***
Nolan MacLeod sat leisurely before the hearth fire in the solar at Munrick Castle while Torrin, the chief, paced. His long brown hair, fashioned in a queue, was still mussed from his mantle's cowl. He'd just arrived, an hour after dark.
"Where the devil did Lady Isobel go?" Torrin demanded, his dark green eyes glinting… with suspicion or rage? Nolan had to make sure Torrin knew naught of his actions right before the lady's disappearance. Could Torrin care more for his betrothed than Nolan had suspected?
"If I knew that, brother, I'd go retrieve her for you. She vanished in the night. Ran away, most likely back to her brother."
"Why didn't you and the men go out searching for her?"
"We did. But we didn't realize she was gone until the next morn. She'd had several hours to make good her escape." 'Twas only partially a lie. Nolan had sent out Torrin's men looking for her, but he was not about to go out in the cold, wind and snow himself.
"In the morn, I'll take a dozen men and go out searching for her," Torrin said.
"Och. Almost a week has passed now. She could be anywhere, even in Dornie if she took a galley from one of the ports south of here."
"She couldn't travel so far alone, with only her maid. No guard to protect her. She is more likely dead, frozen to death someplace. Saints," Torrin rasped, shaking his head. His brother had more of a conscience than he did and looked mightily troubled at the moment. "Damnation, I wish I'd been here. Why were you not watching her?"
"I was." Aye, Nolan watched her intently at every opportunity. She was a curvaceous lass, with a slender waist and generous breasts. No man in his right mind could avoid watching her when she was in the room. "But she was cunning. She pretended to retire early, just after supper, and that's when she slipped out."
Torrin scratched the three days' worth of dark stubble on his chin. "I don't understand why she'd want to leave."
"'Haps she feared your terrifying reputation. You are seen by some as a war-loving and harsh chief."
Torrin shrugged, appearing far less than fearsome at the moment. Nay, in fact, he appeared defeated. Nolan wanted to smirk, seeing his strong older brother near brought to his knees with distress over a lass. Nolan didn't envy his brother the chieftainship. Nay, 'twas his success with the ladies Nolan envied. If he could bed some of the lovely lasses Torrin had bedded, he'd be a happy man. But nay, Nolan had botched things when he'd gotten a chieftain's daughter with child and been forced to marry her. Torrin hadn't even tried to help him escape the strangling bonds of matrimony. He'd sided with the lass's father, telling Nolan marrying her was the only honorable thing to do. He still hadn't forgiven him for that.
"No one has reported finding a body," Nolan said, rubbing the tender spot on his scalp where that witch had clouted him.
Torrin's dark brown brows lowered and he shook his head. "Mayhap some damned outlaw kidnapped her and is even now torturing or abusing her."
Nolan almost grinned at that image, but managed to control himself. He hoped someone did abuse her severely after what she'd done to him.
"I simply don't understand why she would slip out of the castle. Surely she knows the dangers of traveling without protection."
"Does anything women do make sense? Most of them are daft, including my own wife."
Torrin glared at him for a long moment. Aye, Nolan knew his brother rarely approved of his viewpoint. But Nolan was simply being honest; he had little patience for women and their thoughts and actions. He wanted to bed them, not listen to their imbecilic ideas.
"I already sent a missive while I was in Lairg, notifying her brother," Torrin said, pacing to the mantel. "If she's returned home to him, she'll not get out of the arrangement so easily. I want her and the clan needs that land."
"Aye, no doubt she is a scheming and conniving bitch."
Over his shoulder, Torrin pinned Nolan with a glare. "She didn't strike me as such when I met her."
"Well, I never trusted her. You can tell by the look in her eye that she's a rebel. 'Tis doubtful she'd obey a word you said. I wouldn't want a disobedient wife. Besides that, she's probably barren."
"We don't know that," Torrin snapped. "'Haps her first husband was impotent. He was around three score years, after all. She's the loveliest lady in these parts. She appears healthy and capable of birthing bairns." Torrin shrugged. "But maybe I'll negotiate for a temporary marriage now, if I can find her. That way, I can make certain she's fertile before I marry her."
Nolan nodded, wishing he could find out if she was fertile. He almost had. "'Tis a good idea, and if you find out where she is, I'll be happy to go retrieve her for you, brother."
***
The next day, Maighread Gordon strode through the front door of Dunnakeil as if she were queen of all of Scotland and England too. Disgust stabbed through Dirk and nausea rose within him. Strangely, he felt as if he were fifteen summers again, rather than a man full grown.
Damn her.
He squared his shoulders and ground his teeth together. She was no longer a match for him. He was a highly-trained, skilled fighter, and she was a thin, gray-haired widow.
Her eyes lit on him, then widened. Her face blanched. But she quickly hid her astonishment. Or was it fear? Aye, she had to be a wee bit afraid of him now, given his size. Regardless, 'twas clear she recognized him.
Her scathing green eyes raked over him in exactly the same manner they used to. If ever evil had stood in this room, 'twas now.
Haldane entered behind her, as did two more ladies, several servants and her men-at-arms. She traveled with a large party, and each of them would require watching.
He knew she couldn't resist coming to see for herself if indeed Dirk MacKay had risen from the dead.
"Who is this imposter I hear has come to take over the clan and castle?" Maighread asked in a raised voice to the room at large.
Chapter Thirteen
Dirk's stepmother thought him an imposter?
He snorted and sent her a contemptuous smirk. Her words were so daft they didn't deserve a response. 'Twas obvious she'd recognized him the instant she'd entered the great hall. She was the same as she'd always been—a liar and manipulator.
"He is no imposter, m'lady," Uncle Conall said, sounding as annoyed as Dirk felt as his voice echoed off the high ceiling. "He is in truth Dirk MacKay, son of Laird Griff, as you can plainly see."
"Nay." Maighread's eyes narrowed on Dirk. She pointed an accusing finger and moved forward, but stopped three feet away. "That is not Dirk MacKay. He has been dead for many years."
Dirk couldn't stop his sinister smile as hatred and a vile need for revenge coursed through his veins. He'd never harmed a woman, but was sore tempted now. He clenched his fists in restraint.
"I'm certain you wished me dead, stepmother. But I'm not," Dirk said.
"I would never wish you or anyone dead. But you cannot prove you are the man you claim to be." Her condescending, harpy voice grated on his nerves.
"Ask me anything you like. Maybe you'd like me to recite my ancestry back to the tenth century."
"Hmph." Her haughty look told him she was less than impressed. "You could learn that from anyone in the clan."