She didn’t see his hand raise until too late. She couldn’t have avoided it if she’d tried. Just as well because she wasn’t sure her courage would keep her standing. Reuben had told her she had to take one blow. He’d never hit her after her sixteenth birthday, but he hadn’t been so restrained when she was younger. She knew how he could set her ears to ringing.
It landed as they always did, with enough force to throw her to the side. She moved with it as much as she could, softening the impact as her mother had taught her. And when her entire body flew to the right, Reuben was there to catch her. His arms were solid where she fell into them, and he murmured into her ear.
“Well done,” he whispered. “Finish it now, and he won’t ever touch you again.”
She didn’t need to answer. Indeed, she couldn’t, given that every soul had their eyes on her. Reuben helped her stand to her full height. His expression was murderous, but she spoke to him loud enough for all to hear.
“I’ll handle this,” she said.
He nodded, though she could see his jaw clenched with anger. Was it an act? She didn’t think so. She knew his body now, and his was strung tight with violence.
Meanwhile, her uncle sneered. “Even your man won’t defend you. He knows you’re evil.”
She arched a brow. “He knows I am strong enough to manage you without him.” A lie if ever there was one. “You have touched me without my consent,” she declared.
She turned slowly, showing everyone the thick swelling on her face, the blood welling on her cut lip, and the righteous indignation in her eyes. He hadn’t even used his open palm but had struck her with his fist.
“That is my right,” he bellowed. “You are an undisciplined child.”
“I am a married woman,” she declared. “And therefore the only man who has rights to my body is my husband.”
Reuben growled out his response. “Only a coward takes out his embarrassment on a woman. I have never struck a girl in my life,” he declared. “And certainly never with a fist.” Reuban spat at her uncle’s feet, showing all what he thought of the man. “Is this how Scots treat their women?”
Not a soul answered. They were ashamed to see what her uncle had done. And she could now use that shame to plunge a knife into her uncle’s dark heart.
“By the magic in my blood, by the witchcraft gifted to me by my mother, I could now take your life. I could squeeze you in the palm of my hand until your eyes pop and your guts spill black blood on the ground.” She’d never tried the kind of dramatic pronouncements her mother had used. By all accounts, Iseabail came from a long line of dramatic women, but she had always kept quiet, kept contained.
Not today. She invested her voice with power and raised her hand as if she could indeed squeeze him to death by magic. Her uncle was sweating. She saw fear in his eyes, but his pride would not allow him to run.
“Stay back, unnatural witch!” he hissed.
She lifted her hands to the sky, twisting her wrists as if to say, I surrender. Her pose was casual. “Very well, Uncle,” she said, her tone conversational. “I have the right to kill you, but all I ask is that you answer the question.”
He gaped at her. Then, he sneered. “What question?”
She sighed as if sorely put upon. “The one I have been asking for the last half hour, Uncle. What does Hamish have that Fergus does not? Where do Ciaran, Ashton, and Rudi fail?”
She had picked those names carefully. Each one carried weight in the clan, each man had kin who supported him and would have made a fine clan laird. And to a man, they stood and faced her uncle with their arms crossed and their brows drawn low.
“You were promised to Hamish!” her uncle snapped. “Long ago, I made that promise.”
“Why?”
“That’s none of your concern! Especially now that he’s shown himself to be useless.” He turned to glare at the man. “Where is Albie?” he demanded. “You left with five men to London. Not only did you fail to get your wife, but you have left one of yours behind. Where is he?”
It was a deflection. A way to draw everyone’s attention away from the primary question, but Iseabail allowed it for the moment.
“Did you abandon him in London?” her uncle demanded.
“He’s dead!” Hamish bellowed.
“Not by my hand,” Iseabail said. “I cut him for sure, but he would have survived.” With proper treatment. “Six men attacked us in daylight, in the middle of Hyde Park, but still could not take me.” She straightened. “Such is the power of my magic.”
“Witch!” Hamish hissed.
“Idiot!” her uncle spat at Hamish. “How can ye be such a failure?”
Iseabail turned her attention to the man her uncle had chosen for her. He was just now standing up from where he had collapsed on the ground. His hands and his body were dirty, and he had an ugly pout twisting his lips. He looked as worthless as a Scot could be.
