Seduced by a Highlander

by Paula Quinn

  “Och, good eve, m’lady.” A woman sitting in a grand chair outside her door rose to her feet. “I didna’ know ye had awakened. I am Alice. I’m to show ye to the Great Hall.”

  The Great Hall. They would all be there. Dozens, mayhap hundreds of MacGregors. She could do it. For Tristan, she would do anything—and at least she wasn’t dirty. “Thank ye, Alice. Did ye leave this gown for me?”

  “Nae, m’lady. Maggie left it. She said ’twould look fine on ye, and she was correct.”

  Isobel didn’t know what to make of Tristan’s aunt’s leaving the gown for her. It was a kind gesture, and she would make a point of thanking her later. She followed Alice down the stairs but stopped when she saw Tristan standing at the end of the long corridor with his father.

  “Aye,” Alice laughed softly beside her. “He steals the breath of many.”

  Isobel smiled, nodding in agreement. Whether garbed in English clothes or the Highland plaid and boots he wore now, Tristan oozed male sexual appeal.

  “All the Chief’s bairns are strikin’ to behold,” Alice went on with the slightest tremble in her voice. “Just like their faither.” Catching herself, the middle-aged handmaid tore her gaze away from the laird and smiled at Tristan. “That one just knows it better than the others.”

  Again, Isobel agreed. She was still thinking about asking Alice how many of Camlochlin’s lasses might want to claw out her eyes, when Tristan and his father embraced.

  “What’s this?” Will’s cheerful voice calling out from behind her shattered the tender moment.

  Isobel blinked the moisture from her eyes as Tristan and Callum turned in her direction.

  “Ye gather a man in yer arms while yer lass stands here as bonnie as the sun?”

  Tristan’s eyes settled on hers, distracting her from everyone else in the hall but him. They stared at each other across the sudden ringing silence, lost in what they had shared earlier, locked away in his room. His smile deepened as his smoky gaze roved boldly over her curves, so well defined in her new gown.

  “My son has returned to me, Will,” the Chief said, curling his arm around Tristan’s shoulder. “Alice, tell Cook to break open another cask of ale. We have double cause to celebrate.”

  Taking Isobel’s arm, Will led her the rest of the way and handed her over to Tristan with a sly wink.

  “The sun is drab and dull compared to ye, my love.” Tristan lifted her hand and brushed a tender kiss against the underside of her wrist.

  She blushed beneath the veil of her lashes, afraid to look at him, afraid that she might fling herself into his arms and to hell with anyone watching.

  “It seems I have been dressed fer a celebration,” she said, willing herself not to tremble at his nearness.

  “Aye, the celebration of our betrothal. Father O’Donnell will be here tomorrow.”

  Her eyes darted up to his. “But yer mother…”

  “She awaits ye at our table.” It was the laird who spoke. “After speakin’ with yer brother, we—”

  “My brother?” Isobel smiled at him. “Whatever could Tamas have said to—”

  “ ’Twas Cameron, no’ Tamas,” the laird corrected. “He told us what happened that night, Miss Fergusson. Katie wept, but…”

  He went on, but his words were drowned out by the crashing drumbeat of Isobel’s heart in her ears. She could not breathe. Cam told them the truth? He told them what he did? Was he still alive? She turned to Tristan and promptly fainted.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Isobel awoke in Tristan’s bed with the chilling memory of Cameron’s confession blaring through her thoughts. He told them! No! He could not have told them! She opened her eyes and pushed against the hands that tried to hold her still.

  “ ’Tis all right, my love,” Tristan’s voice soothed above her.

  Was he mad? How could anything ever be all right again? For ten long years she had guarded her brother’s secret with her life, afraid—oh, so afraid—that if the MacGregors ever discovered the truth, they would come for Cam and kill him.

  “Where is he?” she cried. “Where is Cameron?”

  “Let me speak to her,” a woman’s voice said somewhere behind Tristan. “Leave us.”

  With a strangled sob, Isobel watched Tristan leave the room. She wanted to call out to him and beg him to take her and her brothers home. When the door closed after him, she set her tearful gaze on his mother, sitting on the bed beside her, and then covered her face with her hands.

  “He was a babe,” she cried. “He was trying to protect my father. He did not even know what or who he was shooting his arrow at.”

  “I know.”

  “Please, I beg ye, do not harm him. I would die if—”

  “There now, my dear,” Kate MacGregor pulled her hands away from her face and smiled tenderly at her. “No harm will come to him.”

  Isobel wanted to believe her more than she wanted anything in the world. But how? How could she when just a few hours ago this woman had practically spat her hatred at her?

  “Your brother,” the laird’s wife said quietly, the past haunting her gaze, “told us that you both witnessed Callum killing your father. You were ten years of age. Orphaned even younger than I.”

  “Cam was only eight summers,” Isobel told her, praying his age would be enough to pardon him.

  “I can understand what you think of my husband, but he is no monster. He will not take revenge on a boy over something he did as a babe. No matter how tragic it was. Nor would I have him do so.”

  Isobel wanted to shout from the battlements. Was it true? They knew the truth and Cam was safe? She wept, as a decade of worry slipped from her heart.

