Page 36 of Devil Black

“All men?”

“All of them!”

“Even,” Isobel asked tentatively, “your brother’s companion, Lachlan MacElwain?”

Meg glowered. “Him, more than most. If you will speak of a fool—”

“He is a good-looking fool.”

“Aye, and that is the worst kind. Such charm cannot be trusted. I have known him since we were all children, and he does not improve with acquaintance.”

“From what I have observed, he has feelings for you.”

Meg laughed cruelly. “Aye, and the name of his feelings are ‘lust’ and ‘desire.’ He is capable of nothing else.”

“He shall not succeed then, in his suit for your affections?” Isobel asked curiously.

“Is that what you think it? I should have called it seduction.”

Isobel lifted an eyebrow, and Meg laughed reluctantly. “If I want him in my bed, I shall have him there, but that is all there will be to it. I am too wise to involve my heart. And you do likewise, mind.”

“Yes,” said Isobel gravely.

Surprising her, Meg laid a hand on Isobel’s arm. “Truly, Sister, you are an intelligent woman, too much so to get caught by any man’s lies or suggestions.”

Isobel struggled with it. “You are right,” she acknowledged. “But does not your brother’s declared feud with MacNab, and the very fact that he stole me away from Bertram, argue he did, indeed, care for Aisla and that he wishes some sort of revenge?”

“You have hope for him yet?” Meg shook her head. “Had he cared enough, had he the courage I expected of him, he would have done something at the time.” She added passionately, “He would have saved her.”

Isobel nodded, but Meg must have been able to see that she remained unconvinced.

“Ask him, if you do not believe me,” she challenged. “Ask about his courage—or the lack of it—and see what answer he makes. He swore he loved her, long ago. He lied! So I warn you, believe no such words that fall from his traitorous lips.”

“I will be most careful,” Isobel said, despairingly. “And I thank you, Meg, for trusting me with the truth.”

Chapter Sixteen

“You are quiet tonight, Wife,” Dougal observed casually, resting one booted foot on the curb before the simmering fire. Outside, the snow still fell, an accursed, early show of winter. He and Isobel sat alone in the drafty, high-ceilinged hall.

He had roamed far this day and taken a heavy load of silver off a fat merchant. All the while, he had thought only of returning home to his wife and the sweet reception she would give him in her bed. He had been nearly too hard to ride comfortably.

And now that he was here and the hour passing late, she began with women’s games—the withdrawn gaze and prolonged silences. He had not expected Isobel, so fiery and honest, to lower herself to that petty level, and it annoyed him.

“Have I done something to displease you?” he asked ironically.

That persuaded her to look at him, a searing, blue stare. “How could you, my lord, when I have barely seen you this day?”

“Ah, so that is it? You fancy neglect? Well, I cannot be in your bed all day long, more’s the pity. But surely we can repair there now.” He had an accounting, in his mind, of the things he wanted to do to and with her—a long accounting.

She got to her feet and glared at him. “Is that all I mean to you? A warmer for your bed?”

Dougal sighed inwardly, letting none of his aggravation show. Women—almost more trouble than they were worth. Perhaps her mood had swung due to her monthly cycle.

Evenly, he said, “You are my wife and as such deserve respect. And aye, your duties do include warming my bed.”

“Duties?” She nearly soared off her toes, in anger. He had never seen her truly enraged, though he had tasted her other passions; it might prove interesting.

He let his gaze travel over her slowly. “I thought, Wife, it was a duty you enjoyed right well.”