Amanda Scott (13 page)

That thought was not one that she wanted to dwell on, nor did she think such a question deserved an answer. Nevertheless, his reproaches were beginning to make her squirm, and she wished he would stop.

“You seem to think that you may just do as you please,” he went on in that same conversational tone. “And that is another thing that Hector Reaganach must deal with, because I do not have the right. If I did, you would find yourself across my knee right now, learning a hard lesson. As it is, you will return to Lochbuie.”

“But I thought you would help me! You kissed me, so I thought—”

He caught her hard again, and when she looked up in surprise, he captured her mouth with his and kissed her hard, his arms sliding around her shoulders, holding her tight against him as he pressed his lips against hers and thrust his tongue between them into her mouth.

She sighed, put her arms around him, and kissed him back.

Roughly, he caught her by the shoulders again and set her back on her heels. Then, still holding her shoulders, he said sternly, “As you see, you can easily entice me to kiss you, lass, but kisses have nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“But you—”

“Did you think to change my mind with kisses? You won’t do it. I do want to help you. Indeed, I have come to care more for you in two days than I thought I could care for any woman in a lifetime, although I swear I do not know why I should. But the fact that I do is what provides me now with a nearly overwhelming urge to beat you until you cry for mercy.”

“But, then—”

He held up a hand, silencing her. “I won’t make you walk back to Lochbuie, Isobel, but you are going to return and face Hector Reaganach. And because I do care deeply about what happens to you, it is my urgent hope that he will do what I am so fervently longing to do to you now.”

“Do you think I hid aboard your boat just so that I could go to Kirkwall?” she demanded, her senses still whirling from both the kiss and his unexpected declaration. “I promise you, I did not. It all happened exactly as I said it did.”

“How it happened matters not one whit,” he said. “What matters is that you continued to conceal yourself long afterward, rather than do what was right, and thus we both find ourselves in this predicament. It is for that that you deserve punishment, my lass, but you may try your explanation on Hector Reaganach with my goodwill. Mayhap you will find him more understanding.”

Chapter 9

T
he return to Lochbuie seemed to take considerably less time than it had taken them to reach the point where Michael had found Isobel, and the journey seemed very fast to her despite her discomfort both physically and emotionally.

For one thing, although the rain had eased to no more than heavy mist, and although the men had broken out oiled canvas cloaks for those who wanted them, everyone was wet and uncomfortable. For another, Michael’s last words to her still rang in her ears, because he had not said another word to her since, even during their return to the boat when he had picked her up again rather than making her walk through the low-rolling surf and up the narrow gangplank.

She doubted that Hector would give her much time to explain anything, nor would it matter even if he demanded an explanation, because she had none that would satisfy him. For the short time that she had been able to persuade herself that a simple impulse had led her to do something foolish but of little consequence, she had retained a certain confidence, but Michael’s reaction had destroyed that.

Even now she did not know what demon had stirred her to suggest that he take her with him to Orkney. The moment the words jumped from her lips, she had known the idea was thoughtless, but Michael’s reply had shaken her nonetheless. It still rankled that he had fixed on the one major flaw in her argument about having acted out of momentary panic, and had reprimanded her for not having had the courage or integrity to reveal herself to him before they left the harbor.

His nearness and his fury had enveloped her so completely while he hurried her back to the galley that she could not think of a single counterargument. But once they were aboard, with the boat headed back toward Lochbuie, thoughts of what might have been had consumed her. If only she had said this or done that, she told herself, the outcome would have been different.

But as emotions eased their influence on her thoughts, common sense stepped in, until each argument that had presented itself sounded weak, even stupid. None would do for Hector, certainly, and she had a feeling that making her peace with him would be far easier than doing the same with Michael.

Suddenly, she wanted with all her heart to make peace with Michael.

He stood there, apparently unaffected by the rolling motion of the boat, leaning a shoulder against the bow’s high-curved stem-post, his arms crossed over his chest, staring grimly, blindly sternward. His anger at the change in his plans that her actions had forced was nearly tactile.

At least, she mused, the oarsmen could rest now, because with the wind in the larboard quarter, they could ship their oars. Even the lads manning the huge sail’s shrouds and braces had less to do. But she knew that the journey west, sailing against the wind, had taxed them all, and they had enjoyed little rest at Lochbuie. The men would be looking forward to starting the trip over again even less than Michael was.

As the mouth of Lochbuie Bay hove into view ahead, she did not know which worried her most, that he would simply put her ashore on the pier and leave her to make her explanations alone, or that he would not, that he would go with her to meet Hector and tell him exactly what she had done.

