Seduced by a Highlander

by Paula Quinn

  “ ’Twas an unfair fight,” Tristan replied, making light of what he’d done.

  “Aye.” John laughed, digging into his bowl. “After ye joined it, it was.” He turned to Isobel, his eyes wide with admiration. “Ye did not see how he took the sword from Edward Cunningham’s hand, Bel. Why, he…”

  But she had seen. From a safe distance she had watched Tristan step directly in front of John, shielding him from a charging horse and a deadly blade. She saw him save Patrick and then fell Edward’s brother, John, with a few quick clips of his sword and a flick of his wrist. She wondered if it was the cause for which he fought or his fluid grace and lightning-quick precision that had made him so breathtaking to watch… and his violent threat to sever John’s head so terrifying to hear.

  She blinked at John and then smiled, realizing that he was waiting for her to do so. “He is skilled, indeed. We owe him much.”

  John beamed. “Can he stay here with us?”

  Her spoon paused at her lips. Oh, damnation, he did not just ask her that. She cut her gaze to Tristan, hoping he would say something witty and clever to swerve John from his question. When nothing came, she looked to Patrick, sincerely stunned when no immediate help came from that end either. “I do not think that would be wise, John,” she told her brother, not knowing what else to say without insulting the man who’d just risked his life for them.

  “Just because of his name?” John pressed, too young to remember what they had lost when their father was killed.

  She was thankful when Patrick interceded. “Mister MacGregor has kin who await his return, John. They are likely alarmed by his absence, even now.”

  “In truth”—Tristan cleared his throat and set down his spoon—“they are no’ likely alarmed at all. I travel often.”

  He did? Isobel listened with ears perked. Where did he go? Whom did he visit? Women, no doubt.

  “If ye stay,” Lachlan chimed in, as eager now, and as lost to Tristan’s charms, as John. “Would ye teach me to use the sword?”

  Tristan looked around the table at her brothers, stopping when he came to Patrick. “I was curious why none of ye had a sword with ye today. Do any of ye know how to wield one?”

  “I do, a wee bit,” Patrick told him. “My father preferred…” His voice trailed off as he realized what he was about to say. His eyes met Isobel’s for a brief moment before veering away. “… the bow. I have always wanted to learn, but we have just enough to trade fer food. A sword is a luxury we cannot afford.”

  If Tristan gave any thought to their father’s weapon of choice and the way the Earl of Argyll had died, it was not revealed in his wide grin. “Well, we have three now. Mine and the Cunninghams’.” He turned to Isobel with a twinkle in his gold-brown eyes. “It shouldna’ take me too long. A month at most, and then I shall be gone from yer sight.”

  Just as he was with everyone else. What did she care? She wanted him to leave, and the sooner the better. “Do what ye like, Mister MacGregor. I am certain ye will anyway.”

  With nothing more to say between them, she stood to her feet, picked up her bowl, and left the table.

  Tristan made his way down the hall to Isobel’s bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. From outside, he could hear her brothers beginning their day of work. He would join them soon, but first, he wanted to check on Tamas. When he reached the door, he stopped, hearing Isobel’s voice inside. She was talking softly about what had happened earlier with the Cunninghams. Tristan listened for a bit, enjoying the slightly breathless way she described him when he saved John. If he lived to be fifty, he would never forget the way she had smiled at him when it was over. But all too soon the shadows of doubt and mistrust returned to her eyes, and by the time they finished breaking fast, she was back to hating him.

  He pushed open the door and smiled when both Isobel and Tamas went startled at his appearance.

  “Good day, Tamas,” he said, stepping inside. “How d’ye fare?”

  The boy glared at him and raised his bandaged feet off the bed to show him. “First chance I get, I am going to show ye.”

  “Tamas!” Isobel scolded.

  “Then I look forward to the day when ye’re well and we can pick up where we left off.” The devilish quirk of Tristan’s mouth produced a troubled look on the boy’s face. “Miss Fergusson,” he said, turning to her, “might I have a word with ye alone?”

