Amanda Scott (19 page)

She had been about to insist that she could lie to the Green Abbot without a single twinge of conscience, but his grace was another matter. “Nay, not to his grace.”

“Do you recall my reaction to finding you on my ship?” he asked softly.

His tone sent another shiver through her, but she said, “I do not know why you must bring that up again, sir. That incident lies in the past.”

“Aye, it does,” he agreed, stroking her bare arm. “But you would do well to remember that I do have a temper, sweetheart, and take care not to rouse it again.”

She frowned. “Do you mean you’d be angry if I refused to couple with you?”

“Nay, lass, you have as much to say about that as I do, for I do not believe in forcing women. I will insist that we consummate our marriage, but I would ask for your submission. I have no wish to bed an unwilling wife. My warning just now had to do only with your apparently casual attitude about lying to people other than his grace. I would have you understand that it will be as dangerous for you to lie to me.”

“Then I will try not to,” she said. “It is only that sometimes one feels obliged to lie a little. For example, if someone asks one for an opinion of a new dress or hat, or asks other such questions, lying may be the only tactful way to reply.”

Taking her chin firmly in hand, he made her look at him as he said, “If I ask you a question, Isobel, I want an honest answer.”

“And will you give honest answers to my questions, sir?”

“I will,” he said. “If I cannot, I will tell you that I cannot, and I will try to explain why. Sometimes secrets belong to other people, and when someone entrusts me with a secret, I am obliged to honor that confidence.”

“Mayhap I, too, have such secrets.”

“Do you?”

She could not meet his gaze. “Not just now,” she admitted. “I was only thinking that I might one day. If I told you that that was the case—”

“A woman should not keep secrets from her husband,” he said flatly.

“I see,” Isobel said. “Only husbands may keep secrets.”

He sighed. “That is not what I meant to say. Nor have we sufficient time now to talk this matter out as we should. I agree that we must discuss it further, because you make a good point, but right now we have an important duty we must fulfill.”

“Consummating our marriage,” she said. “Perhaps making a baby.”

“Aye,” he said, proceeding to take off his doublet.

As she watched him unlace his breeks and kick off his boots, she nibbled her lower lip silently. But when he stood and faced her, clearly ready to claim her, she said, “There is one secret you must know before we couple, sir. Mariota was mad.”

Chapter 12

M
ichael paused in the act of removing his nether garments and straightened again to look down at Isobel, his most trusted instincts warring against each other. On the one hand, instinct told him she was telling the truth as she knew it. But a similar reliable instinct had told him he could trust Hector Reaganach, the admiral, and the Lord of the Isles. Logically, either the Maclean twins and MacDonald knew naught of this madness, or Isobel was mistaken.

Wondering how patient the others awaiting them would be, he glanced at the door, but he had securely barred it, and he did not think they would interrupt him without better cause than their own impatience. Deciding that that did not matter anyway when it was his life and hers that were at stake, he held his peace long enough to finish undressing and to climb into bed beside her.

When she shrank from him, he said, “I was mistaken, sweetheart. ’Tis clear that we need to discuss this matter further before we proceed, but I would like to hold you, if I may, whilst we do.”

“Then you believe me,” she said on a note of relief that reinforced his judgment that she believed what she said.

“I do. Now, come here to me.” He stretched out his arm invitingly, remaining silent until she had scooted closer and laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Drawing her nearer yet, he stroked her bare arm with his fingertips, delighting again in the silky smoothness of her skin and hoping she would soon lose her tension and be at ease with him. Quietly, he said, “Tell me again how Lady Mariota died.”

She hesitated as though choosing her words, then said, “There is a cliff above the castle.”

“Above Chalamine?”

“Nay, here at Ardtornish. They call it
Creag nan Corp.”

“Aye, sure, I’ve heard of it,” he said. “’Tis MacDonald’s punishment rock, but surely, your sister was no felon cast to her death on the rocks beneath it.”

“No,” Isobel said. “We . . . we were on the cliffs one day—Cristina, Mariota, and I—and . . .” Her hesitation this time lasted longer, but he waited, then grimaced when she added in a rush, “Mariota and I fell off. We caught hold of shrubbery, but Cristina could only reach me. Mariota . . .” She fell silent again, her lips pressed tightly together as if she dared not trust her voice any further.

He shuddered at the thought that he might so easily never have met her. Turning to his side, still holding her close, he looked into her eyes and wished he had left the curtains open so that he could see her expression more clearly. He had a feeling that his change of position made her uncomfortable, but he did not think that discomfort stemmed from sexual fear of him.

Her gaze shifted from his, and knowing that the subject was uncomfortable for her, he said only, “That must have been terrifying for you.”

“Aye, for I was but twelve at the time.”

