The MacKintosh was fortunate, he decided, stepping into his chambers. If this missive from the Chattan had been delivered last month, Constantine’s enemy would be dead by now and he would have grieved his deed. Because he was not a monster.
*
He was nota monster, but he still could not sleep longer than three hours. The glorious consolation prize was that he didn’t remember dreaming. There were no accusing eyes and wailing babies, no cries from men with whom he’d grown to adulthood dying in his arms. He was sure it all had to do with Ismay. It was as if she had taken on his ghosts and was conquering them all.
Remembering the succulent taste of her drew him from his bed. He slipped on a loose shirt and a pair of breeches, then padded out to her chamber door. He did not knock or seek entry, but pulled a chair closer to the door, sat in it, and protected her from dust motes and castle mice until Bethia and Joan turned up at her door early the next morning.
Seeing them and wishing they had not seen him, he scrambled to his feet. But there was nowhere to run. It riled him that he wanted to hide from these two delicate lasses—who were not so delicate at all.
“What are ye doing here, Lochiel?” Bethia put to him sternly.
He was uncertain, but did she add emphasis on his title, as if he had more important things to see to? He didn’t.
With a resigned sigh at being caught, he confessed without any regret. He didn’t care if he sounded like a fool. He would not hide behind lies to protect his pride. “I’m standin’ watch over Miss Drummond”
“Against whom?”
He shrugged. “Anyone who thinks to breach her door.”
At that, Joan stepped away ten paces.
And the door to Ismay’s chambers swung open.
She appeared as if from the gates of his dreams, where she stood guard with an array of bonnie smiles, playful grins, and most deadly, her tinkling laughter that sounded like siren songs in his ears. Her sleepy eyes took him in before anyone else, so he knew that it was him who brought such a radiant smile to her face.
“I thought I heard yer voice.” The sound of her settled over him like a welcomed blanket. “Ye are here early.”
“He has been guarding yer door all night,” Bethia informed her a bit stiffly.
“Och, and ye believe him?” Ismay said with a little laugh that reverberated through his blood. “He was being playful. In truth, he has come to bringme to the loch.”
“The loch?” Joan asked.
“Playful?” was Bethia’s choice of query.
“And of course, ye both will accompany us. Is that not correct, Lochiel?”
“Aye, ’tis.”
He didn’t have to play along. It was his castle and he was lord of it. He didn’t have to make excuses for where he spent the night. If others wished to gossip, let them. But Ismay would not have it. So, for her, he agreed. He even smiled to help drive home, mainly to Bethia, that as astonishing as it was, he could be playful—since for her it was the part of the explanation most unbelievable.
“Well,” Ismay sang out, leaving the chambers. “Let us be on our way.”
Constantine joined her on her way to the stairs. What other choice did he have? It would be like trying to ignore the melodies of fairies, or the call of the waves.
“Did ye sleep by my door, Lochiel?” she asked in a voice only he could hear.
“Aye.”
He did not know what he expected her reaction to be, but it was not gratitude. Still, she offered it to him.
“Once again, I earn yer gratitude fer nothin’ but protectin’ ye from a mouse.”
“All right, then tell me. What do ye think ye were doing at my door? Ye know more than I do what ye were protecting me from.”
He stopped for a moment and looked into her eyes. “From bein’ alone.”
He held out his elbow when they reached the top of the stairs. She curled her wrist through it and let him lead her down.