  The same look passed over Isobel’s features, but she nodded and followed him to the door. “As soon as he’s done with the morning’s work,” she said to Tamas on her way out, “Patrick will carry ye back to yer clean bed.” She shut the door behind her and turned her iciest look on Tristan.

  “I will not have ye threatening to do him harm.”

  “I intend to speak with ye and Patrick aboot that later. This is aboot us.”

  “Us?” She blinked and lifted her hand to her chest as if to hold up her resolve against the force coming at her.

  “Aye.” He moved closer to her. She took a step back, deeper into the afternoon shadows. “Tell me what I must do to gain yer favor.”

  “What would ye do with it if I gave it to ye?”

  “I would show ye who I am. The man I’ve been hidin’ from everyone else.”

  Her breath stalled against his chin as he bent his face closer to hers. He knew she was betrothed. How could he find what he’d lost by dishonoring the only woman who saw in him a spark of who he had once wanted to be? But he didn’t want to think of that now. He couldn’t, not when her lips were so close to his, driving him mad with the need to kiss her. “Ye thrill me with yer saucy mouth and swingin’ hips, but ’tis yer will to hate me that I admire, fer it proves that yer heart is loyal to yer kin.”

  “What of yer heart?” she asked softly, turning her face away. “Is it loyal to yer kin, as well?”

  How should he answer? Would it damn him in her eyes either way? He told her the truth. “It should be, I know, but my loyalty to my beliefs comes first.”

  “And what are yer beliefs?”

  He touched his fingers to her jaw and gently urged her gaze back to him, her mouth close to his. “Tell me that ye want me to stay fer a while longer…” His breath mixed with hers as his fingers swept over the throbbing pulse beat at her throat and then curled around her nape. “… and I promise to tell them to ye.”

  He took her mouth with excruciating tenderness, a commendable feat when what he really wanted to do was hold her against the wall with the strength of his kiss while he untied his breeches. Closing his other arm around her waist, he hauled her against him, teasing her lips apart with shorter, hungrier kisses. As his tongue plunged into her, she looped her arms around his neck and answered his fervor with the same. He went hard at the feel of her soft body yielding to his and was glad that more than a flimsy yard of plaid contained him. He wanted more than a victory with her. Still, her mouth was so hot, her kisses so sweetly wanton that before he could stop himself he pressed his hips to hers and surged his full, thick length against her warmth.

  She gasped into his mouth and his control nearly snapped. But he wouldn’t take her as if this were some casual tryst. She was more than that. So much more.

  With more strength than he’d ever been called to summon before, he broke their kiss and withdrew.

  “Fergive me.”

  She fell against the wall, out of breath and sapped of strength. “That is,” she said, bringing the backs of her fingers to her flushed cheeks, “the third time ye have kissed me and apologized afterward.”

  The languid veil over her eyes tempted him to carry her to his bed, make slow, ravenous love to her, and then watch her fall asleep in his arms.

  He smiled at her, willing himself to do the right thing, and stepped away. “I was correct aboot ye, Isobel. Ye’re already makin’ me a better man.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The midday sun robbed what was left of the spring chill and warmed Isobel’s skin as she knelt in her garden. She surveyed the contents of
the basket at her side, trying to decide what else she would need for her salad. Celery herb, crowberry, parsley, sweet violet… stolen kisses. She mopped her forehead with the back of her palm and tried to think of anything else but the feel of Tristan’s arms around her, the salacious strokes of his tongue marauding her mouth, the rigid measure of his arousal against her… She coughed into her hand and looked around, mortified by her thoughts. Her eyes found him instantly. He stood beside Patrick, his blade outstretched before him while he gave her brothers their first lesson in sword fighting. How could she have let him kiss her so passionately yet again? Unable to look away, she let her gaze absorb the powerful play of muscle beneath his snug breeches as he lunged forward at an unseen opponent, the vigor of his thrust as he jabbed the air with his blade. She marveled at his speed and at his patience when John dropped his heavy sword twice. How easily he could turn his weapon on them all, cut them to bits because of the uncle they’d taken from him—the uncle who had taught him tales of another age when men of honor were not so rare. But instead he chose to teach them how to defend themselves. Oh, how could she have resisted him? How could any woman resist him? God help her, she was doomed.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t get any more pitiful, he looked up from his instruction and winked at her, coaxing a fresh flush from her cheeks. She looked away, cursing her foolish heart. Did she truly believe that someone like him would take interest in her? She lifted a self-conscious hand to her hair. She barely had time to plait it properly in the mornings—and the color didn’t please her either. What man would not prefer the gentle radiance of flaxen or the rich gloss of ebony to the hues of autumn pumpkins? She rubbed two fingers down her nose. Why could she not have Patrick or Alex’s clear complexion, free of freckles? She looked down at her dirt-stained hands, realizing, even as her blasted eyes searched him out again, that she had smudged soil over her already dotted face.

