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His Lady of Castlemora
Joanna Fulford
THE BETROTHAL BARGAIN The infamous Lord Ban has lost all in the Northumbrian conflict, and now this battle-hardened warrior must turn his thoughts to producing an heir. But only the very desperate would align her fate with such a man…Almost broken by the violent ravings of her first husband, the recently widowed but ever beautiful Lady Isabelle is left with no dowry and no hope for the future. Believed to be barren, she is forced into a secret betrothal to the powerful Lord. On one condition – she must be with child before the wedding vows are spoken…



Praise for Joanna Fulford:
‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages
is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’ The Flame and the Flower. A suspenseful plot, well-developed characters and a passionate romance combine to keep readers engaged from start to finish. The authentic depiction of the historical setting adds to the enjoyment of this short but evenly paced story.’ —RT Book Reviews on THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
‘The sequel to THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
is a well-crafted portrait of the era, combining
strong characters with the classic romance elements
of a battle-of-wills love story. Fulford’s keen awareness
of the time period allows her heroine to be
a woman of her time as well as a character
who appeals to modern sensibilities.’
—RT Book Reviews on THE VIKING’S TOUCH
Her heartbeat quickened. The courteous greeting was at distinct variance with the boldness of his manner and his present state of undress.
Darting a swift look around her, she became more acutely aware of her present isolation and the remoteness of the stream. If she screamed no one would hear. Besides, it was a mistake to show fear.
Ban saw the dainty chin tilt. Far from being embarrassed or afraid, the look in her eyes was bold—challenging, even. It satisfied him. His gaze travelled downwards, mentally removing the cloth again. When she saw this, the colour rose in her face.
‘How long have you been watching me?’
‘Long enough.’
The blush deepened and the hazel eyes sparkled with anger. ‘How dare you spy on me?’
‘Unforgivable, I know,’ he admitted, ‘but impossible to look away.’

About the Author
JOANNA FULFORD is a compulsive scribbler with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles. Visit Joanna’s website at www.joannafulford.co.uk
Recent titles by the same author:

THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE
(part of the Mills & Boon Presents … anthology, featuring talented new authors)

THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS
THE LAIRD’S CAPTIVE WIFE
THE COUNTERFEIT CONDESA
THE VIKING’S TOUCH
THE CAGED COUNTESS
REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN WOMAN
(part of Castonbury Park Regency mini-series)
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

His Lady of
Castlemora
Joanna Fulford


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Prologue
Isabelle threaded her way among the trees and came at length to the wall at the far end of the orchard. It afforded a fair view of the wood and the hills above Castlemora, though in truth it was not these she saw. All she could think about was the last interview with her mother-in-law …
‘Had you fulfilled your wifely duty and produced an heir, you would have retained your place among us. As it is, my son’s death removes any requirement for you to remain.’
Isabelle stared at her in stunned disbelief. Alistair Neil’s demise in a hunting accident had been shock enough, but this was beyond everything. ‘But this is my home.’
If she hoped to appeal to Lady Gruoch’s compassion the notion was wide of the mark. Theblue eyes regarding her now were cold, the stern face pitiless.
‘Not any longer. A barren wife has only one future open to her: to take the veil and disappear from the world of men.’
Isabelle’s stomach knotted. ‘It is not my fault that I am childless. My late husband must share the responsibility for that.’
The furrows in Gruoch’s brow deepened. ‘How dare you attempt to cover your own failings by besmirching the name of the dead? My son was eager for an heir. I have good reason to know that he never neglected his duty to you.’
Isabelle’s hands clenched at her sides. So they had discussed this behind her back. She could well imagine what spiteful and lying tales her late husband had told to cover his own ineptitude. Mortification vied with anger.
‘Since he was assiduous in undertaking his part,’ Gruoch continued, ‘it is only reasonable to expect that you should have done yours.’
Isabelle bit back the heated reply that leapt to her tongue. Alistair was dead; what use to recount the embarrassed fumbling that had blighted the marriage bed in the early part of their relationship; fumbling that became frustration and, eventually, violence when he took out his failure on her?
Seeing her hesitation Gruoch nodded. ‘Inote that you do not deny it. The shame is doubly yours. You were married a year. Any self-respecting wife would have a babe in arms and another in her belly by now.’
‘I wanted that as much as my husband did. How can you doubt it?’
‘It may be so. However, that does not alter the fact of your failure as a woman and as a wife. You will go back to your father and he may dispose of you as he sees fit. If he has any sense he will place you in a convent as soon as possible.’
Isabelle didn’t care to think about her father’s response to this development. Quite apart from the insult, her return would be a burden that he would scarcely welcome. Nevertheless, it would have to be faced. Knowing that further argument was useless, she lifted her chin. ‘In that case I demand that my dowry be returned to me.’
‘You are in no position to make demands. It is our family that has been wronged. We made a bargain in good faith and we were cheated.’
‘This isn’t just.’
‘Do not speak to me of justice.’
The words created the first fluttering of panic. ‘Keep part if you will, but return the rest.’
‘We will keep what is ours.’
Isabelle swallowed hard. With no dowry, and a reputation as a barren woman, she would have no chance of remarriage. Sick with repressedshame and fury she made a last desperate attempt.
‘It is not yours to keep. The Neils have wealth enough; they have no need of more.’
‘Do not presume to tell the Neils what they need.’ Gruoch’s voice grew quieter. ‘You may count yourself fortunate to leave here at all, my girl. There are those at Dunkeld who favoured a quicker and neater end to the embarrassment you represent.’
Isabelle experienced a sudden inner chill. When first she came to her husband’s home she was accorded courtesy, albeit not warmth. Her new kin were not given to displays of affection. However, as time went on and she failed to conceive a child, their attitude changed until their scorn was scarcely veiled. The thought that they might do her physical hurt had not occurred, until now.
‘Would the Neils risk incurring the wrath of Castlemora?’ she demanded. ‘My father would not let such a deed go un-avenged.’
Gruoch’s lips tightened to a thin line. ‘We have no fear of Castlemora.’
‘You would be wiser if you had.’
For all that the words were defiant Isabelle knew they were futile. In this argument all the weight was on the other side of the balance.
Gruoch’s lip curled. ‘We are content to put it to the test. You leave first thing in the morning.’
And so she had, under the disdainful gaze of her erstwhile kin. The recollection was bitter. All the high hopes she’d set out with at the start of her marriage were ashes, and her pride lay among them. At the same time it was hard to regret leaving a place where she was so little valued or wanted. The trouble was that she couldn’t imagine how the situation was going to change in the foreseeable future. Unwilling to let the Neils see any tears she contrived to put a brave face on it.
She’d worn a brave face when eventually she had to confront her father. Archibald Graham was fifty years old. Formerly a strong and active man his health had failed in his later years until even small exertions tired him and any significant effort brought on the pains in his chest. However, his grey eyes were bright and shrewd, his mind as sharp as it had ever been. He made no attempt to hide his anger and disappointment. When he learned that they had refused to return her dowry his wrath increased tenfold.
‘Those scurvy, double-dealing Neils are no better than thieves.’
Her brother growled agreement. At sixteen Hugh was grown to manhood and, as the onlysurviving son, was now the heir. He also possessed a keen sense of what was due to kin.
‘This is an insult to our entire family. It should be avenged. Let me take a force to Dunkeld and burn out that nest of rats.’
‘The rats are numerous and strong, boy. We’ll bide our time.’
‘You mean we’re to swallow this outrage?’
‘This outrage will not be swallowed or forgotten, I promise you.’ Graham paused. ‘However, revenge is a dish best tasted cold. If you’re to be laird one day you need to remember that.’
Hugh nodded slowly. ‘I’ll remember.’ He turned to Isabelle. ‘You’re well rid of the scum, Belle.’
That much was true, but it didn’t change the fact that she was now a dowerless widow. It hung there, unsaid, like the subject of her alleged barrenness. Her brother was fond of her and would never throw such an accusation in her face, but it wasn’t going to go away …
Being thus lost in gloomy reflection, she was unaware of the approaching figure until she heard him speak.
‘Well met, Lady Isabelle.’
Recognising the voice she turned quickly. ‘Murdo.’
The master-at-arms was standing just feet away. She eyed him uneasily, repressing a shiver. The black-clad figure was entirely shaven-headed. A scar seamed the left side of his face from cheek bone to chin, though it was partially hidden by a beard close-trimmed and dark as night, as dark as the predatory gaze watching her now. He reminded her of nothing so much as a hunting wolf, lean, powerful and dangerous. A strong odour of stale sweat enhanced the impression of lupine rankness.
He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I thought I might find you here.’
Suddenly she was aware that the orchard was some way from the house and that it was entirely private. Apprehension prickled. Unwilling to let him see it she remained quite still and forced herself to meet his gaze.
‘What do you want?’
‘To speak with you, my lady.’
‘Very well, what is it you wish to speak about?’
‘The future.’
The knot of apprehension tightened a degree. ‘What of it?’
‘Your honoured father is a sick man. He cannot live long. That must weigh upon your mind.’
‘It does,’ she replied, ‘but you did not come here to tell me that.’
‘When he dies you will need a strong protector, Isabelle.’
She knew what was coming now and sought desperately for the means to evade it. ‘My brother will protect me.’
‘A new husband would perform the role better.’ His expression became intent. ‘I would be that man.’
Isabelle’s stomach wallowed but she knew better than to anger him deliberately. ‘What you are asking is not possible, Murdo.’
‘Why not?’ He held her gaze. ‘Who better than me? I may be a younger son but I come of good family. I have risen to my present rank on merit and served your father well. Thanks to my efforts Castlemora is strong and feared.’ He paused. ‘And you cannot be entirely unaware of my feelings for you.’
‘I regret that I cannot return them.’
‘Not yet, but you might come to return them, in time.’
She shook her head. ‘I will never feel about you that way.’
‘You say so now but I know how to be patient.’
‘Time will not change this. Do not hold out hopes of me.’
‘If not me, who else, Isabelle? You are no longer the prize you once were, only a widow returned in disgrace to her father.’
