Chapter Two
Graham awoke enveloped up to his waist in ice. Or at least it felt like ice. The sound of rushing water filled his ears with an echo and hollowness that told him he was in a cave. A quick shift of his legs let him know he stood in water and that his right ankle was bound to something immovable. A boulder perchance? He did not know; he could not bend over to see. He tugged on his arms, which were tied above him, and pain shot through the shoulder that his uncle Jamie had wounded.
He stared hard into the darkness, split only by moonlight filtering in and the occasional brilliant streak of silver lightning. When the sky brightened, it displayed a white sheet of rain. He waited patiently, counting his breaths and space between the booms of thunder. He didn’t need to question what he was doing here. His uncle was trying to kill him. If Graham remained bound, his death would come slowly as the water rose to eventually cover his head.
Thunder resounded, and he counted once again. He needed to time his bird call in the quietest moment possible so it could be heard by his brother. Cameron would be listening. Of that, Graham did not doubt. Whether or not Cameron was anywhere close enough to hear it was another matter. Silence fell, and Graham released the call. And then he waited for what seemed forever, giving the call each time an opportunity arose.
When the water reached his chest, his lungs tightened painfully, protesting both the cold and the straining effort of the call so that the next signal was soft. Too soft to be heard. He’d die here unless he could free himself. Gritting his teeth, he began to move his right leg back and forth as much as he could, rubbing the rope that bound him against the hard stone. He imagined the rope in his mind, the threads at first coiled together tightly. Each scrape against the rock should fray the strands until it weakened and he could snap it. The numbness from the freezing water prevented him from feeling the pain as he worked, yet he knew it would come. It was an inevitability he willingly accepted to escape and continue his revenge.
He owed it to his sister, Lena, who his uncle and the Campbells had stolen from Graham and his family long ago. His gut ached as he thought about the years he’d thought her dead because it had been made to look as if she had drowned. And all the while, she had been alive and living with a priest, believing the lie that her family was dead, just as they had believed of her. Even now his nostrils flared remembering the years of guilt that had weighed on him. He’d thought himself to blame for Lena’s death, but he’d not been responsible because she was never dead.
Scrape. Scrape.
He would kill Findlay for the crimes he had committed against Lena. It was the least he could do for his sister after having long ago broken his vow to his mother to watch over her while she swam, and in doing so had left Lena alone in the loch and ripe for the taking. Of course, she would not have been in any danger if their uncle had not plotted against them.
Scrape.He would kill his uncle, too.
Scrape.He tugged on his right leg and smiled grimly into the darkness. The rope was loosening.
A vision of Isobel Campbell—dark haired, light eyed, defiant, and beautiful—flashed in his mind. Not only did taking her represent retribution for Lena, but he had vowed to deliver her to the king. He had to escape and reclaim the woman. Something about her seemed different from what he had expected, though. She had an innocence about her, but he dismissed that silly notion with a snort.
No Campbell was innocent. No Campbell was to be admired or trusted, not even Marsaili Campbell, who was the one who had sent him a secret letter that her half sister was being brought home. He did not know Marsaili’s reasons for betraying her family, but he’d not refuse her help. Still, that did not mean he trusted her. The Campbell lasses’ father was Satan, and the remaining brother—the eldest having been killed recently by the hands of Graham’s brother Lachlan—was Satan’s spawn. And from Graham’s short time around Helena Campbell—Isobel’s deceased older sister—he had seen with his own eyes how deceptive a seemingly innocent Campbell woman could be.
Helena had pledged to marry Lachlan, though her vow was false. She and her family had merely been conspiring to get her into Dunvegan Castle as Lachlan’s future bride so that she could steal the prized MacLeod Fairy Flag. If they possessed the flag that the MacLeods believed was the heart of the clan’s honor and existence, the Campbells had thought they could destroy the MacLeods and take Dunvegan for Jamie, thereby strengthening their position to displace King David and put the king’s nephew, the Steward, on the throne.
