Page 4 of Devil Black

Making one last bid, she lowered her voice to something approaching meekness. “Father, I beg you—Catherine and I have been so close since Mother died. Inseparable! Do not send her away from me.”

“It is not like you to be sentimental, Isobel. It will do Catherine good to be away on her own, taking up the life of a woman grown. Were you not always trying to defy me, you would see that. I am, as always, doing my best for my children. This is a good match for her, within the safety of a good family.”

“The MacNabs? I hear they are engaged in clan feuds half the time, virtually at war with their neighbors.”

Gerald shrugged. “What Scot refrains from raiding and feuding? My old friend Randal assures me Catherine will be the gem of their household. Now go and speak to your sister, Isobel. It will make things easier for her in the long run if she makes up her mind to this match.”

“Yes, Father,” Isobel murmured as she turned away and left the room. But beneath her breath she muttered, “Make her mind up to it? Never!”

Chapter Three

“Never!” Catherine Maitland wailed like a she-raven crowing on the battlefield. “I will never wed Bertram MacNab, Isobel! Will not! Cannot!”

No surprise there, Isobel thought ruefully, sprawled upon her sister’s bed while Catherine paced the room. Neither Isobel nor her sister had made a habit of meek obedience, and at the moment Catherine looked like a wild woman—chestnut hair flying, blue eyes wide and desperate.

She looks like me, Isobel reflected with grudging admiration.

“Father’s mind is set,” she warned. “I offered to go in your place, but he would not hear of it.”

That made Catherine quit pacing and stare at her sister. “You would sacrifice yourself so, for me?”

Isobel, suddenly unable to face the look in her sister’s eyes, stared at the embroidered counterpane that covered the bed. “In an instant.”

“Oh, Issie!” Isobel suddenly found herself enveloped in a hard hug. From earliest youth she remembered such embraces, Catherine’s strong arms clutching at her in gratitude, fear, or pure love.

Tears rushed to her eyes, and in order to combat them she said wryly, “It is no good. MacNab insists on a virgin.”

Catherine released her and sat back on the bed. The strangest look Isobel had ever seen came to her face.

“Ah, well,” she said ruefully, “then the fine Bertram MacNab will not want me, either.” She concluded in a whisper, “I gave myself to Thomas three months ago.”

Isobel gasped. Her sister had been childhood playmates with the son of their father’s bailiff, and over the past year, seeing each other secretly, their friendship must have grown into love. Gerald Maitland disapproved the friendship, saying quite openly he did not feel it appropriate. He relied heavily on his bailiff, John Hewett, but none of the man’s five sons could be considered a suitable match for either of his daughters.

I should have seen this coming, Isobel told herself now, should have stepped in and done more to protect her, dissuade her. Though how did anyone reason with a lass so headstrong as Catherine?

Reading Isobel’s expression, Catherine said, “There is nothing wrong in it. I love him! Should I rather save myself for some man—a stranger—I despise?”

“Father will go mad. His reputation rides on this. And I have already let him down in this regard.”

“Not your fault,” Catherine began, but Isobel cut her off.

“You promised me, Cat, this relationship between you and Thomas was platonic. I confess, I expected better of him—he seems a young man of high scruples and considerable restraint.”

“He is. In most regards.” Catherine had the grace to lower her glowing eyes. “But, Issie, we are in love!” Catherine’s flawless complexion grew rosy. “I suppose it is a blessing in disguise. Once I tell Father, that will be the last I hear of marriage with Bertram MacNab.”

“Tell Father?” Now it was Isobel who jumped up and began pacing. “And what do you expect him to do then? Make excuses to his good friend Lord Randal? Swallow his humiliation and wish you and Thomas well? He will have the skin off Thomas’s back, for starters. I would not be surprised if he has him killed.”

The color drained from Catherine’s face as swiftly as it had come. “No!”

“Oh, yes, my girl. If you think Father is not serious about this match, you are much mistaken. At the very least he will deprive Thomas’s father of his living, send them away—”

“I cannot live without Thomas! We wish to wed.”

Isobel stared at her sister with a mixture of pain and aggravation. “I am sure you do.” John Hewett’s youngest son had been blessed with the kind of good looks not unusual here in the borders, a direct legacy of Viking settlers many years gone. Long of limb, knit with slender strength, Thomas had hair the color of ripe corn and a smile of singular sweetness. He even possessed a sense of humor. Isobel could not say she disliked him, but that, she feared, lacked relevance in the present situation.

“You are mad,” she told her sister in a steady whisper. “Father will send him away and ruin his family. You have to end it.”

Defiant tears flooded Catherine’s eyes. “I cannot!”