by Paula Quinn
She knew she should leave right then, when she felt the smile creeping over her mouth. She should run back to her brothers, but she couldn’t seem to move her feet. Somewhere deep inside her, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
“Now ye have my gratitude.”
“Fer what?” Isobel granted him only half her attention and the rest to the lanterns lighting their path. “It was simply exasperation ye saw on my face. The way one might grimace while beseeching God to grant one patience. I am afraid ye mistook what ye saw fer something it was not.”
She could feel his eyes on her like brands, willing her to look at him. “Ye are so refreshin’ to me, Isobel. Ye are like no one I have ever met before, and I—”
She heard the footsteps to her left, but she hardly had time to register that they were no longer alone. She should have run. One moment, he was speaking to her as smoothly as the serpent spoke to Eve, and the next, she was in his arms, bent slightly backward over the crook of his elbow and gaping up at his face—his extremely close face. She drew back and opened her mouth to demand he release her, but her words were swallowed up by his lips covering hers. Horrified at first, Isobel tried to pummel his chest with her fists, but her attempts to break free of him only seemed to ignite his ardor. Pulling her closer, he crushed her to him, devouring her with a kiss that drew the breath from her trembling body. His lips molded and teased. His tongue stroked and tasted every inch of her until she felt her will to resist him abandon her. When he finally pulled back, Isobel’s breath came hard and heavy. He smiled, looking quite pleased with himself despite his own labored breath and the smoky remnants of desire burning his eyes.
“That was clo—”
The remainder of his words were cut off by her swift slap across his face. But Isobel wasn’t satisfied and slapped him a second time. She stared at him while he lifted his fingers to the sting in his cheek. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She wasn’t even sure if her tingling lips could form the curses he deserved to hear.
She finally did run then, and she didn’t stop until she reached her chamber and bolted the door behind her.
Oh, dear God, he had kissed her. Tristan MacGregor had kissed her, and it was wonderful.
Chapter Six
Tristan left Lady Elizabeth Sutherland with a curse on his lips and headed across the court to the lawns. He was angry with himself, but he had Isobel to blame for his sudden—and a bit frightening—lack of interest in the fairer sex. It didn’t matter that she had avoided him like the plague since their kiss in the garden, completely ignoring him at the coronation yesterday. She haunted his every waking moment, and his dreams, as well. Why? Was it the refreshing resistance she offered to his most practiced advances that piqued his interest? Or the succulent flame of her tongue that left him aching for more?
When he’d heard the footsteps in the garden that night and had seen who it was, he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her to keep her hidden from her brother’s eyes. He would have told her so if she hadn’t slapped him. His face pained him for two days, but tasting her was worth it.
Mayhap it was the long-forgotten path he saw in her eyes, tempting him toward it once again. She had pointed out virtues he hadn’t realized he possessed until now—wee remnants of his once-longed-for destination that were so ingrained in him, they came as second nature. It was why he didn’t pick up his blade unless he was forced to, why he always spoke the truth, unless it was cruel to do so, and why he always found himself offering his aid to a lass, in whatever capacity she required.
His bonnie Iseult had shown him a path that led to honor. But did he still want it? Could he still attain it? He tried not to think on it too much.
Instead, he found himself smiling often during the day, recalling the trouble Isobel had in fathoming why he had sought her out above all the lasses in attendance for a walk in the garden. Hell, she’d accused him of every reason but the correct one. It was as if she wasn’t aware of how delightful she was—which only made him want to tell her, show her, all the more.
“Tristan!”
His thoughts of Isobel shattered at the high-pitched voice rushing his way.
“Lady FitzSimmons.” Tristan smiled, his boots clicking past her as he hurried onward.
“Where are ye off to?” she cooed, capturing him by the arm, her batting black lashes offering more than just her company.
“To the tilting yard,” he said, trying to disengage himself from her and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. “My kin await me there.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him with renewed interest. “Are you competing then? I’ve never seen a Highlander fight before.”
