Ravished By The Iron Highlander (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Read online

  “Agnes?” she asked, “What happened?”

  “I picked up the coal-pan in my bed wrong, Miss, and burned myself,” Agnes said with a tiny grimace. “I was frightened when I was told the bailey had burnt down.”

  Commiserating, Isabella went to her aunt’s room and knocked before entering. Matilda was on her chair, with her Bible in her hands, reading by the firelight. She sat at her aunt’s feet and laid her head on her lap. Matilda’s hand rested on her head.

  “What's wrong, dear?”

  “Everything,” she sighed. “I came here to take a chance on the man I felt I’d grow to love and I have, but now…” she bit her lip, “it all seems to be going sideways. The happiness I came to get is being…corroded and I can’t think of how to stop it.”

  “Mayhap it is not your place to stop it,” her aunt said. “Isabella, there are things that are out of our control and the best way to deal with them is to let them play out. Joseph was sent to Egypt as a prisoner and a slave, in time he became the most powerful man in the country. Let things play out, Isabella.”

  “And then, when I least expected it, Lady Elsbeth came to me and apologized,” she added, “At the worst time. I cannot help but think her home is under attack because of me. I feel like I should leave and take it all with me, but then I will lose the man I’m in love with. I don’t see a way I win in this.”

  The soft strokes on her head were soothing but they did not spread to her heart. “Things will take time, Isabella. God does not work on our time, niece; he works according to his wisdom and goodwill.”

  “But my happiness?” she asked dully. “What about that?”

  “That too, my dear,” her aunt said. “We do seem to suffer before happiness comes.”

  Isabella looked up and spotted Agnes lingering at the doorway with a strange expression on her face…a smile? She blinked and the smile was gone, replaced with Agnes’ usual impassiveness. “Miss Dellendine, is there anything you would want to eat or drink?”

  “Not now, Agnes,” she said. “You can go and rest. I know you were ill.”

  “Very well, my lady, and good night, Miss,” Agnes bowed and left.

  A small tinge of confusion and a deeper, darker curl of suspicion settled deep in her chest. Why was Agnes happy about this? That was if she had truly seen the smile on her face. “Aunt?”

  “Yes?”

  “What was Agnes ill with last night?”

  “I believe it was a fever, dear,” her aunt replied.

  A fever? Then why did she need a coal pan? Wouldn’t that heat make her illness worse?

  Rising, she kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I think I’m going to lie down too, Aunt. Good night.”

  “Same to you, dear,” Matilda replied, “and remember, be patient.”

  She got to her room quickly but Duncan was not there. She did not think she would see him again that night as the castle was still in a state of panic. She changed into her nightdress and went to lie down, saddened that the love Duncan had shown her had been overridden by this attack on Duncan’s home.

  The out-of-the-blue apology Lady Elsbeth had given her came on the heels of that regret and lastly, Agnes’ strange actions all had her mind going in circles. She did drop off to sleep while struggling to find some connection between all these events. She slipped off to a night of troubled sleep, knowing that there was no rational cause of connection to all that was happening, but most of all, she still felt she was the cause.

  * * *

  With less than three hours of sleep, Isabella was up at dawn and dressed in her fur-lined mantle. Before going to get something to eat, she went to the backlands, and in the cold light of the silvery sun, witnessed the devastation that was once the bailey. The snow was still falling and the ground was a muddy mess of slush and soot.

  The dark tower was little more than a husk. The roof was gone and the jutting shards of charred beams stuck up into the sky like the bones of a skeleton. Pieces of the wooden roof were scattered on the lawn but she imagined there were more inside the bailey. The roof had collapsed into it, after all.

  A continuous stream of men was in and out of the old building, carrying wreckage and debris from inside to dump into a large pile in front of it. Duncan was at the steps, looking up at the building with a flat, empty look on his face. The walls were made of black stone but, somehow, they still looked charred, the wooden window frames and shutters on the second story were burned out.

  She slipped back into the castle and to the kitchen to get a cup of nettle tea for him. When she got it, she carried it to him, knowing he must have been up for hours. His back was turned to her and she gently rested her hand on his arm. He turned, and though his expression was mostly blank, she saw grief in his eyes.

  Which ignited hers. She knew all this was because of her. Masking her own anguish, she handed him the cup. “How bad is it?”

  He swallowed first then said. “Almost everything is gone. Nearly two hundred years of history was erased in one night. Shields, swords, weapons of every nature, tapestries, trunks…some were saved but most did not.”

  “Do you know how the fire started?”

  “Someone dropped oil from the top tier to the lower and then lit the trail on fire. We found the burnt remains of a tapestry laid near the stairs so the fire could spread even faster,” Duncan waved his hand toward the pile where the debris was mounting. “It was a gift from Robert the Bruce to my great-grandfather, Archibald, who fought with him in his wars with England.”

  Thinking of the name and gauging the time between then and now, Isabella hid a flinch. “It had to be priceless.”

