The words created the first fluttering of panic. ‘Keep part if you will, but return the rest.’
‘We will keep what is ours.’
Isabelle swallowed hard. With no dowry, and a reputation as a barren woman, she would have no chance of remarriage. Sick with repressed shame and fury she made a last desperate attempt.
‘It is not yours to keep. The Neils have wealth enough; they have no need of more.’
‘Do not presume to tell the Neils what they need.’ Gruoch’s voice grew quieter. ‘You may count yourself fortunate to leave here at all, my girl. There are those at Dunkeld who favoured a quicker and neater end to the embarrassment you represent.’
Isabelle experienced a sudden inner chill. When first she came to her husband’s home she was accorded courtesy, albeit not warmth. Her new kin were not given to displays of affection. However, as time went on and she failed to conceive a child, their attitude changed until their scorn was scarcely veiled. The thought that they might do her physical hurt had not occurred, until now.
‘Would the Neils risk incurring the wrath of Castlemora?’ she demanded. ‘My father would not let such a deed go un-avenged.’
Gruoch’s lips tightened to a thin line. ‘We have no fear of Castlemora.’
‘You would be wiser if you had.’
For all that the words were defiant Isabelle knew they were futile. In this argument all the weight was on the other side of the balance.
Gruoch’s lip curled. ‘We are content to put it to the test. You leave first thing in the morning.’
And so she had, under the disdainful gaze of her erstwhile kin. The recollection was bitter. All the high hopes she’d set out with at the start of her marriage were ashes, and her pride lay among them. At the same time it was hard to regret leaving a place where she was so little valued or wanted. The trouble was that she couldn’t imagine how the situation was going to change in the foreseeable future. Unwilling to let the Neils see any tears she contrived to put a brave face on it.
She’d worn a brave face when eventually she had to confront her father. Archibald Graham was fifty years old. Formerly a strong and active man his health had failed in his later years until even small exertions tired him and any significant effort brought on the pains in his chest. However, his grey eyes were bright and shrewd, his mind as sharp as it had ever been. He made no attempt to hide his anger and disappointment. When he learned that they had refused to return her dowry his wrath increased tenfold.
‘Those scurvy, double-dealing Neils are no better than thieves.’
Her brother growled agreement. At sixteen Hugh was grown to manhood and, as the only surviving son, was now the heir. He also possessed a keen sense of what was due to kin.
‘This is an insult to our entire family. It should be avenged. Let me take a force to Dunkeld and burn out that nest of rats.’
‘The rats are numerous and strong, boy. We’ll bide our time.’
‘You mean we’re to swallow this outrage?’
‘This outrage will not be swallowed or forgotten, I promise you.’ Graham paused. ‘However, revenge is a dish best tasted cold. If you’re to be laird one day you need to remember that.’
Hugh nodded slowly. ‘I’ll remember.’ He turned to Isabelle. ‘You’re well rid of the scum, Belle.’
That much was true, but it didn’t change the fact that she was now a dowerless widow. It hung there, unsaid, like the subject of her alleged barrenness. Her brother was fond of her and would never throw such an accusation in her face, but it wasn’t going to go away …
Being thus lost in gloomy reflection, she was unaware of the approaching figure until she heard him speak.
‘Well met, Lady Isabelle.’
Recognising the voice she turned quickly. ‘Murdo.’
The master-at-arms was standing just feet away. She eyed him uneasily, repressing a shiver. The black-clad figure was entirely shaven-headed. A scar seamed the left side of his face from cheek bone to chin, though it was partially hidden by a beard close-trimmed and dark as night, as dark as the predatory gaze watching her now. He reminded her of nothing so much as a hunting wolf, lean, powerful and dangerous. A strong odour of stale sweat enhanced the impression of lupine rankness.
He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I thought I might find you here.’
Suddenly she was aware that the orchard was some way from the house and that it was entirely private. Apprehension prickled. Unwilling to let him see it she remained quite still and forced herself to meet his gaze.
‘What do you want?’
‘To speak with you, my lady.’
‘Very well, what is it you wish to speak about?’
‘The future.’
The knot of apprehension tightened a degree. ‘What of it?’
‘Your honoured father is a sick man. He cannot live long. That must weigh upon your mind.’
‘It does,’ she replied, ‘but you did not come here to tell me that.’
‘When he dies you will need a strong protector, Isabelle.’
She knew what was coming now and sought desperately for the means to evade it. ‘My brother will protect me.’
‘A new husband would perform the role better.’ His expression became intent. ‘I would be that man.’
Isabelle’s stomach wallowed but she knew better than to anger him deliberately. ‘What you are asking is not possible, Murdo.’
‘Why not?’ He held her gaze. ‘Who better than me? I may be a younger son but I come of good family. I have risen to my present rank on merit and served your father well. Thanks to my efforts Castlemora is strong and feared.’ He paused. ‘And you cannot be entirely unaware of my feelings for you.’
‘I regret that I cannot return them.’
‘Not yet, but you might come to return them, in time.’
She shook her head. ‘I will never feel about you that way.’
‘You say so now but I know how to be patient.’
‘Time will not change this. Do not hold out hopes of me.’
‘If not me, who else, Isabelle? You are no longer the prize you once were, only a widow returned in disgrace to her father.’
Her chin lifted at once. ‘I wonder then that you should wish to make her yours.’
‘I