He waited, letting her choose her pace, knowing she would be more likely to tell him the whole tale if he did not press her.

He was watching her so intently that she could scarcely breathe, but although she had decided that she had to share her worry about Mariota’s madness with him, she could not seem to get the words out. The few that had come had spilled from her tongue easily enough, but they danced around what she wanted to say without saying it. A nagging voice in her mind warned that she was betraying her family. Still, she knew he could tell that she was not giving him the whole truth, and in light of his warning earlier, his steady gaze made her nervous. In other circumstances, she might have invented a reason to postpone the discussion, but postponement now could so easily lead to much worse things. She exerted herself to meet his gaze, wishing that he would say something.

“I . . . I cannot think how to tell you about it,” she admitted at last.

“Why were you so dangerously near such a cliff?” he asked.

Heat flooded her cheeks, making her grateful for the dim light as the voice in her head said jeeringly that she ought to have known he would not so easily accept her glib description of Mariota’s fall. His curiosity was as active as hers, and his determination to find answers was, if possible, even more intense.

Resisting the strong temptation to evade his piercing stare, she said, “Mariota was already at the top of the cliff, and Cristina, too, when I rode up to them.”

He frowned. “Were you not all three riding together?”

“Nay, I had followed them.”

“So, even at twelve, you took your own road.”

“Aye, sometimes.” She grimaced, then said more sharply, “Pray, do not quiz me, sir. Telling you about this is difficult enough.”

“Very well,” he said. His tone was amiable, as it usually was, but she easily detected the slight edge that told her he wanted her to get to the point, and quickly.

Closing her eyes so that she need not watch that amiable expression change to one of horror, she said, “Mariota had threatened to throw herself off the cliff, and when Cristina tried to reason with her, Mariota tried to push her off instead.”

“How did you come into it?”

His tone was so gentle that she opened her eyes, wondering if he had misunderstood her, but when she saw his expression, she shut them again and swallowed hard before she said, “Mariota had told me what she was going to do, and I told Cristina. That’s why Cristina went after her.”

“She is the eldest, so mayhap I can understand that, although she ought to have told Hector, or you should have. And if you followed only out of curiosity—”

Knowing how consistent men were in believing that women could not handle crises without their assistance, she interjected hastily, “I got frightened, and rightly, too, because when I arrived, Mariota was daring Cristina to stand at the edge with her. I could see that something was dreadfully wrong, and I shouted at Cristina not to do it, but she always wants to think the best of people, particularly of Mariota, because she loved her, so she told me to be silent and did as Mariota asked. But I jumped off my pony and ran closer. Neither was paying me heed, because Mariota was intent on cozening Cristina into doing what she wanted her to do and Cristina was trying to persuade her to return to the castle. Then Mariota grabbed her and tried to push her off, and I ran and caught hold of Cristina and tried to pull her back, but Mariota would not let go, so I tried to push her as I pulled Cristina, and . . .”

“. . . and you and Mariota fell over the edge,” he said when tears she had not noticed before choked her into a watery sob. His voice seemed strangely hoarse as he added, “Don’t stop there, sweetheart. Tell me what happened next.”

Despite the gruff tone, his calm steadied her, and she said, “Cristina tried to reach us, but she couldn’t, and when Mariota realized that although Cristina might succeed in rescuing me, she could not reach her, she . . .” She gulped, hardly able to believe it herself even now but forcing the words out. “Michael, she grabbed my foot and tried to climb right up me, but I . . . I kicked her and . . . and she fell.”

The sobs came then, wracking her body, but Michael gathered her close and held her tight. He did not speak until the worst of the storm had passed, but then he murmured, “Just cry, sweetheart, until you can cry no more. It will all be easier then.”

But commanded to flow freely, the wellspring of her tears dried up instead, and she was able to regain control of herself within a minute or two.

He was gently stroking her hair, and the sensation of his warm hand against her scalp was comforting. She sighed deeply and let herself relax against him.

“Better?” he said.

“Aye,” she muttered. “But I don’t understand why I lost control like that, because I don’t think I cried that hard even when she died.”

“Do you think that by pushing her, you were responsible for her death?”

Her throat and stomach tightened at so blunt an expression of the very thought that had flitted through her mind as she had described what happened, that she
was
responsible, but common sense stirred quickly. “I never described it to anyone in just those words before,” she said. “Hector came, and it was he who rescued me, because Cristina was only able to hold on to me, not to pull me up, and we—Hector and I—were more worried about her than anything else. But you can see, sir, can you not, that Mariota must have been mad to do what she did.”

“Sweetheart, what I see is that at twelve, you were as brave as you are now, and if our children are lucky enough to inherit such bravery, I’ll be a proud man.”

Her heart swelled, but she looked searchingly into his eyes, trying to see if he spoke the truth or merely felt obliged to say such a thing because his pride refused to allow him to reject her so soon after marrying her.

