculous idea that a man half dead could protect her, especially one who’d nearly died this morning. But perhaps it wasn’t the smartest idea to remind him of that, in case he got the notion she wanted a different protector. Which she did not. She didn’t want any protector.
And did her uncle truly believe that MacLeod had not died because of his loyalty? Preposterous!
“Skye is defensible.” Uncle Robbie sat up, stretching out his other leg. “A narrow crossing. Difficult to reach. Even more difficult to hold. Longshanks will no’ waste men chasing ghosts that far north.”
Isabel’s stomach turned. What her uncle called safe, felt more like exile. Once again she had no control of her own situation, and it seemed her uncle was sending her straight to death. Heat crept up her throat, not one prone to anger, she worked hard not to start screaming, but she was certain her rage was visible on her face.
“And the marriage ye were arranging?” she asked, her voice tight. Saying I do, terrified her more than going to Skye with a wounded man who was supposed to somehow protect her when he could barely get up off the table and stay conscious.
Uncle Robbie’s gaze flicked to hers, assessing. “Postponed.”
