Page 72 of Devil Black

Dougal’s face swam into view. Oddly, he too looked changed. She vaguely remembered clinging to the idea of him, the desire for him, the intense need. Yet she had never seen him like this, subdued and tentative, even the wild, black hair tamed at the nape of his neck.

He seated himself on the edge of the bed, and she realized he had been there before this, had gripped her fingers and cradled her hand. She gazed into his eyes—the color of the sky after storm—and gasped at what she saw.

“Wife,” he said. Only that, but it held claiming and gladness that buoyed Isobel’s heart.

She reached out, and he twined his fingers with hers. She realized Dougal, seldom at a loss for either words or confidence, did not know what to say.

So she spoke. “Meg will not say what befell me.”

“Do you not remember?”

Isobel frowned. “I have pieces of it: being here in this bed, ill, floating in darkness and pain. But I do not understand.”

Dougal glanced over his shoulder at his sister and the servant, who moved about gathering the used bedding and other paraphernalia.

Meg shook her head and shooed the servant before following her. “Since she does not remember, you will have to tell her, Brother. I did my work, now you do yours.”

He whispered a curse softly and turned back to Isobel, his expression grim.

“What must you tell me?” Isobel asked. “What has befallen me?”

“You suffered a fall when escaping from MacNab’s keep. Meg has been busy healing you.”

Amazement touched Isobel, and then perplexity. “Escaped!”

“He held you captive after snatching you from within these walls.” Dougal looked fierce. ‘I must apologize to you, Wife. You should have been safe in your own home. I failed you.”

The look in his eyes told her he did not speak the words lightly or with ease: admitting failure of any kind nearly choked him.

Isobel’s sluggish mind began to waken, aligning some of the pieces. “What is it you are keeping from me?”

“Meg employed magic to heal you. It may have stolen some of your memory.”

“But you can tell me all. What is it you refuse to say?” Isobel struggled with it. “MacNab snatched me? Why?”

“In an effort to hurt me, of course. Do you not recall? Your father is with him.”

“Yes.” The memories came slowly, but they came. “I was in MacNab’s stronghold… I went to my father to sue for rescue. I found him drunk. But my father never drinks to excess.”

“Your father is securely in MacNab’s pocket.” He squeezed her fingers. “But, Wife, the courage you showed in the face of danger was remarkable. One of my warriors could not have been more valiant.”

“I fell! I fell climbing down the wall from the window, in the dark. I ran—”

“Aye. My men and I came upon you, exhausted and half raving, in pain.”

Isobel recalled flames and darkness, pain that came in waves and cleaved her like a sword. “I feel so weak now.”

“You bled much. We thought we should lose you. Lachlan rode to Stirling for a physician, who has promised to come later this morning. No sooner did Lachy return than Meg told me she thought you would survive.”

Again, Isobel searched her husband’s eyes. “There is more? Tell me!”

He drew a ragged breath. “When we got you here, safe, Meg realized you were miscarrying. You have lost our child.”

“What?” Isobel felt amazement widen her eyes; her fingers spasmed in his, but he did not release them. “I did not even know I was carrying.”

“No, it was very early. But you bled so much, we thought we must lose you also.”

His expression—calm, almost wooden—was belied by the agony in his eyes. Isobel, beholding it, knew it must be for the child she had carried so briefly, his heir. For had he not told her, fairly, he would never love her?