by Paula Quinn
Chapter Seven
Instead of going directly to her brother’s chamber, Isobel entered the Banqueting House. Let Alex tend to himself. This time, he had gone too far. Was he trying to get more of their small family killed? Oh, wait until she told Patrick what he had done. Should she even tell Patrick? He had enough to do at home without worrying over their rash, reckless brother. She was busy cursing Alex when she walked straight into a thick muscular arm.
“Ye’re Patrick Fergusson’s sister, aye?”
Isobel looked up into a pair of bloodshot eyes and a red bushy beard speckled with bits of food. His thick chest blocked her view of a third of the king’s guests.
“I am John Douglas,” he said, looping his beefy forearm around her shoulder and herding her to a less crowded area. “I’ve seen ye with Patrick at the market in Dumfries. Is he here?”
“I regret, he is not.” Isobel smiled politely and slipped away from his grasp. “But my other—”
“Duncan!” the husky Lowlander called out, capturing her elbow in his palm to stop her. “Have a look at who just dropped into my arms.” As his friend approached, his grin as wide as the gaping holes in his mouth, John Douglas tossed his arm around her again and dipped his face to hers. “Best tell Duncan yer name, lass. He’ll be wantin’ to recall it tomorrow, I’m certain.”
Isobel coughed at the stench of ale saturating Mister Douglas’s breath as it fell over her. The hair along her nape rose as his arm snaked tighter around her, keeping her close. A sense of danger swept over her. Instinctively, she looked around for help. None of the king’s other guests looked overly interested in her predicament, and even if they were, Isobel didn’t think any one of them would risk a fight with these two. Douglas and his companion might be too soused to wield a sword with any precision, but they were big, and a swinging fist could likely break a jaw.
“Speak up now, little one.” Duncan inched toward her. “We won’t bite.”
Isobel glared at his toothless leer. Truly, she didn’t want to start something her brothers might have to finish, but she wasn’t about to let these two ill-bred swine see her squirm. “I’ve nae doubt about that.” Plucking Douglas’s arm from her shoulder, she stepped away. “If ye will pardon me…”
Fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her yet again. This time, though, she was yanked rather forcefully back into John Douglas’s chest. “Nae, I don’t think I will. How about ye, Duncan?” he asked, turning to his companion. “Will ye pardon the bonnie Miss Fergusson?”
Duncan shook his head, his hungry gaze spilling over the swell of her breasts. “Mayhap we can persuade her to come back to our chambers.”
“John Douglas!”
Isobel’s captor swung around, bringing her with him to meet Tristan’s amiable smile.
Isobel wasn’t sure if she was happy to see him. She didn’t want to be. She wanted to continue hating him, but it was proving more difficult each time he came to her rescue. She’d lost too much because of his family, and it angered her that he believed that if they became friends, all crimes could be forgiven. His kiss that night in the garden had nearly swayed her opinion of him. But she’d put away all memories of his mouth on hers. Or at least, she had tried to. Tristan MacGregor’s mouth was not an easy thing to forget. The supple fullness of his lips as they fell against hers, the hunger of his tongue, dashing her resolve to pieces with the barest lick.
Never again. She would never again give in to his manly wiles. He was used to getting what he wanted from women, and as she’d suspected, he wanted more from her than a kiss. He wanted her “friendship,” even her trust. Mayhap he wanted her secrets, but he would never learn them.
“Last I heard,” Tristan said jauntily, moving closer to her captor, “auld Martin MacRae shot ye dead when he caught ye sneakin’ oot of his daughter’s bedroom window.”
Douglas eyed him narrowly. “Gossip travels far, MacGregor.”
Tristan’s dimple deepened. “Aye, it does.”
“He got me in the arse,” Douglas finally admitted, obviously not feeling at all threatened by Tristan’s jovial demeanor. “But ye know us Douglases; we don’t stay down fer long.”
Isobel cursed him when Tristan laughed and gave the brute’s shoulder a hearty whack. She should have guessed these savages were friends. MacGregor wasn’t here to offer his aid, but likely to join in whatever they had planned for her.
