by Paula Quinn
“Are ye feelin’ unwell again?”
He hadn’t spared her a word on their journey so far, and Isobel did not want to talk to him now. She shook her head. “I am fine.”
“Ye look as pale as the moon,” he said, inviting the others to turn to her as well.
Isobel cringed. “I am weary, that is all.” Briefly, she met the Chief’s gaze again, meaning to give him her most resolute look. He smiled at her. It was neither pitying nor mocking. Nor was it the kind of lip-curling, heart-stopping smirk that Tristan possessed, but it softened the uncompromising angles of his face just enough to reveal another man hidden behind the gruffness.
“Ye better sleep then, Bel.” She blinked and turned to Tamas when he spoke. “Ye know how foul ye get in the morning when ye do not get enough sleep.”
She was about to admonish him when Will clipped him on the shoulder. “Dinna’ speak so to yer sister, runt.”
Isobel clenched her jaw. Luckily for him, there was something about William MacGregor that she liked. He possessed the same carefree laughter as Tristan, only his was tinged with a bit of ruthlessness—as if he could laugh and sing a merry Highland ditty while he cut his enemy’s throat. She should keep Tamas away from him for that reason alone, but if he struck her brother one more time, whether he was right to do so or not, she was going to crown him over the head with a stick.
On instinct, she reached out her hand to stop him when Tamas plucked a beetle from the ground and set it gingerly on Will’s bread while the Highlander turned to agree with something Rob said. Tristan saw him do it and called out to Will when he brought the bread to his mouth, but it was too late. The beetle crunched, Will went three shades paler, and Tamas rolled over on his side laughing with glee.
“Aye, go on and laugh,” Will told him, spitting a beetle leg out of his mouth. “Tomorrow ye ride wi’ me.” He turned to Tristan, a shadow of wicked intention darkening his diamond-colored eyes. “He rides wi’ me.”
“Aye,” Tristan agreed easily, offering Tamas a pitying look.
Isobel glared at him. “What do ye mean, aye?” So was this how it was going to be then, with Tristan stepping aside and letting his family do as they pleased to hers? She fumed. She would protect them herself, as she always had.
Turning to Will, she gathered her courage around her like a mantle and spoke softly, meaningfully. “If ye dare harm a hair on my brother’s head, I vow I will poison ye in—”
“Mayhap”—Will swung back to Tamas in the middle of Isobel’s quiet tirade—“ye are no’ so brave after all if ye need yer sister to protect ye.”
Immediately, Tamas puffed up his chest. “I can take care of myself. I will ride with ye tomorrow and prove it.”
Isobel wanted to shout at the both of them, especially Will. Her threats failed to impress or interest him in the slightest. And how clever of him to use her maternal instincts against her. And Tamas! Dear God, Tristan had warned her that he was headed down a dangerous path. He deliberately provoked men’s anger. Someday it might get him killed.
“He is prideful!” she said quickly and with a bit more humility, hoping to annul the deal her brother had made.
“Too fearless fer his own safety,” Tristan added promptly.
Isobel let out a surrendering sigh. She turned to Tristan knowing he was not trying to save Tamas from Will, but from himself. Behind him, Cam nodded.
“Yes,” she finally admitted aloud. “He is.”
Tristan smiled and pulled her in, resting his forehead against hers and speaking low enough so that only she could hear. “He shall ride with Will.”
It was one of the most difficult things she had ever done, but she nodded, completely trusting her brother’s life in someone else’s hands.
Luckily, Tristan wasn’t just anyone. No man of honor ever was.
Chapter Thirty-six
They started out early the next morning, about a quarter of an hour after Will discovered his saddle had been loosened during the preparations. For Tamas’s sake, no one remarked on the fall Will would have taken had he mounted.
Isobel gave them all that much.
The terrain was treacherous along the rocky coast of the Firth of Clyde, or at least it was to Isobel’s rump. She was still sore from the day before. If it wasn’t for Tristan’s supple warmth against her back, she would have cringed the entire way. When she leaned against him, his arms enveloped her, making her smile despite what lay ahead. Soon, she would step into the MacGregors’ lair, and she was bringing Cam with her.