He met her gaze steadily and then bent his head to claim her lips in a warm kiss. When she realized that the kiss was quickly becoming more demanding, she pulled away. “But she was mad,” she said. “She must have been!”

“I’m thinking ’tis more likely that she was badly spoiled, that if she was so beautiful, she was used to getting her own way and was just trying to do that when everything went amiss,” he murmured. “Even if she was mad, though, you have six other sisters and a host of kinsmen, sweetheart. How many of them are mad?”

“None that I know about,” she admitted. “But surely you would care very much if by marrying me you introduced madness into the St. Clair family.”

He chuckled. “What will happen, will happen. Besides, you have not met Henry yet. When you do, you may change your mind about who is introducing madness into the family, and indeed, doubt your own wisdom in marrying me.”

“Faith, sir, Henry will be a prince! But
our
children . . . what if—”

“Our children will inherit bravery and strength of mind from their mother,” he said firmly. “Those two qualities will overwhelm any tendency to madness.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said in that same firm tone. “Now then, lass . . .”

Three sharp knocks on the door made them both jump, and Hector’s voice thundered through the wood paneling: “The tide has turned, you two, and time is fast fleeing. If you want the advantage to be with us when we meet your enemies, you’d better stir yourselves out of that bed, and right swiftly.”

“We’ll be with you shortly, my lord,” Michael said.

“Faith, sir, how can we be?” Isobel said. “It is my fault, I know, but—”

Michael silenced her this time simply by placing a finger to her lips. “We are not going to consummate our marriage with a hasty coupling, sweetheart. It would be too easy for me to hurt you, for one thing, and for another, I want to enjoy my bride at some leisure when we do.”

“But what can we tell them? I’m sure they will see that I’ve been crying.”

“Aye, and if they do, they will blame me,” he said. “If you would please me, you will offer no information to them about this conversation. I think your sister may ask you if all is well, but you need only say that it is, and she will not pry further. That is one good thing you will discover about being a married lady. People will usually respect the slightest hint that they tread close upon an impropriety.”

She found that hard to believe, because none of her sisters had ever hesitated to ask her anything they wanted to know, but he was already getting up and reaching for his clothes. When she hesitated, he looked over his shoulder at her, grinned, and tossed her shift at her.

“Slip that on, lass. I’ll help you do everything up when I’ve got my breeks on. Unless you’d prefer that I send for your sister’s maidservant.”

“No, thank you,” she said, knowing she was blushing at the thought of him helping her. But it would be worse to have Brona fussing over her.

She dressed as quickly as she was able, and Michael fastened the buttons and tied the ribbons at the back of her gown. When she would have opened the door, he stopped her with a gesture and then, to her astonishment, drew his dirk from his boot and casually made a shallow cut in his upper forearm.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

He smiled. “They will expect to find blood on those sheets. If they find it, no one will ask questions. Have you something with which I can bind this up after I attend to that?” he asked.

“Trust a man to think of binding only after he’s bleeding all over the carpet,” she said dryly as she took his dirk from him and used it to cut a strip from her red-flannel underskirt. “This will have to do. I hope your doublet sleeve will cover it.”

He chuckled, moved to the bed, and carefully rubbed blood onto the sheet.

“Faith, that is fine linen belonging to his grace and Princess Margaret,” she exclaimed, horrified to think they would believe the blood was hers.

“So it is,” he said, grinning. “Are you going to tend my wound?”

They bound up his arm and smoothed the doublet sleeve over the binding. Then, after looking around the chamber to be sure they had collected all their belongings, he draped her cloak over her shoulders and tied its strings under her chin. She moved again toward the door, but he drew her close and kissed her.

“Thank you for telling me, sweetheart,” he said. “That took courage, I know, but I hope you will always find the courage to tell me what you think I should know.”

She looked into his eyes again, wondering if she would ever understand this man she had married. But she had no more time to think, because Hector banged on the door again.

This time, Michael opened it, put his arm around her, and said, “We’re ready, sir. We’ll just follow you if you please.”

Hector looked at Isobel, and in her guilt at the deception they had created, heat surged to her cheeks and she had to exert herself to manage a smile.

But, as Michael had predicted, Hector asked no questions. Turning to Brona, who stood behind him with a bundle of clean sheets, he said, “Tend to the bed, lass, and hurry. The women’s boat will wait for you, and for her grace’s women, too.”

As he headed toward the stairway, he added over his shoulder, “I thought you’d prefer that Brona attend to the bed, rather than his grace’s people.”

Michael gave her a squeeze, and she hid a smile as they followed Hector downstairs, outside, and down the steep cliff steps to the waiting galleys. She had long since learned that men enjoyed pointing out their cleverness to women.