by Paula Quinn
“Now that ye are here, why do ye not have a seat and share a word with Patrick.” Isobel turned to Annie next. “Annie, would ye go outside and see if Cameron and Lachlan have returned from hunting?”
“Who?” Annie smiled at Tristan when he lifted Tamas over his seat and set him down gently.
“What happened to him?” Andrew asked, pointing to Tamas.
“Nothing,” Isobel snapped, glaring at Annie. “He is perfectly capable of gaining his own chair.
“My feet are still sore, Bel.” Her youngest brother scowled at her, then turned to their guests. “Tristan put thistles in my boots.”
Andrew’s eyes opened wide on Patrick and then grew dark on Tristan.
“Ye had it coming,” John defended.
“And ye have a rock coming to yer—” Tamas’s threat came to an abrupt halt when Tristan leaned down and whispered something into his ear.
Isobel inhaled a deep breath and prayed for patience when Annie smiled at Tristan’s backside. They just had to get through this night and Andrew would be gone. She spared Patrick one last scathing look for putting her in this predicament by promising her to Andrew. She still didn’t know how she was going to get out of it, but she would try not to think of it tonight. “John, come help me serve supper.”
“Let me.” Tristan offered her a bright grin and, before she or anyone else could object, sauntered past her into the kitchen.
“Tell me, Isobel, I beg ye,” he said, reaching for the bowls on the shelf above his head, “ye’re not honestly considerin’ marryin’ that hairy simpleton.”
“Lower yer voice,” she warned, taking a bowl from his hand. “He already does not like ye.”
“Pity.” Tristan’s smile was rapier thin. “I was so lookin’ forward to a long, lastin’ friendship with him. Mayhap I could wed his sister and we could raise our bairns together.”
Isobel paused at the trivet and offered him a murderous glare.
“Dinna’ look at me like that,” he said brusquely. “The prospect of me weddin’ her is as ridiculous as ye marryin’ her brother.”
“What would ye have me do, Tristan?” She filled the bowl with rabbit stew, handed it back to him, and snatched another from his fingers. “Patrick is Chieftain. He is trying to do what is best fer me.”
“Andrew Kennedy is no’ best fer ye,” he argued, watching her fill the next bowl.
“Who is, then?” When he remained silent, she had the urge to dump someone’s supper over his head. “At least I will know that Andrew’s heart will be true to me.”
She marched out of the kitchen and back into the dining room with Tristan hot on her heels. They both slammed the bowls they carried onto the table, too busy glaring at each other to notice Patrick and Andrew glaring at them.
“Are ye sayin’ my heart would no’ be true to ye?” Tristan demanded the moment they returned to the kitchen.
“Yer heart is not meant to love, but to conquer.” She sashayed past him on her way to the rest of the bowls. “I am certain any lady in Whitehall Palace or in Skye would agree with me.”
His fingers closing tightly around her wrist stopped her. When he pulled her around to face him, his eyes on her were hard and a bit hurt.
“Do ye deny it?” She prayed that he would. She prayed for some of his pretty words to adorn his proclamation of love for her. When none came, she blinked back the sting of tears behind her eyes. She was a fool for allowing herself to believe he could come to care for her. “Let me go.”
He released her with a pained smile and turned on his heel to leave. He came face to face with Patrick standing at the doorway.
“Tristan,” her brother said quietly, looking from her glistening eyes to Tristan’s dark ones. “She belongs to Andrew. I should not have allowed this thing between ye.”
“There is nothing between us,” Isobel interjected.
Patrick held up his palm to quiet her and returned his gaze to Tristan. “I gave him my word, which he reminds me of even now. Would ye have me go back on it?”
“Nae.” Tristan shook his head, stepping around him. “I wouldna’ ask that of ye.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Isobel murmured an oath under her breath as she toted two buckets of goat milk from the barn to the house. She squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun and swore silently again at Andrew leaning against the front of the house, polishing his sword. Her pounding head didn’t improve her sour mood, nor did the memory of Andrew’s insisting, after he arrived two nights ago, that he and Annie should remain at the manor house for a few more days.
