That mighty stronghold of the west
In lonely grandeur reigns supreme;
A monument of feudal power,
And fitting haven for a king.
M.C. MacLeod
Loch Dunvegan, Isle of Skye, July 1601
Isabel MacDonald had never thought of herself as lacking in courage, but over the past few days she’d begun to reconsider. The long hours of travel, with little to do but think, had tested her mettle. What had seemed in Edinburgh a well-conceived plan to help her clan, now, as they neared their final destination in the farthest outreaches of Scotland, felt more like a virgin being led to the sacrifice. An analogy, she feared, that was disturbingly close to the truth.
Huddled amongst her MacDonald clansmen on the small birlinn, Isabel felt strangely alone. Like her, the other occupants of the boat remained both watchful and silent as they approached their enemy’s keep. Only the droning sound of the oars, plunging into the black depths beneath them, pierced the eerie quiet. Somewhere ahead of her in the loch beyond lay Castle Dunvegan, the impregnable stronghold of the clan MacLeod.
Her treacherous fate awaited.
An icy wind swept over the loch, sending a chill deep into her bones. Eilean a Cheo, she recalled the Erse name for Skye. The “Isle of Mist”—what a prodigious understatement. Cursing her inappropriate traveling attire, Isabel wrapped her fur-trimmed cloak—the only warm garment she was wearing—tighter across her body in a futile attempt to warm herself. But her garments provided such scant protection from the elements, she might as well be sitting here in a sark.
Given her perilous task, the foul weather seemed somehow fitting.
Isabel had been promised in handfast to the powerful MacLeod Chief. Ostensibly, the handfast was a union brokered by the King to end two long and bitter years of feuding between the MacLeods and the MacDonalds. In reality, it was a ruse to gain her access to their enemy’s keep and, if all went according to plan, his heart.
No wedding would follow this handfast. When Isabel found what she came for, she would repudiate the handfast and return to her life at court as lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne as if nothing had happened, secure in the knowledge that she had helped her clan.
Assuming, of course, she wasn’t discovered.
In retrospect, passing the days by thinking of the different ways a spy could be punished probably had not been the most efficient use of her time.
Sensing Isabel’s unease, her cherished nursemaid, Bessie, reached down and gently squeezed her clenched fingers.
“Don’t worry, poppet, it won’t be that bad. You look as if you are headed to the executioner instead of to a handfast. It’s not as if your bridegroom is England’s Old King Henry.”
He might as well be. If Isabel’s perfidy was discovered, the result could well be the same as the fate doled out to many of Henry VIII’s wives years ago. She would expect no mercy from a fierce Highland Chief. She could only trust that King James, a man who’d welcomed her into his household like a daughter, would not see her tied to a vicious brute.
“I’m fine,” Isabel assured her, plastering a light-hearted smile on her face. As fine as she could be, she thought, given that she was about to be handfasted to a stranger.
It was thoughts of the man who she must deceive that were partially responsible for her growing apprehension over the past few days. Her attempts to glean more insight into the MacLeod chief’s character had proven largely unsuccessful. The king claimed he was an amiable enough man…for a barbarian. As the king considered all Highlanders barbarians, the description did not concern her overmuch.
Her father was equally circumspect, calling the MacLeod a “formidable enemy” with a “good sword arm.” Hardly reassuring. Her brothers had been a little more forthcoming. They described the MacLeod as a cunning Chief who was well-respected amongst his clan and a fierce warrior who was unmatched on the battlefield. But she’d learned nothing of the man.
Too late, she realized Bessie was still watching her. “Are you sure nothing is wrong, Isabel?”
She shook her head. “It’s only that I’m freezing and anxious to get off this boat.”
Isabel watched with trepidation as Bessie’s graying brows gathered over the elfin nose that made her aged face appear strangely youthful for her two and forty years. God’s breath, Bessie saw too much. Those omniscient green eyes peered directly into her soul. Isabel knew that Bessie suspected something was afoot. From Isabel’s hasty decision to handfast a man she’d never met to the inappropriate traveling attire her uncle had insisted she wear, Bessie had not been fooled by Isabel’s vague explanations.
Isabel met Bessie’s questioning gaze, imploring her silently not to ask what was really bothering her. The temptation to confide in the woman who’d cared for her like a mother was so overpowering, but she dared not risk it. Only her father, brothers, and uncle were aware of her true purpose in agreeing to this handfast. It was safer that way.
