Warrior's Bride (12 page)

  Her words spoke of acceptance, but her gaze still held the hint of a dare. He turned and left the chamber. Once in the hallway, he moved to the darkened staircase to the left of the tapestry.

  A passage to his secret lair. Without another word, he vanished into the shadows of the night like the beast he had just been.

Chapter Eleven

  Izzy stared at the battered door of Wolf’s solar. In his absence, her anger began to fade, replaced by an overwhelming exhaustion she'd been fighting since leaving St. Kilda. A dull throbbing pulsed at her temples. She ignored it, too tired to do anything else at the moment.

  "The master's not himself tonight," Mistress Rowley said.

  Brahan stood inside the doorway. A dark frown played across his face. "He has not been himself since that last visit to his father. Wolf’s burdens grow heavier by the day, thanks to that man. Does he not realize—"

  "Brahan." Mistress Rowley shot him a dark look. "Let's not be throwing salt into that festering wound. Please, go below stairs and check on Lady Fiona. Heaven knows what mischief she may be up to."

  Brahan's frown deepened, his reluctance obvious. "That woman is definitely one to find trouble where none exists." He turned, then paused to survey the damaged wood. "I suppose Lady Fiona is not the only one who does not take kindly to change," he added. "I'll see that the woodsmith is sent up immediately."

  A pang of remorse stirred within Izzy. None of this would have happened if she had only come down as he had asked. A wave of dizziness swamped her. She closed her eyes, fighting the sensation. It was her guilt that made her feel this way. She had to let it go. Drawing a steadying breath, she opened her eyes and looked at the jagged, splintered wood surrounding the doorway.

  She had expected some reaction from the man when she rejected his offer of supper. She knew he would come. Mistress Rowley had even warned her of that fact. What she hadn't anticipated was his violence or his destruction. It was naive to think of him in any other way than what his name described—dark, untamed, a beast.

  At the thought, the splintered wood suddenly became blurred and unfocused. She blinked hard, and her vision cleared. She stared beyond the doorway to the shadows that flickered and twisted in the hallway. Dark and mysterious shapes like those she had conjured out of the shadows while confined to the darkened tower on St. Kilda.

  Izzy groaned. Such demons did not exist—not in the shadows and not in the light. It was only her mind's response to what had happened here.

  "Are you well, my dear?" Mistress Rowley eyed her with concern.

  Izzy pressed her fingers into her aching temples. She was not well. She had not been well for days now. And she very much doubted she would be well while Wolf confined her to the interior of the castle. Only in the open sunlight did she feel as if she could breathe freely. This open and multi-windowed chamber went a long way toward alleviating the feelings of enclosure that sent her heart racing while inside. But nothing compared to the feeling of fresh air upon her skin.

  Izzy sighed. "So much has happened. Perhaps after I sleep a while I'll feel more at ease." She brought her hands down to settle at her sides. "Would you mind terribly if I asked to be alone for now?"

  Mistress Rowley frowned. "It might not be wise to leave you unprotected now that the door is—"

  "This castle is a fortress. Who could harm me here?" At the skeptical look on Mistress Rowley's face, Izzy added, "I promise to remain on guard."

  "All right, my dear," Mistress Rowley conceded. "I'll close the door as best I can. No doubt the woodsmith will be here shortly to repair the damage. Rest well."

  Izzy waited until Mistress Rowley's shuffling steps carried her from the room before she allowed her shoulders to droop with the weight of her exhaustion. Her claim of tiredness had been no lie. She truly did wish to rest but doubted she would ever sleep in this strange and new place.

  Perhaps if she continued sewing for a while she would find it easier to sleep. Izzy retrieved her needle and thread. With a sigh she realized that she did not want to sew anymore. She set the needle aside, then picked up a slice of apple, only to return it to the tray. Her hunger had vanished.

  A sudden wave of dizziness swept over her again. She clutched at the table until the odd sensation passed. What was wrong with her? She had lived through worse confrontations. Why did this brief altercation with her future bridegroom bother her so much? She returned her gaze to the doorway as the need for fresh air pressed in all around her, until her chest rose and fell in short, sharp breaths.

  The need for air became an all-consuming necessity. She stepped into the hallway and quickly searched the shadows for signs of Wolf. No one lingered about. Moonlight spilled onto the flagstones from a stairwell opposite a large tapestry of men and women engaged in hunting a tiny fox. Terror filled the fox's eyes as he raced across the embroidered canvas. It was how she'd felt tonight—hunted, panicked, terrified.

  She'd managed to find the strength to defy Wolf, but inside she had trembled. Just as she trembled now as she gazed up the stairs. A stairway that led to air. It would be much simpler to go down the hallway back to the great hall, then out into the courtyard to find fresh air. Except that it would take too long. She needed air now.

  She had defied him once tonight. To do so again could prove foolhardy. Her gaze fell once again on the stairway leading up to the tower room. He had warned her against going up the staircase. But where else could she find the breeze she sought so desperately?

  Need overcame reason and before she could stop herself, her feet carried her up the first step, then the second. She had no desire to go into the tower. All the saints in heaven knew she did not want go into an enclosed and darkened space.

  Yet, if she wanted to feel the breeze on her face, she would have to brave the tower to reach the battlements and the fresh air beyond. Or would she find something else instead?

  Would he be in the tower? She paused to listen. No sound came from above. The night air stilled and became heavy, suffocating. She took a step closer, desperate for a breath of fresh air. One more step would take her to the door.

  Stagnant, musty air surrounded her, dulling her mind and slurring her thoughts. Only the need for fresh air gave her the strength to thrust her feet forward. A few steps more and she would find what she needed.