“I dinna’ like when ye go stiff in my arms.” His voice, so close and coarse against her ear, sent a ripple up her spine. “I would have ye soft and willin’ in them always.”
“And ye will always have yer way.” She closed her eyes and purred against him. How would she ever leave him?
“Aye.”
She heard the smile in his voice and smiled with him. “Would ye vanquish all my dragons fer me, knight?”
“Aye, if ye let me, I would.”
He would. Oh, how she wished they were alone so she could turn in her saddle and kiss him. For one mad moment, she wished Camlochlin were closer so they could get there and lock themselves away one last time.
A horse trotted beside her and she opened her eyes and smiled at Tamas as he and Will passed her.
“Tristan?”
“Aye, my love?”
“When did ye first begin to love me? I want to remember it always.”
Tamas’s shriek halted Tristan’s reply and turned her blood cold. She bolted straight up and watched, horrified, as Will, having dismounted with Tamas dangling fitfully from his fist, strode to the water’s edge and let him go.
“Tristan!” Isobel gasped, clutching his shirt. “He cannot swim!”
Terror drained the color from his face as he leaped from the horse. She was close behind him until his boots hit the ground and he took off running. He sprinted toward the shoreline, leaping over rocks and narrow inlets, leaving Isobel and his gaping relatives with nothing to do but watch. Without breaking stride, he dove into the water only inches from Tamas’s flailing arms.
Isobel nearly fell to her knees with relief as Tristan clutched her brother to his chest and began to swim back to shore. She tried to hold back the spring of emotions rushing though her, but when she saw the way Tamas’s little arms were coiled tightly around Tristan’s neck, she had to let her tears come.
Someone stormed past her. She looked up to see MacGregor bend over the rocks and reach down to separate Tamas’s dripping body from his son’s. When he straightened, his eyes smoldered like deadly blue embers on Will.
“Let that be enough.”
“Aye, Laird,” Will answered without quarrel.
“D’ye hear me, boy?” Gripping Tamas by the forearms, the giant Chief held him up to his level gaze. “That is enough!”
“Yes, Laird.”
Isobel blinked. Was that her brother’s voice, trembling and obedient? She held out her arms to take him when the Chief reached her, but he stepped out of her path and swung Tamas over his shoulder.
“I have him,” he said. And then he said nothing more as he leaped to his mount, set her brother upon his lap, and wrapped him in his plaid.
When Tristan reached her a moment later, she helped him out of his wet shirt and kissed his chest. He had saved Tamas’s life, just as he’d saved John’s and Patrick’s when the Cunninghams attacked. “Thank ye.” Oh, how she loved this man. “Let me get ye into yer dry plaid.”
Will stopped them as they headed back to Tristan’s horse. “I thought he could swim. I didna’ know—”
“There’s nae harm done, cousin,” Tristan eased him quickly with a pat to his shoulder. “He is safe.”
He is safe. Isobel looked to where Tamas sat nestled in the arms of one of the most dangerous men in Scotland, and something in her heart went soft. Mayhap the terrible MacGregor Chief was not so terrible after all.
They rode for many more hours, and by the
time they stopped to eat, Isobel wondered if she would ever see a bed again.
“Do ye have yer own room at Camlochlin?” she asked Tristan, rubbing her sore backside before he lifted her to his saddle when their quick rest was over.
“Of course. ’Tis a castle. There are many rooms.”
“Do ye think I could have a bath when we arrive? Truly, I have never felt so grimy.”
Vaulting up behind her, he dipped his mouth to her ear and sent hot tremors to her belly when he whispered, “Only if I can join ye.”
“In the bath?” She turned in his arms, and his smile deepened at the flush creeping across the bridge of her nose. The color of his eyes changed from warm golden brown to smoky amber when he nodded.
“In the bath, on the floor, against the wall… wherever I can have ye.”
