Page 77 of Beguiled By the Highlander
The sound of them retreating filled the air until all she could hear was the pound of her heart echoing around her head. Agonized moments passed, each one seeming to last a year or more, until she could bear it no longer.
She had to secure the passageway before the attackers returned. And ensure the castle was safe.
Cautiously she stepped away from the tree, clutching Sjor tightly as she quickly scanned the area. No one was there. She’d—
Sjor let out a low growl, his body vibrating with fury as, from behind the very tree where she’d been hiding, emerged Malcolm MacNeil.
“Lady Isolde.” He bowed his head, an incongruous show of respect, considering it was his voice she’d recognized but failed to place just moments ago.
“Malcolm MacNeil.” She had no idea how she managed to sound so calm, when inside she was a churning mess of panic. Here, then, was the man who had betrayed William so despicably. And she had unwittingly walked right into his trap.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My name is Alan MacGregor, my lady, the true-born master of Creagdoun. I’ve come to reclaim what is mine by blood.”
Alan MacGregor? So, he hadn’t coerced one of William’s loyal men, after all. A cold comfort. “Torcall MacGregor’s son.”
“Aye. I’ve no wish to harm ye. I know ye had little say in yer choice of husband.”
Maybe she should agree with him. But his remark rankled, and before she could think better of it, she retorted, “Ye’rewrong. William Campbell is the only man I’d ever choose for my husband.”
His benign expression hardened, and her stomach churned with nerves. Truly, she should have held her tongue, but what did it matter? MacGregor meant her harm, despite whatever insincere words he uttered.
“That’s a pity,” he said. “For I intend to wed ye myself, once Creagdoun is secured.”
His threat hammered through her mind, but it was the implication behind it that caused her heart to squeeze painfully in her chest. No. No, he didn’t mean that William... she couldn’t finish the thought. Wouldn’t allow herself to finish what he implied, and without meaning to, her grip tightened around Sjor.
His growl became louder, and MacGregor cast him a cold glance. “Put the dog down, my lady, and tell it to retreat. Or I’ll deal with it myself.”
His meaning was more than plain, and slowly she placed Sjor on the ground, as far from the man as possible.
“Back.” Her voice was harsh, harsher than she had ever spoken to her darling lad before, but she couldn’t risk him attacking MacGregor. Thank God, Sjor no longer displayed his unusual streak of disobedience, and stood his ground.
“Good.” He took a step closer to her, and it took all her self-control not to back away from him. But she wouldn’t let him see how badly he unnerved her. She was no longer on Eigg, but she was still descended from her fierce Pict foremothers who had once ruled that isle.
Defiantly, she pulled her dagger from its concealed sheath within her skirts, even though she no longer possessed the skill to wield it. Simply holding the familiar weight in her hand gave her a sliver of comfort.
MacGregor paused, and then he laughed, a mocking sound that slashed through her like a mortal blade. “Ye’re a fiery lass, and I don’t disapprove. Ye’ll warm my bed well enough and bear me many sons who’ll learn to despise the name of Campbell as I do.”
“Stay back.” She angled the dagger at him, and although he didn’t come any closer, his amusement was despairingly plain to see.
“I’ve witnessed yer incompetence with a blade. ’Tis a sad thing to behold, my lady. But rest assured, when we are wed, ye’ll not be permitted to indulge in such fancies.”
She waved the dagger at him even though she knew the folly of angering him further. Yet a thread of fury burned through her, and she could not remain silent. “I am already wed, and I’ll defend Creagdoun against ye until the last breath leaves my body.”
His face twisted into a cruel grin. “Ye’re no longer wed, my lady. Did I not tell ye? The Campbells and their allies rode straight into our trap and were slaughtered like pigs. I killed William Campbell myself. There’s no mistake. My men are on their way, and we will take Creagdoun.”
MacGregor’s callous taunt sucked the air from her lungs, and a burning pain seared her from the inside out. She would not believe it. Her Willliam wasn’t dead. As if to reinforce its impossibility, his face swam before her eyes, his black hair whipping across his face in the wind, and his carefree laugh filled her head.
Mo chridhe.
My heart. Yet she had never told him, not even when he’d whispered that precious endearment to her and she’d held it close, treasuring it, thinking she had all the time in the world to tell him—one day—how very dearly she loved him.
One day . . .
That day had never come.
“Come now, lay down yer wee knife, there’s a good lass.”
His mocking voice scraped along her nerves like gravel across an open wound. A wound that would never heal, now she had lost the only man she could ever love. Her fingers tightened around the hilt, and the ancient runes that had been carved into the wood so long ago scorched her palm. Reminding her of who she was.
