Seduced by a Highlander Page 15

  When she gave him a befuddled look, he clenched his jaw and then cursed inwardly at the pain.

  “He left it, seemingly in one piece, beside the window, hoping that when it broke, I would fall to my death! And I nearly did!” His voice rose along with his temper. “Och, and he didna’ stop there. Nae! He took my belt so that when I fell, I would do so naked! He’s a clever, evil work of the devil and—D’ye find this humorous?”

  She shook her head, but Tristan was certain he heard her giggle behind her hand.

  “He needs to be punished, Isobel.”

  She nodded and moved toward him. “I will speak to Patrick about it.”

  When she stopped directly in front of him, her earthy scent filled his lungs and muddled his wits. He shook his head to clear it.

  “I will have John fetch ye a new walking stick.”

  “I dinna’ need it,” he told her, his voice low and thick above her auburn crown. “My leg is better.” Good enough to lift her off the floor, hike her legs around his waist, and take her on the way to the wall.

  “Will ye be returning home soon then?”

  Was that disappointment he heard at the edge of her voice? Hell, it was nice to think so. “I suspect I should.” But he couldn’t. Not yet. There was too much to do. She still didn’t like him. Her brothers still didn’t trust him. Thanks to his wounds he hadn’t yet done anything to restore his honor.

  “Your jaw is purple.” She lifted her fingers to it for a closer examination. “Why did Patrick strike ye?”

  When his gaze dropped to the billowy mounds of her bosom beneath his nose, she moved away, leaving him cold. “He was angry that I kissed ye.”

  She reeled back, horrified. “Ye told him?”

  “Nae, ye did, and Cameron along with him.” He looked around the kitchen for food. It seemed that everyone had already eaten.

  “Ye are mad! I never told them any such—”

  “Ye were half asleep and ye warned Cameron no’ to let me kiss him. They figured oot the rest.”

  Her face went pale as she looked toward the window and twisted her apron into a wrinkled mess. “Why has Patrick said nothing to me about it this morn?”

  “I told him ye didna’ enjoy it. He is angry with me, no’ with ye.”

  Her color returned a bit and she inhaled a deep breath. “Ye have my thanks fer telling him that,” she said, softly enough that he almost didn’t hear her.

  “ ’Twas the truth, aye?” he asked her, speaking over the rumble of his belly.

  Miracle of miracles, she smiled! “Ye may sit at the table. I will bring ye some food.”

  Now this was better! Tristan gave her a cheerful thanks and turned to leave the kitchen while she plucked a plate from another shelf.

  The clay shattering to the floor an instant later stopped him. He turned and found Isobel gaping at his backside. He looked down over his shoulder. His bare backside. He hooked his mouth into a repentant smile and released the bundled hem of his plaid behind him.

  “Apologies fer that,” he said, leaving her floundering for her composure.

  Isobel lived in a house with six males. She’d seen men’s backsides before, but seeing Tristan’s tilted her world on its axis. It wasn’t just the tight, decadent shape that made her mouth go dry and her palms grow hot, though Heaven help her, that would have been enough. The full vision of his fine buttocks and thick, muscular thighs sparked a lurid desire in her to see the rest of him. And that wicked grin! Dear God, he knew how ruthlessly beautiful he was, and he enjoyed knowing she knew it, too.

  She slammed a new plate down on the table before him and turned to walk away. She wasn’t angry with him for being so damned appealing, but it was her only defense against him, and every day she needed it more than the day before. His potent gaze melted her insides. His artful, easy smile snatched the breath from her lungs, and when he spoke, she had to call upon every shred of control she possessed to withstand the passion in his words. He was, quite honestly, the most vibrant, the most irritatingly irresistible man she had ever met. Why, oh why did he have to be a MacGregor?

  “Will ye sit with me fer a moment or two?” He looked up at her before she stepped away. “I dinna’ like eatin’ alone.”

  God help them all, that sweet trace of humility softening his smile was more lethal than a thousand wicked grins. “I should not.”

  “Why?”

