Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Jerking her hand from Michael's as she jumped, Isobel exclaimed, "If they saw you helping me, they'll guess I'm female!"

Matthias scrambled ashore to help Michael drag the coble onto the shingle, saying dryly, "They'll be sure of it now, seeing ye pull away like that. But, as few boats as there be on the water, I'm guessing they'll want a close look at each one."

"They're coming this way, and at a speed considerably greater than ours was," Michael said, eyeing the approaching boat with concern.

Matthias glanced narrow-eyed at it again. "Dinna fret, sir. If ye make haste t' the village, 'tis my guess they'll no catch ye there afore ye find help."

Isobel watched the oncoming boat. "By heaven," she exclaimed. "I believe they've misjudged the current or failed to consider the additional momentum of a boat carrying so much weight."

Complacently, Matthias said, "Aye, sure, I thought they would."

"Still, they're already coming about, so they won't be swept into Loch Alsh. We must hurry. Matthias is right, sir," she added. "The village will provide safety."

"Matthias had better come with us," Michael said.

"I will then, as far as the village," Matthias said. "I've a kinsman there who will row back wi' me, and the men in the village will tell those villains the boat belongs to the laird. I doubt they'll demand any answers from him."

Accordingly, they hurried along the shingle to the village, where Isobel requested an armed escort for herself and Michael to the home of MacDonald's kinsman, Donald Mòr Gowrie. Matthias made his own arrangements, and knowing they could trust the villagers to delay their pursuers, Isobel thanked him for his help and went confidently up Glen Kylerhea with Michael and their escort.

Michael watched Isobel stride up the narrow track with her bundle of female clothing slung jauntily over one shoulder, apparently perfectly at ease in her unfeminine garb. Ian's breeks fit tightly across her hips, and he found himself imagining what she would look like without them. Mentally taking himself to task for allowing his mind to wander, even down so enticing a path, he fixed it instead on what course they might take should this kinsman of MacDonald's refuse them assistance.

He soon learned that she had placed her confidence well, however. The journey up the glen to a square tower looming over the river took only thirty minutes, and their host received them in his hall. Donald Mòr Gowrie was a lean, salt-and-pepper-haired man of fifty summers with a long face and eyebrows so thick they jutted out over his eyes. He greeted Isobel with the warmth he might have accorded one of his own kinswomen, and she explained the situation to him briefly, showing a gift for glibness and a lack of detail that Michael appreciated more than she could know.

Gowrie remained silent as he looked from Isobel to Michael. Then, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, he said, "I warrant ye've no told me the whole tale, lass, and I'd supposed ye'd share our midday meal, but wi' such men after ye, ye'll no want to wait. I'll ha' ponies saddled and food packed, and take ye to me harbor at Loch Eishort. Ha' your pursuers their own boats, lad?"

"No, sir," Michael said. "That is, if they do, I am unaware of it."

"Well, no matter. First they'll ha' to learn where ye be, and folks here will say nowt to them, nor will the villagers." His eyes narrowed, and Michael knew he had let his skepticism show. "What makes ye think someone might speak o' ye?"

"The men following me have no scruples, sir. They are extremely dangerous."

"Even so, I'm guessing they willna want to anger the Lord of the Isles," Gowrie said. "I'm thinking, too, that they dinna ken who fosters our lass here."

Michael nodded but did not comment, aware that Macleod might have told Waldron about Hector but uncertain that it would make much difference if he had. To be sure, a foster daughter of Hector the Ferocious held value for Waldron only if he controlled her. That same foster daughter free of his clutches, protected, and traveling under the golden banner of the Lord of the Isles with its familiar little-black-ship device was another matter. However, her escape, not to mention Michael's own, would infuriate Waldron and thus make him more dangerous than ever.

"We should make speed, sir," Isobel said to Gowrie. "Our journey to Mull could easily take us twelve hours or more."

"Aye, lass, I'm willing," he replied, "but it'll take me lads a few minutes yet to saddle the ponies. Meanwhile, I'd suggest ye pay your respects to me lady wife and let her assist ye to change into more feminine garb for the journey if ye ha' some, unless o' course, ye mean to travel all the way home in them breeks."

Michael was astonished to see the lass redden and nibble her lower lip, but she rallied quickly.

"Thank you, sir," she said to Gowrie. "I'll do so at once."