Her chin lifted at once. ‘I wonder then that you should wish to make her yours.’
‘I have long wished it. The present circumstances change nothing, except to work in my favour since there will be no more suitors coming calling now.’
‘Never tell me you speak out of pity, Murdo.’
‘Far from it.’ He smiled. ‘I know the truth, you see.’
She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That Alistair Neil was no man at all.’
‘You have no right to say such things.’
‘You don’t have to pretend to me, Isabelle. ‘Tis common knowledge among the local whores: your late husband was but meagrely endowed, and that he couldn’t get a cock stand either. If you have no children the fault is not yours.’
Had it been anyone else this vindication would have been balm to her spirit. As it was, her cheeks burned.
Murdo drew closer. ‘I can give you children.’
She stiffened. The thought of intimacy with him was utterly repellent. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘Come now, would you not prefer to be ridden by a real man for a change?’ Seeing her outraged expression he laughed softly. ‘One night in my bed and you’ll forget Alistair Neil ever existed.’
‘I’ll never share your bed.’
If her reply had dismayed him it was not apparent for his expression did not change save that his gaze became more intense. ‘When I set myself a goal I always achieve it.’
Despite the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine goose bumps started along her arms, and she wanted nothing so much as to be free of his presence.
‘I regret that you will be disappointed this time.’
‘You’re wrong, Isabelle. This time you will be my wife.’
‘That I never shall.’ With that she turned to leave, but a strong hand on her arm prevented it.
‘I never take no for an answer,’ he replied. ‘You should know that well enough by now.’
She tested the hold but it didn’t alter. ‘Let go of me, Murdo.’
‘You escaped me once before but I’ll not let it happen again.’
The tone was casual but its implications were not. Her heart thumped unpleasantly hard but she forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘You forget yourself. You may have a trusted position in this household, but it does not give you the right thus to presume.’
‘Not yet perhaps,’ he replied, ‘but know this: I intend to have a husband’s rights over you soon enough.’
That quiet assertion snapped the last fragile strand of her self-control. ‘Never!’
Tearing herself free of his hold she turned on her heel and ran off through the trees. He watched but made no attempt to stop her.
‘Aye, run from me, Isabelle,’ he murmured. ‘You won’t escape.’

Chapter One
Three months later
Isabelle urged the horse to a canter, wanting only to put space between herself and Castlemora for a while. In theory she ought not to ride out alone but Murdo and her brother had gone out hunting earlier so there was no one to prevent her. All the same, freedom was going to be short-lived. Her father might have decided to bide his time over the Neils, but he had not been tardy in seeking another husband for her …
‘Glengarron is an old ally. Marriage will serve to strengthen the tie.’
Her stomach turned over. Somehow she managed to control her voice. ‘Forgive me, but I thought the Laird of Glengarron was already married.’
‘So he is. I was speaking of his brother-in-law, Lord Ban.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s a Sassenach but that canna be helped.’
‘A Sassenach?’
‘It’s not ideal, I admit. On the plus side he’s a respected warrior with strong family connections, but, having no land, he canna be so particular in his choice of a bride.’
Her jaw tightened. ‘Nor I so particular in my choice of a husband?’
‘You canna afford to be choosy now.’
‘Perhaps it is the Sassenach thane who will be choosy.’
‘Why should he be?’ He eyed her appraisingly. ‘You’ve looks enough and the Graham blood to boot. No doubt some small financial inducement could be found as well. It should be enough.’
With an effort she held fury in check. ‘And if it isn’t?’
‘There’s always a convent.’
‘I have no vocation for the religious life.’
He regarded her steadily. ‘Murdo looks at you a good deal. You could do worse.’
‘I hardly think so.’
‘In that case I advise you to put on your finest gown and make yourself agreeable when Lord Ban arrives.’
Her mouth dried. ‘When is he expected?’
‘Very soon now. See to it that all necessary preparations are made to welcome him.’
The recollection of that conversation filled Isabelle with roiling anger. Nevertheless, she didn’t dare to disobey. Castlemora was ready to receive the guest. Meanwhile, she needed time alone to gather her composure and ready herself to face what was coming. For that she required some peace and quiet.
Holding her mount to a steady pace she followed the burn until it widened out into a pool beneath a stand of trees. Although it was just within the bounds of Castlemora land it was a secluded place and, ordinarily, she would not have come here alone. If Murdo ever found out, the fat would be in the fire. Over the years the master-at-arms had evolved a highly efficient system of intelligence. Almost nothing happened at Castlemora without him knowing. The hunt was a fortunate distraction.
Isabelle dismounted and tethered her horse. The sun was high now and the day hot. Her clothing was sticking to her back and the water looked inviting. She glanced around but the land was still; there was no sign of human presence as far as the eye could see. The temptation grew stronger. It ought to be safe enough for a while at least.
Ban smiled and leaned back against the tree, glad to be out of the saddle for a while. He and his companions had been riding since early morning, albeit at an easy pace to spare the horses. Their mounts were dozing in the shade while the men, having partaken of bread and cheese and slabs of dried meat, stretched out awhile at their ease. A little way off among the trees Davy stood watch. For all that the country seemed peaceful it never paid to be complacent. Ban had learned that through long experience. For five years he had ridden with Black Iain of Glengarron, watching, learning, training, his body growing hard and lean and strong, his mind sharp and focused. The stripling youth who had been saved after the destruction of Heslingfield was long gone and in his place the man, now a respected warrior in his own right. Being Iain’s brother-in-law had won him no favours. Ban was expected to prove himself like all the rest. He applied himself wholeheartedly, for by concentrating on the new life he could forget the old. Here the past mattered not. He was judged by what he did now. Though he was treated with civility enough by his companions he knew they watched him, judged him. It had been a matter of pride to be found worthy, to win their trust and acceptance.
He glanced across at his companions: Ewan, Jock and Davy, good men all, men he trusted at his back in a fight. They would stand by him as he would by them. They had been through enough adventures together to know it. Not that he expected to do any fighting in the near future. Delivering some horses to an old friend was hardly likely to be fraught with peril. He did it as a favour to Iain. Of the other, more personal, matter he had said nothing to his men. After all, he had not positively decided yet; could not decide until he knew more. A few days at Castlemora would doubtless clarify matters.
Unbidden his mind returned to the conversation a week earlier. He was playing in the courtyard with his young nephews when Iain appeared on the scene. For a while Iain watched the boisterous game, an indulgent smile hovering on his lips. When eventually they stopped for breath he dismissed the two children with the intelligence that he wanted private speech with their uncle.
‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Ban when the youngsters had gone.
‘No, ‘twas merely that I would ask a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’
‘I need someone to deliver some horses to Castlemora. Archibald Graham asked me for some good breeding stock a while ago. I told him I’d look out for some likely animals.’
‘The brood mares from Jarrow by any chance?’
‘The same.’
Ban nodded. They were fine animals. However, it wasn’t a challenging undertaking and any of Iain’s men could have delivered them, so why was he being singled out for the task? As so often he sensed there was more here than appeared on the surface.
‘Would you mind?’ Iain’s tone was casual. That more than anything else set off alarms in Ban’s brain and he couldn’t help but smile.
‘Of course not.’ The assertion was sincere. Castlemora was no more than two days’ ride and the weather fine. Besides, he owed his brother-in-law a great deal and was glad to return a favour when he could.
‘Good.’
Ban waited certain now that there must be more to come. He was right, though he could never have guessed its import.
‘The journey may be made to serve two ends,’ Iain continued. ‘Archibald Graham is an old friend and ally but, sadly, his health is failing.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’
‘He has a daughter. The last time I saw her she was a child, but she must be eighteen or thereabouts by now. She was widowed a while back and he seeks a new husband for her.’
Ban’s expression grew more guarded. When he’d guessed at some ulterior motive he could never have suspected anything like this. Yet it was typical of Iain that he should, with such unruffledease, let drop some small but incendiary piece of information.
‘By that you mean me?’
‘Not at all,’ was the imperturbable reply. ‘I merely suggest you should go and take a look.’
‘She’s a widow so there will be children as well, Iain.’
‘Apparently not.’
Ban raised an eyebrow. ‘Not?’
‘She was married but a year, and the mortality rate among infants is high.’
‘As you say.’ Although he didn’t pursue it, the matter still left a question in Ban’s mind.
‘The woman is reputed fair and, being Graham’s daughter, will have a handsome dowry to boot.’
‘Better and better. And of course I am five and twenty and single yet.’ Ban paused. ‘Did my sister put you up to this?’
‘No, though I know she would like to see you settled.’
‘She told you that?’
‘She may have mentioned it once or twice.’
‘An understatement if ever I heard one. She has been matchmaking these last five years.’
‘Aye, well, what do you expect? You’re her only brother.’
‘And being the last surviving male of the family I must get an heir.’
‘Have you any objections to marriage?’
Ban shook his head. ‘None—in principle.’
It was true as far as it went. The idea of marriage did not displease him. It was a necessary step in a man’s life, a responsibility that must be undertaken to ensure that his name and his line continued. The woman should be compliant and, ideally, pleasing to look upon although, as he knew to his cost, beauty was no guarantee of a warm and generous heart.
His brother-in-law nodded. ‘Well then.’
Considered dispassionately, Ban knew the scheme made sense. All the same he couldn’t quite repress a twinge of envy when he compared it with what Iain and Ashlynn had found in marriage. He saw the love and the passion in their relationship, heard the shared laughter and the witty banter. Iain was a devoted husband and a good father. Recalling how he had once doubted the man, Ban was ashamed. Ashlynn could not have found a better. Among married couples they seemed to be the exception that proved the rule. To his knowledge Iain had never strayed from his wife’s bed. He had eyes for no one else and that was as it should be. A vow once made should be kept.
‘Of course this commits you to nothing,’ Iain went on. ‘The woman may not be to your liking.’
Ban schooled his expression to neutrality. It was far more likely that a landless thane would not be to her liking. ‘As you say.’