  “I have much to do.”

  “I’ll help ye do whatever ’tis. I ask fer but a few moments with ye.”

  She guessed she owed him a moment or two, since he’d told Patrick that she didn’t enjoy their kiss. It was the truth—as he understood it—but he didn’t have to tell it to her brother. He’d protected her yet again, and still she didn’t know why. He’d also taken a beating from the rest of her brothers since arriving and he hadn’t really complained all that much. Could he possibly be the man he claimed to be?

  “May I ask ye a question?” She pulled out a chair and sat beside him.

  “Only one?”

  “It is a good one.” She couldn’t help returning his smile when he glanced at her from his plate. The moment was much like the one they had shared the first day they met. They both remembered it. “Why did ye stop at only breaking Alex’s nose when he provoked ye to fight him?”

  “Should I have drawn blood from him because he is prideful?”

  “Another man would have.”

  “I am no’ another man.”

  No, he wasn’t. He was two men; one elegant and the other untamed. One wickedly irresponsible and the other charmingly irresistible. He was a rogue, self-admittedly “less concerned with every consequence,” and yet he had gone out of his way to aid her with dilemmas that had nothing to do with him.

  “Who are ye then?” she asked him quietly, needing to know. Wanting to believe that it was the gallant man who had come to her and not the seducer of women’s secrets.

  “I canna’ tell ye that yet.”

  He could not or he would not? Damnation, it was not the answer she was looking for. “Verra well, then,” she said, leaving her chair. If he refused to tell her the truth, then she would not sit here with him another minute. “I will get ye something fer yer jaw. It looks like it is paining ye—and then I have work to do.”

  He caught her hand and looked up at her from beneath his lusciously long lashes. “Stay. ’Tis no’ too bad, and ye’ve already done enough fer me. I’ll be in yer debt until I’m an old man.”

  Two men.

  She watched him, her body going rigid while he drew her hand tenderly toward his mouth. “Yer hands are as rough as my brother Rob’s. Ye do too much.”

  “I do what is needed of me.”

  Her inhalation of breath was cut short when he dipped his head and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Let me help ye, lass.”

  “Please, do not…” She pulled away, her voice trembling from the aftermath of his intimate touch.

  “Help ye?”

  “Kiss me again.”

  His smile faded as he let her go. “Fergive me, ye are betrothed.”

  Since when did that matter to a rogue? She backed away when he rose from his seat only inches from her. “Ye have my thanks fer the food. I promised to help John with his chores, so I’d best get to it.” His smile flashed and was gone an instant before he was.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tristan jabbed his pitchfork into the mound of hay and carried it inside the barn. His arm and leg were still sore, but the hay wasn’t heavy, and John and Lachlan’s endless questions took his mind off the dull pain—and off Isobel.

  “D’ye know how to wield that sword Patrick carries around fer ye?”

  Tristan nodded at Lachlan when he came back outside.

  “Have ye killed many men, then?” John asked him, scratching his nose.

  “I havena’ killed any.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because ’tis no’ always the right thing to kill every man who comes against ye.”

/>   Lachlan cut him a skeptical glance, then shrugged his shoulders. “I can fire an arrow and hit my target at a hundred paces.”

  “So then,” Tristan said dryly, stabbing the mound again. “Ye were no’ aimin’ fer my heart when ye shot me?”

  “We had no intention of killing ye,” John promised.

  Tristan smiled at him. He liked this little one. John reminded him of himself at about the same age. “Then ye’re on the right path.”

  “We cannot speak fer Tamas, though,” John admitted with a dash of sympathy shading his smile. “He is a menace.”

  Tristan knew that all too well. “Aye,” he said, carrying his hay back to the barn. “I’ve already figured that oot.”

  “Isobel was mad as hell when he shot ye and ye dropped into her garden,” Lachlan called out, following him with his own bale.

  Was she angry with her brothers for shooting him, Tristan wondered, or with him for destroying half her crop? Angry or not, she had tended to him and nursed him back to good health—so that a MacGregor would not die on her land.

