with both hands,
and struggled to pull free. Finally, she dragged the last stuck foot from under
his weight.
Scrambling off the bed, she grabbed the discarded
chemise from the floor. As she donned the garment, she noted the blood on the
inside of her thighs. Grrrr . A glance at the bed confirmed the proof of
the consummated marriage. She’d never be free of Archibald, now.
She rushed to the table where a bowl and pitcher
sat waiting. A vigorous scrub with a wet cloth and the evidence on her person
was gone. The soiled sheet was another matter. She crept to the bed. Archibald
snored like a drunken warrior. She tugged on the sheet, but couldn’t free it
from his weight.
Damn! When he woke, he’d find the proof.
Isobell frantically twirled the ruby ring on her
finger, the color of blood, like the blood on the sheet. She wanted to deny its
significance. How had she gotten herself wed to the vile man? How had she ended
up in his bed? No longer a virgin, and wishing to forget the deed.
She needed to leave. Now. A crumpled silver gown
lay on the floor. That would be of no use. She kicked it out of the way and
searched for her lad’s clothes, hoping they hadn’t been destroyed.
Thank goodness for busy servants. Laundry had been
left in a basket near the hearth, her tattered garments included. The lad’s
natty boots lay nearby. She quickly dressed and rubbed soot onto her face.
Pulling the cowl over her head, she tiptoed to the door and listened.
Only muted voices coming from the on-going
celebration below. Good.
She needed weapons. Not wanting to waste time,
Isobell grabbed Archibald’s claymore. Too heavy. Ah, but there in a dark
corner, her sword leaned against the wall.
She’d prefer to also have a dirk, or two, or
three, but had no idea where Archibald stashed his blades, and didn’t have time
to search. She needed to be gone before he woke.
He grunted, flailed an arm, and inhaled a gusty
breath. She spared a moment to pause at the bedside table, where a piece of
leather cradled the large ruby she’d gifted to Archibald. Removing the ring
from her finger, she switched it for the gemstone, which she shoved into a
hidden pocket sewn within her trews .
The sale of the gem would provide needed funds.
She snatched Archibald’s plaide from the
floor, and made quick work of draping it like a man. Hopefully, she’d be
mistaken as a visiting clansmen.
Another listen at the door, and she eased the
carved panel open. No one to the left. No one to the right. She skulked along
the corridor, praying she wouldn’t be recognized by the servants scurrying to
attend the guests.
Instead of exiting through the great hall, she
took the circular stairs to the kitchen, skirted the large prep table, and
lunged for the door. The staff was too busy to pay any mind. Hand on latch, she
took a bracing breath, and shoved the heavy wood panel open. Wind whipped her
face. Ankle-deep snow covered the courtyard. She clung to the shadows, hugging
the castle wall, dragging her feet to make the footprints look less like that
of a woman.
Once clear of the yard, she ran to the beach and,
with a grunt, dragged a currach across the shingle and shoved it into
the icy water. The current tried to steal the boat, but she was too stubborn to
let go. On the opposite shore a beacon light burned in the stable. She climbed
aboard and rowed across the bay, struggling to keep the small boat on course.
Luck was with her; the stable lads snored in the
hay. They’d be telling the truth when they claimed not to have seen her. She
fitted Dealanach Dubh with a saddle, hoisted onto his back, and departed the
village without waylay.
The heavy snow would cover their tracks, but made
the going difficult. She followed a trail seldom used through the Fir-wood,
wanting distance between her and her new husband.
Cursed life. She was wed to the evil MacLachlan.
He believed she tried to poison him. Though he
hadn’t planned to hang her for reiving, he’d certainly
and struggled to pull free. Finally, she dragged the last stuck foot from under
his weight.
Scrambling off the bed, she grabbed the discarded
chemise from the floor. As she donned the garment, she noted the blood on the
inside of her thighs. Grrrr . A glance at the bed confirmed the proof of
the consummated marriage. She’d never be free of Archibald, now.
She rushed to the table where a bowl and pitcher
sat waiting. A vigorous scrub with a wet cloth and the evidence on her person
was gone. The soiled sheet was another matter. She crept to the bed. Archibald
snored like a drunken warrior. She tugged on the sheet, but couldn’t free it
from his weight.
Damn! When he woke, he’d find the proof.
Isobell frantically twirled the ruby ring on her
finger, the color of blood, like the blood on the sheet. She wanted to deny its
significance. How had she gotten herself wed to the vile man? How had she ended
up in his bed? No longer a virgin, and wishing to forget the deed.
She needed to leave. Now. A crumpled silver gown
lay on the floor. That would be of no use. She kicked it out of the way and
searched for her lad’s clothes, hoping they hadn’t been destroyed.
Thank goodness for busy servants. Laundry had been
left in a basket near the hearth, her tattered garments included. The lad’s
natty boots lay nearby. She quickly dressed and rubbed soot onto her face.
Pulling the cowl over her head, she tiptoed to the door and listened.
Only muted voices coming from the on-going
celebration below. Good.
She needed weapons. Not wanting to waste time,
Isobell grabbed Archibald’s claymore. Too heavy. Ah, but there in a dark
corner, her sword leaned against the wall.
She’d prefer to also have a dirk, or two, or
three, but had no idea where Archibald stashed his blades, and didn’t have time
to search. She needed to be gone before he woke.
He grunted, flailed an arm, and inhaled a gusty
breath. She spared a moment to pause at the bedside table, where a piece of
leather cradled the large ruby she’d gifted to Archibald. Removing the ring
from her finger, she switched it for the gemstone, which she shoved into a
hidden pocket sewn within her trews .
The sale of the gem would provide needed funds.
She snatched Archibald’s plaide from the
floor, and made quick work of draping it like a man. Hopefully, she’d be
mistaken as a visiting clansmen.
Another listen at the door, and she eased the
carved panel open. No one to the left. No one to the right. She skulked along
the corridor, praying she wouldn’t be recognized by the servants scurrying to
attend the guests.
Instead of exiting through the great hall, she
took the circular stairs to the kitchen, skirted the large prep table, and
lunged for the door. The staff was too busy to pay any mind. Hand on latch, she
took a bracing breath, and shoved the heavy wood panel open. Wind whipped her
face. Ankle-deep snow covered the courtyard. She clung to the shadows, hugging
the castle wall, dragging her feet to make the footprints look less like that
of a woman.
Once clear of the yard, she ran to the beach and,
with a grunt, dragged a currach across the shingle and shoved it into
the icy water. The current tried to steal the boat, but she was too stubborn to
let go. On the opposite shore a beacon light burned in the stable. She climbed
aboard and rowed across the bay, struggling to keep the small boat on course.
Luck was with her; the stable lads snored in the
hay. They’d be telling the truth when they claimed not to have seen her. She
fitted Dealanach Dubh with a saddle, hoisted onto his back, and departed the
village without waylay.
The heavy snow would cover their tracks, but made
the going difficult. She followed a trail seldom used through the Fir-wood,
wanting distance between her and her new husband.
Cursed life. She was wed to the evil MacLachlan.
He believed she tried to poison him. Though he
hadn’t planned to hang her for reiving, he’d certainly
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