Isobel had only taken a single step away from the carriage and moved toward her betrothed when two women approached, and Isobel felt herself being assessed with sharp, intelligent eyes.
The first woman was elderly, probably in her seventies, but she carried herself with the upright dignity of someone who’d never learned to bow. Her hair was iron-gray, pulled back sharply from a face that was all planes and angles. She wore black, as if in mourning, but her eyes were shrewd as they studied Isobel.
The second lady was younger, probably close to Isobel’s age, with hair that was the color of raven’s wings and features that resembled Laird MacRaeh’s enough to identify her as his kin. She was attractive in a fierce way, her mouth set in a line that indicated she didn’t smile easily.
The aged woman spoke first, her voice carrying the same authority Laird MacRaeh’s did, though hers was tempered with something that might have been kindness. “I am Lady Branwen MacRaeh, Alasdair’s grandmother. And this is his sister, Sarah.”
Isobel dropped into a curtsy, grateful for the familiar ritual. “Lady Branwen. Lady Sarah. I’m glad to meet you both.”
Glad is not the right word. But it is the available one.
Lady Branwen studied her for a moment longer, then made a small sound that might have been approval. “Ye look like you have been sittin’ in that carriage for three days,” she said. “Which you have. Come. Your chambers are ready, and thereis hot water waitin’, which I suspect ye need considerably more than ye need anythin’ I might say to ye right now.”
She turned and walked toward the castle entrance without waiting to see if Isobel followed, with the unhurried certainty of a woman who had never needed to check whether the world was keeping up with her.
Lady Sarah fell into step beside Isobel. “She likes ye,” she said, in a tone that suggested this was both a pronouncement and a mild surprise.
“How do you know?” Isobel asked for she could not comprehend the matter. She did not think her meeting with Lady Branwen had been amiable nor did Lady Branwen’s manners bear any signs of regard or affection.
“She didnae look at ye with disdain, which is sayin’ quite a great deal.” Sarah’s mouth twitched, showcasing her amusement. “And believe me, she looks at a lot of people with disdain. It's not easy to gain her favor. Even I, as her granddaughter, am subjected to her haughty looks of displeasure from time to time. When I do something stupid, I can count on Granny to remark upon the matter!" Sarah laughed, seemingly unbothered by her strict grandmother's mannerisms.
Isobel stared at Lady Sarah, supremely puzzled by her abrupt change in countenance. A moment before, Isobel could’ve sworn that she would need to pry a smile or a burble of laughter from this woman with a pitchfork, but now, Laird MacRaeh’s sister was beaming at her openly, clearly welcoming her into thefold without any provocation for being so genial other than a benevolent spirit.
“And your brother…” Isobel could not help but sneak a glance over her shoulder at the Laird as she asked, “Is he subject to Lady Branwen’s scrutiny?”
Lady Sarah giggled delightedly. “She is most critical of me brother’s life choices.”
“Ah…” Isobel mused for a long moment before questioning, “And what does your grandmother make of our current affair?” She gestured to her dirt-streaked traveling gown. “Does she frown upon this marriage arrangement?”
Instantly, Lady Sarah sobered. Her eyes darted back and forth between where Laird MacRaeh stood and the spot that Lady Branwen occupied near the entryway to the castle. “Granny doesnae blame Alasdair…or you…for this…situation.” Her lower lip pooched out slightly as Lady Sarah worried it with her top teeth. “She wishes to learn more about the Council of Elders decree, so expect her to press ye with many more questions before the day is through.”
“Thank you,” Isobel whispered. “For the warning. I shall ready myself to be quizzed.”
Lady Branwen’s voice carried back toward them. “Sarah. Stop frightenin’ the girl and come inside.”
“I’m nae frightenin’ her,” Sarah retorted. She waved her hand, gesturing toward the entryway, then held the door open for Isobel. “Granny says I have nay instinct for reassurance. I maintain that I have nay instinct for dishonesty. We have agreed to disagree.”
Despite everything—the ache in her chest, three days of jolting roads, and the uncertainty that lay ahead—Isobel smiled.
She followed the two women into the castle, leaving the bustling courtyard behind. The interior was as imposing as the exterior. The great hall soared above them, its ceiling lost in shadows despite the huge fireplace that roared at one end. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting battles, hunts, and scenes from Highland legends. The floor was stone, worn smooth by generations of boots, and rushes had been laid to make it a bit softer.
It was beautiful in its own austere way. But it was nothing like home.
Lady Branwen led her through corridors and up winding staircases, pointing out various rooms and wings as they went. “The kitchens are below, through that archway. The solar is there, where we have our mornin’ meal when the weather’s fine. The council chamber is through the far corridor; ye will nae be summoned there often.”
“That is a relief,” Isobel confessed.
Lady Branwen gave her a long, accessing look. “Ye daenae want to hear what the council members discuss?”
Isobel shrugged in a noncommittal gesture. “For today, I do not think I should intrude upon affairs of the clan. But…in the future…”
“You reserve the right to change yer mind,” Lady Sarah finished for her and Isobel rewarded the efforts with a nod of approval.
“Precisely.” They continued walking as Isobel added, “Should the Laird ever welcome me into the council chambers, I will do my best to access each situation with care and promote the welfare of the clan.”
“Hmm…” Lady Branwen eyed her critically. “Ye do not wish to overstep then?”
“Never,” Isobel replied resolutely.