“Nae, just observin’.”
“I am heading that way myself. You may escort me, if you wish.”
“Of course.” He offered her a bland smile, wishing to be rid of her sooner, rather than later.
The walk across Whitehall’s vast grounds proved to be every bit as tedious in Lady FitzSimmons’s company as Tristan had feared. She was familiar with most of the people strolling about and shared with him their names and every bit of gossip she’d heard of them. Which, disturbingly, was a lot. He was glad when he finally found his kin watching the competition from just beyond the short fence. He broke away from his admirer’s talons with a hasty farewell.
“Lady Hollingsworth was lookin’ fer ye,” Mairi said, making room for him between her and her father. “That is her husband on the field.” She pointed over the fence to the man Tristan already knew, leaning against a post and sharpening his blade.
Tristan threw his sister a dry scowl. “Yer concern fer me is touchin’, Mairi. But I have nae interest in Lady Hollingsworth or in who her husband is.”
“Tristan, why don’t you compete?” His mother smiled at him across the span of her husband’s chest. “Graham already gave his mark.”
“And ye, faither?” Tristan asked, glancing at him. “Ye’re no’ takin’ this opportunity to smash a few English skulls?”
“If the right head presents itself, I might.”
“You absolutely will not!” Kate MacGregor pinched her husband’s arm. “This is a friendly competition and you, my dearest beloved, do not know how to fight cordially.”
Tristan turned back to the field and the two challengers readying to fight. Without the rage of finding his wife in the arms of another man, Lord Hollingsworth was a bit clumsy with his sword. Eventually though, the force behind his blows wore down his opponent.
Dull.
Tristan’s eyes scanned the many faces encircling the field; more than half of them smiled back. He could have almost any woman in attendance with the right amount of charm, the carefully chosen words that came to him on pure instinct alone. But since he met Isobel, every coy smile cast his way by the ladies he had previously found so appealing blended into the same powdery, lifeless face. Saints help him, but how could he find pleasure in the bland when he’d had a sample of such alluring spice? Worse, how could wanting one lass keep him from wanting any others?
The next competitors were announced, and when he heard his sister mutter an oath, he returned his attention to the field.
Alex Fergusson stared at him from the large enclosure, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and murder in his eyes. “I have a request!” he shouted, holding up his hands to silence the crowd. “I wish to call to the field someone other than my opponent.”
Immediately, Tristan closed his eyes, knowing what was coming next.
“Tristan MacGregor! Let us finish here, on a fair stage, what ye once began.”
Was he drunk? Tristan smiled coolly and shook his head. “We already finished it, Alex. Ye won. Ye broke my nose.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Isobel shoving her way to the perimeter of the fence. Hell.
“And I will break it again if you have the courage to step inside.”
“Alex!” she shouted at him. His only acknowledgment was a swift, dark warning for her to remain silent.
“Come on, ye co
ward. Or should I call your murdering father to fight me? Let us see how skilled he is without his claymore.”
Tristan stepped forward before his father did. “I have it,” he said, turning to him and thinking how quickly Alex would find himself down and possibly dead if Tristan let them fight.
He stepped into the enclosure and met Isobel’s terrified gaze. Damn Alex for putting her through this. “No swords,” he called out to the officials, then looked across the field at his opponent. “We will end it the same way we started it.”
Alex nodded and came at him, fists flying. Tristan blocked three punches with relative ease and ducked to avoid a fourth. They separated for a moment and then Alex rushed forward again. Tristan could fight with any weapon, thanks to his father’s careful training, but it was his uncle who had taught him to fight with his hands—and his elbows. He brought one into Alex’s nose now with cracking authority and watched, mildly satisfied, as blood shot forth in every direction.
His father cheered. Isobel covered her face in her hands. It was over. “Ye have my thanks fer lettin’ me even the score, Alex,” Tristan told him and began to turn away.
“Not just yet,” Alex called out, catching a sword from a Lowland onlooker.
