Rory shrugged. “I don’t know.” It was the answer to his prayers, come too late.
“Should I instruct the royal emissary to wait for your response?”
“No, I need some time to think.”
Dismissing Douglas, Rory reread the passage that had struck him.
Since our dearest Isabel assures us of her happiness, and has also urged the disposition of Trotternish to the MacLeods in her recent missive to the Queen, we are pleased to do so under the conditions outlined in your letter.
Isabel had written to the queen on his behalf? The small crack in his resolve broke open. Shehadchosen him. And in part thanks to Isabel, he now held the means to reclaim Trotternish for the MacLeods and, at least partially, to avenge Sleat’s dishonor to the clan. If he married her.
But could he find the strength to forgive her?
Rory felt a flicker of something inside him. He recognized what it was immediately: possibility.
Chapter 25
The MacDonald of Sleat was furious to find Isabel missing. He did not like being duped, especially by a lass. He’d been waiting for something like this, but she’d outmaneuvered him. Though, surprisingly, he had to admit that his little niece had impressed him. Janet’s daughter was stronger than she appeared. Sleat was not completely devoid of familial sentiment. He almost regretted that his niece must be sacrificed. Almost.
But it was necessary. His gaze moved calculatedly to his newly arrived guest. The Mackenzie chief would not be satisfied with anything less than Isabel’s death. Isabel’s near rape at the hands of the Mackenzie’s son, the stupid boy, had been another unfortunate cost of war. Sleat stroked his chin, both thoughtful and philosophical. No, Isabel’s death could not be avoided. If she’d done her part, he might have been moved to help her. But, like most women, she’d disappointed him.
It was pure chance that had brought the Mackenzie to Dunscaith only hours after Isabel’s disappearance had been detected. A few hours later and there wouldn’t be a chance of passing her. Fortunately, Sleat had discovered Isabel’s absence almost right away. Another piece of luck. A kindhearted maidservant had thought to entice the girl to eat with special honey-sweetened oatcakes, only to find the chit had disappeared. He’d guessed immediately where she was headed.
“Go after her,” Sleat said to the other chief. “But you will have to travel fast to overtake her. And you must not be seen. A few men, no more. If you are patient, she will lead you to the entrance.”
The Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed. “How can you be sure she returns to Dunvegan?”
Sleat shrugged. “Instinct. She fancies herself in love with him. Besides, where else would she go?” He sneered. “She’ll be careful to make sure that no one is following her, but of course you won’t be following her.”
“I’ll ride straight for the place we lost them after the attack. I know just where to wait. I’ll follow her inside, and my men will wait for you,” the Mackenzie said.
Sleat nodded. “Do nothing rash. We won’t be far behind.”
With the MacLeod dead and a surprise attack on the castle, victory would finally be his.
Perhaps his little niece had been useful after all.
She was almost there. Back to Dunvegan, to Rory, and to what she hoped was forgiveness. For Isabel held in her possession the means to prove her loyalty to Rory.
Excitement and anticipation alone urged her on, as her body had long ago stopped cooperating. Her shoulders slumped, heavy with a deep, bone-aching fatigue such as she had never before experienced. Usually an excellent rider, she struggled to keep herself upright astride the palfrey. When was the last time she’d been able to feel her backside? It must have been miles ago, hours ago. The insides of her thighs would be sore for weeks. But she had to keep a steady pace that would get her there as quickly as possible.
Dirt and dust streaked her face. With the back of her arm, she wiped away the sheet of dampness on her forehead. There was little she could do about the beads of perspiration collecting under the large ball of hair bound at the back of her neck. It was too hot. She wore a broad-brimmed hat, but after the long, sunny days in the saddle, even that had been unable to prevent the crimson burn now staining her nose and cheeks.
At least her cramped hands were protected from the sun by the thin gloves she usually wore with her habit. Unfortunately, the fashionable thin leather gloves might protect her from the sun and the midges, but after long hours of constant hard use, they weren’t protecting her from much else. The voluminous skirts were hiked up to her thighs to accommodate her riding astride but were otherwise too cumbersome for such a long, difficult journey. She dearly wished she’d been able to find a pair of breeches and sturdy leather gloves, but there hadn’t been time.
She had traveled north for two days and nights, over fifty miles along the road—at times path—from Dunscaith located on the western peninsula of Sleat. Two days traveling for a journey that normally took three full days or more. She recalled the nervous excitement she’d felt when she’d cautiously snuck out of a sleeping Dunscaith armed with proof of her uncle’s perfidy. The letter she had stolen from Willie was more than she could have dreamed. She doubted even her father was aware of Sleat’s plans. With this letter, Rory would have the means to destroy her uncle. It would give him the weapon he needed to extract Sleat from the king’s favor. And in doing so, Isabel would hand him what he wanted most of all—a way to avenge the dishonor done his clan at the hands of Sleat.
And Isabel hoped it would indisputably prove her loyalty to him.
Anxious to leave, she’d nonetheless been forced to wait, making sure that Willie had left to deliver the rest of his messages before she set out—she wanted to make sure no one was aware of a missing letter. But Willie left right after their collision in the hall, enabling her to sneak out that very night.
Now it was late morning on the third day of the journey, and she was only a few furlongs from her destination.
She patted her mount fondly along the side of its warm neck. Her uncle’s stables were among the best in the Highlands and Isles. This purloined palfrey was undeniably a magnificent animal. She knew she’d used it badly, but she had no other choice. She had to keep moving, to keep well ahead of any pursuers. She had allowed herself and the horse a few hours of sleep at night but otherwise kept stops to a minimum. She couldn’t allow her uncle’s men time to catch up to her if they were following. She dared not risk stopping during the day for longer than the time it took to water and feed the exhausted animal.
The meager food supply she had managed to save from her last dinner at Dunscaith had run out yesterday. The persistent headache she’d had since then from lack of food had subsided a bit, but she knew that once she dismounted she would fight dizziness.
At least she was familiar with this part of the road. At times, she worried that her poor navigation skills would lead her down the wrong road. On her first day of travel, she had narrowly avoided taking the wrong fork in the path—heading toward Port Righ instead of Dunvegan—at the base of the great Cuillin Mountains. She was much more careful after that. During the day, she used the path of the sun to keep her heading due north, but navigation was more difficult at night. She dared not stop and ask for directions for fear that her uncle’s men would use this to track her.
