Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Twenty-One

Isobel stood in the corner of the office, watching as McEwan poured two glasses of whisky and passed one to Miles, steadfastly ignoring her. Miles glanced at her, and she didn’t move from her position, waiting and allowing the men to conduct their business. She wished she had the authority to speak her mind, but that was the surest way of being told to leave.

“That was quite an announcement,” Miles said, sipping his drink.

McEwan’s solid stone gaze settled on him. “The power is yers to decide, Duncan.”

He could not have leveled his threat any clearer. Isobel swallowed. It was not lost on her that these men were to decide her future, in more ways than one. If Miles rejected her now, it was public. Everyone at Moraigh would be aware of it, and she would not walk away unscathed.

Now she hoped Miles wouldn’t cast her off. She didn’t want to be considered tainted by his rejection. He was a kind man, and she could make a life at Dulnain with his sweet mother’s companionship, surely.

It wasn’t the life she’d longed for with Kieran by her side, but it was better than being ruined by public rejection and never wanted by another man.

“I canna allow things to continue the way they’ve been going,” Miles said. “I’ve made a vow to restore peace to our lands.” He narrowed his gaze, leaning forward. “Were ye aware that the people aren’t certain why they’re fighting each other? I’ve asked about the origin of the feud, and no two answers are alike.”

Isobel straightened. Was that why he’d been visiting his people? To broker peace and gather information? He’d said he wanted to look after them. This certainly seemed to be what he was doing.

“It’s a feud older than many of them have been alive, I’d wager,” McEwan agreed. “It began as a territory dispute, but the people have kept it alive for decades.”

Miles lifted a hand. “If most of our people do not even ken why they hate each other, then why can we not put it to rest?”

“The root of the feud may have begun long ago, but the mistreatment continues to thrive. It must start with us.” McEwan pounded a fist against his chest. “We command peace, prove our sincerity, and change will happen.”

Miles nodded. They finally seemed to be in agreement on the matter. “I dinna think commanding peace will be enough.” He paused, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His gaze flicked to Isobel before settling back on McEwan. “I received an interesting report from a lad who works for me. Ye’re likely familiar with his name. Teague.”

McEwan’s jaw tightened, but he gave no other indication that he knew what Miles referred to. The silence stretched for a moment longer before Miles continued.

“I canna trust that we’ll have peace between us when ye’re kidnapping and questioning my servants. Ye either trust me, or we’re finished.”

No one told McEwan what to do, especially not a rival laird who was half his age and rank. Isobel sucked in a quiet breath and contemplated slipping from the room. She was probably more invisible where she stood now than she would be were she to move.

“That is fair,” McEwan finally said. “It seems that we must come to an agreement. I offer ye a prize in Isobel. Surely the merging of our clans will go further in proving our loyalty to one another than a mere agreement.”

Perhaps she wasn’t as invisible as she believed.

Miles sipped at his whisky. “It would go further. I agree.”

McEwan looked hopeful, and Isobel’s stomach felt like it was twisting in on itself.

“But it is impossible,” Miles said quietly, shooting an apologetic look at Isobel. “I’m not free to wed.”

“That isna the report I received,” McEwan said.

“I’d imagine not.” Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m grateful for the honor, but I canna marry Isobel. We must discover another avenue to prove our allegiance.”

McEwan’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because peace between our clans is important to me, too.”

McEwan waited a moment longer. “Why can ye not wed? Ye’re married?”

“I was.”

Isobel stifled a gasp.

“And the woman?” McEwan pressed.

“Not here.” Miles looked increasingly uncomfortable. He stood, setting his glass on the desk. “We can discuss this another time, perhaps. I need ta get my mother home.”

McEwan rose, and Isobel could feel the anger rolling from him in waves. She feared, for the first time, that he would do something to harm Miles, and she stepped forward.

“Are ye certain?” she asked, giving him one final opportunity to change his mind.

Miles smiled sadly at her. “Aye. Ye’re a bonny lass, but ye canna change my mind.”

Overwhelming relief washed through her body, warring with the fear and discontent of an unknown future ahead of her. She’d done her part, been willing to marry on behalf of her clan, and it wasn’t required of her.

Surely McEwan could see that Miles had made his choice, that nothing Isobel could have said or done would’ve had any great bearing on the situation.

A commotion in the corridor caught their attention, and everyone looked toward the sound of a large crash. Miles was at the door in two steps, opening it and jumping back when Hugh barreled inside.

“A fight in the great hall,” he shouted, and Miles sprang past him. McEwan was close on his tail, Hugh turning to follow them.

Isobel lifted the too-long, unfamiliar hem of Marion’s dress from her ankles and bolted through the corridor and down the stairs.

The fight was far from fair. For each Duncan in the brawl, there were four McEwans. Isobel fisted her skirt, powerless to stop it.

Two men in the center caught her eye. One of them was Kieran, the other she didn’t recognize, but he had a long, black beard.

