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So why had the hostility between her father and Athdar started? As she had watched the scene resolve, she tried to remember any clues about the beginning of the bad feelings. Then her father had returned and Athdar left the hall and she knew she would not see him again on this visit. As her father bade them go with him back to their cottage in the village, she knew that, unless she did something, Athdar would always wear the expression of grief in his eyes. And that she simply could not accept.
As she had lain in her bed, seeking sleep while finding a restless night, Isobel realised that the only way to make that happen would be to get her mother on her side. Lady Jocelyn’s support would be a good thing because her father would listen to the lady. Plans and ideas had come and gone as the hours did and soon the weak light of a cloudy dawn had begun to seep into her bedchamber.
* * *
Dressing quickly and quietly, she made her way through the dark cottage, trying not to wake anyone. If her luck held, she could be back, in her bed, before the rest of her family rose. Already some of the villagers were about their daily tasks and she nodded as she passed them. Uncertain of why she wanted to speak to him now, she accepted it and continued walking towards the main gate.
She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders to fight off the early morning chill and lifted her head to watch as those gates opened. A small group rode through and in her direction, so she stepped back off the path to let them pass. The lead rider waved the others on and drew his horse to a halt before her.
‘’Tis a bit early to be out this morn, lass,’ Athdar said in a quiet tone. ‘Does your father know you prowl about the village alone?’ His voice was deeper after sleep than it usually was, sending shivers through her for some reason. She tried to ignore the reprimand.
‘I have an errand to see to with Lady Jocelyn, if you must know,’ she said. Turning towards the keep, she walked around him, now hesitant to say too much to him.
Why and how could he do this to her?
The poise and self-confidence that her parents often praised in her deserted her, leaving her feeling like a halfwit in his presence. Instead of carrying on a reasonable conversation—as she could with most any of her kin or those who visited the MacLerie laird—she turned into a babbling fool who could not utter a bit of sense.
Even now when she wanted to speak to him about his journey or his duties as laird, to ask sensible questions or offer a sensible suggestion, she could only blush and stammer.
‘I would not keep you from your duties to my sister.’
He turned his horse once more so that he was headed down the path through the village and out to the main road. Before he spurred it on, he nodded and smiled to her and she wanted to melt into the ground beneath her feet.
‘Go on now, lass. I will wait until you go inside,’ he said.
Athdar was making certain she was safe before leaving.
‘Safe journey, Laird MacCallum.’
‘My name is Athdar, lass.’
She had never called him that to his face—he was older than she was and held a higher position, as well. But...
‘Safe journey, Athdar,’ she repeated with a nod.
The edges of his mouth curled and a rough smile changed his entire countenance from foreboding and serious to wickedly handsome. Her breath caught at how very handsome it did make him. Grasping for some of the boldness that would have caused her father’s brow to rise, she called out once more, ‘And my name is Isobel.’
His laughter rang out in the quiet of the early morn and a ripple of satisfaction pulsed through her at the sound. ‘Good day, Isobel!’ he called out as he turned his mount and rode off down the path to join the rest of his men.
Isobel walked quickly in the gate, greeting those on guard duty as she did and fighting the urge to turn and watch Athdar with each step. Winning that battle but not having a specific errand in mind, she decided to seek out the lady and begin her campaign to fight for Athdar.
Chapter Three
MacCallum Keep—Two months later
Athdar rode back through the gates and called out to his men as he approached the stables. He’d spent two days riding his lands, overseeing the end of the harvest and the laying in of the crops for the coming winter. Though he’d lived through many changes of seasons, this one felt different somehow and he wondered if the winter storms would come through the mountain passes sooner than usual.
‘Laird.’
Athdar turned to find the steward walking in his direction. ‘Broc,’ he said, waiting for the man to reach him. ‘The preparations look well in hand...as you said they were.’
‘There is still the butchering to be seen to, but that will be done in the next weeks.’
‘Will this be a quiet winter, then?’
