by Paula Quinn
Patrick didn’t look too happy to hear that as he paused at the top of the stairs. “Where would ye like to go first? I have much work to do.”
“Will ye be followin’ me, then?”
“Aye,” Patrick told him with a look in his eyes that said he would not be swayed. “I will.”
Tristan’s mouth quirked at the corners. “All right, then. To the privy.”
Chapter Seventeen
In comparison to Camlochlin’s grand halls and fortified walls, the Fergussons’ manor house was just large enough to fit the seven of them in comfort. But to Tristan, it seemed larger on the inside. He wasn’t certain if it was the many clear-glassed windows spilling sunshine into every nook or something else entirely that infused the house with a feeling of warmth and intimacy. Something as small as linens on the tables and potted flowers decorating the windowsills. Such personal details were not found in a castle.
Patrick escorted him to the kitchen after he insisted on watching his meal being prepared. “Poison or brew,” he told Isobel’s brother, “I never want to feel the torment I felt upon waking from my death sleep again.”
And it was partially true. The other part was that the heavenly aroma of roasting fowl and freshly baked bread filling the house tempted him to risk it.
Isobel looked up from chopping a clump of herbs and blew a bronze tendril away from her cheek. “Yer meals will be ready shortly. Patrick, why do ye not show Mister MacGregor to the stable so he can see that his horse was not part of what he left on the floor above stairs.”
Tristan felt the barb pierce his flesh along with the other dozen inflicted by hornets. He smiled, remembering one of the reasons he came here.
“I’ll no’ be leavin’, Miss Fergusson; I want to watch ye.”
Her chopping knife missed her fingertips by a hair. Her eyes darted to Patrick.
“Fergive me if I dinna’ trust ye alone with my food.”
She breathed an almost audible sigh of relief and shrugged her shoulders at him. “As I told ye at Whitehall, ye will never gain mine.”
“Aye, I remember,” Tristan replied, doing his part to convince Patrick that she had not betrayed her kin’s cause in his absence. “And now I understand the hatred between us better.”
She stopped chopping and looked at him while he picked a small jar off one of the many shelves lining the kitchen walls and uncorked it.
“So, ye admit ye hate me then? Ye hate us?” she added, remembering that they were not alone.
Tristan looked up from sniffing the contents of the jar and offered her a polite smile. “ ’Tis as ye told me in England, we are enemies. I wish ’twas no’ so, but ye have helped me to accept it.”
“Good. I am happy to have helped.” She didn’t look happy about it. In fact, she looked like she wanted to fling her knife at him.
They both turned to Patrick when he began to pace in front of the doorway. “Where is Cam? I do not have the time to sit idly while ye both haggle over a dead cause. I must finish curing the grass for hay. Lachlan!” he called into the next room when the front door opened. “Bring Cam in here to guard our guest.” He glanced at Tristan with a rueful quirk of his mouth. “Forgive me if I do not trust ye alone and unbound with my sister.”
“Of course.” Tristan accepted the check with a slight bow and a swift glance at the alluring curve of Isobel’s backside as she moved toward the trivet. Patrick would be a fool if he trusted any man alone with her—and flicking his gaze back to Isobel’s eldest brother, Tristan already knew Patrick was no fool. As for the rest of them, so far the odds were not stacked in their favor.
“Ye keep many herbs.”
“Say again?” Patrick turned to him briefly, then realized to whom Tristan was speaking and went back to waiting for Cameron.
“Ye’re a healer,” Tristan continued, keeping his eyes on Isobel as she finally turned from her work.
“I thought that was quite obvious already.” She gave him a good looking over while she wiped her hands in her apron. “Ye are up and about, are ye not?”
“I am,” he agreed, stretching out his arms and grinning down at himself. When he lifted his gaze to her, she lifted hers from the same view. “Ye have my thanks fer puttin’ me back together so well.”
She looked as if she might blush, but the flash of fire in her eyes proved that it was her temper coloring her cheeks and not some coy trick to enchant him. “I had no choice. I was not about to let one of ye die on our land.”