Of course, Tristan had everything to do with Andrew’s wanting to stay. For two days she’d had to put up with Andrew following her everywhere she went, clinging to her arm the moment Tristan entered the same room. Andrew had always been kind to her, but lately he was sickeningly sweet, doting on her every word, complimenting her cooking before he even shoved his spoon into his mouth.
Isobel truly didn’t understand why her unwanted betrothed was behaving so possessively. Tristan had barely spoken to her since his little talk with Patrick in the kitchen. She hardly saw him at all. He spent every day-light hour with her brothers, practicing with them behind the house, or going out of his way to find some chore to do that would keep him away from her. He’d even given up his nightly talks in the sitting room, much to her younger brothers’ disappointment. His voluntary absence was driving her mad. Did he truly not care one whit about her? She had begun to believe he did, that she meant a little more to him than his need to pay for a tragedy that was not his fault, but he showed no signs of jealousy or anger. He simply stopped paying any attention to her. It was worse for her than finding out he was a MacGregor.
“Do ye need help with those buckets, m’dear?”
Isobel scowled at Andrew. Did she need help? Did the milk sloshing all over her shoes not give him a clue? “No, but ye could open the door, if it is not too much of a bother.”
Why the hell was he polishing his sword anyway? Tristan hadn’t threatened him. He did smile at him, though, but that was only after Andrew had insulted him upon learning who their Highlander was. She had to marvel at Tristan’s ability to remain unfazed—untouched.
From the kitchen where she poured the milk into jugs, she heard the front door slam shut.
“I could help ye plant,” Annie’s breathless voice pleaded. “I have seen Isobel do it. I know how.”
“I dinna’ need help, but ye have my thanks fer yer offer.”
Isobel turned in time to see Tristan heading straight for her. He met her gaze and then looked away.
“Ye see, lass? I told ye she was carryin’ the milk in by herself. If ye want to lend yer aid, lend it to Isobel.” Without another word or a glance in her direction, he turned and left the kitchen.
Isobel watched his departure. He’d come to her rescue again. Or at least, had tried to. But how had he seen her working from the fields? She didn’t care how. She wanted to go after him. She wanted to talk to him, walk with him, see him smile at her again, feel his mouth on hers.
“He is positively glorious,” Annie sighed.
Isobel really couldn’t blame the girl for following him around like a puppy begging for the bone in her master’s fingers. With a cloth tied around his head to hold back his shoulder-length hair, his damp shirt clinging to his corded torso, and snug breeches that boasted more than just muscular thighs, Tristan could make the most pious nun feel lewd and lusty.
“Really, Annie, ye know that Cameron fancies ye,” Isobel snapped at her. “It is cruel of ye to flaunt yer attraction to Tristan so openly.”
“In truth, I do not know what Cameron thinks of me,” Annie pouted. “He is so quiet all the time.”
“Well, now I have told ye, so please stop hounding Tristan.”
Annie’s mouth curled into a smile as impish as Tamas’s. “Why, Isobel, if I did not know any better I would think ye fancied Tristan fer yerself.”
“Do not be absurd.�
�� Isobel laughed, and then quickly turned back to her milk.
“I thought mayhap he fancied ye as well,” Annie went on mercilessly. “Whenever ye are about, he stops what he is doing and looks after ye. I asked him if he meant to steal ye from Andrew.”
“And his reply?” Isobel asked and silently cursed her hands for trembling.
“He assured me that he is not a thief.”
So that was it? Isobel wiped her hands on her apron and closed her eyes. Why did his reply make her feel as if she’d just been stabbed in the heart with his sword? Because she cared for him, God help her. She had let him seduce her just as he’d done with all the other women he played with and then left. He would leave her the same way. In the beginning she had wanted him to go, but not anymore. Now, she couldn’t imagine her days not filled with his vibrant smiles, or her nights robbed of his passionate kisses. But he didn’t love her. He was willing to hand her over to Andrew without so much as a raised eyebrow. She wanted to hate him for it.
