When the Laird Returns Page 4

  “For once, you could be right, woman,” Drummond said, leaning back in his chair before turning to Alisdair. “I’ll not sell Gilmuir to you for any amount,” he said, his smile part cunning, part amusement.

  Alisdair took another sip of whiskey to hide his anger. He was not in the mood nor did he have time for Drummond’s games.

  “Instead,” the older man said, “I’ll sell you Gilmuir and my daughter.”

  Iseabal watched as the servant girls left her chamber, hearing the bar being lowered outside her door. They’d found little of value; her most cherished carvings were hidden in the stables with Robbie as their guardian.

  The thought of being kept here for weeks or months was almost intolerable. Yet Iseabal realized that praying to be quit of Fernleigh would not be wise. When she was led from her room, it would be to attend her wedding.

  The afternoon sun, streaming in through the small window, touched upon the furnishings of her room: a wardrobe, a squat bureau, a bedside table, and the small bed that had been hers since childhood. All of the pieces had been crafted by the carpenters employed at Fernleigh. The only exception was the small bench beside the window, sturdy and old, the wood having darkened over the years.

  Here she sat and struggled with her needlework or mulled over her life. Sometimes, when her father was gone from Fernleigh, she’d get a stone from Robbie and begin to work on it, muffling the sharp pinging sound of the chisel beneath a cloth.

  A basin stood on her bureau, the matching pitcher filled with cold water. Her father refused to have the servants engaged in pampering, as he called it. Even in winter there was no hot water for washing. The only respite from the cold of Fernleigh was to gather around the fireplace in the clan hall.

  She washed her hands, noting that the cut on her hand was not deep and would heal soon enough. Iseabal wasn’t as certain about her side.

  Unfastening her canvas stays, Iseabal inspected them as she did every day. The straw stuffed into the narrow pockets would need to be replaced soon. Putting the stays on the chair as a reminder, she began to remove her shift.

  Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she wrung it dry before placing it on the swelling at her side. The pain was manageable, but only if she did not move quickly or bend sharply.

  A sound at the door alerted her, and she quickly wrapped herself in the blanket from the end of her bed. Settling on the bench, Iseabal gripped the rough wood at either side of her hips with both hands. Pressing her lips together tightly, she murmured a quick and familiar prayer. Please do not let it be my father. But if it is, help me to be brave.

  But it wasn’t Magnus Drummond, only a servant girl.

  “You’re to come to the hall, miss,” she said, staring down at the floor.

  Iseabal stood, wrapping the blanket tightly around her. “I’m to be shown again?” she asked, resigned.

  For two years men had visited Fernleigh on all matter of business. Iseabal had been paraded before them like a ewe at auction, her virtues extolled and her bride price announced to any who would listen.

  The majority of the men her father deemed wealthy enough to afford a Drummond daughter were in their middle years. Their faces had marked them as older; their wealth had indicated their success in business. In too many cases they’d spoken of dead wives and scores of children needing a nurse, mother, and maid.

  The girl smiled kindly as if understanding the apprehension behind Iseabal’s question. But her words did nothing to ease Iseabal’s mind. “Your father bids you to dress in your finest garments, miss, because your new husband awaits.”

  An oath trembled on Alisdair’s lips, but he held it back. He’d bartered all over the world, knew the value of a bland expression, an air of restraint. But hiding his emotions had never been as difficult as now.

  “I’ve no wish for a wife,” he said curtly. “Only ownership to land that is mine.”

  “Then wait until the courts decree it yours,” Drummond said, looking beyond Alisdair. He raised his hand, wiggling his fingers in an impatient beckoning gesture.

  Alisdair glanced over his shoulder. There, standing in the doorway, was the woman he’d seen in the ruins. Her black hair fell loose to her waist, acting as a frame for her pale face. Her lips, tightened in a grim look of purpose, fell open at the sight of him, then just as quickly closed again. Her hands, clenched together at her sides, loosened, then gripped the material of her blue-and-red-striped petticoat. Her short jacket, buttoned to her neck, seemed immobile for a moment, as if she’d taken a breath and held it to test her ability at such a task. A second later she breathed again, her breasts pressing against the material to prove she was not a statue but a living person caught suspended in a moment of surprise.