‘If so, you were merely delivering horses. On the other hand …’
I might fall in love?’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
Ban grimaced. In his experience love was a chimera, the stuff of boyish dreams. It also made a man dangerously vulnerable. If he married it would be a business arrangement, essentially. If affection followed later well and good. It was as much as one could hope for. ‘Indeed.’
Again the lazy smile appeared. ‘As I said, she is reputed fair.’
‘Damn you, Iain.’ The words were uttered without rancour.
‘Then you’ll go?’
‘Aye, confound it. I’ll go and look over the goods but I warn you now, I’m hard to please.’
‘So was I.’
A gentle nudge brought Ban back to the present with a start and he realised Jock was passing him the water bottle. He took it with murmured thanks, realising guiltily that he hadn’t been taking in any of the conversation thus far.
‘We should be assured of a warm welcome anyway,’ said Ewan. ‘Archibald Graham has a reputation for hospitality.’
Ban and Jock exchanged glances and grinned. One of Ewan’s prime concerns was his stomach. Yet no matter how much he ate it made not the slightest difference to a frame that was small and wiry. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, but he was surprisingly strong. At eighteen he had ridden with Ban for three years now, at his side in whatever adventure came their way.
‘Good. A well-cooked meal and a comfortable bed will suit me fine,’ replied his leader.
‘The old man was ailing last I heard,’ said Jock.
‘I heard that too.’ Ewan took a swig from the leather costrel in his turn. ‘Fortunate then his son is of an age to manage things after him. He has a widowed daughter too, accounted fair forbye.’
‘She’ll no lack for suitors then. Graham is rich enough.’
‘She’s marriageable all right.’
‘Do ye think she’d look my way?’ Jock’s craggy face split in a grin revealing a missing front tooth.
‘No,’ replied Ewan. ‘She could have her pick of men. Why would she bother with an ugly brute like you?’
‘You can talk. If ugliness were a crime, laddie, ye’d no be in prison; ye’d be ten feet under it.’
Unperturbed, Ewan grinned. ‘I’m thinking she’ll no marry either one of us, but what about Davy? He’s handsome enough.’
‘Aye, he is, but he and Lachlan’s daughter have reached an understanding. Besides, Davy’s a commoner too.’
‘Then what about you, my lord?’ said Ewan.
Ban was almost taken by surprise for it came so near his private concerns, but he managed to return the smile.
‘I have nothing against marriage, though heiresses are almost invariably ugly.’
‘I’ve never met any so I’ll have tae take your word for that,’ replied Jock.
Ban plucked idly at a strand of grass, thinking that, ugly or not, no heiress was likely to consider a dispossessed English thane to be a good catch. His fortunes had mended considerably in the last six years and he had gold enough but his lands were lost, perhaps in the hands of some Norman lord now. It was beyond mending, like a father and brother slain along with his brother’s wife and their infant son. King William’s men had laid waste to a huge swathe of the north of England, leaving a charred desert where nothing lived, and the bones of the dead lay bleaching amid the ruins of their villages for there were too few left alive to bury the number of the slain. All for the death of one man, and that man a fool. Robert De Comyn’s brutality had led to the uprising in which he was killed. However, he was one of William’s most favoured earls, and the king had taken a terrible revenge. Ban wondered whether the land and the people could ever recover from it.
‘Perhaps Graham will have her matched with a Norman lord,’ said Ewan.
Once again Ban was jolted out of his reverie. ‘A Norman?’
‘The Treaty of Abernethy has effectively made Malcolm a vassal of King William.’ Jock spat into the dirt. ‘What better way to create strong political alliances than to wed Scot to Norman?’
They digested this in silence, recognising the unwelcome truth of it. King Malcolm’s raids into northern England in 1070 had been all too successful and called forth an uncompromising response from William, who raised an army and marched north to confront the Scots. Though brave and eager their army was routed by the Norman host. As a result Malcolm was forced to pay homage to William and sign the treaty at Abernethy two years later.
Ewan was scandalised. ‘The lassie deserves better than that surely?’
‘That she does, lad. Under all their pomp and titles the Normans are just treacherous bastards.’
‘Aye, and led by a bigger bastard.’
It drew a laugh for King William’s lowly birth was well known. It was also known to be a sore point with him.
‘Dinna let him hear ye say that. He’d cut out your tongue.’
‘He isna here though, is he?’ Ewan reasoned.
‘No, but he’s left his mark has he not?’
‘Aye, he has. Northumbria’s naught but a wasteland.’
Silence followed this for they knew something of their lord’s past and none cared to dredge up a subject they knew to be painful. Aware of their discomfiture, Ban adopted a lighter tone.
‘So tell me, Ewan, is there no lass you’ve set your heart on?’
‘Not yet.’
‘There’s no lassie in her right mind would have ye,’ said Jock.
‘Why not? You managed.’
‘Aye, for my sins.’
Ban and Ewan grinned. Jock’s wife, Maggie, was known for her acid tongue. She and Jock argued often and loud, but none doubted for a minute that they were devoted. They’d had a brood of eight children, of whom five survived infancy. Three were fine strong boys already showing the promise of their sire in their skill with weapons. Jock was rightly proud of them.
However, the subject of marriage came too near the knuckle and presently Ban excused himself on the pretext of wanting to stretch his legs, wandering away from his companions to follow the burn. He found the tenor of the conversation strangely unsettling and he wanted some time alone with his thoughts.
For the first couple of years after his arrival at Glengarron all he owned were the clothes on his back and his sword. He had been in no case to support a wife. Gradually he’d carved out a reputation and amassed wealth by the strength of his arm and the use of his wits. However, a name, even backed by gold, wasn’t enough. Land was what mattered. Land was what gave a man position and power. Without it he was effectively little more than a hired blade. Women of noble blood might indulge him with a brief dalliance, but it was beneath them to marry such a man. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.
There had been female companions, of course, in the past six years, women of a certain class who filled a need. They were transient and soon forgotten, unlike Beatrice. Her image was still vivid, although he’d long since understood what she was.
Deep in thought Ban had been wandering along the edge of the burn, winding among the trees, paying little heed to his surroundings. He had left his men some way behind, being happy enough with his own company. Now he paused in the dappled shade beneath a mountain ash and looked about him. It was a pleasant scene with hills and trees and burn. The summer had been unusually warm and dry and the flow was slightly less now, but still the stream sparkled and leapt over the stones in its bed, the water a clear peaty brown. Presently, it fell over a rocky shelf and tumbled into a wide pool below. It looked cool and inviting and a swim would be most welcome. Ban sat down and pulled off his boots. As he did so a movement caught his eye and he saw that he was not the first to think of the idea. Someone was swimming on the far side.
Instinctively he ducked behind a boulder, watching. He could see a horse tethered to a bush and a pile of clothing at the water’s edge. Then his eyes widened and a smile dawned. The figure in the water was unmistakably female. He had an impression of a slender waist and long shapely legs. Long brown hair trailed after her like some exotic weed. Who was she? Where had she come from? There were no dwellings near. She was no commoner; one look at her mount established that. She was clearly no blushing maiden either. Such girls were carefully chaperoned and certainly not permitted to ride out alone, or to swim naked in lonely woodland pools. Only one kind of woman would display her charms in such a way. Ban grinned. Doubtless she had not expected to find a client in so remote a spot, but this was a ready-made opportunity and no red-blooded man would pass it up. If she was amenable they could spend an enjoyable half-hour together on the river bank, time for which she would be amply recompensed afterwards.
Stripping to his breeches Ban waded into the pool. The water was cold enough to make him gasp but he plunged in, all sound concealed by the fall above. Then, duck diving, he swam under water towards the far side of the pool. By the time he surfaced near the other bank the girl was out and drying herself with a linen cloth. She was younger than he’d first thought, eighteen perhaps or a little more, but her body revealed the rounded curves of early womanhood. Having removed much of the water she wrapped the cloth around her and sat down on a rock to let the sun do the rest. Its heat was already drying her hair and he saw now that he had been mistaken: it was not dark brown but deepest auburn and it framed a lovely face. Ban’s smile widened. This really was too good to miss.

Chapter Two
It was the horse that alerted Isabelle to his presence for the animal threw up its head and whinnied as it scented him. She looked round following the direction of the horse’s gaze, and then drew in a sharp breath. Hazel eyes widened as they registered the figure moving towards her and she jumped up and backed a pace, ready to flee. Though the stranger was apparently unarmed he was fully six feet tall and possessed of the broad shoulders and hard-muscled arms that bespoke the fighting man. His waist had not a hint of fat about it, nor the long powerful legs currently accentuated by the clinging breeks. He stopped a few feet away. She had an impression of tawny hair and blue eyes and a clean-shaven face with strong lines and a square jaw. Then he smiled, revealing even white teeth.
‘Good afternoon.’
Her heartbeat quickened. The courteous greeting was at distinct variance with the boldness of his manner and his present state of undress. Darting a swift look around her, she became more acutely aware of her present isolation and the remoteness of the place. If she screamed no one would hear. Besides, it was a mistake to show fear. He had clearly formed the wrong impression about her, but if she kept calm she might be able to talk her way out of this.
Ban saw the dainty chin tilt. Far from appearing embarrassed or afraid the look in her eyes was bold, challenging even. It satisfied him. He hadn’t been mistaken. Unusually though, she lacked the hardness he associated with harlots. Perhaps that came with time. As yet she was unmarked by her experiences and, at closer quarters, even more desirable. The strength of his reaction surprised him. His gaze travelled downwards, mentally removing the cloth again. Seeing this, the colour rose in her face.
‘How long have you been watching me?’
‘Long enough.’
The blush deepened and the hazel eyes sparkled with anger. ‘How dare you spy on me?’
‘Unforgivable I know,’ he admitted, ‘but impossible to look away. Figures like yours are all too rare.’
She drew in a sharp breath at the sheer effrontery of it. Undismayed he waited, surveying her with keen enjoyment.
‘You spy on me and then you insult me,’ she said.
‘No insult, lady, I swear. Consider it rather in the nature of homage to your beauty.’
‘Such homage I can do without.’
‘But it must be paid anyway.’