Tristan knew he should feel spurned by her resolve to reject him, but he couldn’t help wondering if she, too, felt the crackle in the air around them. It made his skin feel raw, his blood, hot.
He had to win her.
Cameron appeared at the door and switched places with Patrick. He acknowledged Isobel beneath a cascade of cinnamon lashes but turned away from Tristan’s greeting.
Resolved once again to his original cause, Tristan knew he had to win them all.
Well, mayhap not all, he corrected a short time later when supper was ready and Tamas sauntered into the kitchen to have his plate filled.
After exchanging their darkest glances, the runt looked to where Tristan was pointing to the welts on his chest and shrugged. “Ye are fortunate to have been on the top landing, else ye might have found a boar in yer bed when ye awoke.”
“And ye’re fortunate that I’ve a merciful heart,” Tristan countered, a bit taken aback by the boy’s blunt boldness. “Else ye might find poison oak in yers.”
Tamas narrowed his eyes on him as if he were trying to decide if Tristan was jesting or not.
Someone snickered beside him, and Tristan turned to look down at the lad who had fetched his walking stick. John, he was called. Upon closer inspection, Tristan noticed the shadow of a knot on his forehead about the same size as the one he himself sported.
Tristan winked at him. “There are a number of ways to make a younger brother pay fer his foolishness.”
John’s smile was less hesitant than that of any of his siblings. “D’ye have one of yer own then?”
“I do,” Tristan told him. “He gave me this in practice.” He held out his forearm for John to see the thin scar that began at his elbow and ended halfway to his wrist.
“What did ye do to him fer it?”
“Mister MacGregor!” Isobel scolded before Tristan could reply. “Retaliation might be a part of yer upbringing, but we do not encourage it in this house.”
Tristan looked up from John’s wide eyes and set his gaze directly on hers. As much as he delighted in her determination to hate him, it was time she admitted to a basic truth. “Then ye might consider settin’ a better example yerself, Miss Fergusson.”
Her eyes blazed, her lips went taut, and her hands twisted at her apron until Tristan was certain he heard it tear. He couldn’t help smiling, watching her struggle to form a rebuttal. It was difficult to deny that they were not so different.
“Here.” She shoved a plate under his nose and nearly lost his interest when the heavenly aroma of his supper filled his lungs. “Ye can eat outdoors,” she told him as he opened his eyes. “I kept ye alive. I do not have to tolerate yer company.”
Tamas sneered up at him, and for a fleeting instant Tristan considered extending his walking stick as the boy walked past him. He caught the warning in Isobel’s eyes and let the bratling pass without incident.
“Cam,” she said, filling her brother’s plate and handing it to him, “show Mister MacGregor to the door.”
With nothing more than a shadow of disquiet marring his features, Cameron obeyed without argument and led Tristan out of the kitchen.
Of all Isobel’s brothers, Tristan knew this one might be the most difficult with which to find favor. The others, at least, gave him something to fight—and when one drew a weapon against Tristan MacGregor, one quickly found oneself put out of combat. But Cameron gave him nothing. Not a word of anger, nor a sign of intellect. Not even a glance to prove he knew Tristan was there. It made
Tristan feel utterly defenseless, and he didn’t care for that feeling at all.
“I think I will check on my horse after I eat. If that is all right with ye.”
Cameron didn’t answer, but continued toward the door like a soldier heading off to war.
“Good, ye’re the quiet type,” Tristan tried, offering him a genial smile. “After meetin’ the rest of ye, ’tis a welcome virtue ye possess.”
“The door.” Cameron stood aside and held out his empty hand, showing Tristan the way out.
With nothing more he could do about any of them, Tristan stepped outside and looked down at his plate as the door closed behind him.
At least his supper was hot, and undeniably the most delicious food he’d ever put into his mouth. The meat was so tender and tasteful he sighed out loud twice. Hell, her cooking alone made Isobel a prize worth dying over.
