by Paula Quinn
“I dinna’ understand why ye want to leave,” his father finally said. “I confess I understand ye even less.”
Aye, Tristan was aware that the loneliness of no one’s truly knowing him was his own fault. He’d always found it easier to misdirect and confound his father, rather than tell him the truth—that as a boy, he’d often wished Robert Campbell had fathered him. It wasn’t because he didn’t love the man riding beside him, or that his father didn’t love him. They were blood, and nothing could destroy that, but that was all they had in common.
“I love Camlochlin,” Tristan said, wanting from someplace deep within to prove to his father that they were not so different after all. “But I belong in Glen Orchy.” It was the truth and the only one he could give for now.
From atop a windswept crest, Tristan fixed his gaze on the castle carved from the black mountains behind it, its jagged turrets piercing the mist. Camlochlin. An impenetrable fortress built by a clever warrior determined to keep his kin safe from their enemies. Would it be enough to hold off the Dutch should they come looking for Lady Montgomery?
Watching his father flick his reins and thunder into the vale, Tristan pitied any army that came here. He pitied his brother, as well. Hell, he might have kissed a Fergusson, but Rob had brought Davina Montgomery to Camlochlin, and mayhap an enemy army with her.
Meeting her a short while later helped Tristan understand Rob’s reckless decision to bring her here. She was enchantingly beautiful, with pale, damp locks draping her slender shoulders and enormous silvery blue eyes that grew even wider when she nearly careened into him on her way to meet his parents. He guessed almost instantly that Rob loved her. It would be easy for any man to lose his heart, mayhap even his mind, to such a guileless smile. It had happened countless times in history, according to the tales in his books, tales he had found himself recalling more over the past several weeks, of faithful knights swaying from their duties, even betraying their kings, all for the love of a lass. Tristan had never thought the tales untrue, but he’d been with countless women and never fallen in love with any of them. And he never would. He would never open his heart to such a powerful emotion again. He had already lost the most important person in his life, and it had destroyed him. For ten years he had kept himself apart from everyone else, never allowing anyone to get too close to him. Why would he be so foolish as to risk losing someone he loved again?
He certainly would never allow himself to love a lass his kin hated. He was fond of Isobel Fergusson, but that was all. She was a greater challenge to win than any lass before her. Everything she had lost in her life—everything his kin had lost—was his fault, and he wanted to make it right. Aye, the more he thought about it, the more he needed to do it.
There was a choice to be made. One that could change his destiny yet again. The path was set before him, and it was about damned time that he followed it. If he failed, he would be no worse off. He would lose nothing he hadn’t already given up. But if he succeeded…
“You have the blood of knights in you and will grow to be a man of honor.”
He would not fail, for he had his uncle urging him on.
Tristan knew Rob would again find favor in their father’s eyes. Colin, too, even after the latter returned to Camlochlin with the king of England and a small army at his back. There would be no such hope for Tristan if anyone discovered where he was going the morning he left Camlochlin. Not that anyone would search for him during his absence. He was the restless son, the reckless one, who did what he wanted and damn the consequences. It was not unlike him to go off alone seeking to wreak havoc on another poor lass.
It was simply… Tristan.
Passing the cliffs of Elgol, he didn’t turn back. He never did when he left on one of his journeys. It was always easier to leave than to try to fit in.
Mayhap, with Isobel’s help, he could change that too.
Chapter Eleven
Take back what ye said!”
John Fergusson swung his bow to his shoulder and drew back his arrow. “Why should I when it is true?” He aimed at the skin nailed to the tree fifty meters away, shot, and turned to grin at his brothers. He never saw the small rock coming straight at his head. Only the vast sky filled his vision when he opened his eyes a moment later—that, and young Tamas’s crown of red hair and unrepentant scowl.
“Next time,” said Tamas, “I’ll use a bigger stone.”
“What the hell did I tell ye about hitting us with that thing?” Lachlan, the oldest of the three brothers, smacked his palm into the back of Tamas’s head. Without waiting for a reply, he leaned down and snatched the well-worn sling from his brother’s fist. “Ye will not be getting it back this time.”
