The Chieftain (8 page)

She had no idea how long she sat there watching the dancing. Perhaps now and then she dozed off. She was not sure, for she lost all sense of time, and one dance blurred into another. Her body ached for rest, but she could not have struggled to her feet had she wanted to, though the chair was hard and unyielding.

She had briefly drifted into sleep when a hand on her shoulder shook her awake, and she opened her eyes to find Hector, clearly very drunk by now, reaching down to sweep her into his arms. Just as he had, she thought dimly, in the cottage where he had married her. But she was too weary to protest.

‘Bed, my wife!’ he cried, and she heard the encouraging shouts of his clansmen.

He carried her up the winding stair through a darkness lit only dimly by a flickering torch carried some way behind. Once she glimpsed Hugh’s gaunt face, lurid in the pale torch-light, as he followed them to light their way.

Then they were alone, and the longed-for bed was soft beneath her in the sudden total darkness. Sleep sucked her down, and she yielded to it, infinitely grateful for its relentless hold upon her. Somewhere, half-consciously, she was aware of Hector’s hands tugging at the plaid he had wound about her, pulling off her petticoat, finding their way between her relaxed thighs. But this time there was no response from her weary body, no eager coming alive, no interest at all. She neither accepted nor resisted his eager possession of her, but was simply thankful when it ended and sleep claimed her completely.

One tiny thought only flickered through her weary brain before she fell asleep: that this time his love-making meant nothing to her, that it was something happening without her will or her involvement. His one hold over her emotions had gone. She was smiling a little as she slid into unconsciousness.

A finger of sunlight touched Isobel’s lids and woke her to the new day. She lay for a little while with her eyes closed, savouring the softness of pillow and feather mattress, the smoothness of clean linen sheets, the enclosing warmth of the bedclothes.

Another day. James was dead, her duty done. The future was full of promise. Today, as yesterday, there would be no call on her to do this or that. She was free - free as only a rich widow without ties could be. Free to sit in the parlour and read, to talk to her parents of this and that, to spend an hour or two in the still room or the garden. The sun was shining, and John Campbell might call, and they could ride or walk together. Life was good.

She turned on her back, and smiled and stretched, enjoying the sunlight rosy on her closed lids.

And then she remembered.

With a shudder she rolled onto her side, knees drawn up, hands over her face. She felt cold now, and fear lurched in the pit of her stomach. She longed to return to the blissful unconsciousness of a moment ago. But there was no escape.

She opened her eyes, and there, watching her gravely from the other side of the bed, was Hector… Dark eyes, long-lashed, unfathomable as a mountain tarn. His dark hair hung loose about his face, touched with gleaming shades of bronze and chestnut in the sunlight. One long-fingered brown hand reached out towards her.

With a cry she retreated across the bed and onto the floor, cold to her bare feet. She gathered up the plaid from where it had fallen last night and pulled it about her, and then stood shivering, unable to think, as if mesmerised by his impenetrable gaze.

He swore pungently in Gaelic and threw back the covers. He too was naked, bronzed and slender and muscular, perfectly proportioned. She watched him with a reluctant fascination as he crossed the room and flung his plaid about him, neatly kilting it about his waist before throwing the end over his shoulder. And then he went out, slamming the door behind him.

Isobel breathed deeply, from relief, and relaxed a little. But despair still hung heavy upon her. That moment of forgetfulness on first waking had been so real. It had only brought home to her the horror of her plight, and her loneliness.

She moved listlessly to the stool by the little table, but one glimpse of her own face in the mirror - the shadowed, frightened eyes looking back at her - was more than she could stand. She retreated to the window seat, and sat with her legs drawn up, huddled in the plaid.

The rosy morning sun was tinting the mountains across the sea. They were transformed, inviting. Was that indeed the mainland? If she could find and steal a boat, and cross that quiet stretch of water, would she then, somehow, be able to make her way home? But even as she wondered she knew it was hopeless.

They had made a two-day sea journey to reach here. Very likely what she saw was just another island. And even if it were not, and she were to find her way there, she had no certainty of escape. Rather the reverse, for she knew nothing of boats, and Hector clearly knew a great deal, and it was most unlikely that she could hope to get far. And she had no idea at all which way to take once she reached those mountains. She would, almost certainly, die of exposure or starvation within days.

She was distracted from her gloomy thoughts by a movement close at hand below the window. Hector was there, talking animatedly to the inevitable Hugh and another man. His ill-humour seemed to have evaporated, for he was laughing. The dogs cavorted around him, clearly expecting an expedition of some kind. After a moment the two foster-brothers parted from the other man and set off together inland, out of sight.
 

Hunting, perhaps, thought Isobel, or going to the shieling, or on some other mundane but unknown business. She was not really interested, but the knowledge that Hector had left her here, alone, where no one spoke her language, hurt her, though she had no reason to expect consideration from him. If only he had let her know what she should do with her day!

But she knew that he had not let her know because he did not care. She was inescapably his prisoner, and that was all that interested him. He must suppose that one day, before too long, he would also have her fortune in his hands. Apart from that she did not matter at all.
I am not a person,
she thought bitterly.
I am a Lowlander - a necessary evil, a way to bring prosperity to the clan. He does not think that I might have feelings. Very likely he thinks only Highlanders have feelings.

She sat for a long time at the window until she grew numb with cold. Then she began slowly, shivering, to dress. She put on her petticoat, and then tried to remember how Hector had wound the plaid about her. It was not easy, and it took her a long time, but eventually she managed to contrive some kind of garment, held with brooch and belt. She had just finished when a man came to bring her food and drink.

He deposited bowl and spoon and cup in silence on the table and left her, with a faintly respectful gesture that was not quite a bow. Clearly Hector’s men shared their chieftain’s view of her.