As it happened, Hector’s appearance on the pier before the galley landed rendered that choice unnecessary. Isobel saw him striding toward them, oblivious of the drizzling rain, and she nearly flinched, because every movement of his tall, broad warrior’s body revealed his anger with her.

She wished then that she could dive back into the storage locker, and when he loomed over her as Michael helped her onto a bench so that she could step onto the pier, she felt both men’s anger envelop her, and fought back tears at the thought of having managed with one small, stupid incident to infuriate the two men she cared most about in the whole world.

The thought caught her unawares. That she could link them in her mind like that seemed extraordinary. She had known Michael less than three days. Why should she care so much what he thought of her?

Michael saw Isobel’s tears, recognized her struggle to control them, and an unexpected wave of compassion washed away much of his anger.

Hector looked as one might expect Hector the Ferocious to look under such circumstances, and although Michael believed Isobel should face a reckoning, he feared from Hector’s expression that he might punish her too harshly. None of the gentleness the man had displayed the previous evening was in evidence now.

He looked straight at Michael and said, “I have no need to ask whose fault this is, lad, so don’t look so worried. I know you did not try to abduct her.”

“No, my lord,” Michael said, noting that Hector kept a firm grip on Isobel’s upper arm and showed no intention of releasing her. “I’m thinking, though, sir,” he added, “that since my oarsmen have had little rest today, mayhap we should stay the night now at Lochbuie, with your permission.”

“Granted, and not just out of hospitality, for I saw that you headed west when you left,” Hector said, adding in a sterner tone, with a gimlet look at Isobel, “Our lass may have done you a kindness by stowing away, as I suspect she did.”

“I’d be interested to know how that can have been a kindness,” Michael said, ignoring a temptation to shoot just such a look at her himself.

“You told me that your enemy has connections to the Roman Kirk,” Hector said. “You should know that the Green Abbot of Iona is of that ilk and a sworn enemy to Clan Gillean. Any allies the men following you may have hereabouts will be Mackinnon men. And if they know you came here, the Mackinnons of Mull will be watching your every move now, so ’tis just as well that you did not go ashore or sail near the Holy Isle, where men might recognize your banner.”

“Her ladyship and I did go ashore briefly an hour or so west of here, but we did not linger,” Michael said evenly.

“I see,” Hector said, looking from one to the other. “I think we had better get out of this rain. After Isobel and I have had our talk, I want to discuss these troubles of yours further, lad. Your men will take supper in the hall with us.”

“Thank you, my lord. You are generous.”

“Sakes, lad, the lady Isobel is my responsibility, and the necessity for you to stay is her doing,” Hector said. “For me to offer you and your men a hot supper and dry beds seems small payment for the trouble she has caused you. Her ladyship’s own payment,” he added grimly with another look at Isobel, “will be more taxing.”

Isobel stood stiffly, determined to retain the shreds of her dignity if it killed her but certain that Hector was angrier with her than she had ever seen him. His grip on her arm was viselike and would leave bruises similar to the ones Michael’s fingers had doubtless left on her shoulders, and Hector’s tone of voice whenever he mentioned her name left her in no doubt of what he intended to do.

He had put her over his knee more than once since she had come to live with him and Cristina, but such episodes had been quickly over. She had a feeling that this one would be worse than the others. That Michael was in agreement with him made her punishment inevitable, though, so it would be best just to get it over with.

Accordingly, she made no protest as she hurried along beside Hector, although he made no attempt to shorten his long strides to accommodate hers. Her cloak billowed in the chilly wind, but halfway to the castle entrance the rain stopped, so she could at least be grateful for that.

She had heard Michael tell his cousin to supervise the men as they put up their oars and prepared the
Raven
for the night, so although she did not look back, she knew that he followed them now. The knowledge that he was aware of exactly what Hector meant to do was humiliating, and Hector’s intended punishment even more so, but when they reached the hall, she realized that yet more discomfort lay ahead.

As they entered, Cristina rushed to meet her, exclaiming, “Oh, my dearling, I feared that something dreadful had happened to you. Where have you been? You’re all wet! Did you fall? Did you run into Mackinnons? I cannot tell you how worried I’ve been since the men on the wall told us they had lost sight of you!”

Before Isobel could reply, Hector said, “I promised you I would find her, sweetheart, so you need not have worried. She merely took the bit between her teeth again, but this time she has inconvenienced Sir Michael and his men, and I mean to make my disappointment in her behavior very clear to her.”

Lady Euphemia, close on Cristina’s heels, exclaimed, “Mercy, Isobel, what can you have done to inconvenience Sir Michael? His ship left hours ago!”