“Dinna’ be a fool,” Tristan warned. “Choose to quit while ye can still hold up yer head.”
Alex swung the blade around in front of him, looking quite awkward and out of practice. Tristan looked heavenward and shook his head.
Isobel’s brother did not come at him with fury the way Lord Hollingsworth had. His swings were slower, but the weapon gave him the boldness to advance. Callum tossed him his sword, and when Tristan scooped it off the ground he heard Isobel cry out his name. He had no intention of killing the fool. She would never forgive him for that. He only meant to stop Alex before he was injured.
Unlike his competitor’s, Tristan’s blade danced in his hands and flashed beneath the sun. They both swung at the same time, and Alex lost his balance at the force of Tristan’s strike. Patiently, Tristan waited for him to straighten and ready himself again. The moment he did, Tristan brought his claymore down in a chopping, grinding blow that sent sparks through the air. Over and over, Alex found no defense against him. A dozen times, Tristan could have easily cut him, but not once did he do so. Instead, he sent Alex to his knees before him, metal tangled in metal, until with one swift twist of his wrist, Tristan disengaged the hilt from Alex’s fingers and the sword fell harmlessly to the grass.
The crowd cheered, while some called out to him to finish the deed with blood. Tristan found Isobel’s gaze and bowed slightly, letting her know his mercy was for her sake.
He left the enclosure and handed his father back his sword.
“Well done,” the Chief said, smacking him on the back. Tristan was pleased and a bit surprised that his father was not among those calling for blood.
His eyes found Isobel across the perimeter, standing with her bloody-nosed brother. He couldn’t hear what it was she was telling him, but she looked angry enough to set his nose and then break it again herself. She sent him off with her brother Cameron and then turned to meet Tristan’s gaze. She tipped her head to him as if offering him thanks for not hurting Alex, then left the fence.
“There is Lady Hartley,” Tristan told his kin and hurried off before anyone had a chance to look.
He kept his pace steady until Isobel reached the line of trees in the garden. He caught up with her quickly once they were out of sight of either of their families.
Her steps were quick and light, her cool green gaze fixed straight ahead, with no intention of sparing him the briefest glance.
He wasn’t about to have that. “Greetings, Miss Fergusson.” He stepped into her path, blocking her from moving forward. “I was afraid ye had left this morn withoot biddin’ me farewell.”
When she looked around at him, his gaze dipped to the heavy rise and fall of her bosom beneath her kirtle, her creamy flesh pulsing with the rhythm of his checked breath. He wanted to taste her there.
“My brothers are expecting me. Let me by, please.”
He looked up unrepentantly and moved aside. “Are ye still angry aboot me kissin’ ye, then?” he asked, picking up his pace beside her. “I only did it to—”
“Ye have my gratitude for not killing my foolish brother, but never speak of kissing me again or it will be my fist in yer face.”
“Hell, I didna’ think ’twas that vile.” He held back the smile trying to creep over his lips when she stopped and turned to him, green eyes blazing.
“Exactly how vile did ye think it was?”
Ah, there was the fire he was after. A lesser, more cowardly man would have politely bowed out of the battle he’d foolishly entered. But Tristan forged ahead, driven toward her like a parched traveler who’d discovered a garden in the arid dunes. “I’m thinkin’ ’twas yer first time, so ’twas understandable that it might be lackin’ just a wee bit.”
She tilted her chin up at him, her plump, shapely lips drawing in a shallow breath that flared her nostrils and stiffened her shoulders. She reminded Tristan of an untamed mare that would never tire, and he drenched his vision in the glorious sight of her. “I’d find it a pleasure, quite possibly beyond what I could endure, to help ye become better at it.”
She was about to slap his face, mayhap keep her word and punch it if the crimson of her cheeks was any indication. “I would rather be hurled into a vat of hot tar than ever have yer mouth on mine again. I hated it, just as I hate ye, MacGregor.”
“My name is Tristan,” he said, wanting her to see the man she had seen in the garden when they first met. “And if we had no’ been interrupted the other night, I would have told ye that I dinna’ approve of what our kin have done.”