  “Oh. It was,” Duncan replied flatly. “It was sewn with gold thread.”

  A steel band of guilt wrapped around her chest and she ripped herself away from him. “Isabella?”

  Shaking her head, she took the cup from him. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  He blocked her way and his gaze went from flat to distressed—another emotion she blamed herself for putting there. “Isabella, what is wrong?”

  “Too much, Duncan, it’s all too much,” she ducked under his arm and hastened to the castle’s walk and then the door. Handing the cup off to the nearest servant and then taking the stairs to her room, she went in and closed the door behind her. Then, latched it.

  If I leave…will this person come with me…is it worth it to lose Duncan on a feeling?

  Her aunt’s words about being patient came back to her and she began to nibble on her nails. If— and only if—there were no more incidents in the next few days, she would stay.

  “Only if…” she said while sitting on the edge of her bed, “only if—”

  * * *

  Staying inside the room all day was making her want to leave. She wanted to see Duncan but the guilt was a leaden sensation in her stomach. She had refrained from eating too but her emotional distress had killed her hunger.

  Curled up on the bed, she stared blankly at the wall. “I’m sorry, Duncan.”

  As if summoned, the man’s voice came from the doorway. “Isabella, are ye all right?”

  Sitting up, Isabella went to the door but did not open it, “I’m…I’m fine, Duncan. Just…tired.”

  “I spoke to the servants, ye havenae eaten all day, ye must be hungry,” he added. “May I send something up for ye?”

  She was not, but did not want to distress Duncan anymore. “I’d appreciate that, thank you.” Resting a hand on the door she then rested her forehead on it and whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Someone will be up soon,” Duncan said. “And Isabella—”

  “Yes?”

  “Tha gaol agam ort gu bràth,” he said and though she knew only half of that sentence, and the cold sensation inside her warmed, but he felt her confusion through the door because he smiled. “It means, I will love you forever.”

  “You too, love,” she uttered with a tender smile.

  28

  Peace had, marginally, come back to the clan, but
not for Isabella. Duncan saw her standing on the sidelines as the cleanup for the wrecked bailey continued and each day, she withdrew deeper into herself.

  His varied attempts to pull her out of the pool of guilt that he knew she was sinking in, day by day was not working. She rarely came out of her room and he feared she would fall ill. He hated that she had all but cloistered herself in the room and rarely came out, but he made sure to send up her meals and bathwater. He missed her face, her smile, her wit…her touch. But he would never force her to do what she did not want to do.

  Besides, he was busy. Winter had arrived in full force and snow was hip-high every day. Cleaning out the bailey had been forced to slow down as the workmen had to play in relay teams while cleaning the old tower out. He wanted to get the carpenters and masons to work on the building but again, it was slow. Woodcutting in winter was not wise as the wood would be frail and brittle. They would have to wait for spring.

  Staring at the skeleton of the bailey, Duncan sighed. No discovery of who had slashed Isabella’s saddle, poisoned Ewan or burned down the bailey had come about and he was uneasy. He slept less than four hours per night as he worried for what might happen next. He still felt on edge, thinking that some more attacks were coming but how? In which way?

  His mother had told him that she had apologized to Isabella but the younger woman had not taken it well. Duncan had reasoned that she had been so burdened by all that was happening around her, she could not have let that in. It was cold comfort to his mother—who was now ill with a cold— but it was all he could say as Isabella was not there to explain herself.

  The main hall had all fires roaring and people huddled close to the warmth while the meals were being served. He went inside to see Miss. Polver there with two bowls of soup on a tray. “Miss Polver, are those for Miss Dellendine and Isabella?”

  She nodded, “Yes, Sir, they are.”

  “Would ye mind carrying one to me mother as well?” he asked. “She is feeling poorly.”

  “I can do that, Sir,” she said then sat the tray down and went to get another bowl.

  When she reached up for the bowl, her sleeve pulled down and he spotted a deep burn mark on her wrist. Frowning, he kept his thoughts to himself while she ladled some soup into the bowl. Adding the third bowl to her tray, she gave him a respectful nod and left the room. For the umpteenth time, he marveled that the woman had left her life back in England to come with her mistress to a land she did not know. She had to be the definition of the word loyalty.

  Yuletide was coming up but this was going to be the worst celebration in decades. Happiness was an afterthought to all the grief, anguish and sorrow that occurred two months ago at the war and a week-and-a-half ago in the clan.

  A bowl of soup was set before him and he ate quickly, loving the spice and warmth it gave him. Soon, he would go to the village and do what he could to give them the news that the castle was open for them in the twelve days through yuletide.

  He sagged into his seat, rubbing his face while a servant came to take the bowl away. Leaving the hall, he went to see his mother. The door was closed so he knocked but got no answer. Frowning, he knocked again, and once more—nothing. Now, he was getting anxious.

  Pushing the door in, he took one step in and felt his heart nearly erupt in his chest. His mother was keeled over on the bed a trail of blood down her chin. Her hand was lax on the bowl of soup on her lap.

