Seduced by a Highlander Page 8

  Isobel turned away from the seductive warmth heating his eyes, its source some inner flame that always burned—to draw insects to their deaths.

  “ ’Twould be a cruel twist of fate if we ever came to care aboot each other as my namesake and his lady did.”

  Lord, but he was arrogant, as well as curious. “I can assure ye,” she replied, “that is not something ye need to fret over.”

  “I will if ye continue to enchant me with yer sassy mouth.”

  She gave him a pointed look. She had to admit the rogue’s tongue was very likely the best weapon in his arsenal. Why, he didn’t even bother to wear a sword at his side or behind his back.

  “Are ye going to try to beguile me fer the remainder of our short visit, Mister MacGregor? Because if so, then ye are only wasting my time and yers. I would much prefer yer frankness, no matter how crude it might be. If there is something ye wish to ask me, then simply do so and let us get this pretense over with.”

  He stared at her for a moment, looking a bit bewildered. Then his eyes darkened, falling to her mouth. Isobel was prepared for him to ask her about his uncle’s death. She suspected that was what he had been doing with her from the beginning—hoping to seduce her into talking. She was not prepared for him to ask her for another kiss.

  She closed her eyes, turning away from him again. She couldn’t let him do it and still hate him.

  But Tristan MacGregor did not ask for a kiss. What he asked for was far more dangerous.

  “Isobel.” He set his hand atop hers, setting her heart racing. “Will ye accept my sincerest condolences fer the death of yer faither?”

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Did he speak in earnest? A small part of her wanted to believe he did. Hadn’t he already told her this very day, just a few dozen yards from where they sat now, that he did not think like his kin and that he did not approve of what they had done? But he was clever. He would do anything, say anything to seduce her into liking him, trusting him. Was he so determined in his task that he would abandon his charm and feign contrition in order to win her favor?

  “Bel?”

  She vaulted to her feet at the sound of her brother’s voice just a few feet away. It was Cameron, and he’d seen them together, their enemy’s hand locked over hers.

  “We began to worry when ye did not return to our chamber.” His eyes darted to Tristan, then sank to the ground.

  Isobel straightened her spine, forcing her lungs to expand, trying to think clearly. But how could she explain what she was doing here alone with a MacGregor? Especially to Cam? She wished it had been Alex who found them. She would have preferred his sharp tongue and cruel temper to the disbelief and fear she saw in Cam’s eyes.

  “Fergive me fer making ye fret, Cameron. I was… I was…”

  “She was on her way to ye when I stopped her.” Tristan rose to his feet, a full head above Cam. “The fault is mine, so ’tis I who should ask yer—”

  “No,” Isobel warned him on a scathing breath. She would not let him weave his artful spell over Cam. “Come, Cameron,” she said, taking her brother’s arm, wanting to get him away from Tristan without anything else said between them. “We must pack fer our morning’s journey.”

  “Wait,” Tristan said, stopping her. “Ye’re leavin’ Whitehall?”

  The disappointment in his voice urged her to turn around and look at him one last time. “Aye, we are going home.”

  He broke his gaze away from hers, carefully shielding what she’d heard in his voice. His purpose had failed, at least with her.

  “Mister MacGregor.” She took a step toward him. “I would ask ye to grant me one thing before I go.”

  “What is it?”

  “I cannot persuade Alex to return with us. I ask ye to stay away from him. Please, do not speak to him at all and do not cause him any harm, no matter how troublesome he may become. Will ye grant me this?”

  He didn’t ask her why he should grant her anything at all. She didn’t think he would agree to her request and almost smiled at him when he looked at her again and nodded.

  “Of course, Miss Fergusson. Have I no’ already proven that to ye?”

  “Ye have.” She nodded. “But if ye should desire to speak to him…”

  “He is in nae danger from me. Ye have my solemn vow.”