He paused in his chewing, remembering that he wasn’t the only man who thought so.
The door opened behind him and he turned to find John standing at the entrance with his bowl of supper cupped in his hands. Tristan smiled at him. John smiled back just as brightly.
“May I eat with ye?” the boy asked, already coming toward him.
“If yer sister doesna’ mind.”
John shrugged his narrow shoulders. “She was not all that happy about it, but I do not think it fair that ye have to sit out here all alone.”
Tristan nodded and offered him the empty space beside him. “So ye do what’s right despite what others think, eh?”
“Sometimes it is hard,” John said with a sigh, folding his legs beneath him.
“It sure as hell is,” Tristan agreed and went back to eating. “That’s what makes it such an admirable quality.” He cut his gaze to the lad and winked. “Compassion, too, is admirable. Ye helped me when I lost my balance above stairs. I thank ye fer that.”
John beamed. “Cam helped, too.”
“Aye, he did.”
They ate together in silence for a while longer, and then, setting his gaze over the landscape to the vast fields beyond the hillside, Tristan turned to John once more. “Let me see yer hands.”
As he suspected, the boy had calluses from his fingers to his palms. This small family tended to everything themselves. No one was spared. “I will help ye do yer chores as soon as I can walk on my own. Consider it repayment fer aidin’ me.”
“Thank ye.” The boy grinned and continued eating.
“I understand Andrew Kennedy thinks yer sister is a fine cook. Does he fancy her as well?”
“He must. They are betrothed.”
Tristan dropped his spoon into his bowl and turned to stare at him. “Isobel is betrothed? She didna’ tell me.”
John looked up at him with wide eyes. “Was she supposed to?”
Och, hell. Aye, she was supposed to! Why was it expected of him to seek out if the woman he wanted to caress and touch and kiss was married—or practically married? And damn it, he had asked her! She had lied to him. Why?
“What’s he like, this Andrew Kennedy?”
“He is nice enough.” John spooned more food into his mouth, oblivious to Tristan’s rising temper. “He is a bit long-winded, and he drinks a lot of whisky.”
Why the hell would she want to marry someone like that? Had she kissed him? How many times? Why did the thought of it make him want to smash someone’s skull? Setting down his bowl, Tristan stood up and looked around. He felt trapped suddenly, as if a cage door had just slammed shut somewhere inside him. He scratched the welts on his chest, which were beginning to itch like hell. Nae, she wasn’t like the others, ready to cast aside their husbands, their reputations, for a night of passion. Isobel was rigidly loyal to her family. Besides, she wasn’t after some lewd tryst with him. Hell, she’d made his jaw ache for two days just for kissing her.
“I need to take a walk,” he said, bending to snatch up his stick.
“Do not get lost,” John called out to him as he made his way toward the spot before the tree line where he’d been shot.
She couldn’t be betrothed. He raked his hand through his hair while he trampled the grass underfoot. Why couldn’t she be? She didn’t belong to him. She hated him. Why should she have told him that she loved another? As she had told him countless times, they were enemies. She owed him nothing.
“Get yer feet out of my garden!”
He turned toward Isobel’s shriek, already glaring at her.
“Did ye hear me?” She stood with her hands fisted on her hips, her ginger braid snapping in the breeze and her eyes on his feet. “Do not take another step!”
He looked down at the thyme, mint, and agrimony plants swaying around his toes. Her garden.
“Just step to the left and get out.”
He scratched his chest again and then moved carefully, which was a bit more difficult with the addition of his stick.
“Are ye trying to kill what ye did not fall on the first time?”
“Ye’re betrothed.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. Well, at least she had the decency to look surprised that he’d found out.
“Yes, I am.”
He nodded but turned away, not knowing what to say to her next. Why the hell did he care? He didn’t. “Why were ye no’ honest with me when I asked ye in England? D’ye know how many lasses I know like ye?”
Her expression went from soft to glacial in an instant. “I do not even want to think about how many lasses ye know, ye underhanded bastard!”