Her muscles ached, but not for rest. She wanted to peel away his plaid and taste him with her tongue, her teeth. She wanted to see his lithe, naked body hard and ready for her, feel him sink deep inside her while his teeth raked across her pulse. She remembered to breathe, drawing in a deep gulp of air, only to have it snatched away again when he slipped his hand behind her nape and bent his lips to hers.
“Of course, we have to call the priest in first. I gave Cam my word we would be wed quickly.”
Her heart sank to her feet. She broke their gaze. How would she tell him? How could she tell him? Mayhap it was better if she didn’t. He would only try to persuade her that she was wrong, and he would easily succeed, for she wanted too desperately to believe that their love could conquer anything that came against them. It couldn’t, of course. Tristan could never be happy with his family continuing to hate her. And if they ever hurt Cam…
“Isobel?” He spoke her name on a quiet breath and fit his fingers beneath her chin so she would look at him. “I know what it is that brings fear to ye. I—”
“It is a monumental quest,” she agreed over him. “But I will do all I can to help ye see it through. If I have to smile at an army of MacGregors to make them like me, I will do it. I love ye and I want ye to be happy always.”
His smile began slowly and then broke into a grin as wide and as dazzling as the vast, cloudless sky. He turned to the closest man who could hear him and said, “Did ye hear that?”
“I did,” his father answered, but Tristan had already turned back to her.
“She loves me.”
“Are ye so surprised, then?” She laughed softly against his lips.
“Aye, I am. Ye hold fast to yer convictions, lass. ’Twas somethin’ that at first excited me but terrified me later. There were days I thought ye would always hate me.”
“But ye did not give up.” She kissed his mouth, so close to hers, loving him more than she ever dreamed possible. “Even when I treated ye poorly.”
“How could I? ’Twould be givin’ up my heart, my life. Fer they are both yers.”
How easily he made her forget. How easily he persuaded her that she was all he needed in his life to truly be happy. She wanted to believe it. Oh, if only he didn’t need to fix what he believed he’d wronged. If only she truly was all he needed to be happy.
Another rider passed them, the force of his presence upon his horse dragging Isobel’s gaze to his intensely blue one. She smiled at the future leader of the MacGregor clan. “Did ye hear that?”
Rob looked at Tristan first and then back at her. “Aye.” He offered her a smile that was every bit as warm as Tristan’s. “I heard it.” He drew his mount closer and leaned in toward his brother. “The punch is in makin’ certain they hear it.”
Isobel knew whom he meant. Callum and Kate MacGregor. Hadn’t Rob recently returned to Camlochlin with a wife the laird did not favor? Suddenly, she saw him in a whole new light. “Did ye proclaim yer love fer yer wife before them?”
“I did, and she did fer me. ’Tis a force nae heart that has known love can withstand.”
“He protects ye,” Isobel said as Rob trotted on ahead without another word.
“He protects everyone he loves. ’Tis his passion.”
“Then”—she smiled, turning forward in his lap and snuggling deep against him—“he is not so different from ye.”
She remained quiet for the rest of the day, forgetting what lay ahead and enjoying the sights and sounds around her; the lilting pitch of the Highlanders’ voices, their boisterous laughter reverberating through the trees, Tristan’s heartbeat against her ear.
Cam seemed to take a liking to Finn, spending much of the day at his side. He listened mostly while the young Mister Grant told him everything there was to know about his family and about the MacGregors of Skye.
By the second day, it was Cam doing most of the talking, and since Finn always rode at Rob’s side, Isobel’s brother had an additional listener.
Judging from the bits and pieces she overheard when she urged Tristan to ride closer to them, Cam spoke mainly of Patrick.
“He tills the land alone?” she heard Rob ask him.
“He does everything to make certain we are warm and fed.”
“A good trait, that,” Rob said thoughtfully. “Aye, a good one.”
By the end of their third night together, everyone was still in good enough spirits to laugh around the fire about wounds they’d received in one battle or another. Tristan laughed about his many close calls with death with the same gusto as the rest of them, proving to Isobel, at least, that he possessed more warrior blood than he realized.