“Magnus!” Miles shouted, wading into the fray. The black-bearded man called Magnus lunged for Kieran and hooked him just under the jaw.

He reared back to strike again, and Kieran sidestepped him, fury lighting his eyes. His chest heaved, and he shook his head. “I told ye, I willna do this here.”

“Ye truly wish to duel?” Magnus shouted, spit flying from his mouth.

“Aye,” Kieran said. “Name yer second.”

Magnus shook his head as the fight continued around them. He shrugged. “Miles Duncan.”

Kieran nodded once, his chest heaving as chaos broke out around them.

Isobel seethed, her heart hammering with fear and trepidation. Did Kieran not understand the danger he put himself in? Was it truly worth it?

She glanced behind the men and found Mrs. Duncan standing at the back wall, consternation rich on her brow. She was no longer needed, evidently, and McEwan’s fury spoke to Isobel’s assumption that she would certainly not be marrying any Duncan now, so she skirted the brawlers, making her way past overturned benches and broken glasses to where the older woman stood.

“Come with me. I will get ye safely outside,” she said.

Mrs. Duncan looked back toward the fighting men, her mouth pinched. “Verra well.”

Tucking her hand around Mrs. Duncan’s arm, Isobel led her from the room and down a spiral staircase toward the kitchen. They could slip outside and await Miles beside the dock. Mrs. Duncan wouldn’t be in any danger there.

The night was cold and quiet, neither of the ladies speaking as they picked their way across the uneven ground and toward the edge of the loch. Clouds had rolled in as the sun was setting and were covering the stars, blanketing the earth in complete darkness.

“A shame,” the older woman muttered, and Isobel looked back at the castle, the edges of the building hardly discernible against the inky, moonless sky.

Isobel agreed with Mrs. Duncan. It was a shame that a fight broke out just as the clans were attempting peace. “Did ye see how it began?”

Mrs. Duncan shook her head, frowning. “I didna see. One moment the men were sitting around drinking amiably, and then they were fighting.”

Somethinghad to have ignited them, though. Even the brutish Duncans they’d met on the road had been incensed because of wrongdoings against their family members. They hadn’t needed reasonable provocation, but there had been something.

And who was Magnus?

Men left the shadows of the castle and made their way quickly toward the dock where Mrs. Duncan and Isobel waited. Their identities were shrouded in darkness, and Isobel stood before the older woman, prepared to stop the men if they were McEwans come to destroy the Duncan’s escape route.

Mrs. Duncan laid a soft hand on Isobel’s arm just above her elbow before letting out a whistle, the two-toned sound starting high and swooping to a lower note.

One of the figures approaching returned the sound twice, and Mrs. Duncan loosened her grip. “’Tis my son.”

Minutes later, the men were on the dock, untying the boat and helping the older woman down into it. The black-bearded man brushed past her, and she stepped back to give him ample room to climb down. Miles jerkily worked at the knot, his motions displaying his frustration. A low growl ripped from his throat, and Isobel took the knot from his hand.

“Let me help.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, and watched her deftly work the knot loose.

“I’ll hold it while ye get in,” she said.

“Thank ye,” he whispered. He hesitated at the end of the dock, his dark gaze searching hers. “My apologies for the direction the evening took. Ye seem like a lovely lass.”

His rejection hadn’t hurt earlier, though it had punctured her pride somewhat. His apology now only seemed to deepen her injured ego. Despite everything, she found that she liked this man very much.

“Ye’ve only sought peace, from what I have seen,” she said. “I’m sorry it hasna worked.” If someone had predicted eight years ago that Isobel would be amiably speaking to a Duncan man, a man who came from the same clan as those who had taken her parents from her, she wouldn’t have believed them. But Miles was proof that such men existed—small though the faction may be—who wished to resolve the clan differences. To cease the need to constantly look over one’s shoulder.

She praised and appreciated him for that.

“Dinna give up yet,” she whispered.

He looked grim. “I’m no’ sure I have a choice.”

Miles sketched a quick bow before slipping into the boat and immediately taking up an oar to help row to the other side of the loch.

Isobel stood on the dock, watching them go, and wished things could have been different. For the briefest of moments, she found a desire to be in that boat beside Mrs. Duncan, safe in Miles’s protection. She couldn’t rely on Kieran—he didn’t want her—but neither had Miles. Nay, he’d been unavailable to wed.

Whatever that meant, he’d made himself perfectly clear. Miles Duncan, laird of Dulnain, would not become her husband.

Isobel picked her way back toward the castle, sneaking quietly to avoid the chief’s censure. Whoever was on duty guarding from the turrets tonight surely must have seen her on the dock, but she hoped she could deny it if they were to inform on her to McEwan. It had been too dark to truly make out her identity, surely.

“Aiding the enemy?” a voice said from the shadows of the castle wall.

She startled, swallowing a yelp, and jumped away.

“’Tis only I,” the voice said.

