Dungavin
Isabel dismounted and embraced Fanny when she emerged from the croft, looking sheepish. “Why did ye nay tell me?” she asked.
“Weel, child, ’tis nigh on fifty years since I left Harris. I surmised ye’d need someone who kent a thing or two about healing, but I had to pluck up courage to defy the storm kelpies and cross the water.”
Isabel hugged her again, deciding to ignore the reference to the old wives’ tale of mythical sea creatures intent on drowning the unwary. “And here ye are.”
“Yer father isna one o’ my favorite people, but if he died and I’d done naught to stop that evil woman…”
“He’s nay going to die,” Darroch assured her.
Fanny’s smile turned to a squeal when he put his big hands on her waist, lifted her and twirled around in circles.
Kyla laughed.
“Stop that, ye big oaf,” Fanny cried breathlessly. “Ye’ll kill me before I’ve a chance to thumb my nose at the Nellis woman.”
She clung to him a little too long when he set her down, reminding Isabel of certain remarks about never being too old.
“Dinna fash,” her cousin said with a sly laugh. “I ken he belongs to ye.”
Isabel wondered if she’d ever get used to Fanny’s insights into her thoughts.
Kyla lifted her arms to her father, obviously wanting to be twirled the same way.
Laughing, Darroch immediately obliged, leaving Isabel to ponder the notion of giving in too easily. If the bairn had to speak to get what she wanted…
Still, there’d be time enough to sort out such things later.
Boyd appeared from behind the cottage, a small cart pulled by a dray horse following in his wake. “This good fellow will convey Fanny to the castle,” he explained, pointing to the crofter.
“One last thing,” Darroch said.
Fanny sighed. “I ken. I’ll nay do or say anything to cause Ghalla to suspect we’re wise to her schemes. Though I’ll be hard pressed to be pleasant.”
Isabel chuckled. “That surely would rouse her suspicions.”
*
They deliberately approached Dungavin at a leisurely pace and reined to a halt within sight of the gate. Blue waited with uncharacteristic patience for permission to proceed. Darroch sensed Isabel’s mixed feelings as she stared at the castle where she’d lived most of her life. “I’m here with ye,” he reassured her.
She shifted her weight in the saddle. “The thing that bothers me the most is that I’m bringing my new husband home to an uncertain welcome. Dungavin was always a place of love and laughter when my mother was alive, now…”
“And it will be again,” he promised, determined to help her right the wrongs, but aware similar things could be said of Dun Scaith.
A group of MacRain clansmen gathered at the gate, but they seemed more curious than hostile. One or two even waved.
Kyla was the only one who returned the gesture, though Blue’s tail thumped the ground.
Isabel smiled. “I suppose we should take our cue from the bairn. Behave as if there’s naught amiss.”
She led the way. The crowd parted as they rode through the gates.
“Welcome home, Lady Isabel,” some said.
“Is yon mon wearing a MacKeegan plaid?” others muttered.
“And who’s the auld woman?”
“Did ye ever see such red curls on a wee lass?”
Isabel smiled, acknowledging those who welcomed her, giving no hint of the turmoil roiling within. It filled his heart with pride.
The hound trotted into the courtyard with head held high and tail wagging, accepting as his due that folk fussed over him as much as his mistress.
Darroch dismounted and set Kyla on her feet beside Blue, knowing the dog would watch over her. He put his hands on Isabel’s waist and lifted her down from Storm. “Courage,” he whispered as their eyes met.
She gripped his shoulders. “I draw my courage from ye,” she replied.
Boyd assisted Fanny from the cart just as a stout woman with jet black hair swept down the steps of the keep and entered the courtyard, a pock-faced youth in her wake. He assumed this was Ghalla and her son.
Having faced death in numerous skirmishes and innumerable gales, he knew what fear was, but the eerie malevolence that clung to the pair sent a shiver racing up his spine. He resisted the powerful urge to draw his sword, bellow a war cry and dispatch them both back to the netherworld. Instead, he took Isabel’s hand and waited.
*
“Isabel,” Ghalla shrieked, swooping to enfold her in a stiff embrace. “I’ve been worried. Ye left without a word.”
Isabel took a step back and inhaled deeply, hoping the speech she’d rehearsed came out the right way and that she betrayed none of her true feelings. “Forgive me,” she said as Ghalla dabbed at dry eyes with a kerchief. “I was distraught after what happened, I had to get away.”
“Ye had no right,” Tremaine hissed. “We were to be…”
“Not now, Tremaine,” his mother interrupted without even looking at him. “We’ll discuss that later.”
Isabel’s stepbrother clenched his jaw and glowered at her.
She took the offensive. “As it happens, ’twas fortunate I went away. The fates led me to the mon I was supposed to wed that terrible day, and we discovered it was all a dreadful mistake.”
Ghalla raked her gaze over Darroch. “This is the snake that jilted ye?”
Her outrage sounded genuine, but the color rising in her normally pale cheeks betrayed her unease—perhaps even a hint of lust.
Tremaine’s gaze darted hither and yon, as if seeking some means of escape.
Isabel faked a chuckle. “Aye, but ye’ll laugh. He thought I’d jilted him.”
Darroch smiled broadly. “Can ye credit there was some kind of mix-up? There I was, waiting at Dun Scaith…”
Ghalla waved him away like a pesky gnat. “Aye, weel, we’ll have to see what yer father says about his suitability.”
Isabel could scarcely wait to deliver the coup de grace, but had no intention of revealing her true feelings for Darroch. She clasped Ghalla’s cold hands. “We married as soon as we discovered the mistake. ’Twas our duty, for the good o’ both clans.”