Page 81 of Beguiled By the Highlander
“No.” His voice croaked, as if it had been a thousand years since he’d last used it. God, it seemed like it had been a thousand years since he’d last seen her, but he couldn’t reach out and pull her into his arms, in case she was merely an illusion of his fractured mind and would vanish if he tried to touch her. His fingers clenched on the shawl that he’d brought with him. Somehow, it felt more real than the woman standing before him.
She gave a short laugh. “Aye, I can see that, William Campbell. Ye frightened me half to death, and that’s a fact. Ye know, I suppose, Alan MacGregor has been masquerading as Malcolm MacNeil?”
“MacGregor’s dead.” His gaze roved over her face, where bruising and streaks of blood marred her skin, but she didn’t appear to be mortally injured. He released a ragged breath, but it did nothing to relieve the smoldering rock wedged within his chest. “He claimed to have—”
But he couldn’t say the words. Because that reality could too easily have proved to be true. And just because it hadn’t happened today didn’t mean it couldn’t another day.
He wouldn’t always be able to defend her against his enemies. And every time he left Creagdoun, the fear of losing her would consume him.
Isolde glanced at the shawl in his hands and the question thundered through his mind.
How had MacGregor been in possession of it?
“Serve supper,” he heard Isolde tell the servants. “The laird and I will have ours in our chambers.”
There was a flurry of activity, and as the courtyard emptied, she cast him an anxious look. “Come, William,” she said, almost as though she were speaking to a child. “Ye must be famished. We shall eat alone in the comfort of our chamber so we might speak more easily.”
She held out her arm, indicating he should follow her, but she didn’t touch him. Not that he blamed her. If not for him, she’d be safe on her beloved isle, where no one would dare raise their hand against her, let alone subject her to the obscenities MacGregor had intended for her.
Only rare good luck had saved her from such degradations. How could he live with himself if he forced her to endure a life where every day might be her last—because of his name?
As they went up the stairs and along the passage to their chambers, the fear that had gripped him from the moment he’d discovered the identity of the traitor in their midst, the fear that had scorched his reason when he’d found MacGregor on the forest’s edge, now sank deep into his bones, polluting every particle of his being.
There was only one way to ensure she didn’t live every day of her life under the mantle of dread, and he recoiled, rejecting it outright. He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t.
But the answer was clear, regardless.
If he wanted to set her free from the bleak future that thudded through his mind, he had to send her back to her isle.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Isolde closed thedoor behind them after they entered their bedchamber. She drew in a deep breath as she watched William walk to the hearth, where he paused and stared into the flames as though they were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen.
She wasn’t sure what was wrong. When he’d ridden into the courtyard, she’d been so relieved she had forgotten she was the mistress of a grand castle with expectations as to how she should behave. All that had filled her head was that MacGregor had lied about killing Willliam and winning the battle.
William was alive. He was safe.
All she’d wanted was to wrap her arms around him, feel his heartbeat next to hers, hear him laugh in that way he did whenever she inadvertently amused him.
But he hadn’t smiled at her loss of dignity or even seemed very happy to see her. And instead of hugging him close and breathing in his unique scent of soap and fresh woodlands, she’d come to an awkward halt before him.
He still clutched the shawl MacGregor had torn from her. She could only guess what he’d imagined when he’d found it. But why wouldn’t he speak to her?
Well, they would get nowhere like this. She went up to him and gently touched his shoulder. He turned on his heel to face her, and her hand dropped back to her side. “What is it, William?”
He inhaled a shuddering breath. “I thought I’d lost ye.”
Warmth and, aye, relief curled through her heart at his confession. “I’m sorry for that. I thought it prudent to get away from MacGregor as quickly as I could, but alas, it meant I left my shawl behind.”
He didn’t laugh at her absurd comment. He didn’t even crack the smallest smile. “How in hellfire did MacGregor come upon ye, Isolde? He didn’t breach the castle. Tell me ye didn’t leave the safety of the walls after I left.”
“Of course I didn’t—” She snapped her mouth shut as she realized that she had, indeed, left the walls of the castle. But it wasn’t as though she’d done it to deliberately annoy him. “I mean, aye, I did, but not the way ye—”
“Christ’s bones, Isolde, ye knew the danger. How could ye be so foolish as to wander the countryside when ye knew my enemies were determined to bring me down?”
Stung by his accusation, she reminded herself he was only saying such things because MacGregor had obviously told him the same tale he’d told her. And this was William’s way of dealing with it.
“I did not wander the countryside. There’s—”
