Page 50 of Devil Black

“Tell me MacNab can’t really carry out that threat he made—tell me he cannot assure that you are hanged.”

The whispered plea came suddenly out of the darkness, issuing from the woman who lay, obviously sleepless, beside Dougal. He twitched in response. Since the departure of their unwanted guests, Isobel had barely spoken to him. He had spent a large part of the intervening time riding and tramping his borders and battlements, making sure the guard stood strong. Only in the wee hours had he retreated, ducking the icy wind outside to crawl into her warm bed.

“You should be asleep,” he said softly. He wanted only to lie here and absorb the wondrous heat of her without thought or question. The devil knew he felt unready to contemplate what had happened earlier.

“I know, but my thoughts will not be still.” She stirred restlessly, and the scent of her came to him, subtle and seductive. Despite his bone-deep weariness and his set intentions, his body responded to her nearness involuntarily.

“Husband, where have you been? I had begun to suppose you meant to forsake my bed this night.”

Dougal shook his head. That he would not—could not—do. He had spent every night since his marriage with her, even those when, out of stubbornness, he did not touch her. He could not explain why he should so torture himself, save he felt caught, and never more deeply than now.

“I was busy seeing to our defenses,” he told her. “I do not ken what is coming, but I can sense something. I know MacNab. He will no’ back down. Once your father arrives, he may launch an all-out attack. Tell me, is your father a warlike man?”

“Warlike?” She seemed to muse upon it. “Not at all. He is stern, upright, demanding, and commanding. He believes there is a clear division between right and wrong—”

“Does he believe it strongly enough to accept MacNab’s offer of arms? For you know, he will offer.”

“I am not sure. Nor can I imagine what must be in my father’s mind right now, learning it was I and not Catherine who came north. He will be furious with both of us. He does not take well to deception.”

“Few men do.” Dougal fought the desire to stroke her arm. He knew how she would feel: soft and supple, enough to distract him even from the problems at hand.

“If they do come to your gates seeking battle, my father and MacNab together, what shall you do?”

Dougal answered without hesitation, “Give it to them.”

“Would it not be better and easier for you just to hand me over?”

That did make him turn toward her in the bed. “I have never yet done things the easy way, and you are my wife. You told MacBain you want to stay with me.”

“I did.”

“Is that the truth?”

He heard her breath catch in the darkness. “It is.”

“You are certain? Before this comes to bloodshed—for I declare it to you now, Isobel, if you wish to be with me, I will fight to the death to keep you here.”

“Must we speak of death?” All at once, she was in his arms, burrowing into him strongly and then wrapping her arms around him, tight. “By heaven, you are chilled to the bone.”

“The wind outside is keen as a knife.” Without his permission, his fingers buried themselves in her hair. “And, aye, I fear we must speak of death. For I warn you, it will come if this trouble I sense rushes in upon us.”

“Just so long as you, Husband, remain safe,” she breathed, her lips but a whisper from his.

Did she truly care? Could she care? Or were these just woman’s words, meant to cajole and manipulate? She did not want to return to her father, that was clear, nor did she wish to go to MacNab. Perhaps she just found him, the Devil Black, a less horrific alternative—which, in itself, held a ludicrous irony. She hoped he would defend her, when he had failed to protect the only woman he had ever loved.

He understood what he was—and was not—even if his bonny wife had not yet discovered it. Yet she was here, so close and warm, and his body thrummed in a way he found hard to deny.

“Tell me, Husband—Dougal,” she appealed, “how did you know what story to give MacBain, what tale to spin him—the very same I had chosen: that you rescued me from the road after the coach had wrecked?”

Dougal shook his head in the darkness. He could not quite explain how he had known what to say. He had looked at her and the words just came to him. The fey Scot in him made him ask, “Did you will me to know?”

He expected her to deny it, perhaps scoff at the idea, half Englishwoman that she was. But she whispered, “Yes. Yet, I will many things where you are concerned. Why should that particular wish prove effective?”

“I do no’ ken.” Dougal thought hard about it. A practical man, he nevertheless believed in Second Sight, messages from beyond the grave, and even visits from departed spirits. Was the transference of thought really so much more absurd? Yet the ability to pass a message from her mind to his argued some deep and fast shared connection, and that he was reluctant to warrant. After all, he had shared no such connection with Aisla, whom he had loved better than his own life.

“’Twill be a fluke,” he whispered, “a chance or coincidence.”

“You think so? Perhaps, Husband, we should test it. Can you tell what I am thinking now?”