Highlander Enchanted (16 page)

Gazing at the cramped keep, she could not help considering the relative virtues of a life filled with magic instead of fear, at the side of a man with some honor instead of one with none.

Her land, title, and name set her aside from others, but they trapped her as well. She tugged the braids Richard hated over one shoulder and sighed.

“It will be good to arrive home,” Richard said from his position riding ahead of her. “We will prepare the contract upon arriving. Your uncle has agreed to act in your father’s stead. Our wedding will be the greatest affair of the winter.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” she forced the words out.

“As am I. My stewart was making the arrangements when I left. He should be complete when we return.”

My stewart,
she corrected him. Richard was not the Lord of Saxony yet, even if he were directing her servants as if he were.

She knew better than to remind him of this. No Cade stood between her and Richard’s fists, and she did not feel up to challenging him this day. Her gaze went to the black mane of her bay horse.

For three weeks, she had been free. It had been terrifying never knowing if bandits would beset her, if she would sleep the night or find food the next day, how she would manage to feed all the mouths at Cade’s. But freedom, even if scary, was better than the life awaiting her. Once she wed Richard, she would have no influence or power at all.

Perhaps I deserve Richard.
She had not just failed her brother and father, she had failed herself. Her fingers were clenched around the reins, and she began to resent entertaining thoughts of freedom after a lifetime of accepting her place. Perhaps, if she had never challenged him, Richard would not have raised a hand to her, and she would be peacefully managing her father’s household with a husband she did not want.

Anger stirred, and she recalled why she had not wished to settle into such a life, why she had chosen to try to avenge her brother instead of becoming the demure, docile wife to a proud man like Richard. It had never been her place, not when she was learning to read in multiple languages or managing her father’s finances or conversing with priests about such unwomanly pursuits as alchemy and astronomy.

And certainly not after she learnt who her true father was. She did not belong in Saxony. She belonged
here.

Frustrated tears rose as she realized she was helpless to fight her destiny. But was this not what her father wanted for her? She wrestled with herself once more, unable to accept a fate with a man she did not care for or trust, even if it was a sin to oppose her father’s wishes.

Isabel tugged up her hood to prevent Richard and his cousin and guard from seeing her tears.

Lost in her thoughts, she pulled out of her melancholy when they reached the forest where she had first met Cade. They passed through it without being confronted by his men or any thieves, and left the forest at the edge of his lands for the rolling hills dividing one patch of forest from the next.

“What is that?” one of the knights asked.

She twisted in her saddle to see where he pointed and craned her head. Smoke rose from some point beyond a hill, its source hidden by the terrain.

“Dawson, ride ahead and warn my men,” Richard ordered in response. “We continue with caution. I believe this to be the disputed land belonging to the MacDonald’s. ‘Twas said Laird Duncan was torching the villages. We need only reach the neighboring lands to be safe.”

Men on horseback with swords drawn raced from the northern part of the forest across the hilltop and disappeared behind it.

Dawson dug his heels into his horse’s belly and galloped ahead, towards the second forest.

“Move quickly. We should be safe in the forest,” Richard urged and took her reins.

She allowed even her horse’s head to be controlled by the man who would soon rule her life. Uneasy with the warring clans, angry with Richard’s assumption she was incapable of handling herself, she was powerless.

They galloped to the forest three leagues from the disputed land and slowed upon reaching the narrow road winding through it. A cold drizzle began once more, pattering on the leaves above them and soon filling the muddy indents of the trail with water.

Isabel glanced around at the quiet forest and pulled her cloak around her more tightly. She was dry – for now. If it rained any harder, she would be drenched fast.

The men around her were tense, their hands on the hilts of their swords, as if they were aware of danger she was not. They reached a meadow, and Richard drew his horse to a halt.

His knights did the same.

Isabel had no insight into whether or not danger lurked until she saw the long look Richard exchanged with the leader of his personal guard. No words were spoken, but an understanding passed between them, and the master-at-arms motioned the other knights to follow.