  They shared startled looks before each glanced away.

  “My daughter,” Drummond said, although it was hardly necessary. She looked the image of her mother.

  She didn’t move or acknowledge the halfhearted introduction, only stared at the floor as if the worn stones were fascinating to behold.

  “Iseabal,” her mother said, summoning the younger woman with a gesture of her hand.

  Alisdair watched as she made her way across the room. Iseabal. The name suited her. Forcing himself to look away, Alisdair faced Drummond again.

  “I’ll not bargain with you, MacRae. You’ll take the land and the girl for the price I gave you. But if you haven’t the money, then it’s no matter to me. I’ll be the same as I am now.”

  Suddenly, Alisdair understood that Drummond would be just as satisfied if he left empty-handed.

  “I’ll take the land,” Alisdair said crisply. “I’ve no use for a wife.”

  “She’s healthy and she’s docile enough,” Drummond said, as if describing a horse. “I’ve no doubt she’ll breed well, being heartier than her mother.”

  He snapped his fingers in summons and Iseabal made her way to her father’s side. Drummond grabbed her petticoat, pulling her closer.

  “She’s got good teeth,” he said, reaching up to grip her jaw and force her mouth open. “She had the pox as a child and won’t get it again. She’s got a good figure with enough padding that a man won’t be stuck on bones, but not so much that you’d suffocate.”

  Iseabal’s eyes fluttered shut even as her face began to flush.

  Alisdair stood, pushing the bench back. “Enough, Drummond,” he said, disgusted with the other man’s crude display of his daughter. “I’ve only come for MacRae land.”

  “They come together, MacRae, for the price I stated. Without one, you’ll never have the other.”

  A threat he didn’t doubt Drummond would keep. Turning from the sight of Iseabal’s mortification, Alisdair stared up at the ruin of the stained-glass window. He noticed the motto etched on the sword. Loyalty. How far did his own loyalty extend? To marrying a woman he’d no wish to wed? To beggaring himself in order to safeguard land his family would never hold?

  The money he’d saved from his voyages had been set aside to expand the shipyard. He wanted to build faster ships incorporating the ideas of the Fortitude. If he altered the hull design, he could create a swan upon the water, a silent, beautiful, and speedy vessel that could outrun and outmaneuver anything currently afloat.

  The decision had been made, Alisdair realized, the moment he’d stepped onto MacRae soil. Or maybe it had come before then, when he’d been a boy sitting on the floor beside his brothers in front of the fire, listening to his mother and father tell stories of Gilmuir. Or perhaps it was not a decision after all, but a gift to his parents and the others from Scotland who had made such a sacrifice in order to survive.

  Alisdair turned, encountering the older woman’s glance. There was panic in her eyes and a supplication as heartfelt as any prayer. She wanted her daughter gone from here, and it was not difficult to understand why. Drummond had treated Iseabal with such easy disdain that it must have been a habit of a lifetime.

  “Well?” Magnus asked, the word more a demand than a question. He
stood, pushing Iseabal away from him. She stumbled, falling to the floor with only a slight gasp of alarm. Alisdair reached her in seconds, bent down, and placing his hands on her arms, helped her rise.

  She got to her knees, her face only inches from his. Her lips were white, but she uttered just one small sound as he helped her stand. “You’re not well,” he said quietly.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, her gaze meeting his in a swift plea before glancing toward her father.

  What sort of man engenders such fear in his own daughter?

  “I’ll pay your price, Drummond,” he said reluctantly. “For Gilmuir and Iseabal.”

  “Then we’ll draw up a bargain between us,” the other man said. Drummond’s glance at his wife was evidently command enough. Leah rose, placing her needlework on the chair before moving to her daughter. Together the two of them left the room.

  “How did it go?” Daniel asked when Alisdair emerged from Fernleigh an hour later.

