As he and his brother’s wife reached the castle door, they paused, and a tall, black-haired man slipped his arm briefly around Marion. “Yer brother Iain?” Isobel asked Cameron.
He nodded. “I should hope so. He’d cut off the hand of any man who dared to touch his wife so familiarly.”
Isobel sucked in a sharp breath. “Ye are teasing?”
“Nay. He dunnae care for any man touching his wife but him. It is apparently something that happens to clot-heid MacLeod men when they foolishly allow a woman to soften them.”
Isobel felt a smile pull at her lips. “Why do ye say that?”
“Well,” Cameron said, “it happened to Iain after he married Marion, and then it happened to Lachlan before the fool even married Bridgette. He almost beat Graham senseless one time for saying something Lachlan considered disparaging of Bridgette’s character.”
“I can nae imagine anyone able to defeat Graham in a battle,” Isobel replied. The words slipped out before she realized it might make her sound besotted with Graham.
Cameron chuckled. “That’s because Graham has come a long way in a verra short time. I am nae so certain that Lachlan could defeat him now, but dunnae tell Lachlan I said so. They are both fierce warriors and that would be a battle I’d nae wish to see. And I dunnae believe we ever will. The differences that were between them have been settled, thank God.”
Longing tugged at Isobel. The MacLeod brothers clearly loved and supported one another, and it was something she had never had and likely never would. She and Marsaili could be close, she thought, but they would never get the chance since she was going to be married off and shipped away. And God above only knew of what family Isobel would soon be a member. She hoped and prayed it would be a good one, and that perchance someday the family would love her as Graham and his brothers loved one another.
She glanced around the men with whom Graham stood. Marion went inside the castle, leaving the men to themselves. Her husband, Iain, stood by Graham’s side, and on Graham’s other side, stood another tall, imposing figure of a man. He had russet-colored hair that matched that of the woman who had looked at Isobel with such shocking hatred.
“Is the man to Graham’s left yer brother Lachlan?” Isobel asked.
“Aye,” Cameron replied, “and before them is King David.”
Isobel studied the king. He had brown hair that grazed his shoulders and a dark-brown beard. He was a daunting figure in his own right, though not as tall as Graham and with a slighter build. He wore a golden cloak that almost shimmered in the fading light, and he waved his hands as he spoke.
Marsaili, who had been standing some distance away with Rory Mac, came to Isobel’s side and took her hand. “Dunnae fash yerself. Graham will nae let harm come to ye. I’m certain of it.”
Isobel swallowed the sudden lump of fear in her throat and stared at Graham, whose back was to her. Why had he left her? Was it simply to speak with the king without her being present? As if he knew she was thinking of him, he glanced her way suddenly, as did the king.
“Sire,” Graham managed, though his tongue felt thick and his mouth felt as if it were filled with sand.
Lachlan and Iain frowned at him, both their gazes going to his shoulder where his wound was. He tried to chuckle, but it came out a croak. “A wolf bit me, and the wound was ripped open by a dagger.”
“One of the Campbells?” Iain growled.
Graham nodded, not wishing to tell them that it was Isobel and give them any other reason to dislike her. “Sire, the mission was successful.” Graham pointed toward Isobel. “There is Isobel Campbell.”
The king grinned and clapped Graham on the arm, making him grimace. “Ye have done well bringing me my prize, Graham.”
Graham clenched his teeth. Isobel was a prize, to be certain, but not because of her inheritance. The woman was special in her own right.
Lachlan said something to Graham, but his brother’s words were muffled, the roar in Graham’s ears from his own heartbeat deafening. He found it suddenly hard to draw a breath, and his vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes open and closed several times, and on the last attempt to clear his vision, he opened his eyes to see two images of the king and his brothers. He gripped Lachlan by the shoulder, needing something to steady him.
“Sire,” Graham panted, “I’d ask ye the favor of waiting until I’m well to choose Isobel’s husband.”
The king frowned. “Why? Ye have done yer part.”
Graham shook his head, trying to clear the noise. “It’s nae as simple as I thought. I…” His words trailed off as he lost his thought and then, with great will, found it again. “I beseech ye to wait to marry her—” He pictured her in another man’s arms, another man’s bed, and every muscle in his body coiled in protest. He could lay no claim. The king would likely not wish it, as his family was already a longtime, reliable ally and David wished to use Isobel to bind a newer ally to increase their numbers. Beyond that, tying himself to Isobel could very likely bring havoc to the peace his family needed.
“What is the complication ye speak of?” David demanded, his legendary temper showing.
Graham could not make his tongue form the words, as he swayed precariously, and Iain and Graham both took an arm to hold him up.
“By the saints,” Iain swore, “ye’re burning up.”
Graham jerked his head in agreement and struggled once more to speak. “I dunnae—” The ground beneath his feet tilted. “Inside,” he murmured. He felt himself being swiftly dragged into his home, just as his head lolled forward and blackness claimed him.
Isobel frowned as Graham’s brothers moved closer to him all at once. Were they grabbing him by the arms? Fear lodged in her chest.
