by Paula Quinn
Tristan discarded his concern with a wave of his hand. “Cam can come with us, then,” he said, not bothering to deny that he meant to bring Isobel with him. “We will no’ stay a day longer than necessary. I give ye my word nae harm will come to either of them.”
Patrick mulled it over for a few moments, then crooked his finger at Tristan, beckoning him to follow him a short distance away. Tristan followed, and when they were out of earshot of the others, Patrick turned to him. “Cameron has informed me that ye have given yer heart to my sister.”
“I have,” Tristan admitted quietly, feeling a bit like a heel before him. “Fergive me fer no’ payin’ the respect ye’re due and comin’ to ye first.”
“It is quite all right.” Patrick let him off easily with a pat on the back and his first smile of the day. “I was not surprised to hear it. In truth, I am more astonished that she does not know how deeply ye care fer her.”
“I was no’ aware of it myself until recently.”
“Hell”—Patrick cocked a dubious brow—“even I was aware of it.”
“And ye didna’ toss me oot on my arse?”
“Ye are a good man, Tristan. Ye are fair and honest and merciful. In truth, I liked ye from the first day we met and ye did not betray Tamas to Isobel.” They smiled together, remembering the lad’s sling slipping secretively into his belt.
“But what of yer family?” Patrick sobered. “Sending us supplies is one thing. Giving yer heart to Archibald Fergusson’s daughter is another.”
“I dinna’ know the answer to that. It is a road I will travel when I come to it. But this I do know. I want to protect her and make her happy. I want my kin to be yer kin, bound by our marriage never to cause ye harm again but to come to yer aid if ye ever need them.”
“I would be grateful fer that.” Patrick smiled again, and Tristan thought how much he would like his brother Rob, for their passion to look after their own was the same. “Are ye asking me fer her hand then, Tristan MacGregor?”
“I am.”
“Ye have it with my blessing.” Patrick looked over his shoulder at his sister. “She loves it here. She will not want to leave.”
Turning to sweep his eyes over the small manor house in the center of nowhere, Tristan nodded. “I love it as well. We will visit here often.”
“Verra well, then.” Patrick took him by the shoulders and patted them. “Go to Dumfries, get me the fairest price on the goods, and keep my sister and brother safe.”
“Ye have my word.”
Chapter Thirty
The royal burgh of Dumfries, Isobel told Tristan as they crossed the bridge over the River Nith, was well known for its bloody history. The English had plundered and occupied the town on more than seven different occasions. When political wars turned religious, one of the burgh’s grand castles surrendered to the Presbyterian Covenanters after a thirteen-day siege that left the place in ruins to this very day, and Dumfries a haven for enemies of a Catholic king.
Tristan shook his head, turning his eyes to the road and away from Isobel. And they said the Scottish were barbaric.
“It is a fortunate thing that ye did not wear yer plaid here, Tristan,” Cam called out from the back of the cart. “It trumpets that ye are Catholic.”
“Blendin’ in is better than fightin’ a man simply because ye believe a different way,” Tristan replied over his shoulder. As he turned back to the road, Isobel’s smile caught his eye.
“Did yer uncle teach ye that?”
“Nae, lass,” he said, helpless to do anything but smile back at her, despite the pain of his words. “I learned that lesson on my own.”
Her smile faded and then returned softer, understanding all that he did not say. “Later, ye will tell me the tale?”
“Aye,” he promised, wanting to tell her all; truths he’d kept hidden from everyone, even himself. “Later, when we are alone.”
He couldn’t wait. He wanted to kiss the blush off her freckled nose, feel her body in his arms surrendering her prejudices and her passions to him while he tasted the honey of her mouth and then every other inch of her. He had to find a priest—and fast, if he intended to do the honorable thing.
“What convinced ye no’ to wed Andrew Kennedy?”
She glanced at him through the corner of her eye as he slowed the cart to a halt in front of the first inn they came upon. “Who says I am not going to wed him?”