  “I’ve bought the land,” Alisdair said, frowning at Daniel. The transfer of his funds had been made by letter, the wedding bargain reached, both deeds done with such dispatch that he was still reeling from the speed of it. He glanced back at the Drummond fortress.

  “I’m also to be married,” he said, astonishment coloring his voice. “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  T oday was her wedding day.

  Iseabal stood staring out her bedroom window, wondering if the weather was a portent for her marriage. The dawn mist had given way to a heavy shower that thundered against the roof, slanting against the windowpanes in watery disapproval.

  Those passing between the outbuildings and Fernleigh did so quickly, their hurried footsteps marking the sodden path. Even the walls of her room seemed to weep with the dampness, as if subtly chastising Iseabal for her resolve.

  She would not cry.

  Any wish not to be married would be futile. This was the way of the world, after all. Daughters were to be wed, as profitably as possible. At least this bridegroom was young and healthy.

  She had, at least, a passing acquaintance with those men who’d made a bid for her hand. She’d known the name of the palsied old man who’d tried to grope her, and the character of the toothless magistrate who’d been fascinated with her bottom. She’d been told where they lived, and what each man required for a wife—a fertile breeder, a mother to his children, or a nurse in his old age.

  All she knew of the MacRae was that he felt a kinship to Gilmuir strong enough to pay a fortune for it and marry a stranger. A man of honor, perhaps. Or one whose stubbornness was the match of her father’s.

  Her prayer was simple. Help me.

  God spoke to her, not in a booming voice, but in the sudden image of Alisdair MacRae extending his hand to her. The sun seemed to sparkle behind his beautiful eyes, and his smile was an answer of sorts.

  A man who’d helped a stranger. One whose eyes had narrowed when her father spoke of her, who had halted Drummond’s words with a curt command. A man to respect, perhaps.

  Was it enough to respect a husband? Somewhere there must be another, softer emotion, one borne of laughter and friendship.

  There were signs of love at Fernleigh, but it existed in the engaging smile of one of the maids as she waved to her sweetheart in the stables. Or when the cook kissed Angus, the carpenter, then shooed him from the kitchen with a pat on his rump.

  But there was nothing of happiness in her mother’s face and little amusement to be found in her smile. A lesson, perhaps, in that realization. Money, power, and privilege did not bring happiness.

  Today, however, her father seemed pleased enough.

  “The Drummond’s being a right pleasant sort,” one of the servant girls had remarked earlier in the corridor outside her room. “He even smiled at me when I brought him his porridge.”

  “It’s best not to trust in his good nature, Mary,” her companion cautioned. “His moods change with the wind.”

  But it seemed as if her father was not about to change his mind. She was going to be married in a matter of hours.

  Turning away from the window, Iseabal walked to the rectangular straw basket that would serve as her trunk, holding her clothing along with the necessities of her wardrobe. In the bottom were the most precious of her treasures, her sculpting tools and those pieces she’d retrieved from Robbie this morning.

  Her hands, lightly touching the flat top of the trunk, felt cold, her fingertips almost numb. But then her stomach whirred as if a thousand bees had taken up residence inside her.

  What would marriage bring?

  The sameness of her solitude, no doubt. A feeling of being alone in a vast sea of people. She would be expected to be pleasant and silent, smiling and mute. Not an appreciable difference from her current life, except for the added duty of the marriage bed. If she were lucky, her new husband would be kind. If not, she would simply accept her new existence.

  But surely there was more to life than endurance?

  She began to pace the length of her chamber, counting out the steps from one wall to the window and back again. From childhood she’d understood that the reason for a union mattered little, be it greed or pride or revenge, only that her father would choose and she would obey.

  But it did not mean that she welcomed the future. She knew life at Fernleigh, accepted it as she did the changing of the seasons. Even her father’s rages and the unforeseen nature of his cruelty were expected. She had learned the confines of her life as well as she knew the dimensions of her chamber.

