Trouble definitely brewed in this hall.
Trouble, but no sign of Isabella.
He could only pray he wasn’t too late. Twenty years too late, to be exact.
He turned his eyes from the front of the hall to scan the whole of the enormous room. His eyes but not his awareness. In his experience, it never paid to drop his guard, not even if the noisy warriors were of no concern to him. They held no interest for him and he certainly had no quarrel with them. His purpose here was simple.
Find Isabella and assure himself as to her safety or remove her to his family’s home.
The old man who’d escorted him into the hall passed by, casting a suspicious glare in his direction and Robert drew farther back into himself. The smell of unwashed bodies wafted up his nostrils in the old man’s wake.
Odd how he’d managed to live the first twenty years of his life in this world never noticing such things. Was it age or the influence of his new home that had sharpened his senses now?
Or had he simply grown soft over the past nine years?
A flurry of activity at the entrance told him this was no time to allow himself the distraction of such matters.
The laird had arrived, at last.
Though he’d never met the man, Robert would have recognized him anywhere. Randulf MacGahan reminded him of an older version of his long-lost friend, Thomas. He had the same massive build, the same penetrating blue-eyed stare. The old laird, though his hair was white, still walked tall and erect, his head held high as his gaze swept possessively over his hall.
Watchful guards surrounded him, each with an eye to the warriors at the front of the hall. At the MacGahan’s side, head bowed, walked a demure blond-haired beauty. Isabella? The age would be about right. Thanks to the twenty years the Magic had robbed him of, Isabella should be only four or five years younger than him now.
If this were indeed the woman he sought, it would appear his worries had been for naught. Though he couldn’t say whether or not she looked particularly happy, she was dressed well enough and didn’t appear to be neglected in any fashion.
The laird’s party made their way along the far wall, opposite the warriors’ table, to the dais at the front of the great hall, where they took their seats. Keeping her eyes down, the woman seated herself next to the MacGahan laird’s left as a granddaughter might. A good sign.
Perhaps Thomas had been entirely wrong in his estimation of his father’s ability to raise the lass.
The chairs of the laird’s party were still scraping against the floor when the obvious leader of the warriors rose from his seat, wasting no time.
“I’m no a man to keep waiting, MacGahan. I’ve been patient for too long now. Yer time is up. My armies will be at yer gates within a fortnight if yer no of a mind to meet my conditions to settle yer obligations.”
“Calm yerself, MacDowylt. Early this morn I sent for the lass. As we agreed, she’ll be here. Though it’s little good it’ll do you, as you’ll see for yerself.”
Robert sharpened his scrutiny of the man called MacDowylt. The old laird had sent for a woman at the warrior’s demand? He didn’t like the sound of that. Somewhere deep inside something stirred. Some sixth sense of impending trouble.
He’d learned long ago never to ignore that feeling.
Reminding himself he had no quarrel with the MacDowylt, he made his way to the side of the hall, edging along, slowly, casually, closer to the front to improve his view.
“Her visage is of no import, MacGahan. Nor the state of her mind. She’s naught to me but a means to settle our debt without the cost of war.”
At the man’s words, the MacGahan leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over backward with his movement, his face a mottled red.
Robert’s hand flew to his sword hilt, as did the hands of many in the hall. He waited, all but holding his breath, as the main players in this drama glared at one another over the distance separating them.
Seconds later, the tense silence was broken by a small boy loping awkwardly down the main aisle toward the dais. He darted around MacDowylt’s legs, dropping to one knee as he reached the table.
The woman at MacGahan’s side glanced at the child, then turned her head, her face a mask of revulsion.
“She’s come,” the boy announced breathlessly before rising and turning around toward the entrance.
Shock bolted through Robert’s mind as the child’s full countenance came into view. The right side of his face distorted, puckered and scarred, the bubbled skin an ugly shade of pink that reminded Robert of the bubble gum little Rosie MacKiernan loved to chew.
Robert looked to the woman on the dais again, her face determinedly turned away from the boy, her apparent disgust evident for all to see. If this were in fact Isabella, her father would be most disappointed in the woman his daughter had become. At the moment, he almost hoped it wasn’t her.
A murmur rose from the back of the hall and Robert turned his gaze toward the entryway, anxious to see the woman MacDowylt awaited.