  She left, feeling a bit better. She believed him. She didn’t know why, or if she was the biggest fool in England. But she believed him.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time we arrived,” Colin MacGregor told his kin in the privacy of the clan Chief’s guest bedchamber, “St. Christopher’s Abbey was engulfed in flames.”

  Tristan’s youngest brother had arrived at Whitehall an hour ago with Captain Connor Grant and his band of English soldiers. His appearance had, at first, brought joy to his parents’ faces, but when they realized that neither Rob nor any of the others in his party traveled with him, they grew concerned and fearful.

  Colin’s usual sedate tone did not change when he assured them that their brother Rob and the rest were safe and on their way back to Camlochlin, and then requested an urgent audience with the king a moment later.

  His request was denied, at least until his father heard first what had happened since Angus left them.

  “We rode on to Ayrshire to deliver Lady Montgomery to the sisters of Courlochcraig, but…”

  Watching Colin across the firelight, Tristan tried to discern what it was about his brother that had changed since the last time he’d seen him. Other than his generally scruffy appearance, Colin was the same unflappable, cocksure lad who had parted from his father’s company a fortnight ago. But now, an undercurrent of softness marked the unflinching timbre of his voice when—

  “… It turned out that Davina… that is, Lady Montgomery was not safe in Ayr either.”

  —he spoke of the lass Rob had rescued.

  Tristan smiled and reminded himself to tease Colin about his obvious infatuation later. Right now, though, he yawned at the whole tedious tale. His thoughts wandered, as they did more times during the day than he would ever admit, to Isobel. He tried to push her from his memory, since she’d left Whitehall a sennight ago, but she returned, plaguing him like an irksome nettle wedged in his boot, always there, always just beyond his reach, impossible to pluck out. Truly, he didn’t know why his days seemed less vibrant without her in them. He hardly knew her, but strangely he felt as if he’d been waiting for her all his life. She most certainly did not like him and he should not like her. But, hell, he did. He liked the feeling it gave him when he helped her, and she seemed to need a lot of aid—mostly with her brother, and with drunken Lowlanders. But there was more to be done if what she had told him about her life was true. And it wasn’t just his dusty sense of chivalry that drew him to her. He liked the fire in her temper and the pride in her step and the fact that she would not be easily seduced. He wanted to pursue her, catch her, and enjoy her. But even if winning her was somehow possible—he looked to where his mother sat—succeeding might cost him his kin.

  Kate Campbell didn’t give a rat’s arse if anyone approved of her son and the way he lived his life. She had told him once, after his aunt Maggie compared him to his older brother, that his passion sprang from a different source, and therefore led him on a separate path in search of it. But he hadn’t searched at all. It seemed, instead, that his path had found him.

  What would his mother think of him if he told her that the path to regaining his honor began with Isobel Fergusson? That mayhap, while he could not bring back the dead, he could heal the living and restore what he had helped to destroy.

  Aye, it was a quest his uncle would have been proud of. Tristan had started the feud between the MacGregors and the Fergussons. He wanted to be the one to end it.

  “Who is she?” Callum asked, jarring Tristan from his vexation. “What do the king of England’s enemies care aboot a novice of the order that they would burn doun her abbey and pursue her across the braes?”
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br />   Ah, now they were getting somewhere. His interest piqued, Tristan caught the anxious glance his best friend, Connor, tossed at Colin. A moment or two passed in silence with all ears perked.

  “I gave Rob my word to tell no one here who she is, including the king,” Captain Grant finally said. “But ye are his kin and ye should know the danger he is in. The danger I fear he may be bringing on Camlochlin.”

  Callum moved forward in his chair, as did Tristan. Rob putting Camlochlin in danger? It was difficult to believe.

  A short time later, while everyone else remained stunned in his or her seat after learning Lady Montgomery’s true identity, Callum bolted from his. “Pack yer things. We’re goin’ home.”

  • • •

  Isobel pushed a shrub out of her way after her careful inspection revealed it to be useless. She swiped her forearm across her brow and continued along the rocky riverbed. How long had he been searching for the vital addition to her garden? Four hours? Five? Every year her precious butterbur became harder to find. She had to keep looking, else it would be too late to replant. She needed it for her tea in the winter months when it became harder to breathe.