  “She was angry only because ye killed her butterbur,” John offered in Isobel’s defense a moment later when Tristan rejoined him.

  “And why is her butterbur more precious than any of the others?”

  “It helps her breathe in the winter.”

  Lachlan elbowed his brother in the ribs, which Tristan deemed unfair, since Lachlan was twice John’s size, with shoulders as wide as those of any Highlander bred at Camlochlin. He was about to tell him so when he looked past the boys and saw Isobel and her youngest hellion of a brother exit the house and begin walking in his direction.

  In her arms, she carried the clothes she’d promised earlier. Briefly, Tristan eyed the boots swinging from Tamas’s fingers, then returned his gaze to her. He studied her mouth, the healthy flush about her cheeks that made her eyes appear larger, greener. It could not be true that this gloriously strong-willed lass had a breathing condition. Was it serious? Why the hell was she doing so much labor if it was? No one else is here to do it for her, he answered his own question, and vowed to do something about it.

  When she reached him, Tristan was very pleasantly surprised to see the same smile she had worn the day he’d offered to help her with Alex.

  “Truly, Mister MacGregor, ye do not have to tend to our work. We are used to—”

  “Call me Tristan, please,” he said, sticking the fork into the ground and leaning on it. “And I want to help.”

  “Thank ye then,” she conceded, dropping her gaze when she saw Lachlan staring at her to Tristan’s right. “Here are yer clothes.” She pushed them at him. “I replaced yer torn boots with Alex’s. They might be a bit snug, since ye are taller than he is.” She lifted her gaze to glance at her brothers and then whirled on her heel and marched toward the fields where Patrick and Cameron were working.

  Tristan watched her go for a moment, then accepted the boots Tamas shoved at him. He stepped in front of him when Tamas turned to follow his sister.

  “Will ye hold these fer me?” Without giving Tamas a chance to decline, Tristan handed him his shirt and breeches. He smiled at the miscreant while he turned each boot upside down and shook the rocks from them.

  “I expected worse. This was disappointin’.”

  Tamas smiled right back at him, dropped Tristan’s clothes on the ground, and popped his tongue out at him as he stepped on them.

  In his arrogance, he didn’t see the thrust of Tristan’s foot in front of his ankles and went reeling over Tristan’s breeches to the hard ground beyond.

  “D’ye wish to call a truce?” Tristan asked, coming to stand over him. “Or d’ye wish to find oot how an experienced hellion does it?”

  Tamas rolled over on his back and stared up at him. “Ask me that after I put worms in yer food.”

  “Verra well,” Tristan sighed, and bent to retrieve his clothes. “ ’Tis yer choice.”

  Tristan made no sound as he crept along the dark wall toward Tamas’s door. He didn’t intend to hurt the boy. Not seriously, at least. Tamas was coming into manhood without the careful guidance he needed to grow with a wee bit of honor and humility.

  What he was about to do to wee Tamas was for the boy’s own good, and the peace of his family in the future. Patrick seemed to possess the values his youngest brother needed to learn, but he had no time to teach the boy how to be a man. Alex had already proven that he was certainly no example of any shining traits. Cameron was too quiet, too passive to stop Tamas from becoming a menace and causing his sister misery. Tamas needed to be taught by someone who would not cease until he learned his lessons well. The lad was devious and would be tough to win; Tristan would give him that. He smiled, looking forward to the challenge.

  “Where have ye been?” a voice said from the shadows. “I thought ye were not coming.”

  “I always keep my word, John.” Tristan shone his grin down at his accomplice and held out his hands. “Did ye get enough?”

  “Two bags,” John said, handing one to him.

  Tristan had required his aid, and when he had put his plan to the lad, John leaped. John needed to do this as much as Tamas needed it done to him.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Like thieves in the shadows they stole into Tamas’s room while he slept and spread dozens of thistles that John had collected along the floor, in Tamas’s boots, his pockets, and in his bed where he slept. On his way out the door, Tristan spotted what he was looking for set lovingly on a bench atop Tamas’s trews. He snatched it up and shoved it into the pocket of his breeches.

