The Chieftain by Caroline Martin Page A

at this moment his pride in his name was still uppermost in his mind. But she smiled, saying nothing. She did not want to break this new mood of tenderness.
    ‘Do you know why I came back to Ardshee?’ he went on. She shook her head lazily, still smiling. Would he say: “because of you”?
    ‘To take you back with me,’ he said, and she thought that she had almost been right, though the words startled her.
    ‘Back with you?’ she repeated. ‘Back where?’
    ‘To Edinburgh, first,’ he said. ‘For a little while we shall remain there, to allow more men to come in. There will be balls and merry-making. Many wives have come to be with their husbands, and I should like to have you, too, at my side. Let the world see that you have honoured me with your hand, and that we have found joy together.’
    ‘You have honoured me.’ That, Isobel thought, was a new way for him to look at their marriage. Until now - even a moment ago - he had made it clear that all the honour had been for him to give. She felt elated, happy at the prospect of company, and balls, new clothes perhaps, and— ‘Perhaps I could see my parents. It is not far,’ she said eagerly, and then wondered with a little chill if she had said too much.
    But Hector only smiled the more warmly. ‘That too, my heart. We shall meet them together, so that they will know you are in good hands.’  
    She was a little doubtful as to whether they would be so easily convinced, but she said nothing.
    ‘Then,’ Hector went on casually, avoiding her gaze, ‘they will know that they can safely entrust your fortune to me.’

Chapter Eight

    A chill fell on Isobel’s spirit like a winter frost. The last vestiges of contentment, the budding happiness within her, shrivelled and died. The full implication of Hector’s words worked its way steadily to her heart, leaving bitterness in its path.
    What a fool she was! Just for a short while she had thought he cared for her, that his pride in her achievements, his admiration for her beauty, had kindled some real affection in him. That ardent lovemaking with its new tenderness had seemed to promise a true flowering between them.
    And now she knew that it had all been a ruse. She had been told that Highlanders were sly, not to be trusted. Hector had proved that even in their most secret moments it was true. The thought that he could lightly make a pretence of passion and love to gain his ends was devastating, shattering. All that tenderness, for money!
    The momentary chill gave way to a fierce consuming anger. She pushed his caressing hand away, recoiled from him, began quickly, furiously, to dress.
    ‘You are a snake!’ she hissed. ‘A poisonous, slimy, vile snake! That was all you wanted, nothing else, all this time. I hate and loathe and detest you more than I can ever say. Go back to your Prince, and I hope they hang you as a vile rebel and leave your bones to rot and the birds to pick out your eyes!’
    She spoke in English, but her words had all the venom of the Gaelic curses Hector knew from the old tales. She saw him whiten, and knew her anger had struck him as surely as any blow. His mouth tightened, colour rose in his cheeks and his eyes shone with a deadly light. He leapt from the bed, and she shrank back against the panelling, breathing fast with fear, yet holding her head defiantly.
    She was sure he would strike her - his hand was raised, his eyes blazed. But instead he froze, clenched his fist, drew a deep breath; and slowly, reluctantly, lowered the raised arm, as if every inch of the move was a painful struggle.  
    ‘As God is my witness, wife,’ he snarled through clenched teeth, ‘insult me again and I shall break every bone in your body!’
    Isobel tossed her head.
    ‘Do your worst!’ she threw at him. ‘I’m not your slave or your chattel. Everything you do only puts you further in the wrong. One day you’ll answer for it, and then you’ll wish every word and deed undone. Get away from me. I