Less than twenty minutes later, the cavalcade proceeded at a good pace up the glen. Gowrie rode with them, and a large contingent of armed men followed. The journey to the gray waters of Loch Eishort took less than thirty minutes, but when Michael noted aloud that the tide had not yet finished turning, Gowrie said curtly, "Ye'll no want t' be dawdling, lad. Me captains and oarsmen be always ready, lest his grace needs them, so they'll be off wi' ye at once, and God speed."

Seeing at least a dozen galleys and longboats in the harbor, Michael held his peace, and soon they were aboard one with three dozen well-armed oarsmen. Another with a similar number of men aboard was making ready nearby.

As Gowrie took leave of them, he said to Isobel, "I'm sending two boats to make sure ye arrive safely, lass. Shall I tell them to make for Duart or Lochbuie?"

She hesitated, then said, "Lochbuie is farther, but—"

"Sakes, twenty miles willna matter. Wi' the wind from the northeast, and as strong as it be, me lads will get plenty o' rest, and I'll ha' them break their return journey at Ardtornish to see if his grace has commands for them."

"Then tell them to make for Lochbuie if you please, sir. I'd as lief not have to explain all this to Lachlan Lubanach and then again to Hector."

"I warrant ye would not," he agreed, laughing. "Ye're a braw lassie, m'lady. I'd be that proud to ha' ye for me own daughter. ‘Gainsay who dare!'"

They got underway then, and as the galleys neared the mouth of the loch and the open sea, the helmsman's beat increased their speed.

Michael faced Isobel in the bow, his seat on the port side of the stem post, hers on the steerboard side. He still wore Matthias's jerkin and shirt, but she wore her blue riding dress and gray cloak again. He did not try to talk to her, because with the noise of the helmsman's gong, the wind rattling the sail against its mast, and the rhythmic slap and splash of the oars, conversation would be difficult at best.

As their journey progressed, Isobel huddled in her cloak, clearly unable to sleep, and Michael recalled that by the time they had beached near Kyle Rhea village, she had been wetter than either he or Matthias. His protective instincts stirred, and he wondered if her sister's warnings echoed in her ears as they did in his.

Isobel pulled her cloak tight around her, wishing she had worn a warmer gown than her old blue stuff one for her ride the previous morning. The galley's high bow offered some protection, but the chill of the northeast wind came from behind them.

She was so tired that even the chilly sea air could not keep her awake. Her head kept falling to one side, waking her when it struck the gunwale or when fear that it might startled her awake. At last, though, exhaustion claimed her.

When she stirred to wakefulness again, her head seemed to have found a comfortable spot, and she felt warmer, so doubtless someone had draped an extra sail or heavy cloak over her. Drowsily, she realized that the cacophony of splashing, flapping, and clanging had ended. All she heard now was the wind, intermittent creaking of the mast, and the hushing sound of waves breaking around the galley.

Without opening her eyes, she knew that the oarsmen had shipped their oars, letting the strong wind blow the boat along while they rested.

A gull's cry sounded as if it came from only a few feet away.

Blearily, she opened one eye, expecting to see Michael sitting across from her as he had been when she fell asleep, but he was not there. Instead, she saw two gulls flying alongside the galley, hopeful of food. She stirred more, and the object she leaned against stirred as well. Startled, she sat up with a jerk.

Michael smiled drowsily at her. She had been sleeping with her head against his broad chest, his right arm around her shoulders.

"Close your mouth, lass," he murmured. "Did you enjoy your nap?"

"Faith, sir, what are you doing?" she demanded. "I hardly know you!"

"You did not let that disturb you last night," he said.

Her eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

"You curled up next to me and slept like a kitten," he said.

"I did not!"

"Aye, you did. I awoke before you and got up when I heard your sister approaching the hut. Had I not, she would have been able to tell you so herself."

Isobel shuddered at the thought and glanced warily at the oarsmen. Michael had spoken quietly, however, and with their backs to the bow, none of the men paid them any heed. If the helmsman had seen them, he showed no sign of it.

"I was afraid you'd topple off the bench in your sleep," Michael went on. "If you had, you might have hurt yourself, so I decided that only a villain would allow that to happen when he could so easily prevent it."

"Aye, by waking me!" She glanced at the oarsmen again, then the helmsman. The latter's apparent lack of interest no longer fooled her. He had undoubtedly taken notice when Michael switched seats to hold her, and might easily tell the others. "Only think of what they will say about this!" she exclaimed, gesturing toward the men.