  He rushed, slapped the bowl away from her lap, grabbed her under her knees and back, and ran with her to the infirmary. “Help!”

  Laying her on the bed, just as women came rushing, his mind ran on Miss Dellendine and Isabella. “She had poisoned soup, and she’s nay the only one. Help her!”

  Running back, he sprinted to Isabella’s room but she was asleep with the bowl cool on her table. He slapped it away and the crash had her jumping up from her sleep. “Duncan!”

  “Yer aunt’s maid is the killer, Isabella!” he roared. “And yer aunt might be dead.”

  She went pale but hopped up and ran out the door with him on her heels. He kicked the door open and Miss Dellendine was on her bed, her breath heaving and the bowl of soup on her lap. Sweat was white on her face and as Isabella took the bowl away, Duncan lifted her and ran with her to the sickroom.

  On his way, he called out to his guards, “Find Miss Polver—now!”

  Isabella was over his shoulder as he rested the woman on a bed and called for more help. Miss Dellendine’s eyes were hazed and she was shivering. But though she had been poisoned, she was conscious. Not like his mother who had been almost dead when he had found her

  While the healers began working on her aunt, she seemed to sink into the background, taking a seat in the corner, and covering her face in her hands. Pulling away from the woman’s side, he went to sit by Isabella’s. “Love?”

  “Why?” her tone was tortured, “Why would Agnes do this?”

  Taking her cold hand in his, he shook his head, “I cannae tell ye lass, until we find her and bring her back to answer to her crimes, we’ll never ken why.”

  “I saw a burn mark on her arm,” Isabella uttered hollowly. “She told me that she had burnt herself with a coal pan but my aunt—”she flicked a tortured look to the woman on the bed, “told me that she had a fever that night. I thought it strange that a person with a fever would add more heat to her illness. Do you think she was the one who burned down the bailey?”

  “And cut yer saddle, and poisoned Ewan, me mother and yer aunt,” Duncan added, then laughed dryly. “And here I was kenning that she was a loyal woman to have followed her mistress so far from home. But now, we ken she might have come for another reason. Why that is, we won’t ken until she’s brought before me.”

  The sound of retching had their attention taken to Miss Dellendine who, just like Ewan was throwing up her food. Her body was shaking with her upchucks. His eyes ran over to his mother who still had not reacted to any of the medicine the healers had given her and his heart clenched

  He went over to her but did not have the heart to touch her. “Is she dead?” he asked a healer nearby.

  “Nay, me Laird,” the woman said, “Her heart is beating but faintly. We have to put more medicine inside her to counteract the poison she was given.”

  Duncan grasped her lax hand and kissed the back of it before pressing it to his cheek, “Get better, Mother.”

  A stomp of boots had his head craning over his shoulder to see two men, clad in leather armor and grim-faced. He felt he knew the words they were going to say even before they said it. “She’s gone, isnae she?”

  “Aye, me Laird,” one said. “We have men riding after her but she has a decent head start. She took the plains, me Laird, and galloping over them is a fast ride but then the trails disappeared and we ken she had taken to the hills.”

  “Keep searching,” Duncan ordered. “Utilize all the men ye have at yer disposal. Find her and bring her back to me. She needs to answer to her deeds.”

  The soldier bowed his head and uttered, “Aye, Sir.”

  He turned to see Isabella standing a good five feet away from his mother and he saw the conflict in her eyes. She turned away but not before he saw a flash of fear and regret on her pale features. “I’m going to search Agnes’ room.”

  “Let me go with ye,” Duncan said, knowing that this was not the time to stray far from the woman he loved. “I’ll like to search it too and I’ll get a maid to clean yer room too.”

  He did not stray far from her as they left the infirmary, down the stairs and passing a servant, directed her to go clean Isabella’s room. They arrived at the guest room where her aunt’s door was hanging on a hinge and the one to Miss Polver’s room was half-way open. She pushed it in and went inside.

  The room was bare. Barren. There was nothing there. The sack Agnes had carried with her was gone, the trunks were empty, her hairbrush and comb were gone too. Being a soldier, Duncan knew the signs. “She prepared for this, lass, she decided to end it tod
ay after doing all the damage she could, so she packed from last night and was ready to go the moment her attempt to kill was done.”

  Isabella’s fists were clenching and releasing by her side. “I was wrong.”

  “In?”

  She still faced away from him. “All this time I thought I was the one who had brought death to this house. In a sense, I have and I still feel guilty but…but not as much.”

  He rested a hand on her back, rounded her and pressed her to his chest, “Ye can cry if ye want.”

  She rested her head there but shook her head softly. “I won’t cry when I know this was not my fault.”

  “And ye shouldnae,” he advised while his cheek brushed the side of her head, “Ye have nothin’ to be sorry for either, I’ll bet that the reasons Miss Polver had done all this was from her own purpose, nothin’ pertaining to ye.”