“I feel like death,” Graham replied. “Will ye take Isobel?”
Cameron nodded and reached up as Graham gritted his teeth against the pain and shifted Isobel toward his brother’s outstretched arms. He saw her eyelashes fluttering and knew she was waking. He wanted to stay by her side and assure her all would be fine, but he feared he’d not be much longer on his feet.
Once Isobel was in Cameron’s arms, Graham slid off his horse, gripping the beast’s side to steady himself. He had to speak with the king and plead for him to wait to decide Isobel’s fate until Graham’s fever passed and he could truly discuss her with the king. He also had to speak with Iain and make him understand that Isobel had to be guarded and kept away from the others until they could be sure she would not be threatened or hurt, and until he had a chance to make Lena understand that Isobel was not the same as her father and her siblings.
Men immediately surged toward him, but he held up a hand to wave them off with his purpose burning in his mind. As he moved through the crowd toward his brothers and the king, he caught sight of Marion marching toward him with a concerned look on her face. He didn’t bother trying to wave his brother’s wife away. When she had her mind set, she was more determined than the fiercest warrior. Isobel, he realized, was much like Marion.
Marion strode up to him and scowled. “You are ill.”
He forced his mouth into a smirk, the simple gesture taking great effort. “What made ye aware?” he teased as her gaze fastened to his shoulder.
She clucked her tongue at him. “I will never understand why you Scots think ignoring injuries makes you brave.”
He quirked his eyebrows up at her. “It dunnae?”
“It makes you a clot-heid,” she snapped, sliding her arm around him. “I insist you come inside at once and let me tend to you.”
“I’d be happy to,” he replied, chuckling at her shocked look. She’d been expecting an argument, but she wouldn’t get one, not now.
He tried not to lean on her too much as they made their way through the crowd toward the king and his brothers, but she tugged on him. It was her way of silently demanding he let her aid him. He relented because fighting her would require more effort than he could muster at the moment. When they got close to the king and his brothers, he said, “I’ll follow ye in shortly, after I speak with the king and my brothers.”
“You should come now,” she insisted. “You look as if you will fall over soon.”
He nodded. “I feel like I will.” He tried to smile, but his skin was so taught with heat that it felt as if his cheeks would split.
“Then come with me now,” she encouraged.
He shook his head. “I’ve something I must attend to.”
“It can wait,” she rebutted, her hands coming to her hips.
“Nay. I—” He scrubbed a hand over his aching neck, his skin hurting from his own touch. “I must attend to Isobel Campbell’s welfare.”
Marion’s gaze flew past him to look, no doubt, at Isobel and Marsaili. “Which woman is the informant and which is the heiress?”
“The brunette is Isobel,” he replied, his head swimming.
“She’s glaring at me,” Marion said, surprise in her voice.
“Och.” Graham tried to wave a dismissive hand, but his arm would not cooperate. “She is likely glaring at me.”
Marion shook her head as a contemplative look swept her face. “I think not. She is staring directly at me with a look I vow appears to be jealousy.” Marion faced him, her eyebrows arching. “Surely, that cannot be. Surely, the woman you seized, yourenemy, is not jealous of you talking with another woman?”
Despite how terrible he felt, Marion’s words filled his chest with a satisfaction that he knew he had no right to enjoy. Isobel Campbell was trouble both when she tried to be and when she did not. He should stay far away from the lass and leave her concerns to his brother, but he knew very well he could not.
Isobel frowned as she glanced around the unfamiliar keep, and her mouth parted at the hundreds of men lined along either side of the castle entrance, fully armed with gleaming swords and bows and arrows.
These men were ready for war, and she suspected the opponent they prepared to battle was her father. Low murmurs filled the keep, mostly the deep voices of men, but up ahead, to the right of the castle door, stood two women: one tall with bright-red hair and one of medium height with russet hair close to the color of Graham’s, and skin—from what Isobel could tell in the fading daylight—that looked as pale as the moon where clean patches showed. The woman appeared an unkempt mess with a dirty face, knotted hair, and a soiled gown. She turned her head from the conversation with the other woman, and hate-filled eyes locked on Isobel, causing her to take an involuntary step back.
When she did, she bumped into Cameron. “Where is Graham?” she asked, hating that her voice wobbled.
Cameron pointed, and Isobel followed his motion to Graham as he stood speaking to a petite woman with blond hair. Intense jealousy flared inside Isobel, which shocked and horrified her. “Who is that woman?” she asked, then cursed herself inwardly for doing so.
Cameron did not flick his gaze to her as he answered. “That is Marion, my brother Iain’s wife.”
Undeniable relief surged through her, which made her horror grow. Somehow she had become attached to Graham MacLeod in the short time she had known him. No matter the strife between them, he had been honorable and protective of her, which was a great deal more than her father and brother had been. Graham was by far the best man she had known, far more trustworthy than either man to whom her father intended to marry her.
Graham and Marion moved toward the castle door, and Isobel found herself shifting from foot to foot. He was not going to simply abandon her without so much as a farewell, was he?