"Nay, for Gowrie told me his men are discreet," he said. "You trust him. Why should I not?"

"Even so," she muttered.

He turned her to face him, looking directly into her eyes. "Tell the truth now, lass," he said. "Do you really know so little of me?"

"How can you think otherwise? We met only yesterday. I do not even know your whole name."

"Nonetheless, you do know me," he said. "And I know you. I feel as comfortable with you after these two days as I would if I'd known you all my life."

Oddly, she felt the same, but it was daft to feel so about a man she scarcely knew and one, moreover, who had required constant direction—until now. At the moment, though, the way he held her, making her look at him, stirred unfamiliar sensations that she could not define. But she did not try to pull away.

"What can you know of me besides my name?" she asked, wondering why she sounded breathless even to her own ears, and why his smile—faith, just his voice—stirred her senses so.

"I know that you are a beautiful woman with an adventurous spirit, that you face life boldly, and that you don't let adversity daunt you. I would have us be friends, lass. I have not so many that I cannot use one more."

"I suppose we could be friends," she said, relaxing and wondering how a person could feel relief and disappointment at the same time.

He pulled her closer, murmuring, "I have wanted to do this since I awoke this morning, and now that we have agreed to be friends …"

Although a voice in the back of her mind shouted at her to resist, she did not. She did nothing to encourage him either, staring into his eyes as his face came closer and closer until he kissed her.

With a moan, she melted against him, letting him embrace her as his lips explored hers, tasting them softly, gently, until she could think of nothing else. His arms tightened around her, and her awareness of the other men vanished as she savored the sensations that his touch stirred throughout her body.

Never before had she felt so free of authority. That sensation alone was heady, encouraging her to press harder against him, to put her arms around him.

The tip of his tongue stroked first her upper lip, then the lower one. One of his hands slipped beneath her cloak and began gently stroking her back. When her lips parted, his tongue darted inside, and the moan that escaped her then sounded loud to her. She stiffened, certain that at least some of the others must have heard.

"Gently, sweetheart," he murmured against her lips. "Don't leap out of your skin, or they'll think I'm forcing you, and that would not do at all."

She wanted to say that he was forcing her, that somehow he had rendered her both witless and unable to defend herself. It was certainly not the first stolen kiss she had enjoyed, but none of the quick pecks on a cheek or friendly busses on her lips had stimulated her senses the way this one did.

Without looking away, he released her gently and straightened her hood, retying the ribbons at the neck of her cloak as if that were the only reason he had turned her to face him, as if such movements would fool for one minute any of the men supposedly not watching them. Trying to glower at him, to let him and them, too, know that she disapproved of his methods, she discovered when she saw the twinkle in his eyes that she wanted to laugh instead.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart, unless you want me to do it again," he murmured, his eyes still dancing.

Straightening, she struggled to regain her dignity, saying sternly—at least, she hoped she sounded stern—"You have taken a great liberty, sir. I would warn you to have a care. And you must certainly not call me ‘sweetheart.' "

"You are right to warn me, lass, but you do invite such liberties, you know."

She opened her mouth to tell him he was daft to think such a thing, but when his eyes narrowed as if he welcomed the chance to argue with her, she shut it without saying a word. He was right, and she knew it.

She knew, too, what Hector and her sister would say about the risk she had run by interfering in the scene at the cave, particularly since she had been alone. Despite Cristina's habit of taking solitary rides before she married Hector, both she and her formidable husband would surely agree that Isobel should never do such a thing. The freedom she constantly sought, and often demanded for herself, was not common to young women of her station in life. Indeed, at Lochbuie, she never rode alone. She did so at Chalamine only because she could safely ignore her father's commands. She dared not ignore Hector Reaganach's.

"Relax, lass," Michael said. "'Tis better, I think, if you go back to sleep. We'll soon enter the Sound of Mull, and the wind is so strong that the helmsman has said he expects us to make Lochbuie Bay shortly after Compline."

She shook her head. "I am rested, sir. Moreover, these men will require supper before they leave Lochbuie, and they will spend the night, and—"

"Gowrie said they carry their own rations and need sleep only a few hours on the beach before departing for Ardtornish," he said. "Their mission is to make sure you arrive safely, nothing more."