For once, Bessie relented and pretended that she did not know that something beyond the nerves of a soon-to-be bride were at work. She squeezed Isabel’s hand again. “I’ll call for a bath as soon as we arrive, and you’ll feel much better.”
Isabel managed a smile. Dear Bessie thought every problem could be solved by a long soak in lavender-scented water. “That sounds divine,” she murmured. But as soothing as a warm bath would feel to her aching travel-weary bones, Isabel knew that her problems would not be so easily solved.
It had all seemed so straightforward a few weeks ago when her father, the MacDonald of Glengarry, had suddenly appeared at court. Her initial surprise and excitement at his unexpected visit, however, had quickly turned to wariness. Her father had never shown much interest in her before, so there had to be a catch. If he was in Edinburgh, it had to be for something important. And she had never been important.
Until now.
She’d been shocked, but enormously pleased by his request. Her father had sought out her help! She’d been so thrilled by the prospect of him approaching her with such an important mission that she had jumped at the opportunity to help without much considering the particulars of her task.
It was not the first time Isabel’s eagerness to impress her family had landed her into tricky situations—Bessie could attest to that. But even now, she could not regret her decision. Already her brothers were more relaxed around her, even going so far as to tease her about some silly nickname at court. Her father, too, seemed different. He actually looked at her for longer than a moment.
Unfortunately, he was not the only one.
The back of her neck prickled with awareness. Her uncle was watching her. Again. Since leaving Dunscaith Castle a few days ago, Isabel had often felt her uncle’s heavy stare boring into her back. He unnerved her. Whenever she turned, he was there, watching her with those hard, unblinking eyes.
She’d tried to pretend that she didn’t notice, but his oppressive presence made it impossible. She couldn’t stand the constant staring any longer. Willing herself not to be intimidated, Isabel turned to face him.
“How much longer, Uncle?” she asked, hearing the slight tremble in her voice. Her uncle, the MacDonald of Sleat, hadn’t missed it, either.
He frowned and crossed his thick arms forbiddingly across his chest. A ruddy freckled countenance and graying red hair that receded determinedly from a high broad forehead gave him an older appearance than suggested by his six and thirty years. Isabel could not help focusing on the center of his face, where one too many drams had left his tremendous nose bright red and bulbous. Overall, he presented quite an imposing figure. Sleat was a great bear of a man, his large frame heavily padded with thick muscle and blanketed with a generous layer of dark red hair. Her nose wrinkled with distaste as his strong scent floated towards her. He even reeked of an animal.
Her eyes flickered over his heavy features, searching for a connection. It was so difficult to believe he was related to her mother. Isabel had been told that except for their like coloring her late mother, Janet, was the very antithesis of her much younger brother. Whereas Janet had been a willowy, delicate beauty, brutish Donald Gorm Mor was far from a handsome man.
He was, however, a powerful one. And her clan desperately needed that power if it had any chance of survival.
Uncomfortable under her uncle’s heavy stare, Isabel waited, trying not to fidget, for his response. She looked to her father, but he seemed just as annoyed by her show of nerves as her uncle. She would get no relief in that direction. Her father needed her uncle, and her uncle needed Isabel.
His next words reminded her of that fact. “Do not disappoint me, daughter.”
Her chest twisted. That had always been the problem.
“I thought you were made of sterner stuff, little niece,” Sleat added. “Yet, here we are not yet in sight of the castle and you quiver like a scolded bairn. Make yourself ready.”
Isabel knew what he was trying to do—shame her into being brave—but it wasn’t working. She knew what she was up against. Only a fool wouldn’t be nervous, even if only a wee bit.
“Look, my lady, there it is now,” one of the clansmen whispered softly, momentarily dropping an oar and pointing across the loch before them.
Isabel forced herself to follow the direction of his finger. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the castle that was to be her new home—or, if she was caught, her dungeon.
It’s not so bad, she tried to convince herself. There was nothing outwardly sinister about Dunvegan Castle, unless one considered stone walls thicker than a man that seemed to reach clear to the heavens menacing. Perched high on the steep rocky cliffs of the seashore, long angled curtain walls tightly hugged the edge of the bluff, connecting a tall square keep on the left with a smaller turreted tower on the right. And if the structure wasn’t forbidding enough, the smaller tower appeared to be adorned with gargoyles.