“My kin will be pleased to hear it.” Tristan’s gaze skimmed over her without a trace of recognition. “A drink.” He flashed Duncan a wide, white grin. “To celebrate our hardy Scottish constitutions.”
Before Duncan had a chance to reply—which Isobel was certain would have been a resounding aye—Tristan raised his arm to a nearby server and plucked two cups from the tray. He handed one to Duncan, the other to John Douglas, whose tight grip on Isobel loosened just a bit. The last cup he took for himself.
“And to the king’s fine wine.” Tristan lifted his cup in salute. The other two agreed and merrily followed suit when Tristan tossed back his head and swigged the full contents of his cup.
He was fascinating to watch, really, Isobel had to admit to herself as he swiped his sleeve across another of his dashing smiles. There had been a moment, just as Tristan’s cup reached his lips, when his heavy-lidded gaze met hers. Beyond the shadows of his long lashes, his eyes twinkled with purpose and the confidence to carry it out. Was his purpose to get soused with these two fools and drag her off to a place where no one would hear her screams? No. Considering him while he quaffed his drink, she didn’t think so. He’d done nothing but offer her his aid from the moment they met. She didn’t want to believe that he was truly the most gallant man she had ever met. She much preferred thinking of him as the serpent-tongued rogue that all the other ladies at court knew him to be. But she would be a fool to refuse his aid at the present moment. She would not thank him again, though.
“Perfection.”
The husky cadence of his voice settled over her nerve endings like an intimate touch, making her cheeks flush as if he’d spoken the word to and about her.
“Another round, brothers!” His robust tone returned, Tristan snatched up three more cups and handed them out. “This time we drink to the king’s fine guests.”
Isobel’s face burned hotter. She could feel his eyes on her singeing through her shift and kirtle.
The men drained their cups again and John Douglas swayed on his feet as he turned his glossy gaze on her. “Ye’ll be sorely disappointed that ye wasted yer toast on this one, MacGregor. She’s Patrick Fergusson’s sister.”
Tristan’s smile finally faded and Isobel swore that if he said something crass about her brother she would kick him in the kneecaps and to hell with the consequences.
“Patrick Fergusson, ye say?” Tristan cast the two brutes a worried look and took a step back from her. “Och, Douglas, ye have more courage than I handling that bastard’s sister the way ye are.”
Douglas laughed, but when he spoke his voice was hushed with alarm. “Why d’ye say that?”
“Did ye no’ hear aboot what he did to Jamie Mackenzie after the poor lad tried to kiss her?”
Who in blazes was Jamie Mackenzie?
“Ye know we MacGregors dinna’ fear anyone,” Tristan went on, looking around as if he expected Patrick to materialize out of the crowd, “but after Fergusson took his axe to ten Mackenzies while they slept…”
“While they slept?” Duncan’s voice rose, his gaze taking on a hollow look.
“Hacked them to pieces in their beds fer takin’ liberties with the lass when he wasna’ with her. Is that no’ correct, Miss Fergusson?”
Isobel gave him her most scathing glare—which he ignored.
“I’ll wager a dozen sheep that she didna’ tell either of ye poor fools aboot the trail of blood and guts that followed Patrick all the way back to his homestead that unholy night. Did she tell ye that he cut the lips off Jamie’s face and keeps them in a pouch around his neck?”
>
Duncan, looking a bit green around his jowls, shook his head and stepped back, closer to Tristan. “Ye’d best let go of her, John.”
John Douglas began to sweat. A warm droplet spilled onto Isobel’s wrist, still clutched in his fingers. She looked at it, feeling a bit ill herself. If the brute didn’t release her in the next instant, she was going to snatch his dagger from his belt and plunge it into his arm.
“I admit,” Douglas said shakily, “I did manhandle the lass a wee bit.” Fresh beads glistened at his pale temples. “Think ye he’ll come after me fer that?”
Taking pity on him, Tristan rested his hand on John’s shoulder. “No’ if ye do as I say.”
“I’d be in yer debt, MacGregor.”
