Free Devil Black by Laura Strickland Page A

concerns. He has a reputation for charming women of every ilk, yet I could but wonder about a tender English maiden.”
    Not knowing how to reply, Isobel kept silent.
    “I see no wounds,” Meg said. “If you wish to complain of him to me, I will listen. I may even sympathize. But remember, you chose this course for yourself and made your bed, as they say.”
    “I have no complaints.”
    That caused Meg’s eyebrows to fly up. “No? You find yourself wed to the worst outlaw in all Central Scotland, a man so heinous even the King despairs of him, yet you make no complaint? Are you foolish as well as heedless?”
    “I am heedless, am I?”
    “Sit down. Allow me to tell you a few things about my brother.”
    The fire in the hearth had long since burned out; the room felt cold. But they sat on the low bench facing the hearth and regarded one another like civilized women.
    Meg looked thoughtful. “Let me begin by saying my brother has few redeeming qualities. He is intelligent—but his mind is twisted, and he uses his wits unwisely. He is, aye, confident, but he abuses his power and puts his clan at risk. He knows nothing of kindness or mercy—and so say I, who have, myself, been accused of cruelty. He flouts convention, custom, and the King’s law with equal enthusiasm and, I believe, will one day end either by hanging or by losing his head. And I will not mourn, when that day comes.”
    Isobel’s eyes widened. “It is a harsh thing to say of your brother.”
    Meg’s expression became tight with fury or pain. “I hate him. I cannot wait to see him get what he deserves.”
    “What does he deserve? And why—”
    Meg laughed harshly. “Believe it or not, we were close once, as children. We had a wild raising, just the two of us running these hills like pups, after our mother died. He was everything to me then. I thought his schemes clever and his escapades brave. I did not see his selfishness. But be warned, Mistress Isobel—my brother is utterly selfish. He sees only his own welfare, thinks only of his own hide.”
    “I am wed to him now,” Isobel said as steadily as she could. “Surely I can expect some consideration?”
    Meg’s lips twisted. Abandoning her role of confidante, she got to her feet. “Be warned—those about whom he is supposed to care, he treats the worst of all. I will tell you, woman to woman: whatever you do, do not fall in love with him. ’Tis a fate that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.”

Chapter Twelve
    “I bade you wait for me.”
    Cold to the bones, wet and unaccustomedly anxious, Dougal MacRae slipped into his wife’s bedchamber. For hours without end, with a small band of men at his back, he had played at searching the roadways, hills, and braes for a woman he knew to be elsewhere, while his body ached for her. And his mind had dealt sorely with him, imagining just this moment over and over again: himself reaching the place where she waited, to find her clothed only in her hair and in one of the glorious positions to which he had introduced her last night, either on or off the bed.
    Instead he found her sitting sedately by the fire, fully clothed—sewing, by all appearances.
    She gave him a cool look and lifted an eyebrow. He felt his pulse leap. One of the things—the many things—that attracted him to her was her self composure.
    “I am waiting,” she said.
    He approached her, shedding clothing as he came—his sopping cloak came off first, then the clammy tunic beneath. Leaving a trail of clothing from the door to the welcome heat of the fire, he ended before the flames, clad only in his kilt.
    “And did you find the young lady for whom you searched?” she inquired.
    He shot her an appreciative look. “You speak of Catherine Maitland? We did not. I fear some dire fate has befallen her. To be sure, though, she is not here. The only woman in this chamber is the Mistress Isobel MacRae.”
    His wife made no answer to that, but continued to ply her needle, her bosom