With both women staring at her, clearly expecting an explanation, and with Hector and Michael silently flanking her, the former still gripping her arm, clearly meaning for her to answer the questions herself, Isobel pushed back her hood with her free hand and said, “I . . . I was on his boat, Aunt Euphemia. It happened quite by accident, I assure you, but—”

“But how could you have done it by accident?” Lady Euphemia demanded. “That is not a thing anyone does inadvertently, Isobel. One either boards a boat or one does not. I declare, my dear, you grow more and more like our poor Mariota every day. I thought we were finished with such inexplicable matters when she—”

“We have finished with them, madam,” Hector interjected. “I am about to make certain of that, so if you will excuse us, I will settle this matter with Isobel at once. You are welcome to come with us, St. Clair,” he added abruptly.

To Isobel’s shock, Michael said calmly, “Then I will, sir, thank you.”

Michael knew that Hector had issued the invitation out of courtesy, because the behavior for which he was going to punish Isobel had greatly inconvenienced a guest. He knew, too, however, that Hector had not expected him to accept, because the same courtesy that led to such an invitation nearly always led to its rejection.

Discipline, although a solemn duty of a lass’s father, foster father, or husband, was not a scene for an audience, and Michael could not have said exactly why he had accepted the invitation, only that instinct had stirred him to do so. But he rarely ignored that instinct, and he did not ignore it now.

Isobel was pale as Hector urged her toward the small chamber where he and Michael had conversed the previous night, but Michael did not think her pallor stemmed from fear of punishment. Until only moments before, she had seemed resigned to her fate if not altogether accepting of it.

Her cheeks had reddened when the two women scolded her, and only toward the end of that scolding had she paled. She had looked wan then but had turned nearly white when Michael said he would join them, making him suspect that she had known Hector might include him and now feared much greater humiliation.

He was sorry for that, but instinct was instinct, and things happened because they were supposed to happen. He would see the business through, wherever it led.

Hearing the door shut, and feeling Michael’s presence loom behind her, Isobel faced Hector numbly and hoped he would say what he wanted to say and do what he was going to do quickly so that she could escape to the blessed solitude of her bedchamber and shut out the rest of the world.

Instead of going around the heavy table as he did when he meant only to scold her, he sat on the front edge of it, folded his arms across his chest, and looked long and hard at her.

She stood still, making no effort to avoid his gaze.

“I’m disappointed in you, Isobel,” he said softly.

He had said as much to Cristina, but hearing it again brought an ache to her throat as she strove to think of an acceptable reply. She could not protest, because she knew she deserved to hear the words. She nearly looked away but thought better of that, too. She would not cry either, not with Michael there to see it.

“By heaven,” Hector said with a sigh after a moment or two, “I seldom find myself at such a loss, but I do not know what to say to you. ’Twas bad enough when you interfered in a dispute between men without thought for your own safety, and I have already expressed my disapproval of your lack of judgment in spending the night alone with Sir Michael, but apparently to no avail. I’ve no idea now of how to make sure you understand that this latest start of yours deserves stern punishment.”

When he paused for breath, she said quietly, “I know I was wrong, sir. I have already said as much, and truly, I can explain how—”

“I don’t want to hear explanations or excuses,” he said curtly. “Before I proceed, however, I do want to hear you accept responsibility for your rash behavior and make a sincere apology for the trouble you have caused Sir Michael.”

She swallowed, but the ache in her throat remained. She could not look at Michael, but to Hector she said, “I do apologize. I know you will say I should not have set foot on Sir Michael’s boat, and although I did believe he would not object, I was wrong to let panic drive me to hide when I heard the others coming, and wrong to keep silent after he came aboard. I never meant to make anyone angry. I just . . .” Her throat closed, words failed her, and she fell silent.

“You must realize that one at least amongst his men or ours will talk of this,” Hector said. “You could not have done anything more certain to nourish the scandal you have already stirred. Take off your cloak, lass. You have left me no choice . . .”

Paying no heed to his hesitation, she untied the cloak strings, shrugged it off, and braced herself, certain that she knew what was coming.

“. . . unless, of course . . .” He paused again, waiting, one eyebrow raised.

No more than she could have flown could Isobel have stopped the words that flew off her tongue: “Unless what?”

“I was just thinking that, although this incident may stir greater scandal, it becomes naught but a romance if the ending includes marriage,” he said dulcetly.

Isobel stared at him, the ache in her throat stronger than ever.

“Well, lass? Are you still determined to refuse him, or . . . ?”

She shut her eyes, and Michael’s presence behind her loomed even larger until she opened them again and murmured, “I doubt that he still wants me, sir.”