“What?” He laughed. “Me? Ye’re the one—”
“I was informed about my betrothal a few days before ye arrived here. I did not lie to ye. I am nothing like the trollops ye know, Tristan MacGregor, except in one thing. You have lied to me!”
Did she say she had only known for several days? Hell. What had he done? Why had he done it? “Isobel, wait.” He reached for her hand and stopped her when she turned to storm away. “Hell, I… Fergive me, I dinna’ know why I…” His words could not abandon him now. He could talk his way out of almost anything. Why couldn’t he think of a single thing to say to her?
“Let go of me.”
“D’ye love him?”
“Isobel?” They both heard Patrick coming up behind them. “What are ye doing there?”
“Let me go,” she said, with panic rising in her voice this time.
Tristan released her hand and watched her turn to her brother.
“I am speaking to Mister MacGregor about the plants he killed.”
Patrick looked around at his three youngest brothers, who had followed him from the house. “D’ye lads have no work to do?” he said, pointing to the fields. He passed a glance between Isobel and Tristan, his expression unreadable. “Ye can go back inside now,” he told Tristan. “There’s a fire in the sitting room to warm ye up, or ye can go back to yer room and rest. We will return later. Come, Bel.”
“I will be along in a moment.”
When Patrick hesitated, she folded her arms across her chest, indicating she would have her way. “Look at him.” They both did and found Tristan clawing at his plaid. “He is in no condition to cause me harm.”
When her brothers finally left, she looked up at Tristan with the residue of his insult still fresh in her eyes. He decided in that moment that every lass who had ever called him a thoughtless bastard was correct.
“When ye said I lied to ye, ye were right, Isobel. Ye are nothin’ like anyone I know or have ever known. I reacted the way I did because I fear I will never know anyone like ye again.”
Her gaze softened on him for a moment, but then she flicked her long braid over her shoulder and straightened her spine. “How long will ye keep this up?” she asked him. “When will ye finally admit what ye are doing here? We both know it has nothing to do with Alex.”
“I told ye why. I want to end the feud… and I wanted to see ye again.”
“Why?”
He pulled at his plaid to lift the wool off his burning flesh. Unholy littl
e bast—
“Is it getting worse?”
He looked at her, liking the concern he saw in her eyes better than the suspicion it replaced. “Aye, it itches like hell.”
Without another word, she pushed past him and strode toward a tall shrub at the edge of her garden. She snapped off three leaves, put one into her mouth, and began to chew it. She motioned for him to come forward, making certain that he watched his step. When he reached her, she tugged his plaid away, baring his reddened chest. Tristan had no idea what she meant to do, so when she plucked the chewed leaf from between her lips and reached for him with it, he backed away.
She moved forward and said with a sigh, “I am not trying to poison ye, MacGregor. This will draw out the irritant that is making ye itch and prevent infection.” She didn’t wait for his consent, but spread her fingers over his skin and rubbed the mashed leaf over the welts. She seemed completely unaffected by touching him, but every nerve ending in Tristan’s body came alive. Her touch was gentle, warm, and sensuous to the point of muddling his senses. She deposited another leaf in her mouth and he watched, mesmerized, while she chewed, then parted her lips to expel the next treatment.
“Does it feel better?”
“Aye,” he answered in a husky whisper as her fingertips flittered down his belly. His muscles twitched with the urge to take her in his arms and kiss that luscious mouth senseless.
“One more.” She popped the last leaf into her mouth, but when she moved to touch him, he grasped her wrist to stop her.
“Isobel, unless ye’re tryin’ to drive me mad with desire fer ye, ’tis best if ye stop now.”
Her face went pale in the fading light. Her mouth opened to form some sort of protest Tristan ached to snatch from her lips with his own. He wanted to haul her closer and pull her hand down over the rest of his hardening body and let the healing begin! He wanted to. Ah, God, he wanted to so badly. But he had things to prove to her, to himself, and couldn’t prove them with a lass who was betrothed. So he let her go.