  Her mother entered the room suddenly, her face wreathed in a bright smile. In her arms she held a petticoat decorated with thin yellow stripes, and a dark blue shortgown, or jacket.

  “I’ve finished,” her mother said, spreading the garments carefully over the bed. On the cuffs of the coat and on the hem of the petticoat, Leah had embroidered tiny thistles and stalks of heather. A neckerchief of pale yellow, fastened with the Drummond brooch and her mother’s blue beads, would complete her wedding attire.

  Iseabal traced a finger over the silk threads, feeling the mist of tears. Perhaps she would cry after all.

  “You must have been up all night,” she said, talking past the constriction in her throat.

  “My daughter is being married,” Leah said softly. “I would gladly do as much a thousand times over.”

  Iseabal nodded, unable to speak.

  “You are bound for a new life, Iseabal,” her mother said, her smile oddly luminous. “Why do you look so miserable?”

  Because I do not want your life. I don’t want to be afraid all the time. Words she would never speak, because uttering them would wound the one person she loved.

  “I am not miserable,” she replied, forcing a smile to her face. “Just thinking that my prayers should have been more fully formed. I wished to be free of Fernleigh and now I find myself about to be wed. I wanted a man younger than my suitors and more handsome, but I never thought he would buy me in order to keep his land.”

  Her mother placed both palms on either side of Iseabal’s face. “Love comes to most of us at one time or another, my dearest daughter. But you must watch for it, lest it slips past you unaware.”

  Pulling away, Iseabal stared at her mother. “You can say that, Mother, when he uses you so?”

  “Your father has provided well for us, Iseabal,” she said gently. “We live in luxury compared to so many others.”

  “Is it worth his cruelty?” Iseabal asked.

  Leah gazed at her. “Your father does not think himself brutal, Iseabal, only strong. He does not see his cruelty, only his determination.”

  “Evil that does not recognize itself?”

  “Is any man truly evil?” her mother countered, her eyes kind. “Or does each person hold within themselves a kernel of goodness? A seed that either grows or withers.

  “It is enough, perhaps, to feel joy in your children such as you have given me,” Leah said, placing her hand gently on Iseabal’s cheek. �
�That brings a contentment all its own.”

  If her mother was content, why were there dark circles beneath her eyes? Or why was there panic on her face when her husband entered a room, sour-tempered and angry?

  “Mother,” Iseabal said gently. “You want to see goodness in him, and so you do. But have you never wished for more?”

  “I had love once,” Leah said unexpectedly, sitting on the bench. “A man I loved with all my heart,” she added, staring down at her hands. She examined the backs of them, then turned them over, studying her fingers as if she’d never before seen them. “He was a MacRae,” she said. “Fergus MacRae, of Gilmuir.”

  Shocked, Iseabal sat down beside Leah, stretched out her hand to touch her mother’s wrist, a wordless comfort to counteract the sudden sad look on the other woman’s face.

  Glancing at Iseabal, Leah continued. “He was the most wonderful man I’d ever known. We planned to wed when the rebellion was over, when he came home.”

  “What happened?” Iseabal asked.

  “A story repeated a thousand times. He never returned. I married your father only because it didn’t matter. After Fergus died, I lived in a cloud. Nothing had the power to move me from my grief. Except you,” she said, reaching up and brushing Iseabal’s hair over her shoulder in a tidying gesture. “You have been my greatest joy.”

  “I thought you cried at night because of him,” Iseabal said slowly.

  “Your father?” Leah shook her head. “I never knew you heard,” she said, standing and turning to the window. She gripped the sill as if to steady herself.

  “He was a giant of a man,” Leah said, staring through the window as if she could see him now. “Him, with his red beard and his way of walking as if he owned the earth below his feet. Sometimes I used to think that God Himself would look like Fergus, both fierce and kind.”

  “You love him still?” she asked.

  “Love doesn’t vanish when death appears, Iseabal. In my mind, I’m still that young girl who met him in the glens between my home and his. In my heart, I’m still his.” Leah’s words were laden with both love and sorrow.