Knight In My Bed (45 page)

Her cries came small now. Pathetic little gasps, wooden and ragged, torn roughly past the hot swelling in her throat. "Oh, Bodo, no. . ."

And then she heard it.

A frantic clacking sound.

Claws on stone.

And a bark.

Bodo.

Opening her eyes, she saw him through the stinging veil of her tears. He clung to the lip of the crevice with his forepaws, desperately struggling to pull himself up over the edge.

Her heart bursting, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, she grabbed him, pulling him swiftly to safety.

Into her grateful arms.

Laughing and crying, she held him tight, stroking and soothing him while his panting subsided and his racing heart calmed. "Oh, sweet Bodo," she murmured against the warm fur of his shoulder, "You came for me, you came for me."

"
And I, fair lady
?"

Isolde's breath faltered. He' d come. "Donall?"

"I should hope you were not expecting another braw knight to save you?" he drawled, his smooth, deep voice spilling light over her.

Pouring love into her heart.

She blinked up at him, half-afraid she was imagining him, still too blinded by tears to see him properly. But it was he. That she knew. Ne'er could she mistake his tall, broad-shouldered form, his slow, disarming smile, his bold stance.

His magnificence.

His love.

It shone so bright in his rich brown eyes, its brilliance was almost more blinding than the salty wetness of her tears.

"You came," she said, the words choked. Thick.

"We came," he said, leaning down to gather her and Bodo into the shelter of his strong, knightly arms. "We who love you."

"We who
love
me?" she asked, seizing the implication, her heart swelling with the joy of it. Then the others he'd meant gathered 'round, and another kind of happiness filled her heart as well.

The comforting happiness of home, family, and trusted friends.

Friends old and new, each with a bold and open heart.

Gavin with his lopsided, boyish smile. Lorne and Evelina, their own love shining bright in their eyes. Ian, her love's brother, her sister's widower, handsome and braw as his brother, concern and relief in his dark, innocent eyes.

And even young Lugh, smiling shyly from the cell's entrance, a look of wonder and a smattering of pride lighting his small face.

“'T-was h-him, Uncle Struan. He's mad ... he l-locked Niels and Rory in the cell," she stammered, needing to tell them, then block Struan's face, his last horror-filled scream, forever from her heart.

"He killed Lileas, even Da." Her gaze sought and found Lorne's. She saw his grim nod, saw he'd already guessed. "He would have killed me, had Bodo not ..."

"Hush, you," Donall soothed her, smoothing back her hair, wiping the tears from her eyes, off her wet cheeks, as he carried her through the cell's narrow opening. " 'Tis over now."

"And may God be praised!" someone said. She couldn't tell who, but the three words broke the tension and they all released their collectively held breaths.

Speaking all at once, they huddled close, clustered, smiling like fools, around Donall as he carried her and Bodo from the cell.

Murmuring love words against her hair, words for her ears alone, he strode through the stinking muck of the latrine passage, up the sea tower's slime-coated stairs, and out of Dunmuir's dungeons.

An hour or so later, he carried her again.

A blissfully delightful state she could easily become most accustomed to.

A state she intended to become accustomed to.

Freshly bathed and so in love, she snuggled happily against Donall the Bold's bonnie chest as he strode into Dunmuir's great hall. She wrapped her arms soundly around his wide-set shoulders and twined her fingers in the heavy silk of his hair. With a sigh of pure contentment, she pressed herself to his braw and knightly form.

For once not feeling a single twinge of guilt or shame.

She looked up, caught his eye. I
love you
, she mouthed the words, still a bit shy about voicing them aloud.

"And I you, lass," he said boldly, without a trace of her own hesitation, his mouth curving into one of his seductive, heart-stealing smiles.

Lileas smiled, too.

For one fleeting and joyous moment, Isolde thought she caught a glimpse of her sister's face. The image wavered only briefly, well concealed in the wisps of peat smoke hanging in the air, but appearing long enough for Isolde to see the pleased expression she wore.

Long enough for her heart to catch Lileas's softly whispered assurance that now, at last, all had been set a-right.

And, truth tell, naught had e'er felt so ...
right.

Ne'er had her world, their beautiful Isle of Doon, been so close to perfect.

And if Donall kept his word, and she didn't doubt for a moment that he would, and if her clan members would but agree, as Lorne seemed to think they would, soon Doon would no longer be divided in twain, but jointly ruled.

Shared.

A common and loved home for MacLeans and MacInnesses.

The alliance her father had always sought, her sister had died trying to achieve. A desired alliance that had brought her so much more than just a truce.

A sharp, attention-demanding yap called her attention to Bodo. She glanced down, smiling at him through the moisture filming her eyes.

The little dog trotted along beside them, the extra spring in his step and the jaunty way he held his head a clear indication he knew the champion's role he'd played and was mighty proud.

Savoring the accolades.

Lorne and Evelina walked with them, too. As did Gavin and Ian. Each one of them freshly bathed. Even Bodo and Lugh. No traces remained of the slime and reek from the vaulted latrine passage, hardly a hint of the ordeal she'd been through.

Niels and Rory, newly released by their former captive. flanked them, both men looking a mite sheepish and subdued.

AH smiled, though Ian appeared a shade less jovial than the others. Lorne's eyes, too, held a reflective note. But even the truth of Struan's treachery couldn't wholly dispel the joy in Isolde's heart.

Couldn't dim the triumph of the declaration about to be made.

Regrettably most of the hall's occupants, MacInnesses and MacArthurs alike, appeared too deep in their cups to comprehend what Donall was about to proclaim.

