Isobel leaned against the table, her strength fading now that she was away from her father’s gaze. “I do not see that I have a choice.”
“There must be a way around the decree.”
Isobel gave a faint, humorless smile. “There is nothing to be done.”
Margaret took her hands again. “When is he comin’?”
“My father says tonight. Or tomorrow. He does not know. Only that the Laird will arrive when he chooses.”
Margaret shook her head. “Then we daenae have much time.”
The words settled heavily.
Isobel studied her face. Her own heart raced. She had known Margaret her entire life and even before she said the words, she thought she knew what her friend was contemplating. “What are you thinking?”
Margaret hesitated, then drew a breath as though committing herself.
“I am thinkin’,” she said quietly, “that ye should nae be here when he arrives.”
Isobel stared at her. She was awestruck. The notion of defying the Elders and their decree was…unreasonable…irresponsible…and tempting.
A dash of something like rebellion flitted through Isobel.
“What are you saying? She pressed her friend for further details because her own mind was so flooded with possibilities that her imagination failed to sort them out and deliver the most viable. A sense of giddiness spiraled through her abdomen.
I do not have to sit here and wait for the Laird. I do not have to sacrifice myself to absolve my father’s mistakes.
The thought felt unreal, like something from a secret story. For a moment, she imagined it. Riding through the night, leaving everything behind. There would be no more decrees, no stranger claiming her, no future decided for her by men she had never met.
“What can we do?” Isobel demanded.
Margaret tightened her grip on her hands. “I will help ye run away.”
Chapter Three
“Is it done?”
Alasdair stalked toward the makeshift camp he and his clansman, Hamish, had erected earlier in the day. The area was little more than a swath of sprawling grass, a pair of threadbare bedrolls, and a small cooking fire.
“Nay,” Alasdair answered gruffly. His jaw was so tightly clenched, it was an effort to expel even that single word.
“You didnae finish the task?”
Alasdair sent his friend and kin a sharp glance, but all Hamish did was blink his large, blue eyes in surprise. Hamish was only a year younger than Alasdair, but somehow, his features always carried a youthful, hopeful look in them. On this evening in particular, with his bright blue eyes twinkling near the firelight and his plump cheeks looking rather rosy, Hamish was thepicture of health, good fortune, and bafflement. He blinked rapidly, as if stunned by Alasdair’s reply.
“I couldnae.”
Hamish’s jaw dropped. “You mean to say you were thwarted by the McDonoughs?”
At the mention of his foe’s name, Alasdair emitted a low growl. “Not thwarted, Hamish. Merely delayed.”
He dropped onto a plush patch of green grass near the campfire and reached for one of the water skins Hamish had at the ready. Careful not to spill more than was necessary, Alasdair poured the cool, clear liquid into his hands and rubbed them together. Then, he ripped the sleeve from his already damp, blood and perspiration-soaked shirt and pressed it to the mouth of the container. Once the material was saturated, he dabbed the strip of cloth to his nose, wincing slightly at the tenderness near the bridge.
“Ye let the McDonoughs get awayandyer injured?” Hamish’s voice was now a mixture of puzzlement and jesting.
“I’m nae injured,” Alasdair corrected as he scraped away a bit of dried blood with his thumb nail. “And only one of the McDonoughs lived to tell the tale.”
Hamish frowned. “Ye broke it again?” He nodded toward Alasdair’s nose.