She nodded but insisted that he return to his former seat. Nor did she sleep, wanting to be certain both galleys passed Ardtornish Castle, seat of the Lord of the Isles, and Duart Castle, the seat of Lachlan Lubanach, without stopping.

She had never been more sincere than in telling Gowrie she did not want to explain the situation more than once, so it was not until they had left the Sound of Mull behind them that she let herself doze for the rest of the journey.

Despite the late hour when the oarsmen rowed into Lochbuie Bay, the sun was just sinking below the western horizon, painting the waves in the bay with fading rays of golden light. At this season, the dusk that followed would linger past midnight.

As usual, numerous galleys and longships rested at anchor in the harbor, but their own boats put in alongside the long stone-and-timber pier, and as they did, Isobel saw a surge of activity on the ramparts of the castle at the top of the rise.

Soon men descended the hill, the guardsmen above having easily recognized MacDonald's little-black-ship banner.

Within moments, Isobel was thanking Gowrie's men and happily greeting the Lochbuie welcoming party, most of whom were old friends she had counted as family for years. She introduced Michael as a cousin from the north desiring to pay his respects to the Laird of Lochbuie, thus giving her excellent reason to return home betimes.

If a few skeptical looks greeted this explanation, she paid them no heed, knowing none of her audience would question her—not so publicly, at all events.

Gowrie's men saw to their galleys, lowering the sails and putting up the oars for the night in racks along the centerline of the pier, as Isobel led the way to the castle where she had spent the happiest years of her life, with Michael a step behind her. Certain as she was that Hector and Cristina would understand the necessity for bringing him to Mull, she was nonetheless a bit nervous about explaining it to them.

Michael had been quiet for some time, and she wondered if it had occurred to him that Hector was likely to be impatient with his secrets and demand a full and immediate explanation of the incident at the cave.

"Lass," he said so quietly that the word reached her ears alone as they neared the castle entrance, "about that tale you spun Donald Mòr Gowrie …" He hesitated.

"Aye, what about it?"

"We cannot employ such a strategy with Hector Reaganach."

Impatience stirred, and not for the first time. The man was as handsome as any she had ever met—more handsome than any mortal man should be. Moreover, he was exactly the sort of man she had always insisted she would prefer a man to be. He listened to her when she spoke, never dismissed her opinions or showed the typical masculine tendency to patronize or correct her. Indeed, he seemed not to have a domineering bone in his body. So why, she wondered, did he so often stir a desire to box his ears, shake him, and demand that he think for himself?

With more patience than she felt, she said, "I am not such a noddy, sir!"

"I never meant to imply that you were," he said, his voice still low and calm. "It just occurred to me that since you did spin that tale, and since Hector is likely to meet Gowrie at some point in the future—mayhap quite soon—"

"Aye, sir, and for that very reason I shall tell him exactly what I said to Gowrie. Indeed, I mean to tell him everything that happened. He will perfectly understand why I told Gowrie as little as possible, I promise you."

"I hope so, but I fear he may not as perfectly understand why you have done me the honor to concern yourself so deeply in my affairs."

"Of course he will," she said. "I have only to tell him exactly what happened to us. Gowrie's men will say naught of what hap—"

"Aye, lass, but will he listen?" He spoke louder, and she cast a guilty glance at the Lochbuie men nearest them, realizing that she had nearly said more than she should. But the men were talking amongst themselves and paid little heed to her or to Michael, who added, "I have grown increasingly certain these past hours that I shall walk into the hall at Lochbuie beside you only to hear Hector order me cast into a dungeon or carried off to the nearest hanging tree."

"Hereabouts," Isobel said dulcetly, "felons who deserve such punishments are cast from the highest cliff to certain death in the sea."

"Just so," he said. "I must say, though, that that information does not reassure me." He sounded serious, but she saw his lips twitch.

Then, as their eyes met, he smiled, and as always, his smile warmed her to her bones. Her impatience melted, but she shook her head and said, "I do wish you would hearten yourself more, sir. Indeed, I do not know how you get on in life when you are always so sure the worst will happen. Why, you put me forcibly in mind of Adela when you speak like that."

"Do I? Is that such a dreadful thing?"

"Of course not. I just wish you would be more resolute."

"Do you want me to explain our coming here?"