He laughed at her teasing smile. “I do,” he said, just missing her fingers as she slipped from his grasp and onto the ground.
“And who are ye that I should call off my wedding?”
Vaulting from the cart, he skirted the horse and stepped up behind her. “I’m the man who’s tryin’ his damnedest to be good enough fer ye.”
She turned to him as he reached up to catch the first sack Cam tossed him. He looked at her over the bundle before he hauled it to the side. “The man who wants to give ye a better life than the one ye have now.”
“I have a good life,” she was quick to tell him.
“Ye work too damn hard. I’ve watched ye balin’ hay and plowin’ soil until ye can barely breathe.”
She lifted her hands to the next sack, prepared to catch it. “The work needs to be done.”
“The only work ye should be doin’,” he caught the bag before it reached her, “is tending to yer babes and yer husband.”
She actually laughed straight at him. Tristan didn’t know whether to be offended or delighted.
“Beneath all that flair and finesse,” she said, her green eyes twinkling beneath the sun, “yer ways of thinking are really quite antiquated—and irritating.”
He stared at her, mute. Antiquated? Irritating? Him? He nearly careened to the ground when Cam flung another sack over the side and hit him in the shoulder.
Isobel retrieved the fallen bundle and tossed it into the pile with the rest. “Women are capable of doing more than just tending to babes and husbands. If my family is going to starve if the harvest fails, I will do whatever it takes to see that it does not. I will not stay in bed, lazy and useless but to my husband at night.”
He nodded at her, smiling. How could he dispute her words when he found them so refreshing, so honest, so… Isobel? Mayhap his ways of thinking when it came to a wife were indeed antiquated. He knew enough women in Camlochlin who could wield a sword as well as any man. Isobel possessed the strength of those women he’d always loved and admired: his mother and sister, Lady Claire, his Aunt Maggie. They would approve of Isobel once they came to know her.
“I stand corrected.” He gave her a slight bow and came back with a dimple flashing. He caught another load from the cart and swung it to her. “Now let us discuss what is irritatin’ aboot me, aye?”
She looked a little stunned that he’d knocked the wind out of her, and that he found her expression so vastly amusing. “What have I done now?” He chanced a grin when her eyes smoldered. “I have trust in yer strength.”
“And I have trust in yers.” She laughed, this time with genuine humor, as she hurled the bag back at him.
“Last one,” Cam called out from the cart. When he hefted the bag in his arms, a muffled voice shouted at him from inside.
“That is my nose ye are squeezing!”
Cam dropped the bag and stared at it, eyes wide. Tristan leaped back up, hauled the sack to him, and tore it open. When Tamas’s head popped out, Isobel let out a string of oaths that made the lad cringe in his spot.
“What the hell do ye think ye are doing, Tamas Fergusson?”
“I wanted to come along and—”
“Did ye tell Patrick?” she shouted up at him. “Ye did not tell him, did ye! He is going to be sick with worry! Oh, ye little—”
“Isobel.” Tristan stopped her, giving her a subdued look. “He’s here now. We’ll trade the wares and return home as quickly as we can. Tonight, he will sleep on the floor beside yer bed.” He helped Tamas out of the sack and gave him a soft clip on the back of the head.
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After exchanging glares with the lad, Tristan paid two of the inn’s stable hands handsomely to carry the bags inside, and then to their rooms.
“Would it not have been better to sell some of the goods before we stopped fer the night?” Isobel asked him when he caught up to her, about to enter without him.
Nae. He wanted time with her alone first. “ ’Tis better to bargain with a merchant when he has the prospect of a full day’s customers ahead.”
The inn was nothing Tristan hadn’t seen a dozen times before. Dim lighting, the sickeningly sweet aroma of wine, whisky, and ale, a handful of tables and chairs scattered about. He scanned the patrons first. Mostly travelers with nothing on their minds more pressing than a hot meal and a warm bed.
They paid for two rooms and sat at an empty table as supper was being served.
