Page 83 of Devil Black

“Our men reached the forecourt just before Bertram MacNab and his men attacked. Many of our warriors fell at the outer gates—dragging our dead, they withdrew to the doors of the keep and fought on. When the doors broke, and Rab fell, that is when Lachy pulled himself up. He stood in that doorway and held off MacNab’s men as long as he could. When they at last took him down, I believed him dead.”

She paused and sucked in a breath. “It felt like my heart tore from my chest. I did not want to love him! I swore I would never again be so weak.”

To Dougal’s horror, she began to weep broken, ragged sobs into her hands. Dougal experienced one moment’s pure identification with his sister: he knew in full her pain, her dismay, her belief that she had protected herself. He too had grown a shell woven of darkness and hurt, fancying himself untouchable.

Isobel…

Yet, he did not love his wife… He feared for her, aye, he desired her, he longed to protect her. But unlike Meg, he was incapable of love.

And he had little comfort for his sister, now. He did not attempt to take her into his arms. Instead he looked at his friend—his one friend in the world.

“What are his injuries? His arm, you say?”

“The original wound was a grievous blow to his chest. His right arm is cut to the bone in two places—I do not know how he held a sword. So many other wounds, I lost count of them.” Meg flipped back the cloak that covered Lachlan. Beneath it he lay naked, a maze of slashes and contusions.

Dougal winced and raised one hand to the deep scar on his own cheek.

“He may lose the arm,” Meg went on, “if he lives. I have done all I can, all I know. The fever may defeat me.”

“Never say that,” Dougal whispered. “He is strong.” And, what would life be without Lachlan at his side, rueful and light of spirit, his humor always matching Dougal’s own and game for any endeavor? “His own courage will save him.”

Meg turned her head and looked her brother full in the eyes. “I only wish you had possessed such courage when Aisla needed you. It might have prevented all this.”

Dougal did not duck the accusation in her eyes. “Do you not think I have blamed myself a thousand times?”

Her lips twisted. “Much good that does us now. Much help to Isobel and Catherine—you know what MacNab will do to them.”

“You think I will not fight to rescue Isobel?”

“Will you? As you fought for Aisla?”

Aye, Dougal thought desperately, passionately, though no word passed his lips. I did the best I could. I failed—I was little more than a lad, and I failed. It shall not end so, this time.

“Tell me how they left Lachy alive,” he begged.

“They thought him dead, as did I. MacNab took the women and would have taken me, also, but I threatened him with a curse. I stood over Lachy’s body—I stood, Brother, and defied them. A lesson you might well learn.”

Dougal nodded, again not dodging the missile of her hate.

“What will you do?” Meg challenged with a sneer.

“Give MacNab what he wants—what he has always wanted.”

Meg lifted a brow. “And, what is that?”

“Me,” Dougal replied. “I mean to place myself squarely in his hands.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Courage, Catherine,” Isobel said to her sister with assurance she did not truly feel. “You must be brave for the sake of your child, if for no other reason.”

Catherine made no reply. She had been ill, shivering and vomiting, since they arrived at MacNab’s keep, and that worried Isobel sorely. Truly, Isobel fretted for the babe her sister carried, more than for her own safety.

At least they were together, she thought now, and at least Bertram MacNab had not put them in the vile chamber where Isobel had last been held—that where Aisla had been imprisoned and had doubtless died. The bedposts in this bedchamber held no scars, and Isobel would take reassurance wherever she could find it.

She stroked her sister’s hair, a gesture she had often employed since their mother’s death. Back then, Catherine had clung to her and wept. As the elder, Isobel strove to hide her own grief, even as she hid her terror now.

“Only think on our Viking ancestors,” she said, “or, indeed, the Scottish ones. Would those brave women weep and moan?”