Shifting in the protective embrace of his strong arms, Isolde smoothed a hand over the thick gloss of his hair, reveled in the feel of its silky coolness beneath her fingers. He carried her so well.

So fine.

Ne'er had she felt more secure.

More ...
loved.

Mayhap even cherished.

Full content, she rested a hand lightly on the solid warmth of his shoulder as they passed the massed ranks of hard-bitten MacLean and MacKinnon warriors. The men still stood grim watch around the circumference of the torch-lit hall.

Of her people, hardly a soul stirred. Those feasters yet awake turned glassy-eyed stares on them. Of all the revelers, MacInnesses and MacArthurs alike, some already sprawled on the rushes, mouths open and snoring loudly, while others slept with their ale-heads resting atop the trestle tables.

A hardy few still made merry, heartily exercising their tankard arms or entertaining themselves with ever bawdier songs and ludicrously boastful tales.

All appeared quite dull-witted, awake or slumbering.

And if their glazed eyes and limp forms weren't proof enough, the thick reek of stale ale hanging in the air betold their sorry state.

Not that Donall cared.

He had but one purpose.

To lay firm and irrevocable claim to his lady.

His mind set, he stepped onto the raised dais at the upper end of the hall. "MacInnesses!" He raised his voice to be heard above the carousing. Above the snores. "Men of Balloch MacArthur! Hear me well, all those with ears, for if you gainsay my words, I shall set loose upon you the balled might of the great houses of MacLean and MacKinnon!"

He swept his gaze along the ranks of his men. Not a one of them, nor the MacKinnons who'd come with them, had moved. They all stood proud and tall, a formidable circle of muscle, mail, and gleaming steel. Their blades drawn in silent warning, menacing to any malcontents even with the sword tips resting benignly against the floor.

Donall allowed himself a small stab of pride.

Well, mayhap a large stab of pride.

His men were at the ready, their faces steely and grim-set. One nod would have them pressing their blades against every unfriendly throat in the hall before the ale-headed louts realized they' d been set upon.

He eased his lady to her feet, then wrenched free his own sword, raised it over his head. "Word has come to me you mistreated my lady this day," he accused the feasters, letting his darkest, most piercing stare rake each man foolish enough to meet his glare.

Not surprisingly, an uneasy stirring rippled through the hall. Furtive whispers followed, accompanied by nervously exchanged and telling looks. A few muttered grumbles of displeasure.

Some had the gall to glare.

But no one challenged him.

Pleased, he took his lady's hand. Concentrating on his task rather than the smooth warmth of her hand in his, he threaded his fingers through hers and lifted their joined hands in an unmistakable show of unity.

"Dare sully my betrothed again, and I shall rescind my decision to seek peace with you, you of MacInnes blood." he shouted. "Let one MacArthur voice slander her again. and I shall fire your galley and force you to swim home." He tossed the challenge to all present. "Speak now and let us cross swords as worthy opponents, or accept our forthcoming marriage, this alliance, and forever hold your tongues."

"She cannot be your betrothed." One brave soul spoke up from the far back. "She is promised to our liege."

“Your liege believed thus in error," Donall shot back, his voice deep and calm though she could feel the tension thrumming through him. "She has e' er been pledged to me."

"You lie!" Another MacArthur voice rose in anger.

Donall released his lady's hand and eased her gently behind him.
Protectively
behind him. He heaved a sigh, then took a long step forward, sword in hand. "She is my betrothed. Say otherwise again and be harried all the way to hell."

Lorne looked sharply at him, his brows raised.

"A MacLean ne'er lies," a slight-figured, white-haired man standing next to Lorne called out. "Our laird in particular!"

A low, angry growling began in the far back of the crowd. It spread slowly forward, swelling and falling, as it crept the length of the hall, leaping from one crowded trestle table to the next, coming ever closer.

Until one thin voice rang out. "What he claims is true, I swear it," Ailbert lied, waving his walking stick in the air for emphasis. "'Twas her father's last wish, whispered to me on ' is death bed, it was."

Isolde swallowed, then moistened her lips. She fought back the heart pushing into her throat, blinked against the salty tears gathering in her eyes.

More of her kinsmen joined Ailbert in making similar proclamations, each one bolder than the last, until she could stay the quickening of her pulse, the swell of her emotions, no longer.

Tears began leaking from her eyes, and when Donall drew her close, she gladly melted into his embrace. Together, they listened to the tall tales her council fabricated for Balloch MacArthur's men.

Promised from birth, they were!

Aye, such was the way of it.

Hand-fasted for o'er a year, and with a wee bairn growing proud to seal our alliance.

'Tis soon they'll be wed.

Ne'er seen a pair love more ...

"Ne'er seen a pair love more. .." Isolde murmured the words to herself as, many hours later, she slipped from her sleeping love's arms. Climbing down from the great four-poster, she went to peer out the opened windows.

Naught but a peaceful morn stretched before her, reaching innocently from Doon's shingled shores to the distant MacKinnons' Isle.

The breaking of a calm dawn.

A calm peace reigned at Dunmuir, too.

Or had since Donall's bold declarations.

Since the last of her stubborn kinsmen had conceded to the wisdom of her alliance, then united in their efforts to convince the MacArthurs of its validity before stumbling off to seek their pallets.

Since Balloch's men had set hasty sail for home.

Since she'd learned to trust her heart.

Heaving a deep, satisfied sigh, a sated sigh, truth be told, she watched the pale gray-pink light tinge the eastern horizon. The new day's luminous light set MacKinnons' Isle aglow, too, and for once, she didn't shudder while gazing on it.

Its frowning cliffs and sandy bays had lost their menace now that they no longer stood between her and her true soul mate.