“What’ll it be then?” a buxom brunette serving girl asked, fisting her hand at her side and giving the fingernails of her other hand an uninterested glance. “We have rabbit sautéed in honey or roasted mutton served with mushroom and parsley soup…” Her short list came to a skidding halt when Tristan looked up and offered her a pleasant smile. Her powdery blue eyes darkened on him like a storm on a hot summer night. “… or if yer appetite craves something with a bit more flavor, I could have something sent up to yer room later.”
Tristan was acutely aware of Isobel stiffening beside him in her chair and was vastly delighted to discover that she was jealous. “The mutton will do fine.”
“I want the rabbit,” Tamas brooded.
“Ye’ll have the mutton.” Tristan kicked him under the table, then turned back to the girl. “And some mead to go with it. And would ye happen to know if there is a priest in the vicinity?” he added as she stepped away, visibly discouraged.
“A priest?” Isobel tugged on Tristan’s sleeve, but then turned, along with the rest of them, when someone called out Cameron’s name.
“I thought it was ye!” Annie Kennedy rushed forward, breaking away from the two hulking lads at her side. “Isobel, Mister MacGregor.” Annie offered them both a warm smile. “It is good to see ye again.” For Cam’s sake more than Isobel’s, Tristan did not smile back. “Whatever are ye doing here at the Golden Hillock?”
“We are planning to do some trading in the morn,” Cam told her, looking like a fresh-faced squire who’d just been addressed by the queen of England.
“So then yer night is free?” Annie asked him boldly, green eyes wide and gleaming. “I was just about to go out fer an evening stroll with my brothers—Andrew is not here,” she interrupted herself to cast Isobel, and then Tristan, a darting glance before turning her attention back to Cam. “I would like it verra much if ye joined us.”
Cameron nearly turned over the table to reach her side quickly, then slowed his pace when he caught Tristan’s edifying gaze. “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” he said smoothly, his mouth cocking to one side as he offered Annie his arm, “than spending the night with ye.”
Tristan would have cheered his student’s success if Isobel weren’t staring at him with a look of heightened suspicion arching her brow.
“I want to go, too!” Tamas said, scrambling from his chair before anyone could stop him. “I do not like it in here. It smells. And I do not like mutton.”
Tristan had heard good fortune was a lass. He guessed she loved him well, for she followed him always. Even on his longest days. Of course, when Cameron looked to him for aid, none came. Cam didn’t want a chaperon, but better him than Tristan. He sent them all off with a smile.
“What did ye tell Cameron before ye left fer Glasgow?” she asked him as the others left the table to rejoin Annie’s brothers. “He reminded me a bit of ye when he accepted her invitation.”
“Och, ’twould no’ interest ye,” Tristan assured her with a playful wink. “ ’Tis a wee bit antiquated.”
“I see.” She grew quiet again when the serving girl returned with their supper, and then sent her on her way with a venomous glare. “Why did ye ask her about a priest?” she asked when they were alone again.
Tristan dipped his spoon into his soup and brought it to his mouth. “I hope to be needin’ one.” He frowned into his bowl and then at her. “Ye’re no’ goin’ to like it.”
“Why do ye hope to be needing one?” she pressed, ignoring her soup and his reaction to it.
“Well, I dinna’ know what they do here, but in the north we usually call upon a priest when we wish to wed.” He cast her the briefest smile before turning to the trencher before him. “I hope the mutton tastes better. I fear eatin’ at yer table has spoiled me.”
“Tristan.” She tugged on his sleeve again, drawing back his full attention. “Are ye asking me…?”
He touched his hand to her face, longing to somehow ease the trepidation he saw in her eyes, could hear in her soft voice. Would she never give him her full trust?
“Aye, Isobel. If ye will have me.”
Something in her expression changed. She almost smiled at him, and it would have been her most joyous, most radiant smile yet, for all her fears fell away for an instant. They returned a moment later. “There are things…”
“Aye?” He dragged her gaze back to his when she tried to look away.
