Page 83 of Beguiled By the Highlander
He ached to take her into his arms. To bury himself inside her welcoming heat and reassure them both that all was well. But he feared if he did, he’d never be able to let her go.
“Ye weren’t here today.”
Her accusation would haunt him until the day he died. He had no defense. He’d promised to protect her when he’d forced her to leave her isle, and he had broken his pledge within a month.
How many times had he assured her she would be safe within the walls of Creagdoun? And yet within weeks, she’d found ahidden passage he’d been ignorant of, that his enemies had intended to use to take the castle from within.
He picked up a lantern and, with damning reluctance, made his way to the lady’s chamber. During the three years he’d been laird of Creagdoun, he’d barely been inside, despite his grand declarations to Isolde on how he’d always intended to make it fit for use.
But he should’ve done his duty as soon as he’d taken possession and ensured every nook and cranny of the castle had been examined for hidden vulnerabilities. Instead, he’d considered the lady’s chamber scarcely worth considering, especially when so many other secret places had been found.
An error that had almost proved fatal.
If not for Isolde.
He entered the chamber and held the lantern high. A tapestry hung at a drunken angle, and when he drew closer, he frowned at the panel it partially concealed. There was no indication the panel was a false door, but he had to start somewhere.
Within moments, he found the latch and the panel slid back, revealing a recessed, bolted door, and guilt chewed through him. Even if he’d searched this chamber, without Isolde’s information would it have occurred to him to give this panel more than a cursory glance?
She’d told him someone had opened the door this morning. They both knew who that was. And once again, it was his fault. If he hadn’t told his men to gather their things before they’d left for Glen Clah, how would MacGregor have ensured the door was unbolted for his incursion?
Grimly, he drew back the bolts and stepped into the passage. It went on forever. There was no doubt that this was the primary hidden weapon of Creagdoun. The one known only to a chosen few, the secret passage that could lead the occupants safely awayfrom the castle should it be in danger of falling, or, as MacGregor had intended, to capture it from within.
Finally, he reached a barred door, and he glared through the small window where, from the obscured light of the moon, he could see the dark shadows of the forest.
The place where he’d come upon MacGregor.
Where MacGregor had found Isolde and captured her. Pulled her shawl from her and—
“It wasn’t my blood.”
His tortured thoughts splintered, and he pressed his forehead against the bars across the window. The blood on the shawl wasn’t hers. What the hell had happened? Had Patric followed her and fought MacGregor so Isolde could flee?
She had warned him, before he’d even recalled his own name, that her fighting skills would desert her once she left her isle. But he hadn’t believed her, and even when she’d told him here, at Creagdoun, that she could no longer wield her beloved sword, he’d been skeptical.
God knows, he never wanted her in a position where she’d need to defend herself. It had never crossed his mind she would. Yet he’d taken a fierce pride in her prowess, nonetheless.
But now the full force of it hit him. Whatever had happened, she’d been unable to protect herself when she’d come under attack.
Isolde hadn’t mentioned Patric. But how else could she have escaped MacGregor’s clutches? It explained the blood, if Patric had wounded the other man in a fight.
His shoulders slumped. Thank God for Patric. Yet it should have been him who saved Isolde from his enemy, and he’d never forgive himself for putting her in danger’s way because of his oversight.
Because I brought her here.
A scuffling sound behind him had him swinging about, heart pounding. She had followed him, and God help him, he hoped she had even though every time he looked at her it tore him inside out.
But the passageway was empty. Of course she hadn’t followed him. She was likely already packing her trunks in readiness to leave for her beloved isle.
He lowered the lantern, and Sjor’s dark eyes glinted.
William let out a sharp breath before dropping into a crouch. “What are ye doing? Ye never leave yer mistress’ side.”
He scratched the dog’s neck, and Sjor gave his hand an appreciative lick. It was true. Sjor rarely left Isolde’s side. But he’d run into the passageway, and she had followed him. If she hadn’t, MacGregor would have entered the castle, and even without his men, he could still have inflicted severe injuries on Creagdoun’s inhabitants before he was discovered.
“Good lad,” he said, but the words sounded hollow in this dank tunnel. “Ye take care of her for me, ye hear?”
It was absurd, talking to a dog as if the creature could understand him. Yet Isolde spoke to him and of him as though he could, and when Sjor tilted his head and eyed him solemnly, William had the uncanny certainty he understood every word.