  What made her lonely quest more difficult was that Tristan MacGregor was with her almost every step of the way. He invaded her thoughts in the day and in the night, no matter what she was doing, no matter how hard she chased him away. She’d been afraid of him at Whitehall—afraid of what he wanted. Afraid of how he looked at her, as if he meant to possess her at any cost. Why would he want her? And why could she not put his kiss out of her thoughts?

  She hated him for haunting her, and in her mind she told him so, often. But he only smiled.

  It was a peculiar thing about his smile. At the palace, it always seemed to be lurking somewhere about his face, ready to shine forth and ravish the heart of anyone looking at it. Ah, the first two days spent with him, before she knew who he was, had been blissful indeed. His laughter made her forget everything else. He seemed to take such joy in simply living—though at times she was certain she saw a hint of melancholy carefully shielded behind the crook of his decadent mouth. What was his inner turmoil? Did he hate himself for being a rogue instead of being one of the men from his tales of chivalry? She almost laughed at the thought of him hating himself. Indeed, the man knew he was mesmerizing and wonderful. For a MacGregor, that is.

  Being away from him this last sennight had done nothing to lessen his effect on her. In fact, during Patrick’s tirade when she’d returned home without Alex, she had found the memory of his smile rather calming. It was careless and unshakable, as if nothing was bad enough to spoil his day—no matter how gloomy. She wished she possessed that kind of resolve.

  She pushed through four more shrubs and stabbed her finger on a prickly leaf. What did he have to be so happy about? Cursing, she brought her bloody finger to her lips and kicked Tristan from her thoughts for the thousandth time.

  She had to find the plant soon. Patrick needed her. Damn Alex anyway. He was a grown man, and she refused to worry over him. If he chose to leave his family for risk and adventure, there was nothing they could do. They would all split up his chores and make do without him.

  Would Tristan stop his savage family from cutting Alex down? Was Alex with Tristan right now, sharing ale and secrets with him in one of the king’s grand rooms? Dear God, she prayed that Tristan kept his word and did not try to befriend her brother.

  Ye’re a flame, Isobel. And a flame is more allurin’ than a pile of embers.

  She patted her cheeks with her palm and muttered an oath about Tristan’s wily tongue. “Go away from me now, ye bastard.” Hiking her skirts above her ankles, she trampled through the next line of bushes, determined to forget him.

  She spotted a dense patch of foliage in the distance and picked up her pace. Even if she could search tomorrow, she’d have to start from this point, hours away from her home. As she grew closer, one of the shrubs brought a thankful smile to her face. There it was, her miracle plant. Her mother had been giving her butterbur tea since she was a babe. Not too much and never dry, for it could harm the liver. Isobel never asked how her mother knew these things. Mothers just did. Oh, how Isobel missed her. But the plant was becoming scarce, and it frightened Isobel to think of her life without it. Ox-eye daisies could be used as well, but butterbur worked faster.

  She reached out to graze her fingers over one of its heart-shaped leaves, bigger than her entire hand. She’d need to dig up the—

  Her thoughts ended abruptly at the click of the pistol somewhere behind her head.

  “What are ye doing on m’ land, lady?”

  Isobel closed her eyes and willed herself not to scream. Who the hell would hear her? “I… I was just going to…”

  “Speak up!”

  She nearly leaped from her skin and instinctively turned around to face him. When she saw the man’s barrel aimed at her face, she caught a breath that felt like the last one in her body.

  “I need yer butterbur,” she said, trying to regain control over her breathing. “Please, lower yer pistol, sir.”

  He was old, likely in his fiftieth year. His skin was tanned and weathered with wrinkles. His hair was long, scarce, and oily. He squinted at her and then turned his head and spat something out of his mouth.