Isobel was uncertain exactly who it was, but her heart told her it was Kieran. She knew his voice well, but the evening had been long, and she was tired, so she couldn’t be sure.

“Kieran?” she whispered.

“Aye.”

She still could not see him. The night was too dark, and he blended into the side of the castle. But she inched closer. “What are ye doing out here?”

“I was making certain they left.”

She didn’t need to ask him to specify. He’d clearly been speaking of the Duncans. “Would ye have run them off wi’ yer sword if they hadn’t?”

“Nay,” he said easily. “I plan to do that tomorrow.”

Dread curled its gnarled fingers around her stomach. “What’ve ye planned, precisely?”

“Have ye wondered what ye would do if ye came face to face with the man who burned yer home?”

Yes, she had. Many times. But the answer to that question had varied over the years with her understanding of forgiveness, and she felt it solidifying the better she came to know Miles.

It was not lost on her that Kieran hadn’t answered her question about what he had planned.

“Have ye?” he asked again.

“Aye.”

“What would ye do?”

“I would tell him I forgive him.”

Kieran scoffed, and she stepped closer, pressing her shoulder against the cold stone wall.

“Ye must think me the lowest of men. I canna forgive so easily.”

She shrugged, though he likely couldn’t see her. “I dinna judge ye, Kieran. But I’m sad for ye.”

“Why?”

“Because of the hurt and the pain ye carry. It hurts ye more than the man who killed yer father. D’ye think he’s been thinking of ye all these years?”

He was quiet, and when he answered, his voice was low and pained. “Nay, but he should have. My father died, but was I not the casualty? I was forced to live alone. To have no family left on the earth.”

“Ye have yer aunt and McEwan, who treats ye as a son,” she reminded him gently. “The entire McEwan clan, who would stand beside ye in any battle. Ye have me.”

“Do I?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

Isobel swallowed. She hadn’t meant anything by her statement, only to support him. But Kieran stepped forward. “I canna stop thinking about that kiss.”

Neither could Isobel. Her body froze, feeling Kieran’s nearness as if a current carried her toward him, pushing against her and guiding her forward.

“It’s distracting me, making me careless,” he said. “It isna good. I need ta have my wits about me.”

“Why?”

He ignored her question, taking her wrist and grazing his fingers up her arm and over her shoulder, his fingertips dancing softly over the skin of her collar bone and up her neck. His other hand came around her waist, and he pulled her close, losing his fingers in her hair and brushing his thumb over her earlobe.

“I’ve been able to think of little else. I did wonder,” he said quietly, “if all I needed was another kiss to banish the last one from my mind.”

“Would that not make it worse?” she asked, but she could hear the strain in her voice. She was powerless to resist him. Furthermore, she didn’t want to. She didn’t have to marry Miles Duncan anymore. Did that not mean she was available once again? Things were different now. She was no longer in love with a man who hardly noticed her. She was in love with a man who was begging for a kiss.

Kieran had mentioned that he couldn’t have a family, but perhaps that had changed. Perhaps he was coming to her because the idea of a shared future with Isobel had become an option for him. The idea lifted her spirits, warming her body with hope and longing.

Bringing his head close to hers, Kieran kissed her cheekbone softly, his breath on her ear sending shivers through her body. “Can I kiss ye, lass?”

She opened her mouth to offer her consent when a bell rang in the back of her mind, sending a warning through her. Kieran had avoided answering her more than once this evening. Isobel didn’t know everything, and she had a feeling the words Kieran left unspoken were important right now.

Leaning back slightly—though it hurt her heart to do so—Isobel rested her hands on his firm chest and tried to search the darkness for his face. “What have ye planned to do tomorrow, Kieran?”

He swore, making her flinch. “I want to forget right now, Isobel. Can ye help me wi’ that or no’?”

Help him forget what, though? His impending duel, the fight with the Duncans, the fact that he valued revenge higher than he valued her? She wasn’t sure this was good for her. If she was naught but a distraction, her heart couldn’t take it. She wanted Kieran to want her, not use her. If that’s all he sought, she couldn’t allow herself to have any part of it.

His thumb caressed her cheek, then ran over her earlobe, his other hand tightening on her waist. His heart raced under her palms, and she wished she was the sort of lass who could kiss a man simply because she felt like it. But she wasn’t. She cared for Kieran, and she knew it would only hurt more tomorrow if she allowed herself to kiss him tonight.

“Ye willna tell me?” She could hear the pleading in her voice, and it embarrassed her. But she needed to hear the words from his lips. She needed him to trust her enough to confide in her. He likely hadn’t noticed her in the great hall, his focus so solely on the man called Magnus, and he probably didn’t realize she already knew about the duel.

Kieran went stiff under her arms. He retreated, pulling his hands away from her, and she felt instantly bereft.

“Nay.”

“Why no’?” she asked. He was gone already, removed both physically and mentally from the conversation.

“Because,” he said, though she could already hear him turning away. “I wouldna have ye think less of me.”