“Of course. What kind of friend would I be to allow yer faither and mother, and most likely yer sisters as well, to be hacked to shreds by a madman?” While Douglas pondered the horrific thought, Tristan snaked his arm around John’s shoulder, drawing him closer. At the same time, he reached out his free hand, plucked Isobel from her captor’s grip, and moved her behind him. He did it all quickly and with the fluid grace of a dancer exchanging partners on the floor.
“Here is what ye shall do.” While he spoke, he gathered Duncan under his other arm. “Leave the palace tonight. Both of ye, before she tells her two other brothers what ye’ve done, aye? Good!” He grinned when they nodded nervously and gave them each a heavy whack between their shoulder blades, almost sweeping their unsteady feet from under them and making their chests collide. “Have a merry journey, lads!”
Cupping Isobel’s elbow in his palm, he led her away into the crowd, looking quite pleased with himself.
Briefly, Isobel pondered snatching up another cup from a passing server and smashing it over her rescuer’s head.
Chapter Eight
As much as I would enjoy hearing yer clever tongue fail ye at my brothers’ reproach”—Isobel tried to yank her elbow free of Tristan’s hold—“I do not want to suffer the same if they return to the hall and see us together.”
“Then let’s go somewhere they willna’ see us.” He spun right, toward the entryway of the Banqueting House, pulling her with him. He paused momentarily and swayed on his feet, then shook his head as if to clear it.
“Ye are as bad as Douglas and his friend,” Isobel said through clenched teeth when he tugged her along.
“Probably worse, but I think ye already suspect that.”
She gave the back of his head a black look and a nod as he led her out of the house. His steps were quick and light across the gallery, and twice she glanced over her shoulder to see if either of her brothers was following.
“Let me go! Ye are going to get us all killed!”
“Nonsense, I—” He paused again and gripped the heavy banister.
Isobel peered down the long staircase and thought about kicking him the rest of the way down. “Ye are drunk.”
“A sacrifice I was willin’ to make fer ye.” He tossed her a wink over his shoulder and continued down.
“I did not need yer aid.”
He remained quiet this time, having the decency, at least, not to refute her claim or laugh in her face. The blatant intent in John Douglas’s eyes churned her stomach. At some point, before the brute dragged her into some dark corner of the palace, with his drooling companion close behind, she would have had to call out for aid. God only knew what would have happened then. Still, being hauled to the outer courtyard with Tristan MacGregor was no better. Why, then, didn’t she feel afraid? At least, not for her physical safety. He was after something from her and, as he’d proven moments earlier, he did not need to use force or threats to get what he wanted. It was his sorcerer’s tongue she had to guard against, the dash of playfulness and the hint of humility in his wicked smile that tempted her to like him despite who he was.
“There now,” he spoke softly as they stepped into the cool afternoon. His hand was warm and much bigger than hers when it slipped down her forearm and closed around her fingers. His touch was intimate and bold at the same time, heating Isobel’s blood and her temper. “Is this no’ better than bein’ bunched within four walls with a dozen faces ye dinna’ know?”
“Ye seem to enjoy a crowd,” she said rigidly, pulling her hand away and keeping carefully hidden the effect that being alone with him was having on her nerves.
“No’ always.”
Oh, aye, and that trace of vulnerability that sometimes rose to the surface of his voice as unexpectedly as a summer downpour… was it all part of his spell?
Isobel forbade herself to look at him. “If ye dare try to kiss me again, I shall set ye on yer knees.”
“I’ve nae doubt about that.” His deep laughter fanned a swarm of dragonflies in her belly. “The taste of yer mouth nearly dropped me to the ground the first time. But ye have my word that I only wish to speak with ye.”
A proposal already proven to be just as perilous.
“I am not as easily swayed as yer last two adversaries, MacGregor.”
“Thank God fer that,” he murmured under his breath and picked up his steps. When she didn’t immediately follow, he stopped and turned to her, his smile soft and mesmerizing in the sunlight. “Come on with ye now, lass. Sit with me by the gate, fer if I dinna’ take a seat soon, I may break my nose again when I fall to my face in a drunken stupor.”
