Page 77 of Devil Black

The door to the great hall where they stood flew open, and one of Dougal’s guards thrust his head inside. “Riders, Laird. Two of them—escorted by our own outriders.”

Dougal’s heart clenched. What now? “Can you tell who they are?”

“Laird, ’tis snowing too hard to tell.”

Dougal followed the man to the forecourt just in time to see that, indeed, two riders—well-wrapped against the cold—approached along with a band of his own men, through snow blowing almost horizontally. One of his warriors broke away and came forward at a trot.

“Laird MacRae, the lady there says she is sister to your lady wife—one Catherine Hewett by name—and she requests shelter.”

Dougal blinked in astonishment. “By all means, Rab, show them in.”

****

Isobel sat combing out her hair beside the fire when the message came. She still felt weak most days and unwilling to venture out of her chamber, but when a breathless Meg delivered the news, she abandoned her comb and ran, quite fleetly indeed.

“Catherine? Here?” she asked Meg in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

“Aye, so she says. And she looks enough like you to be your twin.”

Thus prepared, Isobel burst into the hall to find an impossible sight: Catherine, as out of place as a delicate flower in a byre, looking tired and worn, and beside her the tall figure of Thomas, with whom she had eloped nearly two months ago.

Catherine turned toward her, and Isobel saw she was no longer so slim as before. Her pregnancy now showed clearly, and lines of strain marked her pretty face.

They flew into one another’s arms. At the feel of her sister against her heart, Isobel’s tears rose in a storm. She clutched Catherine tightly and said in a choked voice, “Oh, God, I thought I would never see you again! But, how come you here? How did you find me?”

“The worst of ways!” Catherine released Isobel and looked into her face. “We have had a terrible time of it, Thomas and I, since we left home—naught but struggle, hard travel, and disappointment. In desperation, I thought to come to you at MacNab’s—”

Isobel gasped. “You never went there?”

“No.” Catherine shook her head, looked helplessly at her husband who stood silent, and then, in wonder, at Dougal. “These men stopped us on the road—they seemed to recognize me. They questioned us and said you lived here. I did not know what to think, but they proved insistent, so we came with them.”

“Thank heaven,” Isobel breathed. She turned to the guards, with Rab at their head. “I am grateful to you all.”

“We are after stopping everyone, Lady,” Rab told her, “since your father’s arrival.”

Catherine looked confused. “Father? But he is not here—he is at home. We went there first. He flew into a rage at the sight of us, and sent us off again.” Her face crumpled. “And we have nowhere in the world to go.”

Isobel looked a question at Dougal, beseeching. “This man, Dougal MacRae, is my husband. He will stand you shelter, Sister.”

And Dougal replied without hesitation, “To be sure. Consider this your home for so long as you need.”

Some time later the four of them—Meg and Lachlan having tactfully excused themselves—sat by the fire in the solar, the two sisters with linked hands, words flying between them. Dougal had said little beyond telling Rab and his men they had done well, and so far Thomas had barely spoken. But he held his hands out to the warmth of the fire like a man frozen to the bone, and his face appeared so drawn and grim, he barely looked like the handsome lad with whom Catherine had fallen in love.

“Explain how you came here,” Catherine begged her sister, with a doubtful look at Dougal. “When we parted, the plan was for you to take my place in wedding with Bertram MacNab.”

“Yes, well,” Isobel cast her eyes down, “that plan changed. MacNab, as it proved, is not the man Father thought him. Rather, he is a villain and a brute, virtually at war with my husband. Dougal...intercepted me on the road to MacNab’s keep and most fortuitously redirected me here.”

Catherine cast a doubtful look at Dougal, who sat watchful, his grey eyes hooded. “Intercepted?”

“You need not put too fine a point on it, Wife,” Dougal said. “Lady Catherine, I abducted her on the road—took her by force.”

Thomas came to his feet. “That is an abomination! A crime!”

Dougal barely stirred in response. “To be sure, it is. But this is not Yorkshire. Do not be a fool, man. Sit down.”

Thomas’s fair skin flushed. For a moment it appeared he might quarrel further. Then the fight went out of him. “The world,” he stated, “is a mad place. I cannot account for it.”

“Well said.” Dougal reached to pour more whisky into Thomas’s cup. “Never mind. This will warm you.”