  “I have a… condition”—(her mother had taught her to never use the word sickness, lest others think her contagious)—“and the butterbur heals me. I have searched long fer it and have only found it here. I only need a small part to plant in my garden.”

  For a moment, he looked about to refuse and shoot her between the eyes. “Take it. Then be gone and dinna’ come back. I know ye are the sister of those three red-haired, demon-spawned Fergusson lads. If I see them near my horses again, I’ll shoot them dead.”

  Later, after Isobel returned home, she lingered over the small patch of freshly turned soil in her garden and admired her prize. Her feet were blistered, her hands lacerated, and she’d looked down the barrel of a pistol. But she had found it, and she would nurture it until it grew strong. Just as she had done with her brothers.

  As dusk settled over the glen she wiped her hands and spread her gaze over the violet-hued hills. She spotted her brothers bringing in the last of their sheep and raised her arm over her head. They all did the same and she smiled. They were all she had in the world. All she needed to be happy.

  That is, as long as no man ever kissed her again the way Tristan MacGregor had in the king’s Privy Garden.

  Chapter Ten

  It is not like you to be so dismal.” Kate MacGregor reined her horse in beside Tristan’s as they traveled home. “Why, you look as if your closest friend just fell to the sword.”

  Tristan glanced sideways at his mother. He could not tell her the truth about what was plaguing his thoughts. Alex Fergusson was not his closest friend. In fact, Tristan didn’t care for him at all, but that hadn’t stopped him from fearing for the fool’s life ever since they left Whitehall. “I was thinkin’ of Mairi and Colin,” he told her instead. It wasn’t really an untruth. “D’ye think ’twas wise to let them remain in England?”

  “Aye, your father believes they will be safer there for now with Connor and the rest of the king’s army. If, heaven forbid, Camlochlin is attacked by the king’s enemies, your brother and sister would be the first to join in the battle.”

  Tristan nodded, knowing she was correct. His younger siblings loved the sword as much as Rob loved the land. Neither of them would think twice about skewering Alex Fergusson to one of Whitehall’s painted walls if he insulted the MacGregors in their presence. Hell, Isobel would never forgive him.

  “I should have remained in England with them.” When Tristan realized he had spoken aloud, he flashed his mother a quick grin. “Alone, Connor doesna’ stand a chance against Mairi.”

  Kate rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed, lightening Tristan’s mood. “I think the captain can take care of himself without your help.”

  �
��Aye, but Mairi is his weakness.”

  “True,” his mother conceded. “But it is Colin who concerns me more. He seemed to take a liking to the king. I fear he might find himself more suited to a life in the English army, as Connor did.”

  “The captain had little choice; he has Stuart blood.”

  Tristan looked up to find that his father had slowed his mount until they caught up with him.

  “Colin is a MacGregor,” Callum continued when they reached him. His formidable gaze settled on Tristan first, then softened on his wife. “He’ll never leave Camlochlin to stand with the English.”

  Tristan’s graceful smile was tinged with shadows of his boyhood, when both he and his father first began to understand that Tristan was not at all like the rest of his rough-and-ready clan, but rather sought to emulate ancient ideals he had learned from books.

  “I’ve nae intention of standin’ with the English when I leave Camlochlin, faither,” Tristan reminded him for the hundredth time. “I simply want to live my own life.”

  “In Glen Orchy,” Callum pointed out as if Tristan didn’t know.

  Tristan shrugged. “Mother’s home is mine by my birthright. ’Tis the only thing that may ever be mine.”

  “Our clan is yers.”

  Hell, Tristan thought, looking away. Why did his father fight so hard to keep him at home? His indiscriminate attraction to the fairer sex had brought as much trouble to Camlochlin in the past several years as Callum’s had in his outlaw days. His father should be glad to be rid of him.

  “Ye belong at home, Tristan.”

  Did he? “Campbell Keep is my home, as well. The men who help me restore the keep may bring their families and stay with me.”

  Callum turned his gaze north and remained silent long enough for Tristan to shift beneath the weight of things he wanted to say, but couldn’t.