Bridgette studied her. “I did nae forget,” she grumbled. “Nor do I forget what her family did.”
Isobel stiffened. If she had been Bridgette, she would likely feel the same hostility, but that did not make it hurt any less. No wonder every MacLeod had looked at her with open scorn when she’d arrived. Likely, not a one of them trusted her. Her father was suspected of conspiring against the king they loved; one of her brothers had ravaged Bridgette, forced her to marry him, and branded her with his initials; and her other brother had forced Lena to marry him and branded her, too.
Isobel took a deep breath, wanting to show that she was not like her siblings and father but unsure what to say. “I did nae ken my sister,” she blurted. “I never met her.” She could not keep the wobble from her voice, which frustrated her a great deal.
“Ye did nae meet yer sister?” Bridgette asked, the smallest amount of pity in her tone.
“Nay,” Isobel replied honestly. “I was sent to Iona the day after my mother died, and I did nae meet either sister, until I met Marsaili recently. Father would visit once a year with Findlay and Col—” She saw Bridgette wince. “I’m sorry,” she offered. “I—”
“’Tis fine,” Bridgette bristled. “I’ve been sent here to ready ye to meet the king. Lachlan will stand guard while ye bathe and I help ye fix yer hair.”
Isobel nodded, though her insides twisted into knots now that the time for her fate to be decided had come. “Ye dunnae have to stand guard,” she said as she looked to Lachlan. “I dunnae fear Lena or yer clan.”
“Ye should,” he snapped.
She tilted up her chin. She may have earned Graham’s trust, but she clearly had not earned his family’s yet. “I would rather face my enemy than hide like a coward,” she said, realizing how true it was.
Lachlan’s lips twitched into a smirk. “I can see suddenly how it has come to be that ye managed to win my brother’s admiration, Isobel Campbell. I pray for yer sake, ye dunnae make him regret it. To strike at one MacLeod is to strike at us all.”
Any warmth she might have felt at Lachlan’s revelation that she truly had earned Graham’s admiration was stifled by his veiled threat. Yet, she could not truly blame him after all that had occurred. “Ye may tell yer sister, Lena,” Isobel said stiffly, “that wounding or killing me would nae hurt my father or Findlay, if that is what she believes. Losing Brigid will strike at their hearts far harder than my loss.”
Bridgette and Lachlan exchanged a questioning look, making Isobel fear her words had somehow exposed the depth of her pain. She squared her shoulders, determined not to make herself appear weaker.
“Come,” Bridgette said with more gentleness than before. The woman guided Isobel into the bedchamber. “Ye need to settle yerself before ye see the king.”
Isobel and Bridgette had no more than entered the bedchamber when two men carrying a large wooden tub came into the room. Behind them was a line of women holding large pitchers of steaming water. As each of the women poured her water, Bridgette introduced them one by one to Isobel, eliciting a wary smile or a curt nod of the head from most of the women. The last woman in the line—a petite woman with long, curly brown hair—moved to the wooden tub to pour her water. Isobel could not see her face as she kept it down.
When a sigh came from Bridgette, Isobel glanced at her and found Bridgette staring at the woman with a concerned look upon her face. “Rhona,” she said. “This is Isobel Campbell.”
The woman did not acknowledge that Bridgette had spoken. She finished pouring her water and went to leave. Bridgette clucked her tongue as she looked to Isobel. “She had a great loss caused by yer family.”
The woman, Rhona, paused at the door at Bridgette’s words and slowly faced Isobel. Isobel flinched at the hatred burning in the woman’s eyes.
“Yer brother killed my husband,” she hissed. “Yer family is my enemy; therefore, ye are my enemy.” She turned and stormed out of the room.
Isobel stood trembling, not from fear but from anger and horror. She was tired of being blamed for things she had not done, and she was horrified to hear of yet another transgression by her family.
“Isobel, ye have to ken—”
“I do,” Isobel said firmly. “My family is cruel and without honor, and so ye all believe I am, as well,” she finished angrily. But then a realization struck.Shehad simply accepted allMacLeodswere dishonorable because her father and brothers had told her so, and that was no less wrong than what was being done to her now. “If I have the time here, I hope ye all will come to see I am nae dishonorable.”
Bridgette bit her lip. “I pray ye prove that, as well,” she said.
Isobel moved to the wash basin, slipped her gown off, and dipped into the water until it came up to her chin. “I can wash myself. Ye dunnae have to hover,” she said without looking at Bridgette.
Bridgette snorted as she came to sit by the tub. “I’m nae the hovering sort, but ye will need help washing and rinsing yer hair if ye truly wish to get all the grime from it.”
Isobel’s hand went inadvertently to her hair, and she grimaced at the hard feel of it. She could only imagine what it must look like. It had been many days since she had the opportunity to wash it. She shrugged, her feelings still wounded from Rhona’s words. “If ye wish.”
Silently, Bridgette helped Isobel wash her hair and rinse it, and when they were done, she got out of the now-cooling water, wrapped a cloth around her, and moved to the fire to dry her hair. Behind her, Bridgette moved about, then the door squeaked and Isobel turned to find Bridgette slipping from the room. Sadness tightened Isobel’s chest. She had not expected Bridgette to truly extend the hand of friendship, but she supposed she’d had the smallest hope.
She sat staring at the fire, her skin growing warm and easing her nervous chills, yet her mind still swirled with worry about what was to come—to whom the king might marry her, and if she would even see Graham before she was shipped away with her new husband. The last bothered her the most. She had grown attached to the man she had at first considered her enemy.
The door behind her creaked, and Isobel turned to find Bridgette walking in carrying a gown and a brush. Bridgette lay the gown on the bed, then moved toward Isobel and motioned for her to turn. Isobel did so, and then her head tilted back as Bridgette started to brush and talk.
“I thought ye may wish a fresh gown as yers is torn and soiled with blood and dirt,” she offered.
“Aye, thank ye,” Isobel replied, grateful for the small kindness.