Padruig MacCallum had a habit of sneaking up on people, having perfected a silent, light step. It helped many times in dangerous situations, but he could drive Athdar to madness with the habit, too.
‘The MacLerie has strengthened his control and his influence over the entire south-west of Scotland since the king does not act. Connor predicted no outbreak of hostilities...yet.’
From the expressions on the faces of the two men who served him most closely, he could not tell if they were joyful or saddened by this news. He liked a good fight the same as any man. Yet, now that this clan and its welfare was his responsibility, and now that supplies, crops and food were ready, he could admit a quiet winter had its appeal. Well, he could admit it to himself.
‘What other news do you have for me, Padruig? How is training coming along? Has your son mastered swordplay yet?’
A good way to change the direction of his friend’s talk was to bring up his son. Padruig doted on the boy, now almost a man, and his skills and talents. As he watched the man’s usually dour face brighten, he knew the conversation would turn and braced himself for the pain he brought on himself once more.
And it did.
It took Broc only minutes to utter about things to do and leave and return to his duties, as Athdar wished to do. With each passing moment and with every word Padruig spoke, another dagger plunged into his own heart. But Padruig was his friend, in addition to being the commander of the MacCallum warriors, and it was not long before he realised what he’d said and the price of it to Athdar’s heart and soul.
‘Did Broc tell you?’ he asked while kicking the dirt at his feet.
‘About the cattle?’
‘Nay, about your sister. Lady MacLerie,’ Padruig said.
‘Broc!’ he shouted as he walked towards the keep. Padruig grabbed his arm to stop him.
‘Jocelyn is on her way here. An outrider brought the message.’
‘Why is she coming here now?’ he said, tugging free and continuing to head for the keep...and some answers. He paused. ‘Send two men out to meet them.’
‘Dar.’ Padruig let out an exasperated breath.
If Jocelyn was travelling, and Connor knew about it, she would be well provisioned and well guarded. Connor would never allow it any other way. So, his sister’s safety was not an issue. ‘Never mind.’
Still, he needed to know more so he walked into the squat, stone keep and searched for his steward—the one who’d conveniently forgotten to tell him of the visit. When he found him, Broc stood in the corner in one of the storage rooms under the kitchens.
‘My sister?’ he called out, trying to gain the man’s attention.
An unexpected visit could be because of a problem or not. His sister and her husband did journey here several times a year, sometimes to see him and sometimes as they travelled onwards to other places, so there was no way to know. Except for Broc, who had not answered him.
‘Broc!’ His shout echoed through the small chamber and caused the servants in the kitchen and corridor to stop and stare. Finally, his steward straightened and turned to face him.
And that was also when a comely young woman stepped out from behind Broc’s shadow and made her way out of the chamber and past Athdar. Damn, but Broc moved quickly with the lasses. From the smile on her mouth and the blush in her cheeks, he knew Broc had another conquest.
‘Laird,’ she said quietly with a nod as she passed him.
‘Ailean.’
Broc waited as she sauntered down the corridor before coming to meet him at the door of the chamber.
‘Another minute and you would have had her naked,’ Athdar said. ‘My God, man, you move quickly. You left the yard only minutes ago.’
His steward had always been so—a man with more women than other men could handle. It had been like that through their younger years and showed no sign of diminishing now that they’d reached manhood and more. Broc shrugged and smiled, accepting his words as a compliment...which they were.
‘My sister is coming?’
Broc pulled the door closed and walked with him back to the kitchens. ‘Aye. Her messenger said they are about a day’s ride from here and should be here by midday on the morrow.’
‘Is aught wrong? Did she say the reason for the visit?’
‘Nay, no word about why. Just that she travels with a small group and will stay about a week. I was just on my way to ready the large chamber for her and her women.’
His keep was nothing like Connor’s with its many storeys and bedchambers and towers. There was one large chamber on the lower floor, off the main hall, that was used for guests along with four chambers on a second floor. And one small tower for the guards. The great hall and kitchens took up most of the lower floor, with a stable and chapel set apart from the rest. But it was clean and comfortable and it was his.
