Read Online When the Laird Returns by Karen Ranney - Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Ranney
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rock,” she answered, surprised at the note of resolve in her voice.
“This is important to you, Iseabal?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes,” she said, tightening her arms around her waist.
He shrugged but didn’t question her further. Instead, he nodded, gripping her elbow and leading her back to the corridor. A request not to be granted, then. At his impatient look, Iseabal followed him into the priory.
This area of Gilmuir had become unsafe in the past years.The yawning hole in the middle of the structure didn’t surprise her. She’d heard her father crowing of his discovery and of the secret cove the MacRaes had hidden all these years.
This was how the MacRae had entered the fortress, yet she’d never questioned his sudden appearance. He’d simply been there, a rescuer not unlike the Raven, a Samaritan to help her from the consequences of her own folly.
The rain was louder here, slapping against the slate floor.
He sat, dangling his legs into the hole beneath him, his hands braced on either side. Slowly he disappeared into the blackness. Peering over the edge, Iseabal could see only a darkness that mimicked the grave. Unexpectedly, his head popped up, startling her.
She’d never taken the staircase before. But then, Iseabal thought, this day had marked a number of first occasions. She sat on the adjoining slate, dangling her feet just as he had. His hands wound around her legs, then to her waist as she slid down into his arms. Their soggy clothing did little to shield curves and angles, muscle and flesh.
His hands tightened against her waist, the unexpected pain surprising her. Drawing back, she pressed herself against the wall, taking shallow breaths to minimize the discomfort.
He seemed to stare at her in the darkness, but said nothing before turning and beginning to descend the steps. Once again he stopped when she made no move to follow him.
“Please, Iseabal,” he said, evidently exasperated into politeness. “It is safe enough. Although the stairs are steep, all you need do is watch your footing. The passage is a narrow one, and you can hold onto the walls.”
He thought her afraid. She should tell him of her injury, Iseabal thought. But this day had been marked by humiliation and the surrender of home and pride. She’d just as soon keep her pain to herself.
Slowly she followed, her right hand outstretched against the wall, her left held tightly at her side. The staircase was enshrouded in a darkness so profound that it made no difference if she closed her eyes.
“Take your time, Iseabal,” he said, his voice disembodied and echoing. “The rain has made the steps slippery.”
A marriage to a pockmarked, toothless old man with a bald pate seemed a blessing at the moment. At least an old husband wouldn’t march her from Fernleigh to Gilmuir in a drenching storm, travel down this damp and pungent staircase, intent upon taking her to England.
Perhaps this was a dream and she lay abed now, recuperating from her injury. The thunder was her father’s roar. The clammy wetness of her garments, the result of a breaking fever. And this descent into the darkness was the embodiment of her secret fear of going to hell for not honoring her father. But the MacRae’s voice, loud and commanding, would have summoned her to wakefulness, which meant this was real and not a nightmare.
At the bottom of the stairs was a cave, darkened by the weather and the gathering storm. Two of his men stood beside the entrance, waiting.
“Are the rest of the men on board?” the MacRae asked.
“Yes, Captain,” one said.
MacRae turned to her. “Iseabal,” he said. Only that, a summons in the speaking of her name.
Iseabal followed the three of them, ducking through the rounded entrance to the cave and emerging into the cove Drummond had discovered all those years ago. Ringed bycliffs and guarded by a giant’s teeth, the rain-dimpled water sheltered a ghost of a ship.
He turned to look at her, his smile
“This is important to you, Iseabal?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes,” she said, tightening her arms around her waist.
He shrugged but didn’t question her further. Instead, he nodded, gripping her elbow and leading her back to the corridor. A request not to be granted, then. At his impatient look, Iseabal followed him into the priory.
This area of Gilmuir had become unsafe in the past years.The yawning hole in the middle of the structure didn’t surprise her. She’d heard her father crowing of his discovery and of the secret cove the MacRaes had hidden all these years.
This was how the MacRae had entered the fortress, yet she’d never questioned his sudden appearance. He’d simply been there, a rescuer not unlike the Raven, a Samaritan to help her from the consequences of her own folly.
The rain was louder here, slapping against the slate floor.
He sat, dangling his legs into the hole beneath him, his hands braced on either side. Slowly he disappeared into the blackness. Peering over the edge, Iseabal could see only a darkness that mimicked the grave. Unexpectedly, his head popped up, startling her.
She’d never taken the staircase before. But then, Iseabal thought, this day had marked a number of first occasions. She sat on the adjoining slate, dangling her feet just as he had. His hands wound around her legs, then to her waist as she slid down into his arms. Their soggy clothing did little to shield curves and angles, muscle and flesh.
His hands tightened against her waist, the unexpected pain surprising her. Drawing back, she pressed herself against the wall, taking shallow breaths to minimize the discomfort.
He seemed to stare at her in the darkness, but said nothing before turning and beginning to descend the steps. Once again he stopped when she made no move to follow him.
“Please, Iseabal,” he said, evidently exasperated into politeness. “It is safe enough. Although the stairs are steep, all you need do is watch your footing. The passage is a narrow one, and you can hold onto the walls.”
He thought her afraid. She should tell him of her injury, Iseabal thought. But this day had been marked by humiliation and the surrender of home and pride. She’d just as soon keep her pain to herself.
Slowly she followed, her right hand outstretched against the wall, her left held tightly at her side. The staircase was enshrouded in a darkness so profound that it made no difference if she closed her eyes.
“Take your time, Iseabal,” he said, his voice disembodied and echoing. “The rain has made the steps slippery.”
A marriage to a pockmarked, toothless old man with a bald pate seemed a blessing at the moment. At least an old husband wouldn’t march her from Fernleigh to Gilmuir in a drenching storm, travel down this damp and pungent staircase, intent upon taking her to England.
Perhaps this was a dream and she lay abed now, recuperating from her injury. The thunder was her father’s roar. The clammy wetness of her garments, the result of a breaking fever. And this descent into the darkness was the embodiment of her secret fear of going to hell for not honoring her father. But the MacRae’s voice, loud and commanding, would have summoned her to wakefulness, which meant this was real and not a nightmare.
At the bottom of the stairs was a cave, darkened by the weather and the gathering storm. Two of his men stood beside the entrance, waiting.
“Are the rest of the men on board?” the MacRae asked.
“Yes, Captain,” one said.
MacRae turned to her. “Iseabal,” he said. Only that, a summons in the speaking of her name.
Iseabal followed the three of them, ducking through the rounded entrance to the cave and emerging into the cove Drummond had discovered all those years ago. Ringed bycliffs and guarded by a giant’s teeth, the rain-dimpled water sheltered a ghost of a ship.
He turned to look at her, his smile
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