“Things that still… concern me. I do not—”
“I love ye, Isobel,” he said over her before she had the chance to refuse him. Hell, this wasn’t how he wanted to tell her, not in some run-down inn with foul food beneath their noses and their arses sore from bouncing around like eggs in a saddlebag. “Ye are the delight of my heart. I would give up anything fer ye: my honor, my kin, my life. I want to take care of ye, provide fer ye, hear yer laughter, yer voice every day. I will no’ give up until ye are mine, so ye might as well marry me now and save yerself the trouble.”
She looked as if she were going to weep, but then her lips softened into the smile he’d been waiting for. He cupped her face and drew her in for a long, deep kiss that pulled the breath from both their bodies.
“We still have some of the food I packed fer our journey in the bags in one of our rooms,” she whispered, breaking their kiss and looking up at him a bit shyly.
“Then let us go find it.” Tristan pulled her to her feet and then followed her up the stairs.
Doing the honorable thing with her, for once, be damned.
Chapter Thirty-one
Isobel stepped into the small candlelit room. Her eyes fell to the small, threadbare bed in the corner and she let loose a tiny squeak. A few moments ago she had wanted to be alone with Tristan, crushed in his arms and smothered in his kisses. She’d even suggested it after he confessed to loving her, but being here, completely alone with him and a bed… She turned to him and stopped breathing for a moment while he bolted the door. He loved her. Oh, she had hoped for it more than she had been willing to admit to herself, and for many reasons. She peeked up at him as he moved silently toward her, forgetting the bed and everything else. The only reason that mattered in that moment was that he was hers. This magnificent man, physically crafted from some mad artist’s dream, molded within by a most gallant knight. She had let Tristan MacGregor win her heart. She had never expected to win his as well.
“Ye’re shakin’, my love,” his husky voice drummed across her ear when he reached her and bent his head to hers.
“Do ye truly love me, Tristan?”
She saw the truth in his eyes before he spoke, in the way they took her in almost in relief, as if he needed her, thirsted for her, and could not believe he’d finally found her.
“Aye, lass.” He lifted his hands to her face and traced her cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “I love ye more with every moment that passes. My heart grows more and more alive every day that I spend with ye.” He kneeled at her feet and took her hands in his. “Ferget my past, as I have, and know only that I have never loved a single lass before ye and I will never love anyone but ye.”
She blinked away the moisture that blurred h
er vision of him and smiled. “Such a silver tongue ye have on ye, Mister MacGregor.”
“A blessin’ granted me fer the pleasure of yer ears.”
“And fer my mouth?” She bent to him, aching for his kiss as she had since the night in the king’s Privy Garden.
“Woman,” he whispered against her parted lips as he rose, “how can I tell ye of yer beauty and what it does to me when ye entice me to show ye with my body?”
His body. How many times had she watched him labor beneath the sun, his bare arms glistening with lean muscle, his flat, moist belly tempting her vision downward? She knew that what lay hidden beneath his breeches was as vibrant as the rest of him. She’d felt it surge against her on a few different occasions when he’d kissed her, swollen hard and ready to take her where they stood. She darted her tongue into his mouth and then gasped into it when he rose up like a wave and eased her down on the bed.
She’d always thought that a man’s body atop her might be a bit suffocating and unpleasant, but Tristan was neither. In fact, his tight muscles trembling over hers felt so sinfully good that she bit his lip, instinctively wanting more.
He smiled against her teeth, groaned, and bit her back. A surge of delight washed over her, sending bursts of heat to her crux and more vigor to her kiss. His tongue stroked the deepest recesses of her mouth like a flame setting her on fire. She answered with short, quick, hungry breaths, sucking gently on his tongue when he withdrew to taste her from a different angle. She had no idea what had come over her, only that it was a force she could not resist. She didn’t want to. This… desire she felt for him was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Her body throbbed with need until it was almost painful, satisfied only by his passionate responses.
He spread her beneath him with his knees, knowing what she craved even if she didn’t fully understand it yet. When he pressed his full arousal between her thighs, a deluge of pleasure drenched her.
“I am afraid,” she whispered, clinging to him.