It was a bleak fortification built solely for the purpose of defense that bid no welcome. The castle seemed invulnerable to an attack or, more importantly, to a rescue. Once she entered, there was no going back.
For a moment, Isabel imagined she heard the sound of fairies laughing through the wind as the birlinn glided towards the rocks at the foot of the sea-gate stairs. She’d heard tales of the mystical creatures who lived in the forests about the castle, and it was even rumored that the MacLeods had fairy blood. She usually dismissed such stories as the superstitious meanderings of old folk—believers in the old ways. But on a ghostly night like tonight, the idea did not seem quite so far-fetched.
Shaking off her fanciful imagination, she told herself it was probably just the haunting tones of the pipers bearing her greeting to Dunvegan.
But even so, she closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for strength.
It never hurt to be safe.
She drew her cloak in protectively around her shoulders. The wispy hairs on her arms were sticking straight up. Every instinct clamored against this course of action, but she had no choice. The survival of her clan rested on her shoulders. Or, perhaps more accurately, on her face.
Isabel frowned. She might have been chosen by her uncle for her beauty, but she would succeed by her wits and raw determination. She’d always considered her face a nuisance. It had not helped her win the respect of her father and brothers in the past, but maybe now it would prove valuable in that regard. If she could use her charms to disarm, to entice, to seduce, to blind her husband from seeing her true purpose, then it would all be worth it.
Isabel sat up a little straighter on the hard wooden bench. This was her chance to prove herself. She had to take it. She forced her chin up and took a deep breath.
She was a MacDonald, and no one would stop her.
Certainly not her clan’s most reviled enemy, Rory MacLeod. Her soon-to-be handfast husband.
Determined, Isabel’s turned and boldly met Sleat’s fierce stare.
“I’m ready, Uncle.”
Alone in the mist shrouded moonlight, Rory MacLeod strode vigorously back and forth across the deserted barmkin, his muscles taut with anticipation. His MacDonald bride approached somewhere in the darkness below. He paused long enough to peer over the battlements, searching for a glimpse of the birlinn in the murky black haze. But there was still no sign of the accursed MacDonalds and his unwanted handfast bride.
It still seemed impossible. For every day of the past two years, Rory had kept his vow of vengeance to destroy Sleat for the dishonor he’d done to Rory’s sister Margaret and the MacLeods. But today the feuding would come to an end.
Temporarily at least.
One year. That’s all he owed the king. And then when the year had done, Rory would resume his plan. He wouldn’t rest until Sleat was destroyed and the MacLeods once again held the Trotternish peninsula, land seized by the MacDonalds that rightly belonged to the MacLeods.
Rory drove blunt, battle-scarred fingers harshly though his shoulder-length hair. He’d been damned close to bringing down his enemy—until Sleat had run to the king, and James had decided to interfere.
But if King James thought to end the feud with marriage, he was sorely mistaken. Not after what Sleat had done to his sister. The hatred between the clans ran too deep. Rory’s eyes traveled up to the tower where his sister Margaret slept. Could it be only three years ago that his beautiful, bright-eyed young sister had ridden away from Dunvegan, bound for Dunscaith Castle, the happy young handfast bride of the MacDonald of Sleat? It seemed impossible that so much could change in such a short time. Margaret had returned to Dunvegan a sad shell of the sweet, naďve, yet spirited little sister he remembered.
Not long after Margaret’s return, the MacLeods had attacked the MacDonalds at Trotternish with fire and sword. And so it began, two long, bloody years of feuding. The MacDonalds called it Cogadh na Cailliche Caime, the “War of the One-Eyed Woman.” Even the ridiculous epithet riled his anger.
Rory resumed his angry pacing. Although every fiber of his being rebelled against this alliance, he had no choice. When the subject of marriage had first been broached by the king, Rory had refused to consider the proposition. The years of constant fighting had taken a toll on his clan, but he resisted being tied to a MacDonald—even to end the bloodshed. But James would not be gainsaid. So Rory had come up with a solution, one that would not see him tied forever to his enemies. He rejected marriage to the chit but negotiated a handfast. Unlike a wedding, the temporary bonds of a handfast were easily undone.