  He was there, tossing back his mane of sun-streaked hair, laughing with Lachlan as if he’d been here all their lives. Isobel did not blink while she watched him. Oh, why did he have to be a MacGregor? If she could truly win his fickle heart, she would be content to bask in his kisses until the end of her days. But even if he meant what he told her, even if there was a part of him that no one else knew, a part he wanted to show only her, Patrick and the MacGregors would never allow anything between them.

  Still, she could not help but wonder, while he rubbed his sore shoulder, who was the man he claimed to hide from others. It didn’t matter, she thought, rising to her feet. There was hay to bale, and a secret that needed to remain hidden.

  After supper, Isobel and her brothers retired to the sitting room and invited Tristan to come with them. They needed to discuss what he had done to Tamas and make certain that nothing like it occurred again while he remained here.

  Isobel could tell, by the way Patrick avoided the issue for a solid hour, that he did not want to scold Tristan after what he had done for them. After all, Tamas was not seriously hurt. Still, something had to be said. Tristan had to understand that Tamas was just a babe.

  When she told him so, her patience with Patrick at an end, she was stunned to find her brother on the opposite side of the camp.

  “Tamas is not a babe anymore, Bel.”

  “Patrick!” She gaped at him. “He is one and ten!”

  “Old enough to know right from wrong.” Cameron captured Lachlan’s knight and met her gaze from across the room.

  “I think he deserved thistles in his bed.” John smiled up at Tristan from the floor, where he lounged comfortably before the fire.

  Isobel caught the covert wink Tristan threw him before her little brother turned to her. So then, they were in on this trick together. She never knew John to possess a vengeful streak. He had never fought back against Tamas. Though John was two years older, Tamas could outrun him, outwit him, and outfight him.

  “And not just fer what he has done to Tristan,” he told her now, speaking up against Tamas for the first time. “But fer what he has done to Lachlan and me.”

  “John, darling, ye know yer brother loves ye.” She looked up at Tristan. “He is a bit wild, that is all. I am verra firm with him, but I will not take a stick to him as if he were a stubborn horse.”

  “I would be quite disappointed if ye did,” Tristan agreed with her, then turned to Patrick. “May I speak openly?” When her brother nodded, he continued. “Tamas is young, but he’s headed toward a dangerous path. If he’s to grow into a fair and honorable man, he needs to learn humility. A wee taste of what he inflicts on others will teach him compassion.”

  “Tamas is compassionate,” Isobel defended, but when she actually thought about it, she couldn’t remember a time when he had been.

  “How many times have I had to stop the neighboring farmers from shooting him, Isobel?” Patrick asked her. “MacGregor is correct. Will we wait to discipline him until after he has caused permanent injury to John or Lachlan?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “D’ye want to see him hanged someday fer killin’ someone?” Tristan’s voice overrode hers. “Mayhap be killed himself when he picks a fight with the wrong person?”

  She stopped and closed her eyes at his words. Oh, just the thought of it…“No,” she said quietly. “But I…”

  “Ye love him,” he finished for her, and smiled when she looked at him. “I know.”