She laughed, but the sound of it left only anger drifting across the damp courtyard. “Ye are the son of the Devil.”
“But I was reared by another man.”
She did not hear him, or mayhap she did and she didn’t care. Her lips hooked into a knowing sneer. “Whatever dark purpose ye have in trying to win my favor, let us be clear here and now; ye will never succeed.”
Tristan guessed she was correct. It would take more time than they had at Whitehall to woo her to his bed. He understood now why he wanted her there so badly. He wanted to feel her passion beneath him, hostile and hot atop him, purring with delight while she rode him. His dark purpose? Indeed, it was always his ultimate goal when he saw a desirable lass. Isobel was no different.
But she was. She hated him for who he was, not for who he was whispered to be. For the first time he wasn’t certain he could change someone’s opinion of him, but he was determined to try.
“Isobel”—he closed his fingers around her wrist, stopping her when she turned to go—“is wantin’ to convince ye that I’m no’ the savage ye think I am a dark purpose?”
“It is when I ask myself why ye would want to convince me of anything at all,” she shot back. “We are enemies. Nothing ye say or do will ever change that truth.”
“Mayhap it will,” he argued, the words spilling from his mouth before he had time to consider them; “mayhap you and I are the ones who can finally bring an end to all the hatred and pain.”
She eyed him with a quizzical quirk of her brow and one corner of her mouth. “Ye offer yer aid, yet again.”
“Aye,” he vowed.
“Ye would have me believe that ye truly care about such a thing?”
He did care, and for more reasons than he could ever tell her. “Ye will believe it if ye give me a chance to prove it to ye.”
She laughed and tugged her wrist loose. “By becoming lovers?”
This time, he let her pass him. “By becoming friends.”
She stopped, and as she turned, Tristan didn’t know what reaction to expect from her. Mentally, he prepared himself for whatever was coming.
In the golden light filtering through the trees, she stood draped in waves of burnished fire and flushed cheeks
. But this living flame had a core carved of ice. “That would require trust, and ye will never gain mine. In fact”—she took a step toward him, her hands fisted at her sides—“I find the idea that ye think ye can offensive. It proves to me that ye have no understanding of what yer kin have taken from mine.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off. “Ye speak of hatred and pain, but ye did not have to watch yer brother dig a hole big enough to lay yer father in. Yer sister never had to worry over what her siblings would eat from meal to meal, or lie awake at night afraid fer their safety because yer clan abandoned them after they were left with a boy as their Chieftain. How many times do rival clans who know ye have no defense attack yer home and destroy what yer hands have bled over? Yer kin did not take my father’s life alone. They robbed me of mine and of my brothers’, as well. How much more do ye want?”
His reply was immediate and spoken with a sincerity he had offered to only a few before her. “Fergive me. My intentions are no’ to trivialize the loss ye suffered, but to prove to ye that there’s a MacGregor who thinks another way.”
She stepped back as he moved toward her, the smolder of her eyes fading into cool disregard. “If ye speak the truth, than ye betray yer clan in a far deeper way than by speaking to me. Why would I want a ‘friend’ who holds no allegiance to his own kin?”
She didn’t wait for his answer but turned and left him alone and staring after her as she hiked up her skirts and stormed all the way back to the stairs of the upper gallery.
For the first time in Tristan’s life, words escaped him; right ones, wrong ones, any words at all. How the hell had he just become the scum on the soles of her shoes? Not that he wasn’t already. He wanted to go after her, to tell her she was wrong about him. He was not betraying his clan. If anyone, he was betraying himself by always trying to deny who he had been born to become.
He wanted to strip her of this image she had of him slashing away at the helpless, laughing as his victims’ lifeblood soaked the ground. He was not that man. His kin were not those men. He could convince her if he had a few more weeks with her, mayhap a month. It would be difficult, Tristan knew, and he smiled up at the gallery. What quest for honor was ever easy?