Page 41 of Devil Black

“No rape, I assure you, sir. I wanted him. I do, yet. Had I been forced to lie with you in my poor sister’s place—now, that would have necessitated rape.”

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Dougal was still laughing long after the MacNabs gathered the shreds of their dignity and stalked off, their rage tangible. His mirth seemed genuine, and it annoyed Isobel in a way she could not easily define.

At last she turned on him and exploded, “I do not know what you find so amusing. You have not heard the last of this. You heard him say he will send word to my father, and what he may do I cannot say.”

“I did, indeed, hear him,” agreed Dougal, his eyes still displaying unholy mirth. “Yet, Wife, I can only applaud the spirit you showed. As for your father, surely he will be deep in confusion by now, with your sister having disappeared. Or will he be thinking ’tis yourself ran off, and Catherine here? At least he will be relieved to know you are alive.”

Would he? What would Father feel when he learned his daughter had wed with an infamous outlaw? Would he care? Perhaps all his concern centered on Catherine and he was glad to be rid of his elder, troublesome daughter...

“I do not think ‘relief’ can describe his possible emotions,” she said tersely. “And whether he will actually travel here I cannot say. He has ever professed himself far too busy with the estate to trouble much with us.” Her lips tightened. “He is most diligent toward the estate.”

“Aye?” Dougal gave her a cool look. “And yet this case may be different, surely? He might well bestir himself.”

“He might.”

“So I shall be prepared, give my men instructions to expect company at the gates. Eh?” He slanted a brow at her.

Isobel, thinking hard about it, said slowly, “MacNab will send Father word that I am here, not Catherine. So whatever he thinks now, he will soon know the truth.” She shook her head decisively. “He will not come.”

“We shall see.”

She told him, “Whatever my father decides, I doubt MacNab is done with this. Will he complain to the King?”

“How can he, when you have assured him you chose to wed wi’ me?” Dougal crossed to her side and lifted a finger to trace her lips. “Thank you for that, Wife.”

Helplessly, she gazed up into his eyes, deep grey and as mysterious as a stormy sea.

“But perhaps,” he whispered, “words make an insufficient expression of my gratitude. Can you think of aught else?”

Isobel knew she should not melt into a pliable bundle against him; nothing between them had been resolved. He thought of her still as a weapon, something to be used—his heart remained aloof from her, no matter how intimate their bodies became.

Could she live with that? Could she live without his touch? He declared himself grateful, yet he, like his sister, manipulated people with ease.

Isobel should walk away from him now and preserve what little pride remained to her amid this awful mess. She did not need more hurt or more pain. And yet he held, for her, all the temptation of the devil himself.

“I will think of a proper way for you to thank me,” she told him. “Only give me time.”

Chapter Eighteen

“I do not need you. I do not want you! Be a sensible man and keep out of my life.” The whisper vibrated through the cold silence of the great hall and stopped Dougal in the doorway, unseen. The dawn, just past, had come muffled in deep snow; the couple in the hall, who spoke with their heads close together, stood nearly lost in deep gloom.

Yet, Dougal knew them: his sister, Meg, and his friend, Lachlan—who obviously did not know what was good for him.

As if to prove it, Lachy whispered, “I cannot! You have bewitched me. Do you have any idea how I want you?”

Dougal, unwilling eavesdropper, almost groaned. He—fresh from his wife’s bed and another endless night spent struggling not to touch her—understood the meaning of frustration. But he knew his sister also, and Lachy would get nowhere by begging.

As if to prove him right, Meg laughed. “All men want me, most to their sorrow. Do yourself a favor, Lachy, and give it up.”

Lachlan’s voice trembled when he replied, “I do not think that’s possible.”

Dougal saw his sister reach up and touch Lachlan on the cheek, a gesture of unaccustomed tenderness. “Lachlan, I have known you since we were both children. You are like a brother to me, almost.”

“Do not say that!”

“I stipulated ‘almost.’ We teased and tormented each other as bairns. I know your mind and your considerable failings, as you know mine.”