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And, presumably, MacNab would eventually go searching for his son’s missing bride. Should any of her attendants survive the wreck, he or she would tell of the bandit on the dark road.
    Only Bethan, though, knew Isobel’s true identity, that she had taken her sister’s place. The odds of rescue coming—finding her here—were so slight, it made Isobel feel ill.
    The Black Devil, he called himself. She shivered again; the name seemed all too apt.
    ****
    “Of course you will not actually marry her,” said Meg, her eyes narrowed to slits. “This is another of your games, a particularly vile one. You are doing this to get at MacNab.”
    Dougal made no answer. He shot his sister an unfriendly look and poured himself another tall whisky.
    “This will rebound on you,” Meg predicted. “You have done a fair bit of thieving in your time—cattle, aye, ponies, jewels, silver, even whisky. But a woman? And from MacNab, of all men. You know full well he shall run, at once, to the King.”
    Dougal shrugged carelessly.
    “And,” Meg seethed on, “how will you collect the ransom without telling the world of your guilt?”
    “I do not mean to ask ransom,” Dougal replied. He slumped into his customary seat by the fire and stared into the flames. All he could see, though, was the rage in the eyes of his captive. Not what he had expected—not at all—and far too good for MacNab. The wench had courage and defiance. She also possessed a rare beauty that relied not at all on golden curls and simpering smiles. The very thought of bedding her had him hard as a length of iron.
    He wondered who she was. MacNab would choose no peasant for his precious son. Catherine, of no surname. English, though she did not look it with that fire in her hair. He had seen his share of English misses, though he had not yet had one. This one must be a virgin, and overdue for splaying.
    Meg laughed, never a reassuring sound. “The King will have your head for this. Is that what you want? Folk hereabouts have just been awaiting the chance to see that.”
    She came and squatted beside him, in order to look into his face. “Brother, I long since gave up hope for your soul—”
    “’Tis in no greater jeopardy than your own.”
    “True. This is about revenge, is it not? You wish to bring MacNab to his knees.”
    Dougal felt a grimace pull his lips awry. “MacNab—the grand gentleman,” he sneered. “The man of purported means who can do no wrong.”
    “This is about Aisla, is it not?” Meg asked softly, gazing hard into his face.
    “Do not speak her name!”
    Unexpectedly, Meg’s expression softened. “Do you think I do not understand? She was my friend.”
    “I warn you, Sister, I do not wish to speak of this.”
    “Can the wound be still so deep, after so long?”
    Dougal surged to his feet, nearly sending Meg sprawling. “The wound, as you call it, has no chance of so much as scabbing over—not while that bastard enjoys any measure of success in this world. Do not begin to suppose you understand.”
    “You loved her.”
    Savagely, Dougal turned on his sister. “What do you know of love? You, who murdered your husband.”
    “He betrayed me.” Meg got to her feet and stood, tall and composed as a queen.
    “With another woman?” Dougal laughed cruelly. “I am surprised he dared.”
    “So am I. He knew what I would do, should he ever prove unfaithful. I told him full well, on our wedding night.”
    Dougal stared at her. “I believed the poor sod enamored of you. He never left off talking of your beauty and the poetry of your eyes.”
    Meg looked thoughtful. “One cannot trust the tongue of a man. I, myself, would not have believed it, had I not seen the evidence with these poetic eyes.”
    “You caught him?” Dougal asked, interested despite himself.
    “In the stable, with the young sister of a groom. The lass, no more than twelve, was sobbing. An ugly scene.”
    “What did you do to her?” Dougal almost hated to ask.
    “Her?