Tamas balled up his fists and tossed back his head. “Isobel! Lachlan will not give me back my sling!”
“That’s because,” Lachlan shouted toward the barn where their sister was milking the goats, “he struck John in the head and made him bleed.”
Inside the barn, Isobel pressed her forehead to Glenny’s flanks. “God, give me strength.” Honestly, could she not enjoy a day’s peace without the threat of the three of them killing something… usually one another? “I am coming!” Leaving her stool, she hiked up her skirts and shooed a chicken from her path as she exited the barn.
When she saw John sitting in the grass looking a wee bit dazed but, fortunately, unbloodied, she gave Tamas a stern look. “Why did ye strike him?”
“He called me a babe!”
“And by not controlling yer own temper,” Isobel replied while she knelt to give John a thorough looking over, “ye convinced him that he is wrong?”
Tamas shook his head. “I convinced him never to call me a babe again.”
Isobel glanced up from her inspection. “Then I will,” she said with enough snap in her voice to wipe the challenging smirk off his round, freckled face. “Ye are eleven summers old, Tamas, and still young enough to have yer hide beaten.” She eyed the other two, who were doing their best to look innocent and failing miserably. They were constantly terrorizing someone or something. What was she to do with them? Just yesterday they had declared war on the huge hornets’ nest behind the house—and lost. The horses didn’t like them, the goats were afraid of them, and four farmers from neighboring villages had already threatened to shoot them dead if they set foot on their land one more time. “In truth, ye all could use a good beating. I honestly do not know why I have not asked Patrick to simply do it.”
“Patrick would never beat us.” John smiled up at her, making her heart twist with the thought of what might become of her brothers if she ever left them. Their mother had died shortly after Tamas was born, leaving Isobel to nurture and nourish her family. When their father was killed a year later, the other half of the parental duties fell to Patrick—and he fulfilled them all well, save for one. He’d never once taken the stick to any of them.
“Mayhap there lies the dilemma, aye?” She winked at John and gave his knee a playful pat.
“May I have my sling back now?” Tamas asked after an impatient sigh.
“Ye may have it tomorrow.” Isobel helped John to his feet and wiped the trickle of blood from his forehead with her apron. “After ye have finished John’s chores.”
Tamas’s steely blue eyes widened with disbelief and then anger. He looked about to protest, then thought better of it, knowing it would do him no good. He cut his tumultuous glare to John and then pounded away. Isobel tossed John as reassuring a look as she could muster.
“What’s fer supper?” Lachlan asked, scratching one of the welts left on his upper arm by a hornet.
“Turnip and rosemary soup,” Isobel told them as they headed back toward the house. “And whatever Patrick and Cameron bring back with them.”
“I wanted to go hunting with them, Bel.”
“I know, John, but ye… Tamas, stop chasing the dogs!”
“He will stop,” Lachlan offered, shaking his head at his youngest brother, “when one of them
takes a bite out of his scrawny arse.”
Coming up behind him, a string of limp hares flung over one broad shoulder and a quiver of arrows behind the other, Patrick Fergusson clipped Lachlan in the back of the head. “Mind yer mouth.”
Isobel smiled at Patrick as he passed them, and then at the hares. There were enough to feed her brothers for a sennight at least. “Where’s Cam?” she asked, looking behind her.
“He will be along,” Patrick answered without turning to look back at her. “We met Andrew Kennedy and his sister Annie on the road. He is walking back with them.”
Isobel’s steps came to a slow halt as his words reached her ears. When they did, she hiked up her skirts and took off after him. “The Kennedys are coming here?”
“Aye,” he affirmed, shielding his pale blue eyes behind a damp mop of dark curls.
“This night?”
When he merely nodded, Isobel’s temper flared. “Why would ye invite Andrew here, knowing what he wants?”
“He wants ye.”
Damn him, if he didn’t care about her feelings, he was going to look at her when he told her. She tugged his elbow, demanding he stop and give her his attention. “But I do not want him, and I have told ye so a dozen times.”
