“Isobel!” Catriona cried as she rushed forward and wrapped Isobel in an embrace. The document was smashed between them, and Isobel was momentarily struck speechless by her mother’s fervor.
Her father ignored this show of affection and continued talking in a tone that lacked all sense of animation. “The Laird of Dunalasdair controls the northern territories, vast stretches of them. Thousands of men. The Crown wants him bound to a Lowland family. He…he and his clansmen are known for their…divided loyalties.” Isobel could see that her father, even in his stupor, was choosing his words carefully. “The Elders elected to create this alliance between our family and his because having the people of Dunalasdair show fealty to the Crown is…is desirable.”
Isobel peeled herself out of her mother’s iron grip and scoffed. She looked down at the paper in her hands once more and re-read the terse words. “Could not the same be said for any Laird in Scotland? Does the Crown not wish to have all its subject prove their fidelity?”
Her father shook his head slowly. “The Laird of Dunalasdair is…”
When he did not manage to answer, Isobel turned to her mother.
Catriona backed away half a pace. She put just enough space between them so she could wring her hands.
“Mama?” Isobel said softly, entreating her mother to deal justly with her.
“I have heard rumors, dearest,” she whispered in a voice that was edged with apprehension. “Some say the Laird of Dunalasdair fought at Culloden and came off that field a different man from the one who went onto it.” She pulled a white lace handkerchief from her pocket and took to twisting it between her fingers.
“The men I know who fought in that battle and lived…” Her words broke off there for a moment. “The hardships have endured. Those men are haunted.” Isobel’s mother cast a long look at her before adding, “But for the Laird of Dunalasdair, the Battle at Culloden changed everything.” She lifted the handkerchief and dabbed it on her neck, as if just recounting the trials the Laird faced had caused her to overheat.
“His father died there. He took the Lairdship at seventeen, and there was no one left to show him how to rule the clan, so he held the title the only way he knew. They say he has killed men who stood against his clan with his bare hands. Even when there was no more battling to be done, the Laird of Dunalasdair soughtvengeance. Men who thought distance would protect them… Men who thought his reach had limits were hunted and shown otherwise.” Her voice dropped low as she reached the conclusion of her terrifying tale. “They say there is no record of anyone who crossed him twice.”
The room was very still.
Isobel knew not what to say. Her mother had never been the sort of woman to indulge in idle gossip or tell stories of darkness that were meant to frighten. Furthermore, her father, throughout this whole period, had continued quaking and guzzling glasses of whisky. She could not account for seeing him in such a state ever before.
Another vision of the Highlander she had encountered earlier in the day returned to her mind’s eye.
He ruthlessly cut down one male and only hesitated before dispatching the next because of my interference.
Still…Isobel acceded that she did not know the particulars. She could not say for certain that the Highlander had behavedruthlessly. She would not condemn that man, or any other, including the Laird of Dunalasdair, without first searching for the truth.
“Could any of these rumors be false?” Isobel asked.
“I have no reason to believe these accounts have been exaggerated.” Her mother’s eyes met her own and stayed locked there. “I want to tell you otherwise. I cannot.”
The silence lingered again. Isobel looked at the parchment in her hands, at her father’s sullen features, and at the candle burning low in its holder near the edge of the desk. She thought of the decree, signed and sealed, and carried north by riders who had not looked back. She thought of men in distant rooms who had written her name in careful script next to a stranger’s and considered the matter settled.
“So, you have given me to this man to save yourself. You do not trust him. You do not know anything of him other than what the gossips have tattled yet…you have done this…to me.” Isobel had never lashed out at her father before. But now, standing in this room, holding a document which did not seek her consent nor allow her to refute the claim, she felt inclined to show a little displeasure.
Her father flinched. “I am trying to give you a future.” His voice broke on the last word, just slightly, and she watched him press his mouth flat to stop it from happening again. “I know what I have done. I know what I have cost you. I have nothing left to offer you except this, and I know what this is.”
“You are sending me to a man whose own reputation is so cruel, it has reached the Lowlands,” she said. She eyed her father scornfully as outraged fueled her words. “You have accepted this decree and are now presenting it to me as if you are giving me a gift.” She flung the parchment onto the desktop, then spunabout so she could glare at her father fully. “Your debts have been cleared. Your good name was restored. Now, all I have to do is marry a man who instills such fear into others that my own father dares not speak his name!”
“I must do this. We must.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I know I cannot protect you, my Isobel, but this marriage…this arrangement…It is the most I can give. I wish to God it were more.”
The words settled heavily in the room. Isobel stared at him, trying to summon more anger, but what rose instead was a hollow weight that made her feel strangely distant from herself. She looked down at the parchment again, at the unfamiliar penmanship and wondered how something so small could alter the course of her life entirely.
She drew a slow breath. “When?” she asked quietly.
Her father hesitated. His fingers wrapped around the glass of whisky as though he were bracing himself.
“He is on his way,” he said. “A message arrived this morning. He could reach us tomorrow. Or even tonight. A man like him does not announce his arrival. He will come when he chooses.”
Isobel swallowed. “Tonight?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “It may be tonight. It may be tomorrow. It may be later. It does not matter. He will show up at his own time either way.”
The uncertainty made her chest tighten even more. Not knowing when this marriage would be thrust upon her was worse than almost all that had come before. Every sound would be a harbinger of what was to darken their door. Every shadow would carry the possibility of his arrival.
She lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced tightly together.