  It was one fact she knew about towers: They all had either an arrow slit or a doorway that led to a wall walk— an opening to wreak vengeance on anyone who dared to attack. Her own experience had taught her as much. A lurch forward brought her to the door. She grasped the latch and pushed.

  Air. She needed air. All thoughts centered on her goal. Her reward came when a wisp of fresh air brushed her cheeks. Izzy latched on to the sensation, allowing it to carry her the rest of the way into the room.

  Candlelight flickered about the room from three wall sconces that clearly illuminated two arrow slits cut in the gray stone. Her feet took over, leading her to the arrow slits, and in no time at all she drew a breath of cool, sweet air into her lungs. She sagged against the stone wall and allowed her eyes to drift shut. She drew another deep, reviving breath, suddenly feeling exhaustion overcome her.

  Two more breaths and the pounding beat of her heart lessened to a dull thud. She sagged against the stone, allowing her gaze to travel about the room. In addition to the sconces, a fire lapped at peat and logs set inside a round clay structure with an opening at the front. It looked almost like an oven, but what would an oven be doing in a tower room?

  Set against the wall near the oven structure were three baskets. One held wood, the next sand, and the last held gray ash. On the opposite side of the room a simple wooden table held various metal rods and a knife, as well as several odd metal objects twisted at different angles.

  A sudden chill chased across the nape of her neck. Were these the tools her husband used to conjure up demons from the darkness? To torture his men?

  The metal pieces looked more like tools than instruments of the dark arts. More curious than afraid, Izzy reached out to trace the tip of one of the short, thick rods. When she pulled her hand away, a fine crystalline dust covered her fingertips. The fine powder twinkled as it caught the glow of the flickering light.

  Her frown deepened as her vision blurred and her own fingers became shapeless spots of color against the yellow-gold light of the room. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision. But that only made the entire room swim before her eyes.

  "I told you never to come here." A shape separated itself from the darkness.

  Izzy blinked hard. Her vision worsened to the point that she could no longer see where one shape ended and another began. A rhythmic pounding began at her temples. "I needed air," she said thickly.

  "There are other places to go besides here."

  Heat rose to her cheeks, making the throbbing in her head worse. She tried to push herself away from the wall, to show him she was not afraid, but her stomach roiled and she doubled over instead. A stab of agony shot through her middle.

  Instantly he was at her side. "You are not well?"

  She tried to speak but could only groan a response. The next thing she knew, he swooped her off her feet. Clutching her tightly against his chest, he raced down the tower stairs. Izzy was grateful when his motion stopped. Her gaze clung to his features, desperate to keep the shapeless image of his face from fading to black. But darkness crept over her. She sucked in a gulp of air, trying to keep the closing tunnel at bay.

  Then she was moving once again. A moment later, the fire of her skin was bathed in a blissful breeze. He had taken her below stairs, to the courtyard beyond the great hall. Whispers of air caressed her face, her arms, her chest, but the darkness lingered at the edges of her vision. Pain speared her stomach. She twisted in his arms.

  "You are safe. There is no need to panic," a disembodied voice called from the inky darkness that closed in around her.

  Izzy struggled to swallow. "Awaah abbaha," she croaked.

  "Isobel?" The voice called out of the darkness. "Isobel!"

  Pain seared her middle. This time she didn't fight it. She hurtled down into the waiting darkness.

Chapter Twelve

  "Sweet Mary!" Wolf thundered as he strode back into the keep, up the stairs, and into his solar with his unconscious bride-to-be draped across his arms. One look at her pale cheeks and wild eyes had been enough for him to know that something was terribly wrong. Something more than her fear of enclosed spaces. Wolf tightened his arms around her.

  He stood at the battered doorway to his solar. A sense of hopelessness swamped him as he frowned down at Isobel's lifeless body. "What do I do now?" he muttered to himself.

  "My lord Wolf." Mistress Rowley's panicked voice intruded into his thoughts. He turned to see her racing toward him from the stairway. Her steps faltered when she saw Isobel in his arms. "Nay, not her as well." The older woman placed a hand upon Isobel's cheek. "She's burning up, just like Lady Fiona."

  "What did you say?"

  "Lady Fiona has been poisoned. And so has our Lady Isobel."

  "Poison?" Shock ran through him; whatever he had expected, it had not been that.

  "The healer is with Lady Fiona now. He says 'twas wolfsbane that has made her so ill."

  "But how? Who?"

  Mistress Rowley moved past him into the solar and headed for the small table that Isobel had sat near the last time he had entered. The older woman reached for a slice of apple from the half-empty plate that rested beside a book and brought it to her nose. "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. A tart apple would disguise any bitterness from the poison."

  A savage anger pulsed inside him. "She should have been safe within the walls of my castle."

  "Whoever wants her dead is determined to succeed, no matter the obstacle."

  Wolf forced his anger away. Losing control of his emotions would not help. "No one will succeed in that venture. Not here, and not with her."

  Mistress Rowley smiled. "The young miss is fortunate to have you to protect her."

  Wolf looked down at his intended bride. "I doubt she would agree." He snapped his gaze back to his housekeeper. "Quickly, bring the healer to Isobel. If anything happens to her ..."

  "Aye." Mistress Rowley turned toward the door. "I shall return shortly. In the meanwhile, place her on the bed and make her as comfortable as you can."

  Wolf laid Isobel on the tall four-poster bed at the far end of the chamber. He spread a woolen throw his mother had made for him across her body. She lay so still. So deadly still.

  His knees felt suddenly weak as he stared down at her golden hair spilling across the pale gold linens. He refused to give in to the confusion that tangled inside him. He locked his knees and stood rigid beside her. Wolfsbane. A vile and swift poison that would twist her insides into knots until she died from the pain.