Graham clenched his teeth. It would serve him well to remember all this when he traveled with Isobel Campbell to deliver her to the king.
He continued to work his right leg back and forth, feeling the increasing weakness of his binds, even as the water rose. With a mighty tug of his leg, he snapped the rope and fought against the sluggishness of his own body to raise his legs up out of the water and try to get them over his head. If he could wrap his feet around the ropes from which he was hanging, then he was sure he could somehow free one wrist and then the other.
He swung his legs up once, twice, only to have them slap back down into the water. He considered the possibility that he might die as he grunted and tried to bring his legs over his head once more.
Sister Beatrice had always said that Summer Walkers, orCeàrdannan—travelers of the land who did not belong to a clan—had nothing useful to offer the world, but Isobel smiled grimly as she picked the lock of the cuff around her ankle as the Summer Walkers had taught her. When the iron cuff sprang open, she shook it off, and it clattered against the wood. She shoved aside the chain that had bound her to the bed and quietly made her way to the door. She opened it and peered out, looking both ways into the darkness before tiptoeing toward the stairs.
Sister Beatrice had also said nothing good came from battles, but Sister Beatrice had been wrong about that, too. The priest had mercifully disappeared during the battle, which meant there had been no one to marry her as Findlay had commanded. Just thinking of her half brother and his betrayal made her stomach ache. She had thought she could trust him, but Findlay had finally revealed his true self. Isobel was more certain than ever that a conspiracy against her father was in the air, and Findlay, Jean, and Jamie MacLeod were all part of it. Surely that had been why Marsaili had been trying to get them away, though why her half sister had not simply been clearer, Isobel could not understand. Mayhap the woman had not thought Isobel would believe her, which Isobel had to ruefully admit was entirely possible. She never would have believed Findlay capable of such cruelty if she had not seen it with her own eyes.
Isobel paused, peering into the poorly lit passage to ensure no one was coming before continuing on her way.
No, she could not deny what she had seen. She would not marry Jamie MacLeod, for she could not believe her father would order such a thing, and she never would unless she heard the words from his own lips.
And if it’s true…?
The single question popped into her head, but she pushed the question aside. As the future heiress to Brigid Castle, she had long understood that many men would want her simply to gain Brigid, but she had always counted on the fact that her father loved her and had promised her a marriage like the one he’d had with her mother—one of love.
Father was steadfast, honorable, and true to his word. To believe anything else meant that everything she had ever believed was a lie. She had to learn where he was and go to him. Mayhap he did not even know she had been taken from the nunnery. Before anything else, though, she had to free Marsaili from the chapel where Findlay had ordered her to be held as incentive to make Isobel marry Lord MacLeod. Isobel quickened her steps, understanding how valuable each moment was. The search for the priest was on, and if he could not be located, Jean had been only too eager to suggest that Lord MacLeod take Isobel to the northeastern end of Loch Awe to Kildrun Castle, another Campbell holding, that housed another priest who could marry them.
She bit her lip as she descended through the dark, smoke-filled air. The fire that had destroyed most of the main castle had been put out by the torrential rain, but the smell of burned wood hung heavy in the air, making her want to cough each time she took a breath. The tower and the chapel were the only structures that remained.
When Isobel reached the bottom of the tower, she pushed against the wooden door, only to have it swing open with such force that she nearly stumbled to her knees. She caught her balance just as Marsaili reached out and grabbed her by the arm.
Isobel blinked at Marsaili, who stood silhouetted by the moonlight. Her sister had a dagger in one hand and a satchel in the other. “Ye’re quite surprising,” Isobel murmured.
Marsaili grinned, her teeth flashing white against the darkness. “Ye’re rather surprising yerself. How did ye escape the tower?” Her question was innocent, but her look was probing.
Isobel narrowed her eyes. “How didyeescape the chapel?” For a long moment, both women stared at each other warily. Then Isobel finally spoke once more, knowing they had to flee. “We will keep our secrets?”
Marsaili nodded.
Isobel frowned at her half sister’s eager agreement. “Some of our secrets,” she clarified.
