Page 84 of Beguiled By the Highlander
They returned to the chamber, and William bolted the door before sliding the panel back in place. Sjor dashed out of the chamber, but when he followed, Isolde wasn’t there. The dog had disappeared, and the door to the master’s chamber was firmly shut.
It was better this way. The truth was, if he saw her again, he didn’t trust himself to go back on his word and demand she stay.
He scrubbed his hand over his face, but it didn’t help ease the crippling weariness seeping into his bones and clouding his mind. What wouldn’t he give to return to his beautiful bride,wash the grime of battle from his body, and fill his stomach with hot food.
But he was the laird of Creagdoun, and he needed to ensure his men were accommodated and the servants assured that all was well. When he entered the great hall, Hugh and Alasdair approached from where they’d been standing by the fire.
“Lady Isolde’s hospitality is much appreciated,” Hugh said.
“Aye, ’twas a good spread,” Alasdair added.
William glanced at the tables, where several men still sat drinking ale, and the rich scent of the stew they’d lately consumed, which lingered in the air, caused his stomach to growl.
Of course, Isolde had already made the necessary arrangements to feed his men. She’d said as much when they’d returned. But he’d forgotten.
He grunted in response. It was too much effort to find appropriate words. Not that his friends appeared to notice, since Patric strode over and they turned their attention to him.
“Good work.” Coming from Patric, it was high praise indeed.
This man had saved his life twice, and today he had saved Isolde’s. And although Patric had known Isolde all her life, had given his pledge to her father to protect her, and would lay down his life for her, right now William was simply deeply, selfishly, grateful the man had rescued her so he didn’t need to face the nightmarish horror of laying his bride to eternal rest.
He grasped Patric’s arm. “Ye have my thanks. I owe ye everything.”
“The castle was well prepared, and any stray MacGregor skulking nearby will have long since fled back to the safety of their clan. Even if ye had not subdued the rebels, Lady Isolde’s discovery of MacGregor’s plan gave us an edge.”
“Aye.” It was all true. But it wasn’t what he meant. Even though he should keep his mouth shut, since Patric hadacknowledged his thanks, and as warriors that was the end of the matter, he couldn’t do it.
He had to ensure Patric knew how deeply he was in his debt. “And I thank ye for it. But for ensuring my lady remained unharmed when MacGregor attacked her, I swear to God, in my eyes ye are my blood kin.”
A frown creased Patric’s brow, and his eyes narrowed, an unexpected response. Had he inadvertently offended the older man?
“Ye’re unaware,” Patric stated, and from the corner of his eye, William saw Hugh and Alasdair exchange wary glances. Patric exhaled a long breath. “My lady had no help in eluding capture or securing the secret passage. She found me here, in the hall.”
His gaze locked with Patric’s as Isolde’s words once again reverberated around his head.
“It wasn’t my blood.”
Her comment, made so casually, hadn’t registered in his mind at the time. And later, in that secret passage when the words had haunted him, he’d assumed Patric was the one who’d drawn enemy blood.
But Patric hadn’t left the castle. Isolde had faced MacGregor on her own.
And she had escaped him.On her own.
He had to get out of there. Clear his head. He swung on his heel and marched outside, and the frigid air was like being flung into an icy fog.
But it didn’t clear his head. If anything, the images that plagued him of Isolde’s possible fate, from the moment he’d found her shawl, grew sharper, driving out the shreds of sanity that reminded himshe was safe.
Grimly, he trudged on, and only after he’d spoken to every man who stood guard over the castle, checked the horses, andensured the armory was secured, did he make his way back to the hall.
It was late, and the hall was deserted. The glow from the banked fire sent shadows scuttling into dark corners and the silence as the inhabitants of the castle settled for the night sank into his bones.
During the last three years, he’d lost count of the times he’d returned to an empty hall after doing a late night round of Creagdoun. Always, the sense of peace and satisfaction had assailed him at the knowledge he was laird, and his people were well.
Tonight, he should be thankful MacGregor had failed and his castle was secure. And he was beyond grateful that Isolde was unharmed. But a deep ache consumed his chest, guilt and regret, and twisting through it all was the uneasy conviction that he was missing something fundamental.
He shook his head in a futile effort to dislodge the insidious certainty. Christ, what was he thinking? He wasn’t missing anything. But by God, he would miss Isolde when she left Creagdoun, and the knowledge that soon she would be gone from his life burned like acid through his chest.
Through his heart.