Patrick shoved his fingers through his hair, clearing it from his face, and met her baleful gaze with an imposing one of his own. “He is a good man, Bel.”
She folded her arms across her chest and dug her heels into the ground. “And that means I have to have feelings for him?”
He looked away again, from her and from his younger brothers, who’d stopped to listen. “Feelings or not, he has asked me fer yer hand and I have agreed.”
“What?” Isobel shrieked at him, following him toward the house when he picked up his steps again. “Patrick, ye could not have—”
“Ye should be married by now, Bel, starting a life of yer own and—”
“I have a life of my own,” she cut him off.
“Taking care of us?” He stopped again and turned to face her fully. “What kind of life is that?”
“What will be so different about taking care of him?” she argued, doing her best not to cry… or give him a slap he would not soon forget. “How different will my life be caring for a husband—one that I do not even love—and his family?”
“Andrew will be Chieftain to the Kennedys. His land is vast and his kin are numerous. There will be safety with him.”
“I am safe here!”
“Aye.” He laughed dryly. “With the Cunninghams raiding whenever the mood strikes them because they know we are so few and have no protection.”
“I will not do it, Patrick!”
“Ye will. I will not be moved on this, Isobel. Not on this. I love ye more than anything in this world and I will see to yer safety and to yer happiness.”
“I am happy here,” she pleaded as he turned to go. “Please, Patrick, do not do this.”
“It is already done.”
It wasn’t easy, but Isobel managed to avoid Andrew Kennedy’s eager gaze during the first half of their visit. At supper, though, tasting the rich blend of fresh herbs and spices flavoring her thick hare stew, she had to ask herself who in blazes wouldn’t want to marry a woman who could cook like this.
“I confess, Patrick,” Andrew said, holding his heart at the other end of the long table. “I could live happily fer the next thirty years on yer sister’s cooking.”
A curse. She should have used more salt and last month’s mushrooms.
“Tell me, Isobel”—Andrew swung his eyes to her and smiled beneath his coarse ginger beard—“d’ye cook all yer meals with such craft and care?”
“Nae,” Isobel told him with exaggerated remorse, “I confess, I do not. Sometimes, I do not cook at all. Patrick does.”
Beside her, Lachlan snickered, while Patrick merely sipped his mead, refusing to let her goad him.
“It does not matter,” Andrew cooed from his seat. “I’m certain ye look bonnie at whatever task ye perform. Ye will make me a verra happy man when ye are my wife.”
Good God, she was tempted to give Tamas back his sling and beg him to crack her in the skull with the biggest rock he could find. She had no doubt that Andrew would be happy. It was her misery she was worried about. She already knew what kind of life was in store for her as his wife. His wife! Damn him to Hades for not even having the decency to ask her himself.
She shot Patrick one more unforgiving stare before she turned her attention to Andrew’s sister. Annie Kennedy was pretty enough, with long vermilion braids and a downy complexion that turned claret every time Cameron addressed her. It was sweet to watch, really, and it gave Isobel something more pleasant to think on than being forced to marry Annie’s brother.
It wasn’t that her newly betrothed was a homely man. Andrew was near Patrick’s age, with a sturdy physique and good teeth. His father was the clan Kennedy Chieftain, with lands that spread across the coastline. Most women would be glad to take him.
“Isobel,” his voice grated across her ears, “might I ask ye to share a walk with me after supper? Mayhap a stroll through yer garden where I can pick a fragrant bloom fer ye?”
Memories of a kiss in another garden flooded her thoughts and she blushed against the candlelight illuminating the small dining room. She doubted Andrew would try to kiss her—even if he had laid claim to her behind her back. He was not as bold or as silver-tongued as Tristan MacGregor.
His tongue, so curious and hungry for the taste of her.
“There are no flowers in my garden, Andrew,” she practically snapped, gaining control over her thoughts. “And it is not the kind of garden I would let anyone walk through.” If he was so eager to prove his devotion to her, he would have already known that.