“My lady,” the master-at-arms said to her with a bow of his head. “These woods are dangerous to a noblewoman. The MacDonald’s and brigands hide here. We will ride ahead to clear the path.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do not forget your dagger,” he added almost too quietly for her to hear as he passed her.

She frowned, not understanding his concern when her surroundings were so quiet. The men returned to the trail and soon disappeared into the forest.

Richard swung his leg over the rear of the horse and dismounted. “Come. We can rest,” he ordered her. “Niall sent us with fresh bread.” He moved with his horse beneath a tree for shelter from the rain.

Isabel obeyed and joined him. She kept her eyes on the ground and accepted the bread when he handed her a chunk. She breathed in its fresh scent and bit into it. It was plain but satisfying. After her late nights and long days attempting to organize Cade’s disorderly keep, she was hungrier than she realized and finished off the food fast.

“Your father did not approve of our wedding,” Richard said.

She paused mid-chew, startled.

He glanced at her. “I am uncertain what he wanted for you, if the son of an earl was not good enough.” Resentment was in his tone.

Isabel swallowed her final mouthful of bread. “I did not know this,” she replied. “Father never spoke his mind to me, especially not on a matter of this nature.” Mixed with her shock was a measure of hope – an acknowledgment maybe she had not dishonored his memory by refusing his wishes.

“It is not your place to know,” Richard agreed.

“If my father did not agree, how did his brother?” she asked. “My uncle was charged with managing my father’s affairs once the madness claimed him.”

“
You
convinced him when you left,” Richard said with cold amusement. “I swore to bring you back and once I do, he will agree to the alliance.”

Her heart plummeted. She had unknowingly sealed her own fate. Though, in her mind, there was no question Richard would pursue her. He had been open about staking his claim on her father’s lands since his death and pursued her hand with persistence that often frightened her.

Branches snapped from the forest nearby. She turned to squint into the shadowy greens and browns surrounding them. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Probably an animal,” he said, unconcerned. He drew a dagger.

Isabel reached into her pocket for hers as well, recalling what the master-at-arms had said about the restless forest. Another crack of branches, this one closer, was accompanied by the sucking-clop combination of a horse’s hooves on the muddy trail.

“’Tis not coming from the direction your vassals went,” she said, frowning. “Can we not recall them?”

Richard took her arm and turned her to face him. She flinched, instinctively waiting for his strike. It was not his fists he lifted but the dagger.

She instinctively took a step back. “What are you doing, Richard?” she asked, eyes going from the blade to his face.

“I have it on good authority your uncle will support my claim to Saxony whether you return alive or shall we say … mortally wounded, so long as we are deemed wed.”

She stared at him. “You cannot wish me harm in earnest!”

“There will be no one to claim we did not wed and my vassals to affirm we did.” He reached for her. “After you humiliated me afore Laird Cade, I came to this decision. It is the best way to protect Saxony from your madness.”

She stumbled back.

The whinny of a horse from the forest failed to dissuade Richard. She avoided another attempt by Richard to grab her. “Someone is coming, Richard!”

“My men will ensure no one finds us.”

“I need only scream!” she cried, fury replacing her fear. “They will not allow you to hurt the sole heir to a noble family favored by the king.”

He laughed.

Coldness streaked through her. “They know you do this?” she demanded, horrified.

“They are my men are they not?” He paused long enough for her to put some distance between them. She yanked out the knife his master-at-arms had given her, vaguely recalling his warning and look. He had not been cautioning her against the MacDonald’s but against her own betrothed.

“You will go mad anyway,” Richard reasoned. He strode forward and grabbed her arm. She slammed her fists against his chest.

“Do not do this, Richard!” she cried, trying to wrench free once more. He shifted the knife in his hand.

She yanked hers away from her dress and held it to his chest. She had never stopped to consider where to stab a man.

“You’re mad already,” he said with a laugh. Capturing her wrist, he twisted her arm away from his chest painfully before releasing her with his other hand and backhanding her.