Tristan did not go to the sitting room after supper that night, and neither did Isobel. She went to bed, promising herself, as she laid her head on her pillow, that she would never let herself fall in love with a man who did not love her in return.
She didn’t think Andrew loved her, but at least he was willing to fight for her.
Chapter Twenty-six
Tristan had never met a man he wanted to kill until he met Andrew Kennedy.
After what had happened with Alex when they were lads, Tristan had prided himself on his mild temper. He’d learned how to strengthen his hide against the emotions that raged within the hearts of other men. He’d refused to let envy corrode his soul when his brothers succeeded at drawing praise from their father’s lips where he had failed. He never succumbed outwardly to the wrath at losing his uncle or to the pain and loneliness that came soon after and never truly left. He did not hide his emotions; he simply mastered them.
But his resolve to honor Patrick’s promise to let Isobel wed Kennedy was quickly deteriorating.
If it weren’t for young Annie constantly under his feet, he would have dragged Isobel to the hills, the barn, anywhere they could have a few moments alone. He tried, ah, hell, how he tried to do the right thing and respect Patrick’s wishes, but after three days of biting his tongue and keeping his hands at his sides rather than around Kennedy’s throat, he feared he might never find the honor he sought.
The worst part of it all was that he didn’t care. He could not let Isobel marry Andrew. The thought of losing her sparked a fear and a rage in him he never wanted to let loose. He had to speak to her alone and tell her that Andrew was not good enough for her. No mortal man was, but Tristan wanted to try.
He knew he should have thought out his course of action more thoroughly, but it was not in his nature to be cautious. He waited until after supper, when they all headed for the sitting room with warm mead in hand, and snatching Isobel’s arm, drew her back into the hall.
“Come with me to the hills. I wish to speak to ye.”
She looked so surprised and relieved, he was tempted to kiss her right there in the hall.
“Ye dinna’ love him, aye, Isobel?”
“Not him, no.” She shook her head and smiled with him.
Hell, she was bonnie. He missed her face and the way she looked at him. He did not want to wait until they were outside to tell her. “I have been miserable these last few days without ye.”
“Why have ye stayed away?” she asked him softly, bringing her hand to his jaw.
“I thought ’twas right.” He covered her hand with his and brought her fingers to his lips. “But I canna’ let ye wed him without—”
“MacGregor!” Andrew’s voice boomed through the hall. Get yer hands off her!”
Facing her, Tristan closed his eyes and drew in a frustrated sigh.
“Patrick, ye allow this?”
Splendid. Tristan ground his jaw as he turned his dark gaze on his accuser. Patrick was involved now as well, and being put to the test of his friendship. “What is it that ye’re implyin’ he allows, Mister Kennedy? Think well on yer answer,” he said, a silken thread of warning in his voice. “Fer I willna’ allow a slight on her honor to go unpunished.”
Behind him, Isobel clutched his arm, pulling him back from the place where he was his father’s son, where for an instant, he saw his sword cutting through Andrew’s flesh.
“Ye speak of honor like ye know what it means,” Kennedy spat. “Ye are a MacGregor. The scourge of Scotland. A name that should have been exterminated—”
“Andrew!” Patrick cut him off. “This MacGregor stopped the Cunninghams from burning our crops. He saved John’s life, and my own. Ye will not insult him again in my house.”
“Call him friend if ye like, Patrick. But what is he still doing here? Ye told me he was injured, but he is fit enough now to be on his way.”
“He is helping us,” Lachlan said, stepping around Patrick to smile at Tristan.
“Aye, we do not want him to go,” John interjected. “Do we, Isobel?”
“No, John, we do not.”
Beside her, Tristan exhaled a breath he felt as if he’d been waiting ten years to release.
“That is verra touching.” Andrew made the error of mocking them. “But she is to be my wife, and I do not want his soiled hands on her.”
“She will be yer wife only if I am dead,” Tristan said in a mild, thoroughly controlled voice. He was done being gracious. He didn’t want to lose Isobel, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let this bastard have her.
“Easily arranged,” Andrew snarled. “I have no difficulty with killing a man whose father murdered theirs.”
