Lady with the Devil's Scar. Sophia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
The Ceann Gronna hearth. She remembered when as a little girl her father had remodelled the fireplace in the solar, burying iron beneath the stones for preservation.
Lord, and then her father’s actions had inveigled them all into this mess when he had stood against the king in Edinburgh and demanded that the lands around this place would be for ever Dalceann. He had taken no notice of any arguments Alisdair had put forward, but had forged on into a position which he was caught in. The armies that had followed him home had been undermanned and he had easily rebuffed them, but by then they were outlawed. Surrender would undoubtedly mean death to them all and Isobel had long been one to whom strategy had come easily.
At twenty she had planned the defence of the next attack and the one after that. Now, they stood on the edge of the cliff with the world at a distance and no other great vassal of the king had ventured forth to try his hand at possession. Not for two whole summers.
So far the magic in the hearth had held. Except for Alisdair. But even his bones lay here in the earth of the bailey, defended by high walls of stone.
The unassailable Ceann Gronna Castle of the Dalceann clan.
‘We cannae hold on for ever, ye ken, Isobel. The new governance has its supporters.’
She nodded because truth was an unavoidable thing. When the time was right some of the Dalceanns would leave the keep by sea. Already the ground to the south was prepared. A different ruse and one bought with the golden trinkets and jewellery found in the French boat that had sunk a good two years before. There was still some left in case of trouble, hidden in the walls of her chamber. Alisdair’s idea.
‘If this stranger is as inclined to violence as Ian believes him to be, it would make sense to bind him in the dungeon under lock and key.’
‘You speak as if I could not subdue him, Andrew, should he become restless.’
‘Could not or would not, Isobel? There is a difference.’
His voice held a note of question and it saddened her. He had always been the father her own had not been—a man of strong morals and good sense.
A moan behind had her turning.
‘I will think on your words, Andrew, I promise.’
She was glad when he merely nodded and moved off, leaving her alone to tend to the green-eyed stranger.
She had said something of sea tunnels, Marc thought, and of an entrance from the water, but with Isobel beside him again, her hand across his brow, cooling fever, he filed the information away to remember at a later time.
His arm ached, small prickles of it in his chest and neck, the water she helped him sip tainted with a herb he did not know the name of.
The door held a key in the lock and there was rope in the shelf of a small cabinet. A fine woollen cloth hung on the wall by the bed. All things he could use to escape if he needed to he thought. But not yet. The weakness in him was all consuming and the dizziness took away his balance.
‘You need to get stronger,’ she said and her tone was angry. ‘For my protection has its limits, Marc’
Marc felt his lips tug up at each end. Not in humour, but in the sheer and utter absurdity of it all. God, when had he ever depended on anyone before and how many thousands had always depended on him? She had the way of his name, too. The fever, he supposed, loosening his tongue in the heat of swelter.
‘They would kill me here? Your people?’
She nodded. ‘For a lot less than you would imagine.’
‘And you? Are you compromised because of it?’
When she did not answer he swore, the night in the forest coming back to him. Lifting his right hand, he motioned to the wound.
‘Your blood and mine?’
‘The spirit of guardianship must be honoured in the proper way. It is written.’
‘A useful knowledge, that.’
‘You speak as if you do not believe it.’
‘Believe?’ Turmoil and battle were all he had known for a long time now. But Isobel smelt of fresh mint and soap and something else he could not as yet name. He closed his eyes so that he might know it better, every sense focusing on the part of his skin where her hair brushed against him, soft as a feather.
Hope!
The word came down with all the force of a heavy-bladed falchion—he who had led armies for the king against the great enemies of France for all the years of his life. Trusting no one. Guarding any careless faith.
It was the sickness, perhaps, that made him vulnerable or the mix of her blood against his own, inviting exposure.
He wondered just what she would do if she knew who he truly was and pressed down the thought.
Just now and just here. A room in a keep above the sea, its buttressed walls holding in a danger that it had long tried to keep without. He closed his eyes to stop her from seeing what he knew lay inside him, fermenting in the deceit, and was glad when she left the room.
She had seen the look in his eyes and needed to think. Seen the danger and the menace and the hidden knowledge of threat. Not to her though, she thought, as she went down the stairs, the heat of his fever imbued into the very tissue of her skin. She had locked the door and taken the key to keep the others out.
Safety again. For him.
Turning the silver band on her finger, she remembered the man who had put it there. Gentle. Manageable. Alisdair had railed against her father’s strong denial of David’s right in managing his kingdom and had warned him of the pathway fraught with danger that he would tread should he demand authority of the Dalceann tracts.
All his warnings had come to pass, save the one of losing his own life while in the process of trying to change her father’s mind.
She swore beneath her breath. ‘Listen to your heart, Isobel,’ her husband had said time and time again as they had lain in their curtained bed above the storms thrown in from the churning German Sea. ‘King David’s Norman education is changing everything in Scotland and only those who can change with it will survive.’
Slapping one hand against her thigh, she leaned back against a wall. Solid and cool, it steadied her.
Alone.
God in Heaven, why should such aloneness today be any worse than usual?
It was because of this outlander.
It all came down to him. His skin beneath her fingers as she wiped his brow. His breath against her face when she leaned in close, eyes of deep clear green shored up by carefulness.
His body marked by war and battle. She had told no one that!
Neither had she disclosed the silver ring she had found buried deep in the pocket of his gilded surcoat and engraved with the royal mark of King David.
Another day and she would have him gone. She swore it on the soul of Brighid, the Celtic Goddess, the keeper of the sacred hearth and the patroness of women.
Isobel Dalceann came back to him as the sun fell low against the window and she brought a mash of sorts with bread soaked in milk. He ate it as if it was his very last meal and felt stronger.
‘Thank you.’
Again. It seemed of late he had been indebted to this woman time after time.
Waving away the words, she countered with her own question. ‘Are you one of David’s men?’
She had found the ring, he supposed. He should have tossed it when he had the chance, but the piece held a value to him that was sentimental and he had not wanted to.
‘Once I was,’ he replied.
‘And now?’
‘It