She looked across the fire to where Tristan’s father sat patiently answering the whirlwind of questions Tamas threw at him. Emboldened by the laird’s indulgent tone, Isobel rose from her place and went to them. She sat close to her brother and stroked his hair.
“How are ye faring?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes to the night sky. “Fine.”
“It is hard fer me…” she lifted her gaze to MacGregor “… to let go of him.”
“What is his age?” the laird surprised her by asking.
“He is one and ten.”
His features were quite striking in the firelight, and easily read. Isobel watched him calculate the years in his mind. When he concluded, he dropped his gaze to the flames. “Ye raised him.”
“My brother and I did.” Her voice shook. Never in her life had she thought she would someday speak to him about what he had taken from her family. “There are seven of us. Patrick is the eldest.” She grew quiet again. Now that she had the chance to tell him, she found her venom had lost its sting. What could she say? That she hated him for killing her father, when it was her father’s fault that the Earl of Argyll died? How could she tell him that her loss was worse than the loss his family had suffered? She couldn’t, not anymore.
“Tristan has told us much about Robert Campbell,” she said quietly, courageously. There were new things she wanted him to know. “Tristan loved him well. He loves him still.”
“I know,” his father said, looking to where his son sat.
“Whatever else is said between us from this night on,” Isobel pressed forward, “I wish ye to know that my brothers and I are deeply sorry fer what happened.”
He didn’t look at her again when he spoke, his voice so raspy and low she wasn’t certain if it was him speaking or the wind. “So am I.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Tristan had crossed the narrows into Kylerhea on the eastern coast of the Isle of Skye a dozen times before when he’d visited lasses on the mainland, but he’d never returned with a lass, and never one who would break his mother’s heart. Each moment that brought him closer to Camlochlin set another stone on his chest. He told himself over and over again while they traveled toward the brae pass of Bealach Udal that all would be well. Things always worked out in his favor. What, after all, was so terrible about wanting to end a feud his uncle never would have approved of? As long as his parents never discovered the truth, his mother would come to accept the Fergussons, just as his father did. She had to.
He set
his gaze on the laird riding a short distance ahead with wee Tamas still tucked neatly in his arm. He knew why such a sight had brought a smile to his face every time he looked their way over the past five days. Tamas had won his father’s favor. And for Tristan, it was as if he were seeing Callum MacGregor for the very first time. Not as a teacher, though he was one of the best. His children were testimony to that. Not as a leader, with more responsibilities piled on his sturdy shoulders than any common man could withstand. The MacGregors of Camlochlin, who bore their name proudly during the proscription because of him, could attest to that. But as a father, a shield against any danger that dared come close to his bairn. Tamas wasn’t his, but the child had no father because of him. The Devil MacGregor was no vengeful, unforgiving savage. Savages were not men of honor, and Tristan’s father was that.
“Ye must speak with him about it.”
He looked down at Isobel to find her staring back at him. “Aboot what?”
“About whatever it is that created this rift between the two of ye. Ye conceal it well beneath yer blithe demeanor, but it was there when ye spoke of him. It is there when ye look at him, just beyond the glimmer in yer eyes, shaping yer smiles with a trace of something unguarded and raw, like a wound that will not be healed.”
He had wanted Isobel to know who he was, but she had looked even deeper. “I dinna’ know if it can be,” he admitted to her.
“Of course it can, my love.” Her smile was tender, as was her touch. “Whatever he did—”
“Nae, my wound is self-inflicted, Isobel. I didna’ try to fit in. I didna’ try to be his son. How could I be his when I thought we were so different? I didna’ know who he wanted me to be because I couldna’ see who he was. I wanted my uncle and he was gone because of me.”
“No, not because of ye.”
“I believed it to be so,” he told her softly. “And that belief was the dagger that first made me bleed.”
She traced his lips with her fingers and he kissed them in return. “Then, my handsome, most noble knight, begin there.”