Page 94 of Devil Black

Isobel, riding alongside the two men, blinked at her husband—this stranger with the wild, black hair, bloodied face, and seeping wounds. In the light cast by the stars and a half moon, with the blade glittering silver in his grasp, he might have been a savage conjured from the past.

She knew Dougal MacRae as harsh, unbending, and ruthless. He had earned the name of Devil Black full well. Yet always, in her experience, had he held his emotions in check. Even when they lay together and their passions ran high, she sensed a part of him kept back as if he guarded himself.

But the battle she had just witnessed defied all that, made a mockery of restraint and any civilized veneer he had ever worn. Life and death had balanced on his blade, and did yet.

“No one pursues us,” said the scribe, looking over his shoulder, and not for the first time. He seemed nervous about the choices he had recently made and how he had cast his lot.

“They will not come,” Dougal growled from between clenched teeth. “Not unless they want this bastard to die.”

He jerked Bertram by the rope that encircled his throat, and Bertram made a sound like a trapped animal. Isobel could feel the rage emitting from Dougal. She also felt such a tangle of other emotions—terror, relief, horror, love, and, surprisingly, pride—she could barely contemplate them.

“Do you mean to kill him?” Catherine asked. Isobel glanced at her sister and felt concern; Catherine rode her mount hunched over, as if in pain or as if protecting the babe she carried, but her voice sounded strong.

“I am no’ certain,” Dougal replied.

“He deserves to die,” Isobel shocked herself by saying, and her husband looked at her sharply.

“I know.”

Bertram, fool that he was, spat, “You ha’ not got the balls to kill me, MacRae! ’Twould mean all-out war and an excuse for the King to end your practices in the district.” Beneath his defiance, Isobel heard the pain in his voice, and it gave her satisfaction.

“And what of your practices in the district,” she challenged quickly, “terrorizing the women who fall into your hands and, no doubt, the wives and daughters of your clansfolk and tenants. Should that not be ended? Would the world not be a better place without you?”

With difficulty, Bertram turned his head to stare at her. “By God, what kind of woman are you?”

Dougal laughed joyously. “She is the daughter of Celts and Vikings—a fearful combination! Trust me, MacNab, the only thing keeping you alive is my need to get these women safe off your lands. When we reach my border, we shall think again.” Cruelly, he drew Bertram’s head back. “You recall the boundary where you left me some eight years ago?”

“Still no one coming,” said Campbell.

Ahead, a shallow burn marked the boundary of MacNab’s holding. On the far side of it waited Dougal’s small troop of warriors, all mounted. They gave a shout when they identified the approaching riders, and lowered their swords.

“Go,” said Dougal to Isobel. “Take your sister across.”

“What will you—?” Isobel began, trying to look into his eyes.

He lowered his lashes. “Go.” He told the scribe, “You stay. I need a witness.”

Campbell, looking unhappy and a bit ill, obeyed. Isobel splashed her mount through the water to the opposite bank, with Catherine behind her.

One of the warriors called to Dougal, “Your man Hewett is awa’ with your letter to the King.”

“It is well. You hear that, MacNab? What do you think the King will make o’ this night’s work?”

Bertram sneered, “He will have your head, MacRae. James is in my father’s pocket.”

“You think so? For, I am thinking ’tis you who may hang, instead of me. Get down.”

Swiftly, Dougal dismounted and hauled Bertram after him. Isobel, watching from the far bank, thought it a scene out of some dark dream, lit only by the cold stars and the half moon.

Bertram wobbled when his feet hit the ground; the wound in his thigh, grave and deep, had cost him a lot of blood. Dougal leveled the sword, already stained, at his throat.

“On your knees,” Dougal ordered. “I want to hear you beg for your life.”

“I will be damned!”

“Aye, no doubt, but that will come later. This is my time of justice. On your knees, or you die where you stand.”

Slowly and with a glance at the scribe, Bertram sank down onto his knees.