Page 49 of Devil Black

“Indeed, Mistress, you would do well to speak with your husband, if you wish to stay married to him. If he does not curb his activities, I can assure you he will be hauled away, and you may well end a widow.”

Isobel raised her hands to her lips. “I understand.”

“And now, Mistress, I must go speak with your husband. It has been a pleasure meeting wi’ you.”

He turned smartly and marched back to the great hall, Isobel following, where MacNab and MacRae were, predictably, more angry. Things had grown heated indeed, and more than one man’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

They broke off and stared as MacBain and Isobel entered the chamber. Isobel saw Dougal narrow his eyes and set himself, a man expecting a fight.

But it was to Randal MacNab the captain spoke first. “Sire, I find myself satisfied this woman has not been constrained into marriage. I shall report my findings—”

“What!” MacNab’s bellow tore through the hall. “How can this be? The blackguard snatched her off the road, held her here in secret, procured a drunken priest—”

“Mistress MacRae assures me she married by her own volition, sir, and is satisfied with the union.”

Randal MacNab’s face grew dusky with rage. “Well, aye, she may say that. The bastard will have enchanted her in some way.”

“Enchanted her?” Dougal lifted a brow and smiled nastily. “Am I now supposed to be a purveyor of the dark arts?”

“Aye, like your sister. Everyone knows what she is, and the fate that befell her husband. And they do no’ call you Diabhal Dubh for naught.”

Captain MacBain stiffened. “I am no’ here to deal with superstition. MacRae, your wife has spoken and attested to the validity of your marriage.”

“Aye.” Dougal shot a quick look at Isobel, which she failed to interpret. “You will see, only, that I obeyed the decree of my King, who bade me wed, settle, and get my house in order.”

MacBain smiled tightly. “Aye, sir, and I need only confirm one thing concerning how Mistress Isobel MacRae came to be in your household. She has given me an account—yet I need verify it with your own.”

No fool, the good captain, Isobel thought, her stomach muscles clenching again. He suspected Isobel might have spun him a tale and thought still to catch Dougal out, here before everyone.

And Randal MacNab, like a wolf scenting blood, went silent, gestured to Bertram, and the room went suddenly still.

Isobel knew she could not speak, not even to hint to her husband what path her story had taken. Fools that they were, they should have established a likely tale before it came to this. Now, Dougal might well be caught and, if MacBain had reason to suspect, hauled off to answer for his crimes.

Dougal, eyes still narrowed and head thrown back, had never appeared more dangerous. He looked once at Isobel, a searching glance during which she tried to convey—wordlessly, by magic if need be—the tale she had told MacBain. Because she now knew, to the depth of her soul, were this man to be hanged she might as well end her own life, for she could not exist without him.

Dark grey and mystical as smoke, his eyes met hers before returning to the captain’s.

“Ah,” he said, “you will be referring to the rescue, when her coach overturned. I happened to be out riding that evening and found her unconscious on the side of the road. I had no idea her companions had ended in the ravine, nor did I know at first who she was. I believe her own wits were addled for a time. When I did learn the truth—”

Randal MacNab, no longer able to control himself, interrupted, “When you learned the truth, you did not, as might any reasonable man, inquire round the district about a lost lady of quality, nor let it be known she had been found. Instead, you decided to ruin and then marry her, no doubt thinking her father’s lands must be worth something to you?”

“It did not happen that way.” Isobel spoke in a clear voice that failed to disguise her anger, and glared at MacNab as she stepped to Dougal’s side. “How dare you so insult me?” Ignoring the irony inherent in speaking the words, she went on, “How dare you imply I would submit to any man before marriage?”

“He is a devil,” Bertram MacNab responded, “who has ruined good women before you, Mistress Maitland.”

“Mistress MacRae,” Isobel corrected him haughtily. “And I quite think this has gone on long enough. Sir,” she turned to Captain MacBain, “we have answered your questions fairly.”

He executed a bow and signaled to his men. “Thank you, Mistress, for your patience.”

“Do not be deceived!” Randal MacNab howled. He turned his glare from MacBain to Isobel. “And you, lass, just wait until your father arrives. I thought to get you away out of here and spare him this distress, but you will answer to him, and he will not be so easily deceived.”

Isobel’s heart sank in dismay, but she kept her head high. “I shall, of course, be pleased to welcome my father into my new home.” Shocking, how well she now lied. Her life had, in fact, become unimaginable, the one consistency her feelings for the man who stood, like a rock, at her side.

And it was to Dougal that MacNab directed his parting words, in a sneer.

“This is no’ over, MacRae. Do not think you have escaped judgment. I will not rest until you hang!”

Chapter Twenty-One