The bowl contained porridge, which Isobel did not much like, though at least it was hot and filling, and there was milk in the cup. Afterwards, she felt her courage return a little, and wandered about the room in search of occupation. She stood before the books, scanning the titles in search of something absorbing enough to hold her attention despite her unhappiness. But neither a Latin Grammar nor Dryden’s poetry seemed likely to offer such solace, and she knew no French. She walked restlessly back to the window.

And then, on impulse, she decided to explore the castle. She set out cautiously down the winding stair, pausing at every sound as if she feared discovery. In the hall two men stood talking at the fireside, but fell silent as soon as they saw her. Their eyes gazed back at her, unremittingly hostile.

Through the open main door of the castle the sunlight slanted, luring her beyond the reach of those unfriendly eyes. Swiftly she turned that way, and stepped out onto the grass. In the warm and fragrant air she felt just a little less burdened by her unhappiness. She stood looking about her for a moment, at the track leading to the bay, and then towards the rocks of the headland. She took that path in the end, clambering her way towards the black rocks against which the waves splashed. The water was deep, dark blue-green, patterned with seaweed. And dangerous, she was sure of that.

She wandered on to a little shingly beach, where she sat on a rock, throwing pebbles idly into the water. The tranquillity of the scene seeped gently into her, numbing her into some kind of unthinking trance. She forgot what had brought her here, all that had happened, almost who she was. The lap and swish of the waves, the plop of the pebbles into the water, filled her mind.

It did not last. She had not seen the dark clouds massing in the west, streaming across the sky towards Ardshee, until a sudden cold scattering of rain woke her to reality. By the time she reached the castle, sea and mountain were obliterated in a relentless curtain of grey.

She ran shivering to the bedroom and began to unwind the wet plaid. And then remembered she had nothing else to wear, and hesitated. Her soiled gown had been taken away for washing, and the cloak with it. She opened the chest and searched among the garments there, taking out a shirt and considering the brocade coat for a moment. In the end she rejected the coat and dressed in the shirt. It was of fine linen, frilled at neck and wrists, and not very warm. But at least it was dry. She laid the sodden plaid and petticoat over the stool, wishing for a fire, and then wrapped a blanket from the bed about her.

The rain beat unceasingly against the windows for the entire afternoon. Isobel slept a little, curled up in the bed, and tried, without success, to find something to interest her among Hector’s books. Otherwise she sat or lay listening to the rain and wishing almost for Hector’s company, as better than none.

He came home at last late in the day, drenched and good-humoured, and called at once for a fire to be lit. Isobel wondered if he had seen her sitting on the bed, for he said nothing to her as he came in.

‘You did not have a fire lit for me,’ she complained, once the flames were leaping cheerfully up the chimney.
 

He looked at her in surprise, as if he had indeed forgotten her. ‘There was no reason why you should not ask for one,’ he returned, unwinding his wet plaid before the fire.
 

Her eyes widened. ‘Have you forgotten so soon that I do not speak your language?’

He did not reply, merely looking at her in such a way that she wished she had not drawn his attention again to that deficiency of hers. She crept a little nearer to the warmth, and his eyes travelled to her bare legs and feet beneath the shirt, and the curves of her body just visible through it. She reached for the blanket to cover herself, but he was already on the bed beside her. The intensity of his gaze set her blood pounding in her veins.
Not again!
she thought. And:
I was wrong. It is not over
.

She felt his hair wet against her cheek, his mouth cool on her lips, as his hands found their way beneath the borrowed shirt, and she forgot her misery and her loneliness. The feeble protest of her mind faded and died and the fire leapt through her as Hector thrust her back against the pillow.

Afterwards, she hated herself even as she lay warm and contented, and watched him turn coldly away, his body satisfied. Calmly, without emotion, he laid the plaids to dry before the fire and dressed in shirt and trews and tied back his hair. The rain had ceased now, and a faint sunset light filled the room. He went to the window and glanced out before moving towards the door.

‘Don’t leave me again!’ Isobel cried out, sitting up.
 

He turned, eyebrows raised quizzically. ‘Why ever not? Do you find my company so agreeable?’

‘No,’ she returned, and saw him smile at her candour. ‘But... but you left me all day, and I don’t know what to do, or where to go. You tell me nothing.’

‘What is there to tell?’ he returned impatiently, one hand still on the door handle. ‘I have my work to do, and you have yours. You have been married before. You must know what is expected of a wife.’ He turned away, adding as he opened the door: ‘They will bring you supper before long.’ And then he stood still.

A great shout reached them from somewhere outside, a shout filled with warning and excitement and triumph. Voices answered from below, and Hector ran to the window, thrusting it open. He called down, questioning; and at the reply gave a joyful exclamation and ran from the room leaving the window swinging wildly in the breeze.

Isobel drew a plaid - still damp - about her and followed him, consumed with curiosity. An air of expectancy hung over the castle, as if something incredible, wonderful was about to happen. Clansmen came running from all directions towards the main door. Isobel was swept along by their eagerness into the open, on to a level grassy space below the castle. They crowded together in silence, eyes on the mountainside, and she followed their gaze to a point high up, just below the summit.

There, a light glowed in the dusk against the black of the hillside. A moving light, coming steadily nearer, flickering and dancing like a fire. A strange light, formed of flames in the shape of a cross—

The clansmen were silent, motionless, but she could sense the excitement, the tension that linked them. The light drew nearer, and they could make out dimly the shadowy figure of the runner who carried it, borne triumphantly above his head like a banner. And as he came within earshot he called to them in Gaelic.

The tension snapped in a torrent of cheering. Hector turned, his face alight with joy, seized Isobel about the waist and swung her off her feet and into the air.