It was a bleak fortification built solely for the purpose of defense that bid no welcome. The castle seemed invulnerable to an attack or, more important, to a rescue. Once she entered, there was no going back.
For a moment, Isabel imagined she heard the sound of fairies laughing through the wind as thebirlinnglided toward the rocks at the foot of the sea-gate stairs. She’d heard tales of the mystical creatures who lived in the forests about the castle, and it was even rumored that the MacLeods had fairy blood. She usually dismissed such stories as the superstitious meanderings of old folk—believers in the old ways. But on a ghostly night like this, the idea did not seem quite so far-fetched.
Shaking off her fanciful imagination, she told herself it was probably just the haunting tones of the pipers bearing her greeting to Dunvegan.
But even so, she closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for strength.
It never hurt to be safe.
She drew her cloak protectively around her shoulders. The wispy hairs on her arms were sticking straight up. Every instinct clamored against this course of action, but she had no choice. The survival of her clan rested on her shoulders. Or, perhaps more accurately, on her face.
Isabel frowned. She might have been chosen by her uncle for her beauty, but she would succeed by her wits and raw determination. She’d always considered her face a nuisance. It had not helped her win the respect of her father and brothers in the past, but maybe now it would prove valuable in that regard. If she could use her charms to disarm, to entice, to seduce, to blind her husband from seeing her true purpose, then it would all be worth it.
Isabel sat up a little straighter on the hard wooden bench. This was her chance to prove herself. She had to take it. She forced her chin up and took a deep breath.
She was a MacDonald, and no one could stop her.
Certainly not her clan’s most reviled enemy, Rory MacLeod. Her soon-to-be handfast husband. Hertem
poraryhandfast husband.
Determined, Isabel turned and met Sleat’s fierce stare.
“I’m ready, Uncle.”
Alone in the mist-shrouded moonlight, Rory MacLeod strode vigorously back and forth across the desertedbarmkin,his muscles taut with anticipation. His MacDonald bride approached somewhere in the darkness below. He paused long enough to peer over the battlements, searching for a glimpse of thebirlinnin the murky black haze. But there was still no sign of the accursed MacDonalds and his unwanted handfast bride.
It still seemed impossible. For every day of the past two years, Rory had kept his vow of vengeance to destroy Sleat for the dishonor he’d done to Rory’s sister Margaret and the MacLeods. But today the feuding would come to an end.
Temporarily, at least.
One year. That’s all he owed the king. And when the year was done, Rory would resume his plan. He wouldn’t rest until Sleat was destroyed and the MacLeods once again held the Trotternish peninsula, land seized by the MacDonalds that rightly belonged to the MacLeods.
Rory drove blunt, battle-scarred fingers harshly through his shoulder-length hair. He’d been damn close to bringing down his enemy—until Sleat had run to the king, and James had decided to interfere.
But if King James thought to end the feud with marriage, he was sorely mistaken. Not after what Sleat had done to Margaret. The hatred between the clans ran too deep.
Rory’s eyes traveled up to the tower where Margaret slept. Could it be only three years ago that his beautiful, bright-eyed young sister had ridden away from Dunvegan, bound for Dunscaith Castle, the happy young handfast bride of the MacDonald of Sleat? It seemed impossible that so much could change in such a short time. Margaret had returned to Dunvegan a sad shell of the sweet, naïve, yet spirited little sister he remembered.
Not long after Margaret’s return, the MacLeods had attacked the MacDonalds at Trotternish with fire and sword. And so it began, two long, bloody years of feuding. The MacDonalds called itCogadh na Cailliche Caime,“the War of the One-Eyed Woman.” Even the ridiculous epithet riled his anger.
Rory resumed his pacing. Although every fiber of his being rebelled against this alliance, he had no choice. The unrest in the Highlands made it look as if King James could not control his own kingdom. When the subject of marriage had first been broached by the king, Rory had refused to consider the proposition. The years of constant fighting had taken a toll on his clan, but he resisted being tied to a MacDonald—even to end the bloodshed. But James would not be gainsaid. So Rory had come up with a solution, one that would not see him tied forever to his enemies. He rejected marriage to the chit but negotiated a handfast. Unlike a wedding, the temporary bonds of a handfast were easily undone.
Rory rubbed his stubbled chin. That the MacDonalds had not demanded marriage was strange, especially after the devastation brought about by his sister’s handfast. Perhaps Sleat was not as interested in ending the feud as he pretended. Did he, too, seek a way out of the alliance? If Sleat was up to something, it likely involved his new bride.
Rory would be wary of this Trojan horse.
A voice floated out of the darkness, interrupting his private rampage. “You have the look of a caged lion, Chief. I assume your bride has not yet arrived?”
Rory stopped pacing and turned to see his younger brother Alex striding toward him across thebarmkinfrom the old keep. Rory cursed the MacDonalds again, this time for what they had done to Alex. Rory noticed the same roguish grin, but the thin veneer of lightheartedness could not hide the dark shadows under Alex’s eyes and the hard lines around his mouth forged in a MacDonald dungeon.
“No,” Rory said. “There is no sign of them yet, but I’m sure ’twill be soon enough.”
Alex grunted. “MacDonalds at Dunvegan. It defies belief.”
“Aye, but not for long,” Rory promised.
Alex turned to meet his gaze. “Do you really think Sleat will dare show his face?”