She shrugged. ‘A cat may look at a king.’
‘Or a queen,’ he replied.
‘I do not aspire so high.’
‘Why, no, for if you were a queen you would not be alone in such a place as this; nor would you swim naked in the burn.’
Isabelle’s heart sank and she backed another pace. The stranger came on, moving with apparent nonchalance.
‘You need have no fear of me, lady. I won’t hurt you.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Half an hour of your time, for which I will pay in gold.’
Her cheeks so pink before turned pale. He couldn’t be serious. Another look at his expression disabused her of the idea. His intentions were unmistakable. Talking her way out of trouble was no longer an option. There was only one possibility now: to run for it.
He caught her in three strides, swinging her up into his arms. Isabelle shrieked. There followed a few seconds of furious struggle but his hold didn’t alter. If anything he seemed amused. For one brief instant he looked into her face, then bent his head and brought his lips down on hers.
Her stifled cry of protest was ignored, and the kiss became more insistent, his mouth seeking her response in a more intimate embrace. Being crushed against him it was harder to breathe. Naked warmth pressed close. He drew back a little and again the blue eyes burned into hers, their expression unmistakable. Her heart lurched painfully.
‘Please, I beg you …’
The construction he put on the words was quite other than she had intended. ‘Have no fear, my sweet, you’ll get what you want I promise you.’
Panic-stricken now, she redoubled her efforts. ‘Let go of me! Put me down!’
He retained his hold with difficulty. ‘What the devil …?’
‘I said let me go!’
In another woman he’d have suspected playful protest and half-hearted struggle to increase his ardour, but there was nothing coy about her tone or expression and nothing half-hearted about her struggles. He frowned.
‘Hold still, you little hellion. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Then put me down.’
Hearing the note of fear beneath her command he hesitated. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘How can you ask me that, you clod?’
‘Clod is it? Perhaps I should show you otherwise.’
She almost lunged out of his arms. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’
‘I have no intention of killing you, you little fool, only of pleasuring you.’
‘Never!’
The challenge was there and the temptation. He gritted his teeth, only too aware of the hot ache in his loins, of understanding that he wanted her more than any woman he could remember, and knowing how easy it would be to see his will met. Then he looked into her face. It reaffirmed the fear and reluctance he had seen before. Passion began to ebb. He’d seen enough of violence and violation to last him a lifetime. He wouldn’t inflict that on any woman, least of all this one.
‘For one who desires to escape a man’s attentions you are very scantily clad.’
She made no reply to this but the look in her eyes was eloquent enough. His frown deepened.
‘Have no fear. I’ll not take a woman against her will.’
To her unspeakable relief he slackened his hold and set her on her feet. Grabbing the linen sheet she drew it higher, clutching it close. Her face was very pale, her heart thundering against her ribs.
He glared at her. ‘I think you’d better explain.’
‘I … It’s not what you think. In truth it is not. I thought only to bathe.’
‘A foolish thought,’ he replied. ‘Does your husband know you ride out alone?’
‘I am not married.’ That much was true at any rate and she had no intention of enlightening him about the rest.
The news surprised him. She was of more than marriageable age and fair besides. ‘Your father then?’
She shook her head. ‘He does not know.’
‘He should keep a closer watch on you. It’s madness for a woman to ride this country alone. Anything might have happened; rape is the least of it. You could as easily get your throat cut.’
Her cheeks burned, as much for the knowledge of her own folly as for the justice of the rebuke. The stranger’s expression was thunderous, his strength frightening. When she thought of what he could have done, what he might still do, her stomach wallowed. She just had to pray he’d meant it when he said he’d never forced a woman.
Though she could not know it, much of his anger was directed at himself, realising what he had so nearly done, what he would still like to do. Imagination sent another surge of heat to his groin. With an effort he controlled it. Then he bent and retrieved her clothes, tossing them to her.
‘Get dressed.’
She caught the garments awkwardly. He made no move to turn away. Annoyance mingled with fear.
‘Are you going to watch?’
‘It’s a little late for modesty now, sweetheart.’
Biting back the hot reply that sprang to her lips, she hurriedly slipped on the kirtle and let the linen towel fall before donning her gown. The stranger’s gaze never wavered. He handed her the woven girdle and watched her fasten it. She turned away from him to put on her stockings, tying her garters with shaking hands. Then she slid her feet into her shoes. He surveyed her critically.
‘A little dishevelled but decent at least,’ he observed.
Isabelle glared at him. Ban smiled faintly, acknowledging her courage, but his blue eyes held a dangerous glint. ‘You are haughty for one who reveals her charms so freely.’
Anger began to replace anxiety. ‘I did not deliberately reveal myself to you.’
‘The outcome might well have been the same. Fortunately for you, I have no taste for raping virgins.’
Virginity was a state long lost though she had no intention of sharing the irony. If he thought her experienced he might well change his mind and finish what he’d begun.
‘No,’ she retorted, ‘only for gloating.’
He stared at her, incredulous. ‘You ungrateful little vixen! I ought to warm your backside for that.’
‘You wouldn’t d—’ Seeing his expression alter she bit the words off abruptly, recognising thin ice.
‘Wouldn’t dare? Try me, and you won’t sit down for a week.’
Isabelle didn’t care to put the matter to the test. She’d suffered quite enough humiliation at his hands.
‘I’m minded to take you home myself and tell your father to thrash you,’ he went on. ‘It would teach you better sense.’
She paled a little, in fury now as much as fear. She’d experienced quite enough thrashings at the hands of men who thought it their God-given right to mete out punishment to the weaker sex. Resentment welled but she repressed it. Caution was needed here. If her father found out so would Murdo. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about. No matter how much it went against the grain it would be better to play the part of the contrite, young virgin.
She lowered her eyes. ‘Please, don’t. I won’t do it again, I swear it.’
Ban had no trouble believing that. She’d had a fright but the lesson had been well learned. Now she seemed only young and vulnerable.
‘I suggest you go home and stay there,’ he said.
Taking her arm in a firm clasp he led her to the waiting palfrey. The hold didn’t hurt but it would not be resisted either. She could feel its heat through the stuff of her gown. They reached the horse but he didn’t wait for her to mount. Lifting her with the same insulting ease as before, he tossed her up into the saddle instead. Then he handed her the reins.
‘I doubt if we shall meet again, so I’ll bid you Godspeed.’
She threw him an eloquent look and turned the horse’s head. ‘We shall not meet again. At least, not if I see you first.’
With that she touched the horse with her heels and it leapt forwards from a standing start to a canter. Quite unexpectedly, Ban found himself grinning. With grudging admiration he acknowledged her spirit, his gaze following her progress until she was lost to view.
Isabelle urged the horse to a swifter pace and only when she had put considerable distance between her and the stranger did she slow the animal to a walk. Even though the initial shock had worn off she was still trembling. When she thought of what might have happened she shuddered. He had been so strong, could so easily have forced her. What had stopped him? From his treatment of her it was clear he had taken her for a slut. It didn’t help to know she was responsible for that misunderstanding.
Her cheeks flooded with hot colour when she thought of that passionate embrace. His kisses burned: she could still feel the pressure of his mouth on hers; her nakedness against his; strong warm hands on her skin. He’d frightened her but the memory of that intimacy was not entirely repellent even though it should have been. She quashed the realisation, quietly appalled. There could be no place for such thoughts. They made her feel like the slut he’d taken her to be. She’d had a lucky escape and couldn’t afford to be complacent about it. Neither her father nor her brother must ever get wind of this. Above all, Murdo must never find out.
Isabelle reached Castlemora without further incident and, thanking the fates that the men were elsewhere that afternoon, threw her horse’s reins to a groom and hastened to the women’s bower by the back route. In her present state she dared not risk being seen. As she’d hoped the room was empty at this hour and having reached its safety she swiftly divested herself of the green gown, exchanging it for blue. Then she began to comb her hair into order. It was quite dry now and the auburn strands leapt beneath her fingers, fiery in the afternoon light. As she was engaged in this process Nell bustled in.
‘There you are, my lady. Wherever have you been?’
‘I went out riding.’
‘Alone again I’ll warrant.’
Nell gathered up the discarded gown. Plump and grey-haired, she was in her early fifties. Having known Isabelle since she was a baby, the older woman claimed the privileges of a trusted retainer. One of these was considerable freedom of speech. Nevertheless, she had a kindly nature and, despite an occasionally critical tongue, was also genuinely concerned. Seeing the younger woman’s guilty look now she shook her head.
‘You shouldn’t do it, my lady. In these lawless times it’s not safe. All manner of desperate rogues ride the border country and a woman alone would be easy prey.’
Recalling the events of the afternoon Isabelle shuddered inwardly. More than ever she was resolved not to ride out so far again. Only a fool would risk that twice. The desire for solitude must be balanced against the need for much greater caution.
‘I’m sorry, Nell. I promise to be more careful in future.’
The tone was genuinely contrite. Surprised that she did not even try to argue the point, Nell regarded her keenly for a moment. However, Isabelle was apparently absorbed in removing a tangle from her hair and thus avoided the knowing eye.
‘It were as well you did,’ the nurse went on. ‘Who knows what you might suffer at the hands of outlaws or marauders?’
Isabelle’s colour became a shade more pronounced and she concentrated harder on her task. Nell crossed the room towards her.
‘Here, best let me do it.’
She surrendered the comb and sat still while Nell took over, braiding the wilful mass into a thick plait and interweaving a ribbon to match the gown.
‘If Murdo finds out he’ll compel you to take an escort next time,’ Nell went on, ‘and you know fine well who it’ll be.’
‘I will not let him force his company on me in that way.’
‘Do you really think you’d be able to avoid it?’ The nurse paused. ‘His power is second only to your father’s now. No one dares to challenge his orders or his actions for fear of retribution. His thugs swagger about as though they own the place.’
‘I know, but things will change when Hugh is Laird of Castlemora.’
‘Your brother is full young. It remains to be seen whether he can be his own man. In the meantime it’s Murdo who will control Castlemora, make no mistake about that. His ambitions don’t stop there either.’ Nell paused. ‘His interest in you has not abated.’
