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wealthy enough to buy Gilmuir, husband,” she said, lifting her needle in one long stroke, “then perhaps he is in the market for a wife.”
    “I’ll not marry my blood with that of the MacRaes, woman. Speak when you’re told and not before,” Drummond said roughly.
    “Yet you’ve found no one else to afford the bride price you demand for Iseabal,” she said serenely. The thread quivered in the air, leading Alisdair to wonder if her hands trembled. “For a few more coins, he could obtain his lands and a bride.”
    “I need no wife, madam,” Alisdair said kindly.
    “Then you are married?” she asked, glancing over at him briefly, an expression of disappointment on her face.
    “I am not, nor do I plan to be soon.” He had a shipyard to expand and ships to design and build before he took a wife.
    “Have I your word, then?” he asked, his gaze returning to Magnus. “You’ll not use Gilmuir land for your grazing?”
    “A bond of kinship would strengthen the matter,” Drummond’s wife said from her perch beside the fireplace.
    Drummond said nothing, considering his wife with narrowed eyes. Leah looked up and the two Drummonds exchanged glances. Slowly the other man nodded, beginning to smile.
    “For once, you could be right, woman,” Drummond said, leaning back in his chair before turning to Alisdair. “I’ll not sell Gilmuir to you for any amount,” he said, his smile part cunning, part amusement.
    Alisdair took another sip of whiskey to hide his anger. He was not in the mood nor did he have time for Drummond’s games.
    “Instead,” the older man said, “I’ll sell you Gilmuir and my daughter.”
     
    Iseabal watched as the servant girls left her chamber, hearing the bar being lowered outside her door. They’d found little of value; her most cherished carvings were hidden in the stables with Robbie as their guardian.
    The thought of being kept here for weeks or months was almost intolerable. Yet Iseabal realized that praying to be quit of Fernleigh would not be wise. When she was led from her room, it would be to attend her wedding.
    The afternoon sun, streaming in through the small window, touched upon the furnishings of her room: a wardrobe, a squat bureau, a bedside table, and the small bed that had been hers since childhood. All of the pieces had been crafted by the carpenters employed at Fernleigh. The only exceptionwas the small bench beside the window, sturdy and old, the wood having darkened over the years.
    Here she sat and struggled with her needlework or mulled over her life. Sometimes, when her father was gone from Fernleigh, she’d get a stone from Robbie and begin to work on it, muffling the sharp pinging sound of the chisel beneath a cloth.
    A basin stood on her bureau, the matching pitcher filled with cold water. Her father refused to have the servants engaged in pampering, as he called it. Even in winter there was no hot water for washing. The only respite from the cold of Fernleigh was to gather around the fireplace in the clan hall.
    She washed her hands, noting that the cut on her hand was not deep and would heal soon enough. Iseabal wasn’t as certain about her side.
    Unfastening her canvas stays, Iseabal inspected them as she did every day. The straw stuffed into the narrow pockets would need to be replaced soon. Putting the stays on the chair as a reminder, she began to remove her shift.
    Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she wrung it dry before placing it on the swelling at her side. The pain was manageable, but only if she did not move quickly or bend sharply.
    A sound at the door alerted her, and she quickly wrapped herself in the blanket from the end of her bed. Settling on the bench, Iseabal gripped the rough wood at either side of her hips with both hands. Pressing her lips together tightly, she murmured a quick and familiar prayer. Please do not let it be my father. But if it is, help me to be brave.
    But it wasn’t Magnus Drummond, only a servant