"No, no, I'll do that," she said. "I know exactly how to manage Hector. I do hope, though, that he and Cristina are alone tonight, because it will be best if I can make things clear to him at once. Rory," she said, raising her voice to draw the attention of the nearest guardsman, "the laird is at home, is he not?"

"Aye, m'lady, and he said for ye to go straight to the hall. That is to say, he told us to bring whoever be sailing into the bay under his grace's banner to him straightway. I'm thinking he'll be that glad to see it be yourself."

Assuming from those words that Hector and Cristina were alone, she saw no reason to stir curiosity among his men by asking if they were. That she heard no minstrels or chatter as she hurried up the narrow, winding stone stairway to the great hall reinforced that assumption, so she entered that cavernous chamber confidently with Michael just behind her, only to stop a step later in sharp dismay.

Except for one gillie who tended the roaring fire on the great hooded hearth in the east wall near the candlelit dais at the far end, the lower hall was dark and empty, but the dais certainly was not.

Despite the hour, Hector and Cristina lingered at the high table, but they had moved from their customary places midway along the board to the end near the fire, and they were not alone. Four others sat with them. Lachlan Lubanach and his wife, Mairi of the Isles, sat with their backs to Isobel, but she recognized both instantly. Facing her were her aunt, Lady Euphemia Macleod, and Lady Mairi's mother, the princess Margaret Stewart, daughter of Robert, High King of Scots.

"Mercy, Isobel, is that you?" Cristina exclaimed, jumping up and peering toward her through the lower hall's gloom. "I'm delighted to see you, darling, but what are you doing here days before your time? Is aught amiss at Chalamine?"

Michael had almost run into the lass when she stopped so abruptly. Glancing at her, he saw that she had paled, but she regained her composure quickly and, hurrying forward, said, "Nay, Cristina, all is well, and Father is preparing to travel north with the girls—and Adela, too, I hope. I am sorry if our unexpected arrival startled you into thinking otherwise. I did not mean to frighten you."

Michael noted that she glanced more than once at the large man who rose to stand beside Lady Cristina, and he easily recognized Hector Reaganach. Not until the others turned toward them did he recognize Hector's twin brother, Lachlan Lubanach, Lord High Admiral of the Isles, and Lachlan's lady, Mairi of the Isles.

Then, to his further surprise, he saw that the woman sitting across from Mairi was her mother. He had no idea who the thin, middle-aged lady next to Princess Margaret was, but it had already become abundantly clear to him that matters were about to become more complicated than either he or Lady Isobel had anticipated.

Hector opened his mouth, but the lady next to Princess Margaret forestalled him, saying, "Really, Isobel, you are growing to be quite as thoughtless as our Mariota used to be. You ought to have known that it would frighten Cristina to see you so unexpectedly and at such an hour. What else was any of us to think but that you'd brought bad news from Chalamine? And who is that fellow with you? Surely, you did not travel so far with only a manservant to look after you. So inappropriate! Wherever is your maidservant?"

Hector's steady gaze shifted to Michael, stirring a chill of guilty discomfort that he had not felt since before his father's death. He straightened his shoulders much as he would have in older times, bracing himself to meet that look, and for the first time since leaving Glenelg, he gave thought to his clothing, wishing he had had something other than a shepherd's shirt and jerkin to wear with his breeks.

Isobel dismissed her lack of a maid with an impatient gesture, saying, "Michael is not a manservant, Aunt Euphemia."

"Then who is he, lass?" Hector asked in a deceptively calm voice.

"He … he is Michael, sir," she said, evidently realizing that anything more she might say about a man she called only Michael would be insufficient to satisfy them. "If you will let me explain, I can make everything clear."

"When did you last eat?" Cristina demanded.

Again, the lass dismissed the question with a gesture as she replied, "Sometime around midday, but that does not matter, because I must tell you—"

"Come and sit down, Isobel," Hector said in a voice that brooked no refusal. "Take that seat beside Mairi. As to your companion, I'd prefer to talk to him without your explanations. You will not mind engaging in a brief conversation with me, will you, lad? Privately, and at once?"

"I welcome the opportunity, my lord," Michael said, belatedly remembering his manners and bowing to the table at large.

He nearly made a separate bow to Princess Margaret but decided against it, since no one had made him known to her. He had seen Hector and Lachlan more than once before, but no one had ever formally presented him to them, either, and he doubted that they would remember his presence at any of several overcrowded events they had chanced to attend at one time or another.