‘I have none in him. He knows that.’
‘He has spoken on the matter?’
‘He has.’
Nell pursed her lips. ‘The brute grows bolder.’
‘I told him plainly that he could have no hope of me.’
‘He’s not a man who takes no for an answer.
The words were an uncanny echo of a former conversation, and Isabelle inwardly acknowledged their truth.
‘You must marry again and soon,’ Nell continued.
‘By that you mean Lord Ban.’
‘Who else?’
For a moment Isabelle saw the face of a stranger with tawny hair and blue eyes. Resolutely she tried to banish it, but it was not so easy when the memory of his kiss lingered on her lips. He had held her in his arms. He had seen her naked. Again she grew hot with shame. It was a mercy she would never see him again.
‘If you do not,’ Nell went on, ‘you may be compelled to wed Murdo later.’
It was the plain truth and Isabelle inwardly acknowledged it. The thought filled her with dread. ‘I’d rather take holy orders.’
‘That’s the other choice.’
‘I might as well be a bale of goods for all my opinion matters.’
‘A woman’s opinion never matters when it comes to marriage. You know that perfectly well.’
‘At one time my father would never have countenanced such a husband for me, even to please Glengarron.’
Her father received several offers for her hand before settling on Alistair Neil. Nor had she been averse to such a glittering match. Her bridegroom appeared to be all that a maiden could desire: handsome, brave, rich, courtly. Being young and naïve it never occurred to her to look deeper, until it was too late.
‘That was then,’ replied Nell. ‘Things are different now.’
‘If the Neils had returned my dowry this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘It was wrong of them to act so.’
‘Hugh wanted to go and get it back. I almost wish he had.’
‘It would have meant bloodshed and death. Is that what you really want?’
Isabelle sighed and shook her head. ‘I loathe the Neils for a pack of cold-hearted, rapacious thieves, but Castlemora doesn’t need a blood feud. Nor would I have my dowry returned with blood on it.’
‘Neither should you. No good could come of it.’ Nell tied off the heavy braid. ‘And if you’re wise you’ll not reject Lord Ban out of hand. He’s all that stands between you and Murdo.’
Isabelle repressed a shudder, yet the unspoken fear persisted that she might be jumping from the cooking pot into the fire. Would history repeat itself and Glengarron prove to be the mirror of Dunkeld; her prospective husband a brute like Alistair Neil? Even if he was not, there was still the matter of producing heirs. What if the fault had not been wholly with her late husband? What if she really was barren? A man could put his wife aside for such a reason. Perhaps the cloister might be her lot after all.
These gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the chamber door. Then a servant entered.
‘My lady, your father bade me tell you that the riders from Glengarron have arrived, and that your presence is required below.’
She took a deep breath and composed herself. ‘I will come directly.’
The servant bowed and withdrew. Isabelle rose from her seat, wondering if Lord Iain would be among the visitors. It had been many years since she had set eyes on him, not since she was a little girl, but she remembered the powerful charismatic figure very well. Now there was a man. Would Lord Ban be such another? Would he find her attractive? What if he did not? She had been so preoccupied with her own misgivings that she hadn’t given any thought to possible doubts on the part of her intended groom. What if he rejected the match? Murdo’s image returned with force. Her stomach knotted.
‘Do I look all right?’
Nell smiled. ‘You look beautiful.’
Isabelle smoothed the front of her gown and then quit the chamber, heading for the hall where her father would be entertaining their visitors. Already she could hear the sound of men’s voices. No doubt they would be refreshing themselves with a mug of ale and delivering messages from their lord. On reaching the doorway she paused a moment to take in the scene. With her father was Hugh and beside him another man, several inches taller than both, who had his back to her.
Isabelle took a deep breath and then, summoning her courage, moved towards them. Her father saw her approach and, after a swift appraising look, he nodded.
‘Ah, there you are, lass. Come and greet our guest.’
As he spoke the stranger turned and Isabelle’s heart lurched. In a flash all the adventure of the afternoon returned with awful clarity as she found herself staring into a pair of very blue eyes—eyes that conveyed both recognition and amused surprise. And then her father was introducing them.
‘Lord Ban, may I present my daughter, Isabelle?’

Chapter Three
For a moment she could neither move nor speak and her heart thumped so hard it seemed they must all hear it. Worse, she could feel a crimson tide rising from her neck to her cheeks as the blue gaze swept over her. Then she saw him smile, a mischievous smile that lit his face and spoke more clearly than words of huge enjoyment. For a moment she wished the ground would open up and swallow her; then indignation came to her rescue. Gathering her wits she dropped a proper curtsy and gave him her hand which he took with every sign of pleasure. He brushed it with his lips. The touch seemed to scorch her flesh.
‘Lady Isabelle.’
The tone was courteous but she could not miss the amusement beneath. Isabelle felt perspiration start on her forehead. Would her father notice aught amiss? Would her brother? Thank heaven Murdo wasn’t present for very little escaped him. Striving for self-control she summoned a smile.
‘Welcome to Castlemora, my lord.’
‘I thank you.’
‘Your men too are most welcome.’ Isabelle looked towards the door where stood a small group of retainers who immediately made their duty to her. Nothing in their expressions revealed that they knew anything about the incident at the pool. Why should they? Even if he had told them they could not know her identity.
If her father noticed aught amiss it was not apparent. ‘Lord Ban has brought some fine horses, Isabelle.’
‘I look forward to seeing them, Father.’
‘Presently.’ He turned back to their guest. ‘My daughter is a keen rider. She has a way with horses.’
Ban smiled. ‘I hope the animals will meet with the lady’s approval.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ she replied. ‘My father has often said that the Laird of Glengarron has a good eye for a mount.’
‘Quite right. Not just for a mount either; breeding stock too.’
Isabelle’s stomach churned. The subject was uncomfortably close to home and she hastened to redirect it. ‘His reputation goes before him.’
‘So it does, my lady.’ Ban hadn’t missed that fleeting expression of unease and was surprised. Experience suggested that she was no prude.
Her father nodded. ‘He has made Glengarron strong.’
‘As Castlemora is strong,’ replied Ban.
‘There’s even greater strength in unity, eh?’
The allusion was impossible to miss and Isabelle’s discomfort increased. Lord Ban didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘As you say, my lord.’
‘We’ll speak further on that in due course.’ Her father beamed. ‘In the meantime I’d like to see the new horses. Would not you, Isabelle?’
‘Yes, very much.’
He held out his arm for her and she took it gratefully, allowing him to lead her outdoors. Lord Ban stood aside to let them pass and as they did so she saw the mischievous smile on his lips once more, could feel his gaze burning into her back as he fell into step with Hugh and followed them out. The knave was enjoying himself. Isabelle’s chin tilted in militant fashion. The past could not be undone, but if he thought to discompose her again he was very much mistaken.
As they reached the courtyard they could see the horses standing by the trough; three lovely mares, strong and clean of limb. Hugh surveyed them approvingly.
‘You have brought fine horses, my lord,’ he observed.
Ban inclined his head. ‘My brother’s choices in this case.’
‘Fine choices they are too.’ Archibald Graham had paused some feet away, surveying them through narrowed eyes that missed nothing. ‘What say you, Isabelle?’
‘They’re beautiful,’ she replied and, relinquishing her father’s arm, moved forwards to the nearest, a glossy bay mare with a white star on her forehead. The horse turned towards her, testing her scent through flared nostrils. Detecting no threat she relaxed again and lowered a velvety muzzle into Isabelle’s hands.
‘Your father spoke true. You have a way with horses, my lady,’ said Ban, who had come to stand beside her. All too keenly aware of him she kept her attention focused on the mare.
‘My daughter could ride almost as soon as she could walk,’ said Graham, glancing her way. ‘There are few to rival her in the chase.’
‘I am sure the lady is unrivalled in many ways,’ replied Ban. The tone was decidedly ambiguous though as far as she could tell only the two of them knew it. She threw him a swift and reproachful glance which apparently left him quite undismayed.
Graham ran a practised hand over the mare’s shoulder, back and flank, letting his gaze move down the legs to the hocks.
‘Clean limbs. Plenty of bone,’ he observed.
Isabelle dutifully followed his gaze. ‘And stamina too, I’d say.’
‘Aye, likely.’ He turned to Ban. ‘They are all broken?’
‘All, my lord.’
Isabelle looked at her father. ‘May I try her tomorrow?’
‘Why not? Try them all.’
For the first time her spirits lifted a little. It would be fun. Indeed, if her assessment was correct, she was in for a treat.
Graham turned to his guest. ‘You’ll stay a while, my lord, and see the beasts settled in. Besides, I am sure Isabelle would be pleased if you would consent to ride out with her. I’m afraid my own health rarely permits it these days.’
Ban caught the expression in the girl’s hazel eyes before they were swiftly veiled, and knew that pleasure was not what he had seen registered there. With a nonchalant smile he turned to his host.
‘Delighted, my lord.’
Isabelle bit her lip. The knave was clearly amusing himself at her expense. She could guess what he thought of her. Was he already envisaging another tryst in some remote spot? The thought turned her hot all over but he should not have the satisfaction of seeing her discomfiture.
‘I should be glad to accompany you both,’ put in Hugh. ‘If you have no objections.’
With a feeling akin to gratitude Isabelle threw him a warm smile. ‘None at all. Come by all means.’
‘I shall, with pleasure.’
‘In the meantime I look forward to hearing news of my friends at Glengarron,’ said Graham. ‘You shall tell me as we dine, my lord.’
Ban bowed in acquiescence.
‘Excellent.’ Graham paused to look at his daughter. ‘It will be good to have company. We tend to live a quiet life here and with little excitement, eh, Isabelle?’
‘I have no complaint to make, my lord.’ The tone was even enough though a tinge of warm colour appeared in her face.
‘Excitement can be a double-edged sword, can it not?’ said Ban. ‘Fun, but dangerous at times.’
Her colour deepened but she turned and met his eye, now gleaming with sardonic humour. ‘It may be as you say, my lord. I have always found it to be transient and thus quite easily forgotten.’
