Page 17 of Devil Black

He smiled, and she felt the effects all the way to her toes.

Hastily, she said, “What now?”

“I think we had better wed, and swiftly, do you not?”

“I do not.”

“So, would you rather be bedded on the wrong side of the blanket? Honestly, now!”

“You do not deserve honesty.”

“Nay, but we have established you do. By any road, contrary to what you may believe, there is honor among thieves—and bandits. We shall have the priest this night.”

Swiftly he released her and went to the door, where he bellowed. Isobel, feeling strangely bereft, wrapped her arms about herself.

A man came in response to MacRae’s call—not the same one Isobel had seen before. This man looked younger and, if possible, even rougher. He wore a sword buckled at his side.

“Aye?” he said with barely a modicum of courtesy.

“Go fetch O’Rourke. Bring him here at once.”

“He will be drunk.”

“Aye, so. Bring him anyway.”

The man swept Isobel with a brilliant glance and went.

“O’Rourke?” Isobel questioned.

MacRae splashed more whisky into his cup. “The priest.”

“The priest is drunk?”

“Most of the time. It prevents him making moral judgments. As a consequence, he is a friend of mine—much as can be said of anyone. I do not truly have any friends.”

Isobel contemplated this for an instant. “Is this terrible priest not defrocked?”

“No. He is able to perform the marriage service, and ’twill stand even before your father—and the King. We will need witnesses, mind. Likely not my sister. Her reputation in the district is woefully lacking.”

“You discuss this as if you dream I will agree.”

That caused him to turn those eyes—the color of a stormy sky—upon her again. “Must I kiss you once more?”

“No! I believe, as I said before, you should release me.”

“I cannot do that. I do not wish MacNab to have benefit of you, you see. It is an old quarrel, but a sharp one.”

“Then just send me home. Send me with a safe escort, and I will tell my father you treated me well. I will tell him you rescued me from my abductor.”

MacRae’s eyes narrowed.

Isobel rushed on. “I shall describe my abductor as some vile lout who thought to hold me for ransom. You came along and rescued me at sword point. You will look the hero, I swear it.”

“You are a clever wench, I will give you that.” He actually seemed to consider the proposal, and Isobel’s heart quivered with hope. She just might talk her way out of this.

“Sit,” he bade her again. He came and sat beside her, the cup of whisky in his hand. “What of the fact that, should I send you home, your father would turn about and ferry you to MacNab once more—under escort of an army, no doubt?”

“He will not,” Isobel lied. “I can talk him round.”