Page 53 of Much Ado About a Scot

“How can you? Look what I have done to you.” Xander’s eyes glittered brightly in the torchlight.

“I will heal. But I must ask a favor of you.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

“Anything. Name it and it shall be done.”

She started to shake. “If my trial does not go well. If I am sentenced to hang—”

“Nay,” he said fiercely. “I will never allow that to happen. I will steal you away from this gaol before I let them take you from me.”

The passionate tone of his voice almost convinced her that he could do just that—take her away and keep her from any more harm, but if he helped her escape, she would always be running, looking over her shoulder, an outcast. That was no life for her, for her son, or even Xander if he were honest with himself.

And she wouldn’t allow herself to believe in false hope. Isobel swallowed back tears. Many had been on trial for witchcraft before her, and few if any were spared. “We can hope for the best, but must also prepare for the worst,” she said, her throat tight as she struggled to find the words for what she must ask. “If I am to die, promise to take care of Jamie. Raise him as your own son. Help him become a man of honor, free of bitterness and the need for revenge. As long as I know Jamie is safe, I can leave this world in peace.”

“I will be a father to Jamie,” he said hoarsely as he carefully slipped his arms around her and held her. His fingers tangled in her hair as he rocked her gently back and forth, his own agony evident in each ragged breath he drew and expelled.

Isobel brought her arms slowly up around his shoulders to give comfort as well as take it. If only they’d had more time together . . .

When her shaking had settled and his breathing grew even, he pulled back to stare into her face. “I freely accept the responsibility you’ve given me, but I am not ready to say goodbye to you. Not for another fifty years or more.” His voice was thick and low, and the sound shivered across the nape of her neck. Without looking away, he took her hand in his and she felt something hard and solid slipped onto her finger. “I should have given this to you earlier. It belonged to my mother. It was the only thing of hers I was given when she died.”

It was a ring. A silver braided band with a blue star sapphire at the center. She startled. Not one of her husbands had given her a ring when they’d married. “It . . . should stay with you,” she whispered as she failed to hold back her tears. One after another they rolled down her cheeks.

“It should stay where it is. I want you to feel me with you even when I am not by your side.”

She swallowed roughly. “Are you leaving?”

He carefully set her back on the straw and shifted away. “I fear I must, for only a short while. I need more supplies. I need water and more cloths to clean your wounds and a salve to keep them from turning putrid, not to mention a blanket to keep you warm, and a new chemise for you to wear.” He placed a kiss upon her lips, kissing her with all the tenderness and passion of their earlier kisses, leaving her no doubt about his feelings for her. When he pulled back, he said, “I will ask my brothers-in-arms to guard the cell door so that no one but me can enter.”

She nodded, trying to force the bleakness from her expression. “I will miss you.”

A bittersweet smile came to his lips as he stood and turned toward the cell door. He shouted for the guard then turned back to her. “I will hurry.”

There was a loud scraping sound as the iron bolt slid back and the door creaked open. For a brief moment her cell filled with light before the door closed and the writhing shadows cast by the torchlight returned. A wave of grief swamped her in his absence and an ache grew in her chest that had nothing to do with the pricking she’d received. She’d only known Xander for a week. In that time, he had crept inside her heart. Never had she thought she could fall in love so quickly, but that was what she had done.

Tears fell from her lashes onto her cheeks. She loved him even if that love was only a hopeless dream—a dream that would be stolen from them the moment the noose tightened around her neck.

Chapter Twenty

Isobel nestled closer into the arms of the man who had held her each night. Xander had returned to her, keeping the darkness at bay, protecting her as her body slowly healed from the torture she had endured. After her skin could tolerate the weight and constriction of her outer garments, he had helped her dress once again as a lady should.

During the daylight hours, Xander left her to help build a defense against the charges of witchcraft. During his absence, the two men she’d come to know as Rhys and Malcolm stood outside her door, only allowing the guard who served her food to enter. But even he, each time he delivered a tray, poked her, trying to force her to change into her familiar.

Xander had said it had only been three days that she had been there, yet it seemed an eternity that she’d been sinking into darkness. Which was why it startled her when the bolt on the door was cast back and creaked open. It was not Xander who had returned to her, but a guard with manacles clutched in his hands.

“They’ve called fer ye,” he said coming closer.

Rhys and Malcolm stood behind him. “The trial is set to begin,” Rhys said before turning to the guard. “No manacles. My brother and I will see she arrives at Berwick’s Old Parish church.”

The guard hesitated for a moment then finally shrugged. “’Tis yer risk tae take. If she spells ye, ye have only yerselves tae blame.”

“We will risk it,” Malcolm said dryly before gently placing his hand at her shoulder. “Come, Isobel. Let us get this madness over with once and for all.”

“Where is Xander?”

“He and Alan MacGilvaine, the solicitor you met with before, are waiting for you in the tribunal chamber.” Malcolm gave her a reassuring smile before he and Rhys led her from the cell. In the hallway, Isobel squeezed her eyes shut against the torchlight. She’d become so used to darkness over the past few days that the light stung her eyes.

Sensing her distress, her escorts waited, giving her eyes time to adjust and to stop their watering before they continued outside. The sun was unbearably bright as she stumbled forward. Rhys and Malcolm took her by the arms, keeping her steady. Never had the air been more sweet-smelling, heavy with the scent of heather, as they led her to two horses that waited. Malcolm lifted her up and set her on a brown mare before joining her. The men proceeded toward the Old Parish church with four guards, with swords drawn, walking beside them.

The noise in the village was much louder than usual as the residents swarmed into the streets to watch them process. And those who Isobel had known her entire life would not meet her gaze, and talked openly, no longer whispering, about her being a witch.