A widening grin acknowledged the hit. ‘Now I have always been of the opposite opinion, my lady. Some forms of excitement leave an indelible impression on the mind.’
The hazel eyes widened in feigned surprise but he did not miss the flash of anger there. ‘With such an appetite for excitement you must have had many such experiences.’
Ban fought the temptation to laugh. If they’d been alone, he’d have taught her the folly of impertinence. For a moment or two he indulged that pleasurable notion. Unfortunately, they weren’t alone—yet.
‘They add a certain spice to life,’ he replied, ‘and thus my appetite remains undiminished.’
‘I can well believe it, my lord.’
His eyes gleamed. He had thought he’d known what to expect from his visit to Castlemora, but he’d been wrong on every count. It was far from being predictable or dull. Instead he found himself intrigued. Feistiness in a woman did not displease him: after all, his sister possessed the quality in abundance. It didn’t displease Iain either apparently. Furthermore, his brother-in-law handled it supremely well: while he had never attempted to break her spirit he knew exactly how to bend Ashlynn to his will and have her enjoy the mastery too. Knowing his sister’s fiery temper Ban could only marvel at how that had been achieved. His gaze rested speculatively on Isabelle. Could he bend her thus to his will? The thought was unexpectedly titillating.
The meal that evening provided Isabelle with new insights where their guest was concerned. Much to her relief he made no further reference to what had passed between them earlier and, because of her father’s desire for news, the conversation was mostly about Glengarron. Required to say little she listened with close attention. Like everyone else at Castlemora she had long known of Lord Iain’s marriage to the Lady Ashlynn, but the circumstances were intriguing. Rumour had it that he’d carried her off and married her by force which, knowing the man’s reputation, was not at all beyond the bounds of possibility. However, that didn’t tally with the stories of a mutually happy union. Moreover, Ban would surely not be on such friendly terms with a man who mistreated a beloved sister. Hearing him speak of his two young nephews she could detect real pride and affection in his expression. It was a side to him that she would not have suspected. Her curiosity increased.
‘Have you no family besides your sister, my lord?’ she asked.
There followed a fractional hesitation and his face was shadowed as though by some unwelcome memory, but when he spoke his tone was courteous. ‘No, my lady. She and I are the last surviving members. The rest were slain by King William’s mercenaries.’
‘I am truly sorry to hear it.’ The hazel eyes met and held his steady gaze. ‘And your home?’
‘Burned, my lady.’
‘A bad business,’ said Graham, shaking his head. ‘I think King William has much to answer for.’
‘But who will make him answer it?’ asked Isabelle. ‘Surely his grip on England is too strong to be challenged.’
‘You are in the right of it, my lady,’ replied Ban. ‘And Northumbria has paid for its defiance.’
For a moment there was silence and then the conversation turned to other topics, but Isabelle pondered what she had learned. Their guest had not gone into details but her imagination was good and she had heard many tales about the brutality of the king’s soldiers in Northumbria. They had cut a sixty-mile swathe through the land and reduced a once-great kingdom to ashes. No mercy had been shown to the population: men, women and children alike slaughtered in the wake of William’s wrath. It had been some years ago, when she was little more than a child, but hearing it mentioned now brought back the shadow of that fear. Those who could flee did, heading for the border, seeking safety with kin if they had any or selling themselves into slavery if they did not. Even that was preferable to facing William’s anger. How had Ban and his sister escaped? Had they been pursued or had they been lucky? How had they met Lord Iain? Suddenly she wanted to know. However, from his obvious reticence she guessed the subject was a painful one, and in any case it would have been discourteous to probe.
Now that he was engaged once more in conversation with her father she had leisure to observe. Even reclined at his ease there was something almost feline about the lithe power of the man. She knew his strength all too well. The recollection of that humiliating scene was sharp. She had been completely at his mercy and yet he had not taken advantage of it, or not as much as he might have anyway. It was plain though that he had believed her to be a whore, or as good as. His whole behaviour pronounced it. For that she was to blame and the knowledge aroused a feeling much akin to regret. That in turn led to other, more troubling thoughts: after what had passed between them he might not wish to offer for her hand. No man wanted a wife of suspect virtue. Double standards operated with regard to what constituted acceptable behaviour for men and women, and she was not naïve enough to think herself exempt. If only she had not been so reckless.
She darted a swift look at their guest. What must he now be thinking? The very fact that he had come here at all suggested a willingness to marry if what he found pleased him. Isabelle felt suddenly sick realising then that, had things been different, she would not have looked with aversion on Lord Ban. As it was she had likely destroyed her chances this day with one ill-judged act. She had been so intent on outwitting Murdo that she had effectively played straight into his hands.
Having been so intent on their guest she had temporarily forgotten about the master-at-arms. He had taken no part in the conversation this evening, apparently content just to listen. She glanced across the table. For a moment Murdo’s gaze met hers but his expression was unreadable. All the same it made her uneasy and she looked away again. If nothing else, this projected alliance with Glengarron would have removed her from his sphere. Her folly today was like to cost her dear.
After a decent interval she rose from the table and excused herself from the company, bidding them a courteous goodnight. Ban, who had risen with her, replied in kind. Then he smiled.
‘I hope our arrangement to ride tomorrow still stands, my lady.’
His gaze met and held hers. In it she read both speculation and challenge. He was playing with her. Isabelle bit back the refusal that sprang so readily to her lips. It would be impossible to get out of this without causing her father’s displeasure, for he would take it much amiss that she snubbed one who was both guest and prospective suitor.
‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘Then I suggest we leave early before the day grows hot,’ said Hugh.
Ban smiled. ‘A good suggestion.’
He bowed over her hand, brushing it with his lips, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary. The warmth of his touch sent a tingle along her skin. Feigning calm she turned away and then took her leave of them all.
On returning to the bower Isabelle found herself in no mood for sleep and, dismissing Nell, went to the window. The evening was still and scented with warm earth and cut grass. Some light yet lingered in the western sky, the horizon soft with lemon haze beneath the deepening blue where the first stars shone clear. Bats flitted among the orchard trees and somewhere a dog barked. Then the silence dropped again. The sweet air that was usually so soothing now only added to her feeling of desolation.
She could well visualise the scene in the hall. On the surface all would be smiles and goodwill. Lord Ban would not offend her father intentionally; the friendship existing between Castlemora and Glengarron was too valuable to risk. He would handle the matter more tactfully: the horses would provide the means for all to save face. He had come to deliver them and, having fulfilled the obligation, he would depart without ever making an offer for her hand. Tears pricked her eyelids and for perhaps the tenth time that evening she silently cursed her own stupidity.

Chapter Four
If she had entertained any hopes that his lordship might oversleep next morning, Isabelle was disappointed for when she neared the stables he was already there, the horses saddled and ready. Hugh was with him and, she noted with disfavour, so was Murdo. Seeing her approach they turned towards her, causing Ban to look round. He greeted her with a smile. Somehow she managed to reply with the usual courtesies. Then her gaze went to the horses.
‘You are before me, my lord. I hope I have not kept you waiting.’
‘Not at all. You are prompt.’
To avoid the searching gaze she moved towards the bay mare, stroking the velvety muzzle and running a practised eye over bridle and saddle, satisfying herself that it was in good order.
‘Allow me.’
Lord Ban came to the mare’s near side and held the bridle while she mounted. Once she was safely ensconced a strong hand slid her foot into the stirrup, lingering briefly on her ankle. Only too conscious of his touch, she avoided his eye and occupied herself with the arrangement of her skirt.
He left her then and went to mount his own horse, a powerful and mettlesome chestnut which he reined in alongside her a few moments later. Murdo and Hugh fell in behind leaving Lord Ban’s men to follow at a respectful distance.
‘Quite an escort,’ she remarked. ‘Are you expecting trouble, my lord?’
‘A precaution only. It is unwise to ride alone in these troubled times.’
Isabelle reddened and threw him a sideways glance but his face gave nothing away. Even so the rebuke had been plain. He wasn’t going to let her forget about what had happened. The knowledge that she deserved it didn’t help. However, she would not rise to the bait and touching the horse with her heels cantered on ahead.
The mare had a smooth even gait and a soft mouth that responded to the lightest touch of the rein. A long open stretch of turf beckoned and she gave her mount its head. Immediately the spirited creature leapt forwards, flying hooves skimming the ground, mane and tail streaming. Revelling in the speed neither horse nor rider paid heed to the thudding hoofbeats behind. The chestnut drew level and catching a glimpse of its rider’s anxious expression, Isabelle raised an eyebrow. So he thought she was out of control, did he? His lordship made a good many assumptions about her. It was time to dent his self-assurance a little. Leaning forwards she urged the mare on.
Ban realised then that his earlier alarm had been unfounded. Isabelle hadn’t lost control at all. Furthermore he realised he was being tested. The long greensward led into a copse and the narrow track meant he had to rein back, following in the mare’s wake. Ducking low branches and jinking round bends in the path, they sped on. The mare took a fallen log in her stride and fifty yards later leapt a dry streambed. The chestnut followed suit, never altering its stride. Then, as they neared the edge of the copse Ban saw it, a great tree uprooted by an ancient storm, the centre section of its trunk lying across the path. It was high and solid. Isabelle didn’t hesitate. Heart in mouth, he watched the mare gather herself and leap, soaring over the obstacle into the open land beyond.
Setting his jaw, Ban collected the chestnut a little. The big horse stood back and took off, clearing the jump with ease and landing safe beyond it. Then for the first time Ban let the animal have its head. The chestnut responded, lengthening its stride. Almost two hands bigger than the mare and far more powerful, it steadily narrowed the gap until eventually they drew level again.
