Warrior's Bride (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

  The moment Brahan mentioned Wolf’s father, Isobel saw a shadow fall across his face. His features turned dark and dangerous. The softer side of her husband vanished. He grasped her arm and forced her toward Brahan. "Take her below stairs to the solar." There was nothing malleable or soft in him now.

  The breath stilled in her chest. The beast had returned.

  "I must assemble the warriors to protect my father." A flash of fear—or was that challenge—sparked in the depths of Wolf’s eyes. "Once the Lady Isobel is safely in the solar, join me, Brahan. We prepare for battle."

  His gaze snapped to Isobel. "You will prepare things here for my father's arrival." His gaze left her face to travel down the length of her body. "Go to your chamber. I shall see that Mistress Rowley and the castle seamstresses join you shortly. My wife will have more than one garment to wear before she makes her introduction to my father." He smiled cruelly.

  Isobel took a stumbling step backward. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears as she waited for that hot flash of anger in his eyes to pass.

  "Isobel..." His voice became softer, more desperate. "We will continue this discussion later. For now, do as I ask. I need you to make things ready here, and that includes yourself."

  "Aye." She forced out the word as the war between the need to unburden herself mixed with the sudden realization that her appearance embarrassed him. He wished to present a different type of wife to his father. Before she could respond, he whirled away and vanished from the tower.

  "We best do as he bids." Brahan offered her his arm.

  "How did the maid die, Brahan?" Isobel asked as he escorted her through the doorway.

  "She took a crossbow bolt in the back out in the chicken yard."

  "Nay." Isobel tensed and her heart skipped several beats. She knew exactly the girl Brahan spoke of. "The thin blond girl who, from a distance, resembles me." She spoke her thoughts aloud without meaning to as her mind whirled.

  "That's not a coincidence, I fear." Brahan drew her down the stairs. "And neither is the fact that the warriors on patrol were attacked."

  "And his father's arrival at the border of his land?"

  At the bottom of the stairs, Brahan drew her toward the solar. "That is sheer bad luck."

  Isobel entered the room and stared down at her hands, fingers lacing and unlacing, unable to focus her thoughts. "What do I do, Brahan? How do I help him?"

  Brahan's forehead furrowed. "You wish to help him?"

  "I would if I only knew how. He asked me to prepare for his father's arrival. Yet I do not know where to start, or what to do exactly. I've never had any experience with a household of this size."

  "He obviously thinks you are capable. I am impressed he asked you. He's never asked for help before." Brahan's frown deepened. "He likes control. But it's more than that. He feels a deep responsibility for all who live in this castle. And that responsibility sometimes makes his life a little unbearable."

  He shook his head. "So many changes, and in such a short time. Perhaps one of us should see what the future holds for our lord with all these changes. That might be the best way to help him. Use your Stone to—" His gaze shot to her chest. "Where is your necklace?"

  She pressed her fingers against her throat. They mourned the emptiness that greeted them, but she steeled herself against the response. "I won't allow the necklace and Stone to control my life."

  Brahan's gaze narrowed. "You think you can toss away the Stone and find freedom from your gift? Ridding yourself of the Stone will only make matters worse. Where did you put it?"

  Her gaze shot to the bed and the box where she'd hidden the necklace. "It's gone." The revelation surprised her, but she could not say she was sad. The farther the necklace and the Stone were from her, the better.

  "Where is it?" A hint of panic laced his words.

  "I don't know. And I truly don't care."

  His features hardened. "You will care very soon. If you want to help my lord Wolf, get that necklace back, or the troubles around here will only become worse."

  "That is not true. The Stone is not responsible for these events, nor am I. I am well rid of it." Isobel moved to the windows, finding a sense of peace in the proximity of the vividly colored glass. "That Stone brought my mother and myself nothing but pain."

  "You think you've suffered?" Brahan moved beside her, his gaze angry as he towered over her.

  Isobel put her shoulders back, refusing to let him intimidate her.

  "Perhaps your fate would have been even worse without the Stone. What did it do for your ancestors?"

  The question startled her. "I do not know that there were others besides us."

  "Then where did it come from?"

  "All I know is that it was handed down through my mother's line."

  "Mark my words, without it in your possession, things will only get worse around here. And aye, the events will be because of you."

  "Nay—"

  "Wolf’s father will arrive shortly because of your marriage to him. The kitchen maid is dead because she resembled you—you said so yourself. And the attack on the warriors, well.. I'm not certain how that all fits in, but I am convinced there is a connection."

  She knew the connection. Her father had found her.

  "Brahan, I should leave here. My presence has hurt too many people already." Even as she said the words, a twisting regret centered in her chest. She had finally found a moment of happiness in her life, only to lose it as quickly as it had come.

  Brahan's expression grew dark. "You will not leave. Wolf has gone to a great deal of trouble at your expense. You will not abandon him now."

  "Abandon him?"

  "He asked you to help him prepare for his father. I suggest you focus on feasting and pleasure. You are here to stay. Get used to it." He gave her a reproachful glare.

  He had misunderstood. She only wished to protect Wolf, not anger or harm him in any way. "I—"

  "There you are, my dear," Mistress Rowley exclaimed as she whisked into the room, along with four other women carrying lengths of fabric and baskets filled to the brim with trimmings and thread. "We are going to create such wonderful gowns for you. The master bade us to spare no expense." She beamed at Isobel. "When we are through with you, you will look like a princess, you will."

  Before she could voice her opinion on the matter, the women surrounded her, draping her body in muslin from her shoulder to her toes. "Where did all this fabric come from?" she asked.