Isabel reeled, the forest and sky swirling around her, and landed on her stomach. She saw the legs of horses amidst brush lining the trail but had no time to identify the riders when Richard grabbed her and wrenched her up.

“Be still,” he ordered. “And you will survive long enough to reach England. If my aim is off by the width of a hair, you will not!”

“No!” She shoved him and tried to pull away once more. This time, she tripped over the hem of her gown and toppled backwards, dragging him with her.

She felt her knife pierce flesh, and Richard went still, landing beside her.

Isabel scrambled to her feet and gazed from the bloodied knife to Richard. She had sliced his head, and blood poured down his face. With some knowledge of wounds, she understood her blow to be glancing despite the blood. Why, then, was he not moving?

She waited to see if he would awaken then knelt beside him and witnessed the blood matting the back of his head. Shifting forward, she spotted the gnarled tree root his head had smacked when he fell.

“May God have mercy,” she whispered, horrified by the thought she had killed him, even if unintentionally, even if in defense of herself. “Richard?” She shook him.

He did not move.

Tears welled, and she dropped the knife. She had broken a commandment and committed one of the greatest sins in Christianity. If her soul was lost to her, why did it have to be lost because of him?

Aware of how sinful it was to resent the man she had slain, she crossed herself and bowed her head to begin praying for forgiveness.

The whinny of a horse, followed by the rustling of someone leaping from its back, reminded her she was likely to have a much larger issue. Isabel rose and turned, expecting to find Richard’s men waiting to confront her.

But the men before her were of a completely different make entirely with faces painted red, well-worn clothing, trappings and boots, and wild gleams in their gazes. They were armed. One of them was halfway to her when he stopped.

They appeared curious, if not surprised to find her there. The leader, a burly man with a huge beard and a curved sword, studied her.

“English?” he asked. “This far north?” He looked past her to the Richard’s unmoving form.

“We were … I was … this …”
They will hasten my journey to the lake of fire,
she thought. Squaring her shoulders, she decided to face him head on. This never worked with Richard, but these Highlanders appeared to favor displays of strength over tears. “If you have any wisdom in your bushy head, you will know better than to raise a hand to me.”

The red-faced man appeared startled and then laughed. “Ye speak with the fire of a Highland woman. Are ye certs yer English?”

“My name is Isabel de Clare, sole heir to the seat of Saxony, distant cousin to his lordship the King of England. I am, without a doubt, English.”

“I doona care who ye are, lass,” he said, smiling broadly. “I care who’ll pay me gold t’ransom ye. Is there someone who’d pay me no’ t’kill ye?”

“Most certainly,” she said without hesitation. Would her uncle pay ransom to these heathens after he had been so quick to trade her to Richard? She was not about to let her doubt and hurt show when dealing with a man of the same mold as Cade.

She sensed the bushy bearded man debating what to do with her and refused to lower her gaze or back down.

“Verra well, lass,” he said. “I willna kill ye. Who is he?” He motioned to Richard with his sword.

“This man was supposed to be my escort and attacked me. I was forced to defend myself against him.”

He appeared impressed, or perhaps amused, before turning to motion to a younger man who had not yet begun to fill out. “Tie ‘er! Leave ‘im!”

“No, wait!” she said, disturbed. “Should you not give him a proper burial?”

The man’s bushy eyebrows twitched. “You doona think me letting ye live is enough?” he challenged, a flash of hardness in his gaze.

“I mean no disrespect.” She released her breath, recalling the savagery of the Highlanders. “May I at least pray for his soul before I leave?”

He snorted but motioned towards Richard in what she took to be permission.

Isabel knelt beside him. With some anger, she realized she was getting exactly what she deserved for taking a life – enslaved by the wild men of the Highlands. She said a quick prayer over Richard’s body and asked God to send his men back when it was safe so they could bury him.

When she finished, she rose and presented her hands to the barbarian awaiting her. Whatever happened to her, she had to appear as strong as she was scared inside.