Isabelle looked round, her face registering surprise for a moment. Then it was gone. She pulled up a little further on, he following suit. The blowing horses snorted, their great muscles trembling with effort and excitement. Ban, catching his own breath, was torn between reluctant amusement and annoyance for the anxiety she had caused him. That innocent expression didn’t deceive him for a moment. The vixen was thoroughly enjoying herself. Moreover, the pace had heightened the bloom on her cheeks and brought a lovely sparkle to the hazel eyes. Strands of hair, loosened from the sober braid, played around her face in an artless halo that enhanced the suggestion of innocence. It was also unwittingly alluring and conjured more erotic thoughts. Ever since the episode at the burn they’d continued to tease his imagination. With an effort he suppressed them and nodded towards the mare.
‘How do you like her?’
‘Very much.’ Isabelle patted the glossy neck. ‘It’s like riding the wind.’
‘In truth I thought you were. Do you always set such a pace?’
Her face registered apparent concern. ‘Was it too much for you, my lord?’
For a second or two he was speechless with incredulity. Then he fought a desire to laugh. If they’d been alone, he’d have exacted a penalty for barefaced cheek. It was a pleasing notion, but unfortunately they weren’t alone. Instead he asked, ‘Where did you learn to ride like that?’
‘From my father, and a groom called Hamish.’
‘They taught you well.’
‘So I think.’ She turned her attention to the chestnut. ‘That is a fine animal. What is he called?’
‘Firecrest.’
‘It suits him. Did you break him?’
‘I did, but he was a rare handful.’
‘I can believe it.’
Before he could make any other observations their companions hove into sight, reining in nearby.
‘How do you like the mare, Sister?’
‘I like her well,’ replied Isabelle, ‘as I was just telling Lord Ban.’
‘She can certainly move, eh, Murdo?’ said Hugh.
‘Indeed she can,’ replied the other. ‘All the same, you took a dangerous risk, my lady.’
His tone was perfectly level but she heard his unspoken disapproval. It irked her. He had no right to criticise; he had no rights over her at all, nor ever would have.
‘I did not ask you to follow, Murdo. You were always free to go around the obstacle if you felt it too dangerous a challenge.’
Her brother drew in an audible breath and chuckled appreciatively. ‘Oho! A hit! Most definitely a hit.’
The master-at-arms inclined his head. ‘My lady’s wit is sharp.’
For a moment the dark gaze glinted as it met hers, his expression quite unmistakable. Isabelle lifted her chin in silent defiance even though, inwardly, she regretted letting her temper get the better of her. She knew she had annoyed him and that it behoved her to be more careful; Murdo was not possessed of a forgiving nature and it didn’t pay to cross him.
Ban had observed that brief exchange and felt his curiosity stir. The tension between the two was evident. He wondered what lay behind it. Apart from a brief introduction he’d had little to do with the man thus far, but Ban was fully aware of his presence none the less. From the seating arrangements at the table the previous evening it was apparent that Murdo enjoyed a privileged position in the household, as though he were a member of the family rather than a servant. However, such things were not uncommon. A rich household might well take in poorer relations and find a place for them. In this instance an influential place, he thought, but then a capable man who worked hard might do much to better himself.
He had no doubt whatever that the master-at-arms was capable; he’d met too many fighting men not to recognise the trait. In combat Murdo would be ruthless and deadly. He was also a natural leader. To judge from the way his men acted around him he evidently commanded their respect, no mean feat when the men themselves were hardened mercenaries. Castlemora’s reputation had been well earned. Perhaps too Murdo saw it as part of his role to be protective of Lady Isabelle even if she did resent it as interference. That would explain much. The more Ban thought about it, the likelier it seemed.
Before he could dwell further on the matter the party set off again, albeit at a more sober pace, and the conversation turned to other things. Isabelle didn’t speak to the master-at-arms again or even look in his direction, and the remainder of the ride passed without incident.
When, about an hour later, they returned to Castlemora, Archibald Graham came out to meet them. Then he looked quizzically at Isabelle.
‘Well, how did the mare go?’
‘Very well, Father. She has speed and stamina as we thought.’
‘Good. Perhaps you will find the time to ride the others.’
She returned a non-committal smile and dismounted. Lord Ban followed suit and came to join them. Standing so close to him now she was forcefully reminded just how much taller he was and how strong. Thence it was but a short step to recalling their first meeting. The memory burned. Glancing up she saw him smile as though he somehow divined her thought. Of course, that was impossible. Even so, her face, pink before from the fresh air, became a much deeper shade.
Apparently unaware of her discomfiture her father turned to Ban. ‘I trust you enjoyed your ride, my lord.’
‘Very much, sir.’ He looked at Isabelle. ‘Who would not in such company?’
Her father beamed. Isabelle thought he’d look a lot less gratified if he knew the truth. They made their way indoors for the sun was hot and the cooler air of the hall was a welcome contrast. Graham bade the servants fetch refreshment and then poured the ale with his own hands before offering his guest a cup.
‘It is most pleasant to have company again.’
‘You are kind,’ said Ban. ‘In truth Castlemora is a most delightful spot.’
‘Thank you.’ Graham clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I am glad you think so. I trust you will not find our hospitality lacking.’
‘I am sure I shall not. One day I hope to have the honour of returning it.’
‘If my health were better I’d like nothing more.’ Graham threw him a wry smile. ‘However, this hot weather is most tiring I find. It only seems to aggravate my condition.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’
‘Never mind, I have strength enough to show you round Castlemora, if you would like it.’
Ban regarded him in concern. ‘I beg you will not over-exert yourself, my lord.’
‘No such thing,’ replied the other. ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘Then I thank you.’
Isabelle’s heart sank as she watched them head for the door, feeling certain this wasn’t just about showing their guest around. Her father almost certainly intended to talk business and it had nothing to do with horses.
Strolling to the end of the orchard the two men stopped to survey the view beyond.
‘A fine prospect,’ observed Ban. ‘Truly Castlemora is most happily situated.’
‘Aye, it is.’ Graham smiled. ‘And I’ll leave it to my son stronger and richer than ever it was when I became laird.’ He paused. ‘But it is not of my son I would speak, as I think you know.’
Ban remained silent, waiting. Now they would come to it. He was quite ready, knowing what needed to be said. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation but it must be unambiguous. There could be no room for misunderstanding.
‘As I told you,’ Graham continued, ‘my health is not of the best. It is my ardent wish to see my daughter married again before I die.’
‘A laudable aim, though I hope your lordship will live many years yet.’
‘That is not likely I fear. The pains in my chest come more often now. It is a penalty of age.’ He paused. ‘As I intimated, your coming here is not just about bloodstock, though indeed the horses are very fine.’
‘It is of Lady Isabelle you wish to speak.’
‘My daughter’s first marriage was ended untimely, a circumstance none could have foreseen.’
‘A hunting accident, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye. A stray arrow from the thicket.’ Graham shook his head. ‘The culprit was never found. Most likely it was a poacher who fired without looking carefully enough, and then panicked and fled when he realised what he had done.’
‘That is quite possible. The fellow must have known he’d hang otherwise.’
‘At any rate it was a bad business and it has left Isabelle vulnerable.’
‘Did she not wish to remain among her husband’s kin?’
‘To be honest, there was little love lost between Isabelle and her late husband’s mother.’
‘I see.’
‘When the match was arranged it seemed good but subsequently …’ Graham paused, eyeing his companion warily, as though deciding how far to commit himself. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Subsequently I have had cause to repent the alliance. The Neils refused to return the balance of my daughter’s dowry.’
Ban stared at him. ‘Refused?’
‘Aye, God rot them.’
The news gave Ban pause, though not for the reasons his companion might have thought. He didn’t care about the gold. The point was that if Isabelle had only a small dowry it greatly reduced her chances of making an illustrious second match. At the same time her father wanted her off his hands. The strengthened tie with Glengarron began to look like a convenient pretext; the real reason was more concerned with the bridegroom’s own lack of expectations. Such a man could not look too high for a wife. The more he thought about it the more certain Ban became. The realisation brought with it a raft of mixed emotions. It was a bitter reminder of what had been lost, but, at the same time, this match offered a glimmer of hope—for his house at least.
‘She will still have a dowry of course, though it will not be as great as I’d have liked,’ Graham went on. ‘In spite of my representations the Neils have refused to return any part of the original portion. Until they can be persuaded otherwise that is how the matter stands.’
‘On what grounds did they refuse?’
‘On the grounds that there was no issue from the marriage.’
The question Ban had carried in the back of his mind now loomed large. However, it was a sensitive matter and he chose his words carefully. ‘No issue because the child died, perhaps?’
‘There was no child. My son-in-law was often from home in the king’s service. No doubt he thought he had time aplenty to sire heirs.’
That threw up more queries in his companion’s mind. Why would a newly married man leave his bride’s bed, particularly when the bride looked like Isabelle? Even the king would not demand such a sacrifice, unless for dire political emergency. As far as Ban was aware there hadn’t been any of those in last year or so. There was more to this matter for certain. While he didn’t think that Graham was trying to mislead him—the man had been frank thus far—he knew they hadn’t got to the truth yet either. Perhaps that resided with Isabelle herself.
‘It surprises me that Neil should have shirked so serious a responsibility,’ he said.
‘He was a fool.’ Graham hesitated. ‘Isabelle will breed, my lord.’
‘Will she?’ Ban didn’t want to antagonise his host but at the same time he had to make his own position clear. ‘You know my family history so I need not repeat it now,’ he continued. ‘The essential point is this: as the last surviving male member of my line it is imperative that I get heirs to continue it.’
‘Of course it is. I understand that.’
‘Then you will also understand that I need to be sure.’
Graham frowned. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’
‘A secret betrothal. Later, if matters turn out as planned, the arrangement would be formalised publicly.’
‘It is not without precedent but it would not be easy to keep the matter quiet.’
‘You may rely on my discretion.’ Ban paused.
‘It’s a risk.’
‘A calculated one, since you have already said you are certain of a favourable outcome.’
‘If I agree to this I expect the matter to be expedited with all possible speed.’
‘As soon as you like.’
For a moment Graham was silent, formulating his thoughts. Ban made no attempt to push him. The proposal was not without precedent and the circumstances were unusual. At the same time he knew that he wanted Isabelle Graham; had wanted her since the day he met her. However, physical desire was one thing; he couldn’t afford to lose sight of the bigger picture. He had a duty to his family, to the souls of his murdered kin. He had to be sure.