“Both our families are guilty, Andrew,” Isobel said, stepping around Tristan. “He lost his uncle, a sorrow that has taken as much from him as ours has taken from us.”
“The way I heard it, it was no tremendous loss on the Campbell side.”
“Kennedy,” Tristan growled from deep in his chest. “Apologize fer that or lose yer tongue.”
“Tristan.” Isobel turned to him, her soft voice anxious to calm him. “Do not—”
“He turned his back on the kingdom his kin served fer generations.”
“Andrew, that is enough!” Isobel turned to shout at him, and blocked his view of Tristan’s hands.
“He sided with outlaws.” Andrew moved forward and pushed her out of his way. “Because he was afraid of them.”
Tristan caught Isobel in his hands, pushed her behind him, and snatched Andrew’s dagger from his belt all in the space of a breath. In the next, he held the bastard by the hair in one hand and pushed the edge of the blade to his throat with the other.
“Ye dare use force with her?” He didn’t recognize his own deadly whisper or Annie’s terrified scream. “Ye scorn a man fer bein’ good?” The blade cut through Kennedy’s flesh and a trickle of blood flowed.
“Tristan!” Patrick stepped closer to them and reached out for the blade.
“Let him have it, Tristan, please,” Isobel cried.
Tristan’s eyes burned into Kennedy’s as he stepped away. He flipped the dagger over in his hand, shoved it back into Andrew’s belt, and walked away from him.
“Patrick,” Kennedy whined the moment he was free. “Throw him out before he tries to kill one of ye!”
“I think it is ye who should go, Andrew,” Patrick told him, standing at Isobel’s side. “It is late, so Annie can stay. Cam will bring her home in the morning.”
“He is the dangerous one,” Andrew argued, wiping the blood from his neck with his palm and showing it to them. “A murderer just like his father. I saw it in his eyes! How do ye know that he will not kill Cameron?”
Tristan didn’t know why he might kill Cameron, but he was already sorry he hadn’t knocked out some of Andrew’s teeth. He noticed Patrick’s face drain of all color first, and then, beside him, Isobel grasping at her chest.
“Isobel?” Tristan moved toward her. She s
ucked in a short, shallow breath and then clutched Patrick’s chest.
She couldn’t breathe. “Isobel!” he reached her and touched his fingers to her cool cheek, watching her gasp for another elusive breath.
“She is having an attack!” Patrick snatched her up in his arms and carried her into the dining room, calling out orders as he went to Cam and Lachlan to get to her garden.
“But she has no butterbur.” John wrung his fingers together as he followed his brothers to the door.
“Ox-eye daisies, John. Go!”
Butterbur was better. John and Lachlan had told him of the plant that helped her breathe the day he learned that he’d destroyed it. Hell, she didn’t have any because of him.
Bending at her chair as Patrick set her in it, Tristan took her cold hand in his. She was awake, her eyes wide, glassy, and frightened. Her nostrils were flared, her colorless lips drawn, dragging in rapid, shallow gulps of air.
“What can we do?” Tristan looked up at Patrick. “How can we help her?”
The boys barreled back into the house and ran straight for the kitchen with Cameron.
“We’ll make her tea. It will help, aye, Bel?” Patrick somehow managed to brave a smile for his sister, and Tristan admired him even more than he had before.
She nodded and squeezed Tristan’s hand. He kissed it in return and didn’t glance up at Patrick or anyone else who might have seen.
The tea seemed to take an eternity to boil, but Tristan used the time to sit with her, to soothe her with his steady voice and promises to take care of her. She smiled at him twice, claiming sole ownership of his heart.
Andrew stood off to the side looking frightened, and a bit overwhelmed. He hadn’t counted on taking a sickly wife. He disgusted Tristan.
Cameron fed her the medicinal tea when it was ready and steaming hot. It took two cups and an hour before she began breathing normally again. Tristan remained with Cam by her bed while she slept. Long into the night they remained quiet, keeping careful vigil over her. Tristan didn’t feel uncomfortable in the silence. He’d come to expect it from shy Cameron. All the more surprising when Cam looked up at him sometime just before dawn and cleared his throat.