  Oh, it was a lethal weapon he possessed. That smile, always hovering about his mouth and brightening his eyes with confidence and optimism, as if he knew things would always work in his favor. Was it mad that she found it so soothing despite who he was? Despite what he might do if he ever discovered who had truly killed his uncle? She had no guard against him. No matter how furious he made her or how much she feared him, his quicksilver grin relaxed her defenses. “What are ye proposing?”

  “That ye trust me.”

  Ah, here it was. His victory. Is this not what he had wanted from the beginning? Her friendship, so that he could win her trust?

  “I’ve noe malice in my heart fer the lad,” he continued earnestly, the warm ocher hues of his eyes deepening to rich, smoky brown. “No’ even when he set hornets loose upon me did I want to cause him serious injury. He’s a boy in need of a firmer hand than yer good brother Patrick has time to provide at present.”

  Isobel didn’t find it odd that her brother did not voice any objection. How could he, when Tristan had only spoken what they already knew was true, but found difficult to admit? Sweetening the truth with just a dash of honey to help it go down was all a part of his winning appeal. Isobel didn’t want to be won. She did not want to trust him and then fall victim to a cruel heart hidden by an enticing smile. That error would cost too much.

  “Ye ask too much of me, Tristan. Of us,” she corrected, looking around at her brothers. “How can we trust a man we do not know?”

  “We know he is resilient,” Lachlan interjected, smiling at Tristan and losing his bishop. “He proved that after two arrows, a rock, and a clay pot.”

  “Clay pot?” Tristan asked, bringing his hand to the top of his head, as if he were just remembering.

  “He is more patient than I would be if someone else’s brother did half the things to me that Tamas has done to him,” Cam joined in, in a quiet tone, and then explained to Lachlan where his move had gone wrong.

  “And lest we ferget,” Tristan told them all, as if they could ever forget such a thing, “I was raised high in the mountains with the Devil MacGregor fer my father. It has made my mettle sturdy enough to manage whatever Tamas throws at me.”

  “Speaking of whatever Tamas throws at ye”—once again, it was Cameron who spoke, looking up briefly from beneath his shield of dark lashes—“one of us should collect his sling.”

  Tristan grinned and then reached into a pocket in his breeches and held up Tamas’s prized weapon. “I already have it.”

  Her brothers laughed, even Cam, and watching them made Isobel smile, too, desp
ite the growing fear that Tristan MacGregor had done what he said he would do.

  He had won her brothers. All except one.

  The next few days proved to be as taxing for Isobel as they were for poor Tamas. Aye, her youngest brother was confined to a bed that had mysteriously become home to a family of field mice. It was true that his small feet were still too sore to run from the menagerie of terrors Tristan had rained down upon him. It tore her heart to shreds knowing the helpless babe suffered under their eldest brother’s approval, but the screaming and crashing of furniture above her head was seriously beginning to rile her.

  At night, when Tristan dined with them after a day of torturing Tamas and training the rest of her brothers to fight, she slammed his food down in front of him and ate, sharing with him neither a look nor a word. She didn’t like Tristan’s Highland tactics, whether they were good for Tamas or not. Tamas was her responsibility. All her brothers were, and she wasn’t ready to give that up, especially not to a MacGregor. She barely listened to him during the family’s nightly chats in the sitting room—with Tristan usually doing most of the talking.

  Besides the Kennedys, they had few visitors from whom to hear tales they hadn’t already heard at least a dozen times before. It was only natural for the boys to be beguiled by this rogue’s adventures. He’d led a… frolicsome life. Aye, that was the best way to describe it. Finding himself in dangerous circumstances more times than Isobel cared to count while she sewed—and mostly due to women—he’d always escaped unscathed. That did not mean he hadn’t been shot with an arrow, stabbed with a dagger, and hit with a fist a time or two, but as the carefree timbre of Tristan’s voice attested while he captivated his audience, his good humor recovered quickly, at least until the next time he found himself staring down the end of someone’s sword.

  “What did ye do as a boy?” John asked him one night while he warmed his feet beside the crackling hearth fire.