At length Graham nodded. ‘A secret betrothal it is then, for the time being.’
‘The only remaining question is whether the lady will agree to the arrangement.’
‘Isabelle will be ruled by me.’
Ban wasn’t surprised. It was a father’s responsibility to find a suitable husband for a daughter, and her duty to accede to his choice. If Graham spoke with such confidence it was because he knew Isabelle respected his judgement. Privately Ban wondered what her true feelings would be. Would she accept him willingly or would she secretly consider such a match beneath her? Beatrice had considered it beneath her. Of course, he’d been much younger then, and inexperienced, so smitten with a lovely face that he’d failed to see the character behind. That had not become apparent until he declared himself and asked for her hand …
For a moment she stared at him. Then she laughed. ‘Marry you?’
At first he mistook the nature of the laughter, taking it for surprise. ‘Aye, why not?’
‘My father would never permit me to marry a Sassenach lord.’
‘I will speak to him, talk him round.’
‘It’s not just that,’ she replied.
‘Then what? I have wealth enough.’
‘But where are your lands, my lord?’
His smile faded. ‘They were stolen from me.’
‘And you have no prospect of regaining them.’
‘I will get more.’
‘How? You do not wield the kind of influence that would gain you an estate.’
His jaw tightened. ‘I’ll find a way.’
‘That might take years, if you ever succeed. I cannot waste my life waiting on the event.’
‘Would it be a waste then, Beatrice?’ He paused. ‘We would be together.’
‘To live in the hedgerows?’
‘Hardly that. I can support you in comfort.’
‘But you cannot give me position.’
‘Does that matter so much?’
‘Of course it matters. My father is rich and powerful, the laird of fair estates. Should not my husband be the same?’
‘Icannot blame you for wanting it,’ he replied.
‘Well then.’
‘I thought … I hoped that your feelings for me were strong enough to offset that.’
Beatrice smiled coldly. ‘You rate yourself too high, my lord, if you presume to think so. I am not so negligent of the duty I owe to my family and my name as to throw myself away on a mere nobody.’
Stung now, he was goaded into retort. ‘The Thanes of Heslingfield are not nobodies. They come from a proud and ancient line.’
‘But where are they now? They have no power, no influence. They are nothing.’
Brian pushed the memory aside. He’d been a fool and paid the price for it. The naïve and idealistic lover was long gone and in his place was a grown man who knew the world he lived in. This offer was an opportunity, one he’d little thought to have. It would provide a foundation on which much might be built—in time.
‘We have an agreement then,’ he said.
Graham smiled and held out his hand. ‘You’ll not regret it.’
Ban clasped the offered hand and hoped the words were true.

Chapter Five
Isabelle stared at her father in stunned disbelief, uncertain that she’d heard him correctly. ‘A secret betrothal?’
‘That’s right.’
‘A betrothal which will give him the rights of a husband?’
‘Correct.’
Disbelief was slowly displaced by outrage. Did the Sassenach thane really imagine she would agree to this? The very fact that he had suggested it showed the kind of regard in which he held her, in which he had always held her.
‘You can’t mean it.’
‘I was never more serious in my life.’
His expression supported the words, a circumstance that created the first stirrings of alarm.
‘Marriage is one thing; this is quite another.’
‘It is unusual, I’ll admit, but it is not unknown.’
‘This is little better than prostitution.’
‘It is no such thing. Nor would I have agreed to it if I thought so.’ Her father paused. ‘In essence betrothal is little different from marriage. The only variation here is that it will not be made public until you are with child.’
The visualisation of what that entailed fanned her rage to red heat. How Lord Ban must have delighted in creating this little scheme. That her father should actually sanction the plan must have afforded the very greatest amusement. How much his lordship must be enjoying the thought of her reaction.
‘I am not a brood mare to be covered by a Glengarron stallion!’
‘It is a wife’s duty to bear children and you have not done so.’
‘That wasn’t my fault alone.’
‘I have given you the benefit of the doubt thus far, but now it’s up to you to prove yourself worthy of my faith.’
‘I’d gladly prove it, but not in this covert, underhanded manner.’
‘You are a widow with no children and no dowry to speak of. God’s blood, do I have to spell it out?’ He glared at her. ‘You have one chance now and this is it, unless you’d prefer the cloister.’
Seeing that she remained silent he nodded. ‘I didn’t think so.’
She closed her eyes, trying not to give way to rising panic. Her father had spoken no more than the truth about her circumstances and her lack of religious vocation. She realised too that there was no way out of this: much as she wanted to reject this proposition a refusal to comply would leave the way open for Murdo. All he’d have to do would be to ask for her hand and it would be granted. She was under no illusions about what would happen then.
She licked dry lips. ‘When is this betrothal to take place?’
‘I have decided upon Thursday next.’
Her heart leapt towards her throat. Thursday was only two days away. ‘That’s too soon.’
‘Soon or no, it’s your betrothal day.’
‘This haste is indecent.’
Her father’s gaze grew steely. ‘Your opinion is irrelevant. You’ll do as you’re told. The betrothal will take place in my private chamber. I shall invite Lord Ban there, ostensibly to discuss business. It will be a simple matter for you to join us unnoticed. Everyone else will be about their work and it will be quiet enough for our purposes. It won’t take long.’
He was right: it wouldn’t take long to join her hand with Lord Ban’s and to speak the vows that would make her his. How easily a woman was disposed of. She’d had no say last time either, although then there had been a public wedding followed by lavish feasting and then the bedding ceremony, held amid ribald jests and laughter. How hollow that laughter had proved to be.
She shivered inwardly, recalling all the nights spent in Alistair Neil’s bed; nights she had come to dread. Your late husband couldn’t get a cock stand. Murdo’s mocking voice echoed in her head. The words were not entirely accurate though. Alistair had, occasionally, achieved an erection but it carried a price. She swallowed hard, seeing it all in her mind’s eye, her husband standing by the bed, slowly removing his belt, wrapping the buckle end around his fist …
‘Take off your shift.’
‘Please, my lord …’
‘I said take it off.’
Trembling she complied. When she was naked he nodded.
‘Lie down as I have instructed you.’
Reluctantly she obeyed, knowing what was coming and knowing it would be far worse if she tried to resist. She gasped as the belt descended across her buttocks leaving a fiery welt, her hands clawing the coverlet. At first pride kept her silent but she had quickly learned the folly of that. Since it was her cries that excited him he would continue to beat her until she did scream. When she cried out he flung down the belt and joined her, pinning her down, his knee forcing her legs apart. Then he took her from behind. It hurt, but her cries pleased him and, mercifully, that part of the procedure never lasted long, a minute or two at most before the small, probing member was withdrawn. Then he rolled off her, panting and sated. She shut her eyes, praying silently that this time she would conceive and that somehow his thin and watery seed might take root in her womb …
Isabelle had heard it said that sometimes women found pleasure in the act of intercourse but she couldn’t imagine how, even if the man were not violent. Alistair had dreamed up many ways of achieving his purpose, almost all of them painful, but he took good care that the marks he left on her didn’t show. Even if he had not, no one in that household would have questioned his behaviour. Nor would the law: it was a husband’s right to chastise his wife if he chose. It was his right to do anything he liked, and her duty to submit.
‘Are you listening to me?’
Her father’s voice pulled her up abruptly. ‘Yes, my lord, I’m listening.’
‘It won’t take long. When it’s done you’ll consummate the betrothal.’
Isabelle paled. ‘I will not; that is not until we’ve got to know each other a little better.’
‘Damn it, you’re no blushing virgin now and this is no time for airs and graces. The union will be consummated immediately and you will give yourself to Lord Ban whenever it pleases him thereafter. Is that clear?’
She swallowed her rage. ‘Very clear.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And just how is this arrangement to remain secret?’ she demanded. ‘I would not be the subject of servants’ gossip.’
‘There are ways and you will find them. I imagine Lord Ban will not lack invention there.’
‘I am quite sure he won’t.’
The sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on her father. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d do well to curb your acid tongue, my lass. No man wants a harridan for a mate.’
She lowered her gaze, quelling the urge to argue. Her father’s temper was close to the edge already. If she pushed him any further he might bring the betrothal nearer still or add some further humiliating conditions to the arrangement.
‘I beg your pardon. It’s just that this has happened so quickly; it wasn’t what I expected and it has left me unprepared.’
He looked a little mollified. ‘Ah, well, I suppose it has, but you must get used to the idea.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘The sooner you are with child the sooner you can live openly as husband and wife and take your rightful place in society. Remember that.’
She nodded mutely, not knowing which was worse: having to submit to the will of a stranger or, possibly, failing to conceive. All the old doubts revived. If it became evident that she was barren then she would be quietly put aside. The arrangements attending this betrothal were precisely to allow for that. She would be made to enter a nunnery; to remain there for the rest of her life, conveniently forgotten. Lord Ban would return to Glengarron and seek another wife. Either way he would emerge the winner having risked nothing. Her nails dug into her palms as impotent anger mingled with equally impotent resentment. In a man’s world the only option for a woman was obedience.
Ban received the news of his imminent betrothal with outward sang-froid. In reality he was a little disconcerted to discover that his words had been taken so literally. He’d expected to have more time. However, Graham was obviously keen to see his daughter plighted and, given the circumstances, perhaps there was little point in delay. He listened attentively while the other man explained the details. Ban nodded. It was a good plan; one that could be implemented with the discretion they all desired.
‘Afterwards, you may have the use of the chamber for an hour,’ his host went on. ‘I’ll ensure you’re no disturbed.’
Ban blinked. Whatever else he hadn’t been expecting that. He’d vaguely imagined that some quiet arrangement would be made that night whereby he and Isabelle might seal their betrothal. This was something else again. If he jibbed at the thought how much more would she dislike it? Yet if he demurred now how was that going to look? After all, he’d been the one to propose this.
‘I thank you for the courtesy,’ he replied.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Graham eyed him steadily. ‘After this you’ll be left to your own devices.’

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