  " 'Tis fabric Fiona had purchased from the peddlers a fortnight ago. With the master gone, we hadn't the time to make up the gowns yet. Such a boon for you. The five of us are more than capable of creating a simple dress for you in no time at all," Mistress Rowley said with an affectionate smile.

  "Our first task is to make a pattern that is specific to your body," the elder woman of the group spoke softly as she cinched the fabric tight against Isobel's waist. "Too thin, you are." She shook her head in disapproval as she pulled the fabric all the tighter.

  "Please," Isobel protested. "There are other things I must do that are more important. A woman is dead. Her family is grieving."

  The older woman scowled. "Martha and Bertie are with them now. You are mistress here, milady, and you must look the part before you go to them."

  Isobel shot Brahan a pleading glance as he backed toward the doorway. "I'll check on the family before I join my lord Wolf," he assured Isobel. A moment later he was gone, and she was all alone with five women who wanted nothing more than to transform her into something she was not.

  It all happened so quickly. First she was draped with muslin, then a rich peach silk, a mauve velvet, a gold taffeta, a tawny linen, a reddish brown satin—a rich array of fabrics and colors that were so foreign to her that she could do nothing but stand with her arms held away from her sides in mute fascination and dismay.

  A woman was dead because of her. A numbness crept inside her while chaos ensued around her. Fabrics were cut by one woman while another continued to drape her body. The rest of the small army of seamstresses sat near the stain-glass windows pulling their needles through the cloth. It seemed like only moments but was probably more like hours later that they dropped the finished garment over her head.

  Mistress Rowley fussed with the hem before standing back to assess the finished product. She brought her fingers to her cheeks, covering the flush of pleasure that darkened them to pink. "You are a vision, my dear. A vision."

  The other women stopped their sewing. Each smiled at Isobel in turn.

  "Lovely," one said.

  "Truly a sight to behold," the eldest seamstress added.

  The youngest seamstress put her needle and thread down, then moved to the side of the room where the washstand stood. She picked up the rectangular looking glass that sat beside the water basin. "A princess, indeed." She held out the mirror to Isobel. "Take a look for yourself."

  Isobel hesitated. She should attend the girl's family now, while she could. She took a step toward the door when she was caught by her image in the mirror. A simple velvet gown in a rich shade of mauve with no elaborate embroidery or trim draped her body. The tight sleeves came to her wrists; the line of the gown was straight and graceful, falling from a low, square neckline across her breast where the fabric was gathered with a brooch across the flat of her stomach. The rich mauve color made the warm tones in her skin glow golden, and the low neckline revealed the line of her throat and the swell of her breasts.

  She looked sophisticated, regal, and so very unfamiliar to her own eyes.

  "There be no denying you are the lady of the castle now," Mistress Rowley said with a satisfied sigh.

  Isobel didn't feel like the lady of the castle, yet each day since she'd left the isle some part of her old self slipped away as a bold, confident person emerged. Even her own body seemed to be part of this transformation. Wolf’s touch had awakened sensations of pleasure, anticipation, even desire, that she had never known she was capable of feeling. At the thought of his touch, her skin tingled, and she became more aware of the sensuous velvet that draped against the flesh at her arms and neckline.

  She was no princess, but she was a Highland lass. And the Highlands bred only survivors with strong resolve and the need to fight for what they wanted. She would follow through with Wolf’s request of her no matter how uncomfortable the idea made her. She would figure out how to manage this castle and how to prepare a feast, and she would embarrass him no more.

  "Come, my dear." Mistress Rowley's voice intruded on her thoughts. "Let us go below and start the preparations for the k—" The ladies' needles stilled and their faces paled. Mistress Rowley's face, however, flushed scarlet. She fanned her cheeks with her hand. "Dear me, I'm all a flutter. Can't get over how pretty you look." She turned away, expecting Isobel to follow. "Our lord Wolf’s father will be here soon. We've a feast to prepare."

  Isobel hesitated. Before she did anything else, she had other, more important, tasks to perform. "Mistress Rowley?"

  The woman paused and turn back around. Her brows rose in silent question.

  "I want to do as Wolf bid, but before we do, I would like to attend the warrior who was injured, then pay a visit to the family of the girl who was..." Her words fumbled as a rise of emotion pressed against her throat "The girl who was killed. I must pay my respects."

  Instead of the censure she expected, Mistress Rowley nodded her head and smiled. "Now you not only look like mistress of the castle, you are acting like her as well. Come," she said as she held out her hand. "I shall take you to them both."

  Isobel accepted Mistress Rowley's outstretched hand, and feeling bolstered by the support, slipped from the room, heading down the stairs into the great hall and her new role as mistress of Duthus Castle.

  Wolf sat atop his horse and studied the forest floor, searching for signs that Grange's men had moved through this area recently. No one else would be injured by his enemy. It was time to take a more direct approach.

  There would be no more mysterious deaths, no more scouting parties besieged and tortured. There would be nothing at all left of Grange or his henchmen if he harmed one hair on his father's royal head. The king usually traveled in a secure entourage. But where Grange was concerned, no one was safe—especially the king.

  Wolf shifted his gaze back to the men who followed him to battle. They were dressed in mail beneath their Stewart tartan, prepared for whatever might come their way. And now, after his last experience, Wolf knew what to look for. Grange's tactics had changed yet again. Now he used animal traps and pits dug into the forest floor to take his enemy unaware.

  Wolf would not fall for that ploy again.

  After two hours of searching, Wolf dismounted at the site where the injured warrior had said he and the others had been attacked. Wolf ran his hand across the freshly swept ground. The area had been cleared. Why? What was Grange up to this time?