A chill raced along his spine and he wondered if it was the weather or the visit that worried him more. ’Twas unlike his sister to visit without an invitation or arrangements being made in advance. With her many duties as Lady MacLerie and the Countess of Douran, she simply did not rush off across Scotland to visit him. He hoped the ill-at-ease feelings he had were not portents of something bad.
He nodded as Broc went off to see to arrangements and then he went to the small chamber he used to keep his records and rolls. As they were not significant enough to warrant the use of a priest as clerk, Athdar kept his own records and was proud of that. Reviewing them now, he was confident his kith and kin would weather the coming winter well.
The chill of foreboding built within him, even as he saw to his duties throughout the day.
* * *
By the next day, he’d convinced himself that he was getting up in years and would soon be complaining of the aches and pains of the elders in his clan. He laughed at himself as the call came from the gates announcing his sister’s arrival.
But when he saw who accompanied Jocelyn into his yard, he knew the feelings had been a warning of things to come, for following his sister on her horse was the woman who confounded him the most—Isobel Ruriksdottir.
* * *
Excitement hummed inside her as the gate and the stone keep beyond it came into view. Isobel could not believe her plan was succeeding so well. Oh, there were no guarantees that her mother would support her in this or that Lady Jocelyn agreed that she was the perfect choice for a new wife for her brother. There were so many things that could yet go wrong.
As they rode on through the gate, Isobel sat up a little straighter on her mount and glanced around the yard, hoping he was here waiting. Lady Jocelyn had sent him scant warning of their arrival and nothing of her reasons for visiting her brother.
The lady did have a reason—a flimsy one, true—but it would make sense. The herbs that Athdar’s healer needed to replenish her own stores had not been included in the last supplies sent here. Those herbs and plant cuttings lay wrapped carefully in moist cloths in her own bag, just as Margriet had prepared and instructed. These would be needed before winter fell, so there was a need...other than hers.
Their party drew to a stop and Isobel waited as she heard Athdar call out greetings to his sister. From her position behind and to the side of her mother’s horse, she could not see him or be seen, so she listened as he greeted the lady and helped her down. Several young men approached to help with the horses and one lifted her down to the ground. With his help, she also untied the bag from her saddle and took it with her. Her mother held out her hand and Isobel took it, walking with her to greet the laird appropriately.
‘Margriet!’ he called out as he saw her mother. ‘Isobel,’ he said as he met her gaze. ‘Welcome to my home.’
Although her mother had visited before, this was her first time in his home. She followed as they walked into the keep, looking at everyone and everything. Jocelyn had grown up here until her marriage to Connor MacLerie—something caused by Athdar’s youthful antics, if she understood it correctly. She’d only heard bits of the story, but the results had turned out more happily than anyone at the time had dared hope.
The keep was stone—not as large as the MacLeries’, having only two storeys and one guard-tower. Athdar had made changes since becoming laird and since marrying that made the keep more comfortable, according to Jocelyn. More importantly, the MacCallums had become close allies with the powerful MacLerie clan.
Soon they reached the other end of the large hall and Athdar led them to a table set with platters of food and pitchers of ale.
‘Broc thought you might need something since you have been on the road,’ he said. The lady and her mother both acknowledged the man who must be Athdar’s steward.
Broc seemed of an age with Athdar, but where Athdar always wore a serious expression that furrowed his brow, Broc wore one that spoke of mirth...and something more that she could not decipher. He wore his long black hair pulled back and his eyes were the colour of the stone that lay in the walls around them. His smile caught her eye and she could feel the heat of a blush moving into her own cheeks. Athdar brought him closer just then so he could greet her and her mother.
‘Margriet, welcome,’ he said, bowing to her mother. ‘It has been several years since you last graced us with a visit.’
His deep voice affected even her mother and a blush that matched Isobel’s filled her cheeks. Then she giggled! She’d watched untold numbers of women react this way to her father, but had never expected to see her mother fall under this kind of spell.
