Margaret bit her lip, thinking. “Do you believe her?”
That was the question he’d spent the last day trying to avoid. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I think it does,” Margaret said softly. “She loved you, brother. Of that I am sure. I know that she admitted coming to Dunvegan under false pretenses, but from what you said, she only agreed to help Sleat so he would help her clan against the Mackenzies. It sounds like she had no choice, her clan needed her. I know how important it was for Isabel to earn the respect of her family. She spent her childhood recklessly trying to attract their notice. I suspect coming here was her opportunity to finally prove her worth.” Margaret’s face filled with compassion. “It must have put her in a horrible position: being forced to choose between her family and us. But if what she said is true, Isabel chose us.”
“Can you forgive her so easily, Margaret, when she chose to ally herself with Sleat. Have you forgotten what he did to you?” Rory demanded.
“Of course I have not forgotten whatSleatdid to me. Sleat is worthy of your wrath. I, too, burn for revenge. But I shall bide my time and wait for the right opportunity to present itself. I do not excuse what she has done, but I do understand the circumstances. From my own experience, I know how cruel and unyielding Sleat can be. He will twist anything to his purpose. If he wanted something from her, he would not be gainsaid.” Margaret paused. “Have you forgotten what she didforme?”
“I have not forgotten,” Rory replied stonily.
“It doesn’t make any sense. I agree with Margaret, Isabel loves you. Why did she not confide in you?” Alex asked.
“Apparently, she started to after I was injured but was scared that I would not forgive her. She claimed that she intended to tell me when she was sure I would not repudiate the handfast.”
Alex lifted his brow in surprise. “You hadn’t told her?”
Rory shook his head. “Not until I heard from the king.”
“It sounds like she had reason, then, not to confide in you?” Margaret asked quietly.
Rory clenched his jaw. “She lied to me.”
“Yes, but she also loves you,” Margaret said. Taking a deep breath, she added, “And I think you love her.”
Rory stiffened, refusing to look at his sister, not wanting to give credence to her statement. Love didn’t matter, not without trust. “It’s done.”
He turned to his unusually quiet brother. “And what of you, Alex? Do you agree with our sister—should I forgive my traitorous bride?”
Alex shook his head, his eyes shining with anger. “Isabel betrayed us all. In your place, I might have done worse.”
Rory nodded.
Alex turned to leave the room but looked first to his sister. “Leave him be, Margaret. He has a right to his solitude.”
Margaret smiled sadly, leaned over, and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Rory, I know how this must have hurt you. What she did has hurt me, too. You must do what you think is best. But are you sure there is no other way?”
Rory sat mutely, steeling himself from considering Margaret’s question.
“And remember this,” she said in warning. “If you do not want her, someone else will.”
Rory’s fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet until the silver began to bend. His reaction was instantaneous. Violently, he tossed the now ruined goblet to the floor, where it clattered conspicuously in the otherwise deathly quiet room.
Margaret turned and followed Alex out the door. “I think you have your answer, Rory. If what she said about her clan needing Sleat is true, you might not have much time to figure out what you want. Her family may be forced to seek another alliance soon. One that could take her from you forever.”
Rory did not give any evidence that he had heard her. Once again, he sat motionless before the flickering flames of the soul-cleansing fire.
But he had.
Three days later, the MacDonald of Sleat watched from the battlements of Dunscaith Castle as the group of MacLeod clansmen approached over the tangled, grassy moors. He recognized the hooded woman astride the palfrey immediately—after all, he had provided her cloak.
Sleat swore, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to clear the residue of wine. So, his disloyal niece returned under guard—she must have been discovered. ’Twas as he had expected, then. The chit had failed. Silly wench, to succumb so easily to the wiles of a handsome face. He shrugged with disgust. Well, what could you expect from a woman? Women were good for only two things: providing a substantial tocher and providing an heir. Good thing he was smart enough not to wager his quest for the Lordship solely on the capabilities of a lass. An alternative plan was already in position.
He drew his fingers across his chin, considering her return. Isabel knew where the secret entrance was to Dunvegan—of that he had no doubt. Mackenzie had followed the three retreating MacLeods after the latest attack until they had simply disappeared right into the face of the rocky cliff beneath Dunvegan. The Mackenzie chief had searched the area exhaustively for the entrance, to no avail. But Isabel would be able to find it. He would watch his dear niece closely. And wait. She might be of some use yet.
Another bungled attempt on MacLeod, he thought, disgusted. The man was proving exceedingly difficult to kill. He’d had high hopes that this last attempt might succeed, until his informant had apprised him of the MacLeod’s miraculous recovery. Sleat did not believe it was actually magic that had enabled MacLeod to evade death so many times, but he would take no chances. That bloody flag had defeated the MacDonalds before; it would not do so again. Magic or luck, it did not matter, it would run out soon enough. All was ready—soon he would reclaim the Lordship and rule the Western Isles. It wouldn’t be long now before his dream was fully realized.
The great Rory MacLeod would not stand in his way.