Hector crossed the dais, saying, "We'll adjourn to another chamber, I think."

"Do you want me?" Lachlan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'd prefer that you stay here," Hector said. "Isobel, your transport consisted of two of his grace's galleys, did it not?"

"Yes, sir, but the men will rest and leave by morning. I can explain," she added.

"I have no doubt that you can, and your oarsmen are welcome to camp below, but I still want a word with your companion before you explain anything. You may order food whilst I talk with him, but first tell me from whom you had those ships."

"From Donald Mòr Gowrie of Kyle Rhea," she answered.

He nodded. "Very well. Welcome home, lassie. I neglected to say I'm glad to see you, but you need have no doubt of that. Sit down now. We'll not be long."

Michael waited patiently as Hector stepped from the dais and came toward him. He had always thought himself a tall man, but Hector the Ferocious was both taller and broader. With a touch of relief Michael noted that he was not carrying the legendary Clan Gillean battle-axe that men said accompanied him everywhere.

"Isobel, do you not think that you should change your dress?" Lady Euphemia asked. "You have been traveling all day, child, and you look it."

Michael watched Hector.

Lady Cristina, chuckling, said, "She has no need to change, Aunt Euphemia. I want to hear all the news from home. Ivor," she said to the gillie at the hearth, "pray tell them in the kitchen that Lady Isobel has come home with a guest. Ask them to bring supper for them both straightaway."

"Aye, m'lady."

Hector's gaze had not left Michael, and Michael was aware that Lachlan likewise kept his eyes on him, as did Isobel and doubtless the others as well.

Hector gestured toward a doorway in the west wall. "We'll talk yonder, lad."

Michael nodded, realizing that he was to precede him, which told him that Hector did not trust him. Although under the circumstances he could scarcely blame the man, the knowledge did give him pause. The next few minutes, no matter what conversation took place, were bound to be uncomfortable.

Since the lass had kept her dirk, he lacked even a weapon to protect himself, not that he would attack any man in his own castle, or that he could be certain he would prevail against Hector the Ferocious. To be sure, Hector was nearly fifty years old and doubtless no longer as skilled as when he had acquired his nickname, but he wielded sufficient power to be a formidable adversary, and Michael had already drawn more enemies than any man could want. He wanted no more.

Hector followed him into a small chamber containing little more than a heavy table, two joint stools, and a back stool—clearly a room where he dealt with lesser men. Shutting the door, he moved to the far side of the table, folded his powerful arms across his chest and said sternly, "Now, lad, suppose you tell me what game you've been playing, traveling about with Lady Isobel as you have?"

In the most diffident manner of which he was capable, Michael said, "I give you my word, my lord, that her ladyship suffered no ill at my hands. I found myself in great jeopardy, and Lady Isobel risked her own safety to intervene. Fortunately, we were able to escape and, with Gowrie's help, we came directly here. That is all."

"Is it?"

Hector spoke the two words gently, but they stirred a tingling chill at the base of Michael's spine. Clearing his throat, he said, "Mayhap you would like to ask me something more, my lord."

"Aye, I would," Hector said. "Does the lass ken who you are?"

His warning tone told Michael that it was past time to speak plainly.

"No, my lord. Without knowing whom else she might tell, I deemed it safer under the circumstances not to tell her. I collect, though, that you do know me."

"Aye, of course I do."

"Does Lachlan Lubanach also know?"

"I believe so. Of the two of us, it is my business to know such things so that he need not concern himself, but instinct tells me that he also recognized you."

"I have never formally met either of you," Michael said.

"So you assumed you could continue to play your game here, did you?"

Feeling a sudden, urgent need to prevent his believing that for a moment longer, Michael said, "You misunderstood me, sir. I meant only that since no one had ever formally introduced us and since we've attended but three or four large gatherings in common, I hoped I might have a short time in which to weigh what options I had before confiding the little I know about this matter to anyone here."

He realized that he had braced himself again for censure or worse, and tried to relax, but Hector did not berate him. Instead, he stood for a long moment, gazing at him thoughtfully, until Michael, accustomed to more volatile men, began to wish he would speak.

At last, with a slight smile that was anything but reassuring, Hector said, "I believe that your own actions have limited whatever options you may have had."

"Have they, sir?"

"Aye, because they've left you no choice now. You'll have to marry the lass."