Fortunately, he was bright enough to know when to quit—another virtue he did not share with a certain Highlander she refused to think about. Hell and damnation, when would the image of Tristan’s jaunty grin leave her alone? His words were as insincere as Andrew’s, but he spoke them with a flair that made her want to believe.
“How did ye enjoy England?”
Isobel blinked to Annie and then was relieved when she found the lass addressing Cameron. Her brother had never asked her about Tristan after that night when he found them together in the courtyard. He never brought up the MacGregors at all. Isobel loved him for not bringing them up now.
The conversation wore on long into the night. The men talked of her wedding, deciding that next spring would be best (Isobel decided to run off to the old man who had held his pistol to her face), and of the raiding Cunninghams, who had twice in two years attacked their holding and burned their crops. Andrew promised to send some of his best men to guard their harvest after he and Isobel were wed. Why hadn’t he done it already, if he cared so much for her? With only herself and six brothers living here, Andrew knew her family was defenseless, as did the bastard Cunninghams. Why hadn’t he offered his aid before? Tristan would have.
Isobel knew that by the time Patrick and Andrew finished off what was left of the whisky, it would be too late to send their guests home on foot. Still, when Patrick offered them lodgings for the night, with an offer to cart them home in the morn, she wanted to kill him.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan reached the northern Lowlands with a scowl on his face and a curse on his lips. What the hell had possessed him to travel so far to see a lass? He’d bloody lost his mind. No lass, no purpose, was worth the sorry state his arse was in. He was tired and hungry and likely to come down with some deadly illness from bathing in the freezing waters of Loch Katrine. A half dozen times during his mad quest he’d almost turned around and gone back home. It wasn’t so much the pain of being in the saddle for so many days, and just after he’d returned from England, that gave him pause. It was his state of mind to have begun such a journey in the first place. Was he mad to think he could end a ten-year-long feud that had cost both clans so much? This was Isobel Fergusson his b
ody was aching over. This went beyond anything his kin would forgive if they discovered where he’d gone and his quest failed. What if what he wanted—what he needed—could not be found in the direction he had taken? The more his arse ached, the more he began to doubt his purpose. Still, he continued, driven by a memory of delicate ankles and the fragrant fan of auburn hair.
“Ye’re daft,” he told himself out loud as he trotted his tired mount along the River Nith. “She doesna’ need ye in her life, and ye sure as hell dinna’ need her in yers.”
But he didn’t listen. Indeed, with each league that brought him closer to her, he grew more eager to see her again.
He began to fear that his journey had been for naught when the first four travelers he met on the road did not know of any Fergussons living in the vicinity. Fortunately, a quarter of an hour later a fifth man, driving a cart that creaked as loudly as his bones, pointed him in the right direction, with a warning to take care.
The Fergusson holding was eerily quiet, save for the bleating of a goat somewhere in the distance. Slowing his horse, Tristan dismounted behind a stand of trees and watched, hidden from sight, for any signs of life. He did not want to startle Isobel by appearing at her door. He sure as hell didn’t want Patrick Fergusson to shoot him in the chest for appearing on his land without invitation—not that Patrick would not shoot him anyway when he discovered who Tristan was. Damn it, he hadn’t even considered what excuse he might give Isobel’s brothers for being here. How many did she say she had? He looked around but saw no one. Odd. Was this the right place? Save for the smoke rising from the chimney of a small manor house, it appeared deserted. There were half a dozen bothies scattered about the lush green hills, but none looked to be occupied, and all were in a sad state of disrepair.
A large barn stood not far from the house. Its heavy wooden door, slightly ajar and creaking against the afternoon breeze, drew his attention. The bleating goat was inside, but where the hell was everyone else? He remembered Isobel telling him that her clan had abandoned them after their Chieftain died. Who tilled the land? Surely there were too many acres for one man, even with the aid of a few brothers, to manage alone. He surveyed the territory more closely. Bales of hay were stacked neatly against the barn’s eastern wall. Rows of freshly plowed soil lined one-half of an enormous sunlit field, while the other half was in full harvest, boasting an impressive display of pumpkins, turnips, cabbage, corn, and an array of barley, oats, and other grains.