Page 9 of Devil Black

With an unwarranted feeling of possession, Dougal shifted the arm that pinned her so his hand splayed over her breast. Her body pressed against his so fiercely, he could feel every breath she dragged into her lungs, and he wanted to enter her, so badly it hurt.

“Now? Now you come with me.”

Chapter Five

“Welcome, Lady Catherine, to my abode.”

Isobel blinked up at the stones of the structure as the black horse thundered through the gate. Night had now truly fallen; she had seen very little of the countryside during the ride hence and had been almost wholly distracted by the presence of the man pressed to her back, but here torches flared and fear stuttered over her senses. She could not guess where she might be, but the place breathed age.

A keep of some sort, not large, though it gave that impression. The black horse’s hooves clattered on stone, making echoes off the face of the building proper. Tiny windows stared down at Isobel, and her heart struggled within her breast. She did not know for what she had hoped during the long, captive ride, but not this. The grim place offered little hope of escape.

And, of course, escape possessed her mind—escape and gratitude that, at least, Catherine was not here in her place. By now Catherine should be far away from home, perhaps even wed with her Thomas and out of this nightmare.

A lone retainer ran out when the horse entered the courtyard. He wore a rough kilt and leather jerkin, and he hurried to shut the gate against the darkness before catching the black horse’s bridle.

“Well, now,” he growled, peering up at Isobel from beneath a wrinkled brow.

“Give him a good rubdown, will you?” her captor returned. “He’s run hard and carried double.”

“Never bothered him afore,” the man said.

Afore? How often did this monster who had hold of her seize women? Ah, Isobel had heard of such men, in tales told of Scotland’s depravities, yet had never quite believed. Neither, apparently, had her father, or surely he would have sent a stouter escort.

Her captor’s hand, which for miles had splayed across her left breast, at last shifted. She felt the play of muscles in his body as he swung her across the saddle effortlessly and dismounted with her still in his grasp.

Isobel’s feet hit the courtyard and refused to hold her; the long, rough ride had robbed her legs of strength. Her captor grunted. Without a word, he swung her up and over his shoulder. Before she had the breath to protest, he carried her through the door of the keep.

The place smelled of wood smoke and clammy stone, and something that might be wet dog. Isobel could see little enough besides the floor passing beneath her, until they entered a chamber and her captor kicked the door shut behind them, then set her down quite carefully.

They looked at one another.

The light here came from a fire that burned steadily on the hearth and from a few tapers set about the room. A rough place it seemed, but Isobel, holding hard to her wits, had no eyes for it.

“Who are you?” she demanded, reaching for her courage. “What is the meaning of this? You cannot just snatch women from the road—”

“Can I not?” he returned swiftly, his voice pricked with humor. “Imagine that!”

I am in trouble, Isobel thought clearly, far more trouble than I have ever seen. He must be a bandit, one of the rapscallions for which Scotland was famed. He looked like a devil, one who happened to possess a lean, clever face and a long, lean body to match. Isobel weighed him as she might any adversary, looking for strengths and possible weaknesses. The process, made difficult by terror, won her a disparate number of facts: terrifying aspect, clothing as rough as that of the retainer outside, black hair tumbling down his back like the mane of his horse, and an air that virtually oozed confidence. He oozed something more, as well: a blatant maleness that, even in these circumstances, made Isobel’s senses stammer.

She could not let herself think about that now. She needed all her energy to fathom the level of intelligence behind those eyes, narrowed between lashes black as ink, and to guess his intentions.

He did not look stupid, which would have benefited her much, since she had confidence in her own wit. And he looked as dangerous as an adder.

“Who are you?” she asked again, wishing she sounded less shaken. “Why am I here?”

He took his time completing his examination of her before deigning to reply. His hard gaze, invasive as a touch, seemed to strip the clothing from her, lingered long on her hair, which had come unbound during the ride, and even longer on her bosom. Reading that look, Isobel very much feared she knew his intentions, and the breath caught hard in her throat.

Thank heaven she was no virgin, if he meant to rape her.

But he gave her a graceful bow before saying, “My lady, you are here because the King has decreed I find a bride.”

That stole every coherent thought from Isobel’s mind. The King? A bride? And, in Scotland, were men in the habit of snatching those from the road?

“I…” She struggled to speak. “I am the intended bride of another. Sir Bertram MacNab.”

Her captor inclined his head. “I know the man, villain that he is. You would do better with me.”

“That is scarcely the point. My father has entered into an agreement with Lord Randal as to a marriage between our families. You cannot just seize another man’s betrothed wife.”