  “What do we need the twine fer?” John whispered, handing over his next donation to this worthy cause.

  “I’ll show ye.” Tristan knelt at the entrance and tacked both ends of the twine to the opposite doorframe, about ankle high. He took up the bags and scattered what remained of the prickly plants outside the door and then carefully shut it.

  John was quick to figure out what the twine was meant to do and yanked on Tristan’s sleeve before they parted ways.

  Before he spoke, Tristan leaned down and patted his shoulder. “Dinna’ fret, he wears a nightdress. The stings will be minor.”

  John nodded, smiled, and then dashed away.

  Tristan did not go directly to his room but swept down the stairs and into the kitchen, hungry for something to eat. He found an apple, rubbed it against his shirt, and looked out the window. Curiously, a light was coming from the barn. Who was awake at this late hour but him and John? He bit into his apple and left the kitchen. Did Patrick work in the middle of the night? he wondered as he stepped out of the manor house. He was likely the last person Patrick wanted to see, but Tristan would offer to help him, and mayhap they could begin to sort some things out between them.

  He pulled opened the barn door and entered with a resounding crunch, taking another bite of his apple. It wasn’t Patrick he startled, though, but Isobel, and seeing her stopped Tristan in his tracks. “What are ye doin’ in here?”

  She turned away from him and went back to her work. Her profile against the soft glow of the lantern at her side went pensive and anxious at the same time. “It is not obvious to ye then that I am milking a goat?”

  He moved closer to her. “At this hour?”

  “I was not able to get to this today, and Glenny was full.” She didn’t look at him but gave the goat a gentle pat on the flank. “She does not like being full. “What are ye doing awake so late?” She spared him a brief glance while he dragged over another stool and sat down next to her.

  He smiled and held up his apple, then pulled it away when Glenny swung her head around and tried to chomp it out of his fingers. “We can share it, lass. There’s nae need to be uncivilized.” He took another bite, then handed over the rest.

  “Ye should not have done that.” Isobel told him, her hands busy beneath the goat’s belly. “She is going to expect food each time she sees ye now.”

  “Then I will bring her some,” Tristan
promised, and patted Glenny’s head.

  “Then ye will have to bring it from yer own plate,” Isobel pointed out. “If ye had not noticed, we harvest most of our food here. There’s not always enough to go around, so I am sure ye will not be seeing her often.”

  Until that moment, Tristan had not fully comprehended the weight of Patrick and Isobel’s responsibilities to this family. At Camlochlin there were many people to help with the daily chores, and with his brother Rob always willing to do most of them, Tristan didn’t feel all that needed. But here there was no one else to turn to, no one else to rely on to help them out of danger. If their brothers were to live, it was up to them to see it done. More than before, he was sorry his father had taken theirs.

  “Then I’ll milk her and tell her exciting tales that will make her ferget aboot fruit altogether.”

  Isobel blinked at him in the clandestine light and then, much to his soaring heart’s delight, smiled.

  “Is there nothing or no one who can resist yer consummate charm?”

  He shook his head, serious though she mocked him. “There is but one.”

  Her smile went cool in an instant. “Ye think ye can win my brothers then?”

  “I hope to in time,” he told her honestly. “ ’Tis the only way to gain peace between our two families.” Why would she not want him to do what he could to lessen the hatred between their kin? He didn’t know if such a feat was even possible, but he wanted to try, for her good.

  “So, ye would defy yer father?”

  He shrugged. “ ’Twouldna’ be the first time I did.”

  She studied him for a moment, searching his eyes for something. He wished he knew what it was. “Ye told me once that ye are not like most MacGregors. Am I to believe then that ye do not seek revenge upon my family fer yer uncle’s death?”

  “The man who killed my uncle died with him, Isobel.”

  “And if he was still alive?”

  He blinked back to Glenny, severing his darkened gaze from her. “Then mayhap, things would be different.”

  Things would be different. Isobel’s lungs seared her chest. What would he do then?