As the woman tried to skitter past her, Isobel moved in front of her. “Rhona, I am nae aban-druidh. When Father Murdock said I bewitched Graham he did nae mean I was an actual witch!” When the woman simply glared at her, Isobel ground her teeth. “Surely ye dunnae truly believe this still? Ye see that Lena and I have made peace.”
“What I see is that yer husband is nae natural around ye. He dunnae come to yer bedchamber. He—”
“Have ye been watching me?” Isobel demanded.
“Nay,” the woman replied, her tone smug. “Everyone kens by seeing yer husband’s avoidance of ye in the great hall, the courtyard, everywhere really. Everyone is whispering,” Rhona hissed. “He dunnae want ye. He dunnae love ye. He dunnae need ye now. He married ye, and now yer castle is his, and ye are nae important to him.”
“Ye will die alone and miserable, ye wicked-tongued woman,” Isobel snapped, regretting the angry, cruel words the minute Rhona flinched as if slapped.
“Ye be the wicked one,” Rhona accused and shoved past Isobel.
Isobel stood shaking on the steps as Rhona’s words rang in her head. Every doubt she had struggled to silence became deafening, and she pressed her hands against her ears with a sob. For a long moment, she questioned if she should give up, if it was hopeless and she was simply not facing the truth staring her in the face. But as she watched her husband, so strong and good, helping a fisherman pull a skiff across the rocks toward the loch, she took a breath for courage and made her way down to him.
He turned and watched her approach long before she thought he could hear her. Did he sense her presence as she always sensed his? Mayhap he’d seen her speaking with Rhona. She prayed that he’d not ask if he had. She didn’t want him to worry that the woman still thought her a witch.
“We leave tomorrow for Brigid,” he said as she approached.
She nodded as she looked down at the skiff. “Aye. Marion told me. What is the skiff for?”
“We’re going to train in it.”
She frowned. “What for?”
A deep chuckle rumbled from his throat. “Do ye believe the only place ye will ever be attacked is by land, Isobel?”
“Nay,” she relented, and when he motioned her to climb into the skiff, she immediately did so. The loch was fairly calm and the temperature had grown a bit warmer in the last few days, but the prospect of getting wet did not appeal to her in the least. “We will stay dry, aye?”
He grinned at her, and it was such a rare carefree moment, that her breath caught and her chest squeezed with love. “Are ye fearful of getting a little wet, lass?” His eyes clung to her, and she got the distinct impression that he was not referring to the water. A thrill tightened her core. Mayhap not touching her and joining with her was as much of a hardship for him as it was for her.
“Nay,” she replied. “I fear nothing when with ye.”
“As it should be,” he said with a wink, shoved the boat out into the water, and after paddling for a moment, motioned for her to stand up.
As she did, the boat rocked under her feet. “We kinnae train here, Graham. It would be impossible to spar without falling into the water.”
He shook his head. “Nay. Ye’re wrong. The whole purpose is to teach ye balance. Ye still have nae mastered it,” he said, and she knew he was likely referring to when they had sparred yesterday, and she had toppled over when trying to swing around to meet one of his attacks. “After ye fall in enough, ye will learn what to do with yer stance and yer weight to keep yer balance.”
She didn’t particularly care for the sound of that. She’d learned rather quickly that Graham gave no quarter when training someone, and that ruthlessness applied to her, as well. When he was teaching her, he was very serious, which was part of the reason—she thought—their being together in training every day had not led to so much as a kiss. He treated her, and she feared had the ability to look at her, as one of his warriors.
“What if I lose my sword?” she hedged, trying to determine how to get him on land where at least she might be able to maneuver herself into his arms.
He smirked. “We will get ye another, then. Raise yer weapon, Isobel.”
With an annoyed sigh, she lifted her sword and spread her legs wide as Graham had taught her, but the first time he swung and she stepped forward to meet his blow, she toppled over the side of the skiff into the water. She came up sputtering and coughing. Graham dropped to his belly and reached down toward her. She raised her hand, thinking he was going to help her back into the skiff, but he grabbed the hilt of her sword, which was quickly disappearing below the surface. She stared at him in shock as he stood, holding her sword in one hand and his in the other, and looked down at her with that same carefree grin. “Make haste, Isobel. I dunnae have all day to train with ye, aye.”
Glaring at him, she lumbered into the skiff with a great deal of effort and no help. By the time she was standing again, she was panting and her wet gown felt incredibly heavy. She shoved her hair out of her eyes, intending to blast Graham for not aiding her, but when she looked at him, hope shot through her. Undeniable hunger filled his eyes, and the tension it caused him was evident in the tight set of his jaw. “Again,” he said tersely.
She knew in that moment that Graham had not considered how her falling into the water would make her gown mold to her body. She had to use this advantage. She took a deep breath, which she knew full well made her breasts strain against her thin gown. When he looked swiftly away and cursed, she grinned, and barely managed to school her features when he faced her once more.
When he came at her next, she deflected the first blow without toppling into the water, but the second blow sent her swiftly over the edge and into the loch. Once again, Graham fished her sword out but forced her to heave herself into the skiff without aid. When they had repeated the same exercise ten times—and each time she ended up in the water without progress toward her own goal—her temper sparked.
She set her hands on the edge of the skiff to climb in again when Graham looked down at her from his dry stance on the boat and said, “Are ye ready to quit, Isobel? Are ye ready to admit ye are nae strong?”
She froze as realization struck and filled her with hurt. Graham was trying to get her to admit she was weak so it would be easier for him to go on believing she would somehow makehimweak. But then another thought occurred to her. He must be getting horribly desperate to resort to such measures. He was cunning, and she needed to be more so.
“I kinnae climb back in,” she lied. “My arms are too tired. Perchance I should quit.” She stared up at him and prayed she did not have a guilty look on her face.
He nodded, as if this was the outcome he had been expecting, and setting both their swords down, he leaned over and reached out to her. She moved as quietly as she could to set her feet against the skiff, and she sent a silent plea to God to give her the strength to do what she had in mind. When Graham grasped her hand, she shoved back with her legs with all her might and yanked him toward her. Her husband toppled headlong into the water. When he broke the surface with an astounded look on his face, she laughed. “Ye underestimate me, Graham MacLeod. A very dangerous thing to do with yer enemy.”
