Page 96 of Devil Black

Isobel looked up. Dougal had caught her at her morning ablutions. Bright sunlight poured through the slit windows of the chamber and turned her hair to flame. Barely a week had passed since the rescue, but the grey weather seemed to have cleared as miraculously as the cloud of despair on Dougal’s heart.

“How is Lachy?” Isobel asked.

“Definitely on the mend—Meg even believes he will keep his arm. Lachy must be nearly well, for he insists on sending for O’Rourke, to perform for him a marriage service.”

“O’Rourke does perform a very fine marriage. To that I can attest.” Isobel raised one eyebrow. “But has Meg agreed to wed with Lachlan?”

“Not yet, though I canna’ think she clawed him back from the very edge of death only to reject him now.”

Isobel did not reply. Dougal watched as a single drop of water trickled down her neck, caressed her throat and headed toward still more interesting regions. By the devil’s horns, how bonny she looked with that red hair all loose, flowing over her shoulders, and wearing but a thin sleeping gown that revealed the tantalizing shape of breast and thigh.

He had not yet attempted to share her bed since their return from MacNab’s stronghold. He had told himself he might yet be arrested if Randal MacNab complained loudly enough to the King, and that Isobel needed time to recover from her ordeal. Aye, he had made all kinds of excuses, dodging the truth, which was that there were things needing to be said between them, and a ghost still to be laid.

Now she lifted her chin and her clear eyes met his steadily. At that look, he felt his blood stir.

“And so Bertram MacNab did not succumb to his injuries, either?”

Dougal leaned against the doorway. “He did not. The man is strong as a bull.”

“And evil as a demon. Husband, will you not come in?” She added carefully, “You might tell me the rest of your news.”

Dougal sauntered in and closed the door behind him. “As you wish.” He sat on the bench in front of the fire, where he had a good view of her, bending to her basin. “Word has it the King, tiring of the cold and damp, has left Stirling and returned to London. It may be Bertram will rot in his cell a long time.”

“So then Randal MacNab will be unable to bend the King’s ear?”

“He will not. But only listen to this—it turns out the estimable scribe William Campbell is himself right close to the King and went to him directly with his account of MacNab’s sins. Who would have thought?”

Isobel stared. “Certainly not I.”

“Nor I.” Dougal stretched comfortably. “The man from whom I got the news says ’tis largely why Bertram was arrested in the first place.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The man from whom you got the news?”

“Campbell, himself.” Dougal grinned. “He stopped by here late last night on his way from Stirling, while you slept. He is away again now, on the King’s business.”

Carefully, Isobel laid aside her cloth and hand towel; he saw her breasts rise as she drew a breath. “Does this mean it is over—truly over?”

“I suspect so. Campbell says Bertram is a broken man who does not wish to live. Apparently that last wound he took refuses to heal.”

Isobel shuddered, but said, “He has what he deserves. And what of his father?”

“Now, there is an interesting thing. When Campbell recited to James a full account of what had taken place, and the things he heard Randal say, the King became so incensed he confiscated all MacNab lands in Lothian. The King does not take well to being a pawn to another man’s ambition. It makes a fine justice, does it not?”

Isobel nodded, still watching him.

“Campbell has recommended a steward—someone local, you understand—to oversee MacNab’s former holdings. He is a man you know right well, who has vowed most sincerely to settle down and live the balance of his life for his lands—and his family.”

“Has he, indeed, so vowed?”

Gravely, Dougal nodded. “So as for whether the thing is over and done—in part that rests with you, Wife, does it not? Can you put what happened behind you? Can your wounds heal?”

She met his gaze, fearless and challenging. “Can yours? They are far deeper than my own.”

He lifted a hand and touched the scar on his cheek. Then he rose and approached her, his thoughts rampant in his mind. Of all the things he needed to say to her, one reigned supreme, and his native honesty would not let him dodge it now.

“I suspect my wounds will scab over now that they have been cleansed,” he said. “Perhaps that is the best for which I can hope.” He reached out softly and touched her face, brow, and chin. “I need to tell you, Wife, I will always love Aisla and will never love any other as I did love her.”

“You think I do not know that?” Gently, she withdrew from his touch, her eyes still holding his.