Lachlan shut the door, standing for a moment leaning his back against it, gaze on the rafters.
“Word from my uncle?” Isabel prodded, standing and holding her suddenly cold fingers over the flames. “How did he even know we were here?”
“I… I should go.” His hand brushed the door frame as he turned to go, but he glanced back once more. As though he were reluctant to leave her without male protection.
Isabel took advantage of his hesitation. “But wait. I want to know what he said.”
“Ye are no’ easily frightened, are ye, Lady Isabel?”
“No’ when the truth concerns me.” She frowned and took a step toward him.
Lachlan pulled a missive from his sleeve and unfurled the paper. He frowned down at the contents. The firelight caught the sharp planes of his face as he read in silence, shadowing the scar at his jaw.
Isabel realized she was holding her breath. Whatever the letter said, it had wiped every trace of humor from him.
And Isabel was fearful of what she might soon learn.
12
Lachlan scanned the letter’s contents, recognizing the Bruce’s script. Having written the warning himself rather than entrusting it to his secretary was evidence enough that it was highly classified. Lachlan worried about the missive’s contents, not wanting to give Isabel anything that could compromise her. So if by some reason he became incapacitated and she was abducted, her captors could try and force her into giving information.
Although, trying to force her to do anything would be a task for the gods. Now, because she apparently was driving him insane, he kind of wanted to stage an abduction so he could watch her rip them apart. No, no, if she found out, it would be them watching her rip him apart.
And the way she was stomping toward him, hand outstretched, he was fairly certain if he didn’t start reading aloud now, that was going to happen sooner rather than later. No one would dare to snatch the missive from his hands —and he wouldn’t allow it, plus it’s not like she could read it anyway. Except… whether it was gratitude for having saved his life, or amusement at her bluster, Lachlan admired her courage.
“The Bruce warns of English riders sweeping the roads. He says they have no’ yet laid siege to the castle, but they have eliminated some of our scouts.”
Isabel’s frown softened into mourning. Though a soldier pledged his life to his country, it was never easy when that life was taken away.
“They will no’ rest until they’ve eliminated the lot of us,” she said, glancing back at her maid who was now busying herself at the hearth.
Lachlan lowered his voice as he said, “Your uncle also believes there’s a chance that the betrayal at Falkirk was someone within his war council.”
Isabel’s eyes widened, and met his with a trepidation he felt deep in his bones. When she’d asked him the day before if he believed it was one of his own men, he’d not been lying when he answered. But what he’d not said to her was that he considered it could have been one of the Bruce’s.
How many times had Lachlan been in that war council? And who could he not trust? Every one of the men who attended the war council meetings had been someone he had fought beside. It was hard to believe that one of them might go behind their backs to see them all killed. To see Scotland destroyed. Lachlan pictured the round table, the faces. Not one stood out to him as a double-crosser.
“Does he know who?” Isabel kept her voice low, inching closer to him. “Does he say?”
Lachlan was distracted from answering as she swept her golden hair over her shoulder. The tendrils looked as soft as silk, and he curled his fingers into his plaid to keep from reaching forward to confirm the texture for himself.
“Does he?” she urged, annoyance in her pursed lips.
Lachlan cleared his throat. “Nay. He does no’. The Bruce advises us to travel to Inverlochy Castle, where Alistair Comyn has agreed to host us for a night and keep ye safe from the English patrols.” Alistair Comyn was one of the faces at the war council table. And though the Bruce appeared to trust him enough to take up his offer of shelter, Lachlan was not going to trust him so easily. Isabel, too, looked ready to argue. “’Twill also be more fitting than an inn like this… or an abandoned lodge as we’ve done.”
The lass scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, which only served to draw his attention to her ample breasts. “I didna mind the lodge or this inn. I’m no’ particular.”
This he well understood now. Isabel was unlike any woman he’d ever met. “All the same, my lady, I’m certain that your uncle would feel more comfortable with ye behind castle walls with an army to protect ye, as would I.”
Ignoring him, she turned up her nose and asked, “Does the letter say anything else?”
Lachlan returned his eyes to the missive, scanning the rest of the contents. Further down the letter, Robert the Bruce referenced something that made his gut churn, which in turn made him question his own sanity.
“Your uncle has been negotiating a marriage alliance for ye.” And why should a thing like that bother Lachlan? Isabel should be wed. Already, though he didn’t know her exact age, he did know that she was past the point most ladies married.
Isabel straightened, and where defiance had shaped the angles of her face before, now she looked almost furious. “And he told me that it was postponed for now.”
Lachlan’s insides curdled as he slowly shook his head, watching the way she gritted her teeth, shifted on her feet. Even her maid by the hearth stiffened, confirming she was listening to every word.
