Dougal asked Lachlan, even though he doubted Lachy had a fit answer. “They formed some mysterious bond while Isobel was ill, and now they seem nearly as close as Meg and Aisla were. Meg fights for Isobel like a she-wolf defending her cubs. I cannot get near my own wife.” To Dougal, it seemed all he had done these many days past was fight. Aye, so, and he had no quarrel with that—the anger inside him desired expression with the sword or any other weapon that might come to hand. Three weeks had passed since Isobel’s miscarriage, since what Dougal thought of as his final declaration of war with MacNab. By any account, his wife should be regaining her strength and her health. Dougal had spent most of the intervening time out riding his borders in the blustery cold, stealing MacNab’s cattle and setting fire to his outbuildings. He had also, in no uncertain terms, repulsed not one but three visits from Isobel’s father, the first in Randal MacNab’s company on the day after she miscarried.