Rory rubbed his stubbled chin. That the MacDonalds did not demand marriage was strange, especially after the devastation brought about by his sister’s handfast. Perhaps Sleat was not as interested in ending the feud as he pretended. Did he, too, seek a way out of the alliance? If Sleat was up to something, it likely involved his new bride.
Rory would be wary of this Trojan Horse.
A voice floated out of the darkness, interrupting his private rampage. “You have the look of a caged lion, Chief. I assume your bride has not yet arrived?”
Rory stopped pacing and turned to see his younger brother Alex striding towards him across the barmkin from the old keep. Rory cursed the MacDonalds again, this time for what they had done to Alex. Rory noticed the same roguish grin, but the thin veneer of lightheartedness could not hide the dark shadows under Alex’s eyes and the hard lines around his mouth forged in a MacDonald dungeon.
“No,” Rory said. “There is no sign of them yet, but I’m sure ‘twill be soon enough.”
Alex grunted. “MacDonalds at Dunvegan. It defies belief.”
“Aye, but not for long,” Rory promised.
Alex turned to meet his gaze. “Do you really think Sleat will dare show his face?”
Rory’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Count on it. He’ll not miss the opportunity to taunt us with his presence by taking refuge in the protection of Highland hospitality. He knows we are honor bound to do him no harm while he is at Dunvegan.”
Alex sighed and shook his head. “Poor Margaret.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen to Margaret. She’ll be kept far from Sleat.”
“Damn King James for his interference,” Alex swore.
Rory smiled dryly, having had the very same thought only moments ago. Even in the darkness, Rory could see the frustration etched on Alex’s face. Like him, Alex detested the untenable position James had put them in. “‘Tis only for a year,” Rory offered, “and then we will resume our negotiations with Argyll for a more powerful alliance.”
“Suggesting a handfast was a stroke of brilliance,” Alex agreed. “But repudiating the lass will not sit well with the King. I hear she is a great favorite of both James and Anne.”
Rory understood Alex’s concern, but it could not be avoided. “’Tis a risk. But one that I’m willing to take. James demands an end to the feud, but the clan still thirsts for revenge against Sleat. And although I may be outlawed and our lands may have been declared forfeit, the king has not sought to enforce his power against me. When the time comes, I will think of a way to mollify him.”
“You always do,” Alex said ruefully. “For some odd reason the king seems to show you favor—despite your being put to the horn.”
Rory shrugged. “The lass will not be harmed. At worst, I will have to go to Edinburgh to explain.”
“And if you are imprisoned?”
“It won’t come to prison.” His caught Alex’s skeptical look. “This time. James is only flexing his muscles, and I’m fulfilling my duty. I only agreed to a handfast.”
Alex thought for a moment. “I wonder why the king agreed?”
Initially, Rory had wondered the same thing. “He seemed confident that a marriage would eventually take place. I did not dissuade him of his err.”
“I don’t envy you your position,” Alex said. But his grave expression was broken by the grin that spread across his face. For a moment Rory thought he was looking at the brother of his past. “Though perhaps I should,” Alex continued. “I hear she is a great beauty, charming and witty. When our cousin Douglas was at court, he said that he had never seen her like. Many, including him, wanted to bed her, but to no avail. She seemed not inclined towards any particular man. The courtiers even had a name for her, the Virgin Siren—luring men to death with her innocence and beauty. Our Scot improvement over England’s aging Virgin Queen. I for one am anxious to behold such a paragon of virtuous innocence and irresistible beauty. What will you do if you are attracted to her?”
Rory quirked a brow. His brother should know better. “A beautiful face will not turn me from my duty.”
“It would turn mine.”
Rory laughed. Alex had a well-known weakness for a pretty lass, but he knew his brother too well to believe that. Honor and duty were just as important to Alex as they were to Rory. “There is no requirement that I spend any time with her. I’m sure I’ll barely notice her,” he said dismissively. “Besides, no one could be as beautiful as the rumors suggest. Or as innocent. She’s spent the last year at court, after all. But it makes no difference to me what she looks like or how witty and charming she may be. When I marry, it will be for the clan.”
As if on cue, a guardsman shouted, “A birlinn is approaching, Chief.”
Striding purposefully with long muscular legs towards the sea-gate entrance, Rory glanced back over his shoulder at Alex and brought an end to their discussion. “We shall see for ourselves if the rumors are true. My temporary bride has arrived.”
