Page 56 of Devil Black

“Isobel! Daughter, are you safe?” Very little emotion, besides anxiety, colored Maitland’s voice. Dougal heard no hint of affection, and he scanned his wife’s face for her reaction. She looked stricken, guarded, and angry. Aye, by now he knew what passed for anger in her eyes.

“Has he harmed you?” Maitland shouted, giving her no chance to reply.

“No.” Isobel shook her head violently, her hair tumbling. “But why are you here?”

“I am mounting a rescue, of course. I have come to take you out of this prison—by force if need be.”

“Well!” Isobel glanced into Dougal’s face and back at her father. “Then I suppose you had better come in so we can discuss it.”

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“There is absolutely nothing to discuss,” Gerald Maitland said in a voice whose educated accents barely covered the basic Yorkshire. A tall man who, at close hand, displayed the bones and blue eyes of Viking forebears, he paced the hall before the fire, the sword he wore rattling.

Dougal thought Maitland did not look entirely accustomed to that sword, yet the glint in his eyes, not unlike Isobel’s, argued he would use it.

Dougal hoped not. He would hate to fell Isobel’s father at her feet, even though on the face of it there seemed to be very little affection between them.

Only a small group occupied the hall—Maitland with both Randal and Bertram MacNab, Isobel, Dougal, and Lachlan. Dougal felt some surprise about Lachy’s presence—until now, he had kept the full extent of his relationship with Dougal under cover. And being here was a virtual declaration of war. But Dougal could spare little attention for that now; he was far too fascinated with watching his wife.

She glowed and shimmered with emotion, like a candle that would not blow out in a gale. Dougal could not, however, quite read the emotions, especially when she looked at her father, for she guarded them then. Rage? Distrust? Determination? All he knew was, she looked rampant as a warrior queen.

“This farce is over,” Maitland went on. “You are coming home with me. And if this blackguard who calls himself your husband objects, I shall take you back by force—just as you came into his hands.”

Isobel shot Dougal a cautionary glance. This one he interpreted quite clearly: it said, Let me handle this. And, aye, he was willing, for the moment. But if things went badly, he would step in. No one would take her from him.

“He is my husband,” Isobel said in a voice that struggled for steadiness. “We were wed—”

“Under duress, no doubt! He pulled you from the wreck of your carriage and brought you here only half conscious, had the priest mumble a few words, and thought, so, to steal an interest in my lands.”

“Ah!” The tone of Isobel’s voice altered. “It is about the lands. I thought it must be.”

“Do not be foolish!” Maitland barked. “I care about your welfare also, far more than you seem to. You have yet to explain to me why you came to Scotland, and where your sister has gone.”

“You mean, you do not know?”

“I have been half mad with worry! I thought it was you who disappeared the same morning she came north. I sent men out searching—there was no trace. At length, my bailiff came to me, confessing that his son, Thomas, had also disappeared. I thought you had run off with him, willful, ungrateful daughter that you are!”

Isobel seethed. “I warrant you were relieved then, to have me, disobedient and damaged, off your hands?”

“It made some sense. You had transgressed, so, before. When my good friend MacNab’s messenger came advising me Catherine had never arrived and that it was you, and not she, being held captive, I did not know what to think. But relief never came into it.”

“If you do care about my welfare, as you claim, then you should thank that man, my husband. He rescued me on the road, brought me here, and kept me safe.”

“Rescued you! I have it on the best authority it is more likely he held up the carriage, abducted you, and forced the marriage.”

Head high, Isobel demanded, “Do I look like a woman who has been forced to do anything?”

Dougal, remaining silent with difficulty, had to admit she did not. She looked proud and magnificent, but Maitland’s nostrils flared in anger.

“You have never known what is good for you, Daughter. Would you even recognize coercion in the form of kindness?”

“I would, despite the fact that I have seen so little warmth or kindness my life long.”

Maitland’s stern face convulsed with rage, and he lashed out for Isobel’s cheek, but fast as he moved the blow never landed—Dougal caught his wrist in a grip of iron.

“Nay, sir, you will not,” he growled. “That is my wife.”

“She is my daughter, and I will discipline her as required.”