‘Isobel, welcome,’ Broc said, taking her hand and smiling. ‘We met a few years ago at Lairig Dubh, but you were only a wee lass then. Now...’ Athdar cleared his throat loudly and Broc continued, ‘I hope you enjoy your stay here.’
She thought herself immune to such clear and blatant flirting, but she was not. And since neither her mother nor Jocelyn was resisting it, she smiled back, too.
‘My thanks for such a warm welcome,’ she said. ‘I am certain I will enjoy my visit here.’ Broc guided her to a seat.
‘Can I have your bag placed in your chamber?’ he asked while waving to the waiting servants to begin.
‘That is for Laria,’ Lady Jocelyn said before she could. The healer for Athdar’s village would be in need of what they’d brought.
‘Should I have it taken to her or would you rather have her come here?’ Athdar asked.
‘Mayhap Isobel could take them after we finish here?’
‘Certainly, lady,’ she replied. It would give her a chance to look about the village. And stretch her legs after long days of riding.
Taking the seat that Broc indicated, she watched as Athdar spoke to his sister in hushed tones. An expression of relief crossed his face—he must have been expecting bad news with this sudden visit. Then the tension between brother and sister eased and his face took on a boyish look and it took Isobel’s breath away.
She allowed herself but a moment of appreciation before turning to speak to her mother about the plants they’d brought. Marian, Duncan’s wife, had a talent with herbs and plants and oversaw the keep’s gardens. Isobel herself had worked with Marian at times, learning from her store of knowledge for use when she married and supervised her husband’s household. The plants they brought would add to the ones needed to treat fevers and pain, important for the winter and in time to have them dried and ready for use.
Athdar and Jocelyn joined their conversation and brought him news of the comings and goings at Lairig Dubh. Soon they had finished eating and the steward directed them to the chamber where their bags had been taken. Isobel excused herself from her mother and the lady and approached Athdar.
‘Can you tell me how to find Laria’s cottage?’ she asked, smoothing her hair back from her face.
‘Come, I will take you there,’ he said, guiding her down the steps.
‘You must have more important things to do,’ she said. Though it worked into her plans well, she did not want to take him from his duties as laird.... At least not yet.
‘One of a laird’s duties is to show hospitality to a guest, so you take me away from nothing more important.’ From the tone of his voice and the serious look in his eyes, he did not seem to be joking. So, neither did she.
‘I am honoured, Athdar.’
Isobel nodded at him and took his arm when he held it out to her. He matched his longer stride to hers as they crossed the hall and left the keep through the kitchens. He introduced her to relatives as they passed by, pointed out places along the path and kept up a steady flow of conversation along the way.
The keep was not as large as that in Lairig Dubh and neither was the village, but everyone they met looked hearty and well. No one seemed to fear approaching the laird and speaking to him, whether they were old or young, man or woman. The completed harvest and the coming winter were the two most common subjects raised, but some of the younger boys challenged Athdar to battles and he accepted them in good cheer.
Though he released her arms several times as they stopped to talk with others, he offered his once more as they began walking again. When she tripped over the exposed root of a tree, he held her steady and did not let her fall. The path meandered through a thick stand of forest before opening into a clearing. A small cottage lay within a still-lush garden, surrounded by a low wall. Curls of smoke drifted up from the chimney and wicked away into the air, leaving a hint of peat to scent the coolness. Athdar opened the low gate and let her pass him. Before they reached the door, it opened and a woman stepped out.
‘Laird,’ she said, nodding to Athdar. ‘Good day,’ she said, as she glanced at Isobel.
‘Good day, Laria,’ Athdar said, letting her arm slip down now. ‘This is Isobel Ruriksdottir, from Lairig Dubh. She has something for you from my sister.’
‘You are Margriet’s daughter, then?’ Isobel nodded as the woman continued to examine her face. ‘You do have her look.’ Laria stepped back and motioned for them to enter.
‘I must return to matters in the keep. I will send someone for you?’ Athdar remained on the narrow walk, waiting for her answer.