When she still didn’t move either toward him or back to the stairs, he headed for the bench without her, calling out as he went, “I know ye’re afraid of my kin, but ye have nothin’ to fear from me.”
She hiked up her skirts and as she marched past him, muttered, “I do not fear any MacGregor.” When she reached the bench, she spun on her heel and dropped her rump down hard on the stone. She stared at his less passionate approach and then looked away when he slid down beside her.
“And to clarify,” she told him stiffly and a bit short of breath, “my brother Patrick would never hack families to pieces in their sleep. That was a terrible thing to say.”
“Fer men like John Douglas and his friend,” he said, resting his head against the gate behind them, “fear earns respect.”
“Well, Patrick is nothing like ye portrayed him.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “He is kind and serious, and deeply devoted to our family. He works our land day and night and has kept us alive fer ten years.”
“He sounds much like my brother Rob.” He looked about to say more but went a little green. “The clouds are spinnin’.”
“Mayhap it would help if ye were not staring up at them.”
He dipped his head forward and offered her a thankful smile.
Isobel shifted her gaze. “What kind of Highlander cannot hold his drink?”
“The kind who prefers to keep his wits sharp.”
“And yet,” she turned to cast him her own rapier smile, just to remind him that he sat with no swooning halfwit, “here ye sit as dull as a wilted petal.”
“That should count fer something, aye?” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back once again. “Fer ye alone would I sacrifice my good senses.”
Looking at him, Isobel shook her head with disbelief. How did he manage to shrug off every insult she threw at him as if his skin was made of stone? And she was wrong about him. He was no wilted petal. Even muddleheaded, he brandished his tongue with finesse.
“Do ye speak these kinds of pretty words to all the ladies ye meet, or do ye spare them fer me alone, as well?”
“I speak the truth—most of the time,” he claimed without opening his eyes. “Unless ’tis more merciful no’ to.”
“How benevolent of ye.”
He laughed softly at her dry tone but said nothing more.
Given the opportunity to look at him when he wouldn’t notice her staring, Isobel’s eyes grazed over a profile such as Michelangelo probably dreamed about when he sculpted David. Her gaze slipped slowly over the rest of him sprawled across the bench like a languid prince waiting to be served. By God, t
here was so much to examine… and admire. His chest rose and fell slowly beneath a gauzy white shirt, cut to fit his firm physique to perfection. Spread over his flat belly, his fingers were broad and lean and fashioned for dexterity. His covered legs stretched out before him, extending far beyond her own.
“Why do ye not wear yer plaid like the others?” she asked him before she could stop herself. “Are ye not proud of yer heritage—even though ye are a MacGregor?” She said the last letting him hear the distaste in her mouth.
“I’m happy to be who I am, a MacGregor and a Campbell combined.”
Aye, he was the late Earl of Argyll’s nephew. She had almost let herself forget that. Not wanting the conversation to head in that direction, she veered off into another. “And what kind of name is Tristan fer a Highlander anyway? According to your story of King Arthur, it is an English name.”
He opened his eyes and quirked his mouth at her. “ ’Tis a knightly name.”
She quirked her mouth right back at him. “Why ever then did yer mother give it to ye?”
His smile widened into a grin. It was quite irritating.
“My name was taken from the Prose Tristan, the true tale of Malory’s Tristan and Iseult in Le Morte d’ Arthur. ’Twas my mother’s favorite tale when she was a child. She and my uncle read it to me often. Would ye like me to tell it to ye?”
“I would not,” she told him, looking away. Heavens, but he was peculiar. What kind of rascal, who by his own admission cared little about the consequences of his deeds, held knightly deeds in such esteem? “I am not at all interested,” she lied.
“ ’Tis the story of a legendary knight and the lady he loved and how he betrayed his beloved king.” He sat up straighter, seeming a bit more clearheaded. “I havena’ thought of that tale fer many years, though my name reminds me of it each day.” He smiled to himself and then, as if remembering she was there, blinked at her. “Now that I remember it,” he said softly, his smile fading, “ ’tis a story I dinna’ think ye’d enjoy after all. The endin’ is tragic.”