He held out a hand to her. “Ye’ll ride with me. I wish ye to tell me all ye can about the castle defenses that ye have nae already.”
She nodded again and came to him without question. He grasped her by the hand and helped her mount Dante.
“What is our course of action?” Cameron demanded, swinging himself up onto his destrier.
“Our course of action,” Graham answered, “is to somehow slip back into what is left of Innis Chonnell Castle and seize Isobel. And if we encounter Findlay in the process, we will kill him.”
Chapter Eight
Standing outside the chapel door, Isobel anxiously waited for her father to call her inside to speak to him. Beyond the thick closed doors, men’s voice drifted to her, but they were no more than muffled sentences—nothing discernable to enlighten her as to what was occurring. She pulled at the tattered gown she wore, having only just arrived and not been given a chance to freshen herself. Behind her, the two men Findlay had left her with stood silent, their expressions blank. Isobel knew they were there to guard her from fleeing, but the question was, did Father believe she hadtriedto escape Innis Chonnell before or that she was taken? And if he believed she’d attempted escape, what was to be her punishment?
Before she could ponder it further, the doors to the chapel swung open, and Jean appeared with a malicious look on her face. Isobel’s heart sank. She had hoped to see her father alone, but from the way Jean’s lips pulled into a sneer, Isobel doubted that would occur.
“Where is Marsaili?” Jean demanded.
“Bring Isobel to me!” came a roar from inside the chapel. Her father’s angry tone worried her, but at least it saved her from having to speak to Jean. Isobel raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and marched past Jean into the room.
Her father sat upon a makeshift dais at the front of the chapel. Findlay sat on his right, and on her father’s left was a man with a shock of white hair and a face that appeared to be fashioned of old leather. Just behind the older gentleman stood a thin—almost frail looking—younger man with blond hair; a long, straight nose; and insolent, dark eyes. Those eyes came to rest upon her, and unmistakable loathing settled his features into hard lines. The man disliked her. She knew it immediately but had no idea why.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she had to fight the desire to rub them. She searched out her father’s gaze, but he was turned to the older man, speaking. She waited nervously by the door, her heart thudding and her throat tightening with each moment that passed.
When his attention finally came to her, she caught her breath and reached behind her to place a steadying hand against the door as she stared into her father’s bright, angry eyes. He gave her a brutal and unfriendly stare that stole most of her hope and left her feeling like a newborn babe with little strength.
“Come forward, Isobel,” he commanded with none of the warmth he used to carry in his tone when speaking to her.
She licked her lips and forced her leaden feet to move, each of her steps echoing in the near-empty chapel. Behind her, thethunkof the door being firmly shut interrupted her slowthuddingprogression and made her twitch, but seeing everyone watching her, she kept moving forward. She stopped directly in front of the dais, and as she stared at her father seated beside the older man, she realized with a start that while her father had white hair like the other older man, her father did not have the same lines marring his face. In truth, Father looked the picture of health and vitality. In that instant, she understood how little she really knew about her father. She did not even know his age.
Sadness overwhelmed her, and more than anything in the world, she wanted to know him and she wanted him to be the kind, good man she had always believed he was. She desperately wanted the chance to have the time with him that she had never had. She wanted memories of walks in the woods, talks by the fire, or even simply eating supper together. “Father—”
“Silence, Isobel. Ye will speak only if addressed, ken?”
Her throat tightened more, making her glad she had just been ordered not to speak. Instead, she nodded. Her father drummed his fingers against the table as he studied her. A long irritated sigh came from him, and then he finally spoke. “Do ye ken what I dunnae like, Isobel?”
Unease trickled down her spine at his low but fierce tone. “Nay, Father. I dunnae ken.”
He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with now narrowed eyes. “Disobedience, Isobel. I detest willfulness.”
Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke, and his face turned a dull shade of red. Dread unfurled in her belly and filled her chest. The doubts that Graham and Marsaili had put in her mind tumbled around in her head. She felt at once cold and then hot, queasy, and weak. She placed a hand against the dais to steady herself, saw her father watch her movements, and quickly removed her hand and brought it to her side. She had a sudden surety that appearing upset by what her father had said and was about to say would be a terrible mistake.
Inhaling a shaky breath, she said, “And ye believe I’ve been disobedient?”
“Ye have!” Jean asserted, rapid steps filling the silence as Jean came to stand by her. Isobel should have known the horrid woman had been lurking behind her, just waiting for the moment she could speak against her. She pointed a finger in Isobel’s face. “Dunnae try to deny that ye fled with yer father’s enemy!”
“I was taken by force,” Isobel said truthfully. They did not need to know that she had been trying to help Marsaili and Graham, which was what had put her in the position to be taken.
“Ye told me ye would nae marry the man yer father wished ye to marry,” Jean declared with a note of vicious triumph.
Isobel’s gaze flew to her father. Her heart sank a bit that he did not look shocked at Jean’s pronouncement, and the doubts clamoring in her head grew to a frightening roar.
“Is this true, Isobel?” her father demanded in a hard voice.
Isobel swallowed her fear. Now was the time to learn the truth. Did her father love her, or did he intend only to use her? She felt lightheaded as she spoke. “I did refuse, Father. I did nae believe ye would marry me to such a man as Jamie MacLeod, a man who belongs to the clan of your enemies.”
A cold smile curled her father’s lips. “Findlay says ye killed the MacLeod,” her father stated as if he were stating that she’d been accused of forgetting a chore. There was no shock there, no emotion really, just curiosity.
Her unease curled around her heart and squeezed. Gooseflesh raced across her body as it used to do during a bad thunderstorm at the nunnery at night.Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin, she thought and then spoke. “I did nae.” Technically, she had not, and she prayed to God that Findlay had not actually seen the deed but simply Jamie MacLeod falling. “His nephew killed him while defending himself.” And that was the God’s truth.
“Pity,” her father said, shocking her. “I had hoped perchance ye had a courage unlike yer mother’s. She was a pathetic creature.”