  “It does not lessen the pain of losing my brother,” Kate continued, tears streaming down her cheeks now, as well. “But it eases my soul to know that it was not done with unfounded malice. You would understand the importance of that if you had known Robert.”

  “I feel as if I do know him,” Isobel told her softly, sitting up in the bed. “And from all that I have been told, Tristan is verra much like him.”

  “I know,” his mother agreed. “I have always known. The problem was, he did not.” Kate took both her hands and squeezed. “Please forgive me for being cruel to you earlier and for making you feel unwelcome here. Ye must be an extraordinary woman to have won my son. Many have tried before you and failed.”

  “I did not want to win him,” Isobel told her honestly. “He won me. He worked with steady determination to rid my heart of fear, and anger, and mistrust and won me with humility, and humor, and honesty. My lady, yer son is the most chivalrous man I know.”

  Kate stared at her for a moment and wiped a tear from her eye. “Most would not agree with you.”

  “They do not know him, then, and it is their misfortune.”

  “Aye,” his mother agreed softly, “aye, it is.”

  The door swung open, pulling both their smiles to Maggie, entering the room with a delicate little fairy-looking woman behind her.

  “Ye’re awake then.” Maggie sized her up with a sharp eye as she came around the side of the bed. “Tristan was afraid ’twas yer breathing affliction, but I assured him ye had only fainted. Are ye pleased with the gown, then?”

  “Aye, did ye make it?”

  “ ’Tis just something I worked on when I had the time. I made it fer Davina here, but she wanted ye to have it.”

  Isobel looked up and smiled at the most sweetly beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her hair was the oddest shade of pearly blond, instantly reminding Isobel of angels and halos. Her eyes were wide-set and almost too large for the rest of her diminutive features. If Isobel hadn’t seen Tristan’s brother Rob sweep her cleanly off her feet when he’d returned home, she would not have believed this wisp of a woman belonged to him.

  “I hope you will be able to join us in the Great Hall tonight so that I might see how lovely the gown looks on you.”

  “That is verra kind—”

  “Davina,
my love, where are ye!” Rob called from somewhere below stairs.

  Davina squeaked with something that sounded like glee and laughed, rushing out of the room. “Do not tell him you have seen me.”

  Kate smiled, waving her off. Maggie rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “She is… playful,” Kate explained to Isobel. “Something my eldest son has needed sorely in his life for a long time.”

  “She is lovely,” Isobel told them.

  “As are ye, daughter. Now, come, let’s join the others for our celebration.”

  Isobel took Kate MacGregor’s hand and let her lead her out of the room. No one had called her daughter in ten years.

  The Great Hall was loud. That was the first thing Isobel would always remember about it… and what she came to love most about Camlochlin. Whitehall’s Banqueting House might have housed more people, but most of them were not Highlanders with a love of strong whisky and song. Most of the men seated at or standing on the tables were well mannered, unless one of their comrades made an offhanded remark.

  Wine, whisky, and ale flowed as freely as conversations—although one usually had to shout to be heard. Isobel sat with Tristan at the Chief’s table and was happy to see her brothers seated there as well. She was not surprised to find Tamas fitting in so comfortably among the MacGregors. He was like them, defiant, tough, and fearless. But Cam seemed equally at ease. Though his eyes still looked up warily from beneath his lashes when the Chief introduced him to his rowdy clan, Cam’s smile grew wider and his laughter more genuine as the night wore on. He had been forgiven. It was what he had always needed. Isobel would always be grateful to the MacGregors for such a kindness.

  She was carted off twice, once by Maggie to be formally introduced to a few of Maggie’s closest friends, and then again by Davina to meet the castle dressmaker. While she listened to the names of fifty different colors most wool could be dyed to be, Isobel watched Tristan make his way over to a pretty girl with dark hair and a sulky mouth.

  “That is Caitlin MacKinnon,” Davina told her, following her gaze. “You need not worry over her. Tristan barely exchanged a word with her when he returned from England. It was you he spoke of.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye, he told me about you and said he preferred wild flowers over the delicate ones.”

  Isobel laughed. That was something he would say. She looked at Caitlin again and felt sorry for her—to lose him…

  “Did she care fer him?”

  “I think so,” Davina told her truthfully.

  “Then it is good that he speaks with her now.” She turned back to the dressmaker. “The emerald green sounds perfect.”

  Tristan broke away from Caitlin as Isobel began making her way back to the table. They met in the center of the hall, his smile wide and his eyes lit with the dangerous gleam of a wolf about to pounce.

  “How many of them do ye have to apologize to?”

  He threw his head back and laughed and then swooped back with fluid grace to plant a kiss on her neck. “Only to the ones I think might try to trip ye into the hearth fire.”

  “Ah, my knight in shining armor.”

  Sweeping his hand behind his back, he bowed. “I live only to serve ye, my lady.”

  When she kept walking, he quickened his pace and slipped his arm around her back, pulling her closer to whisper against her ear. “How might I serve ye, with my tongue or somethin’ harder?”

  “Tristan!” She pinched his side and blushed, smiling when Kate caught her eye from the table. “Yer family is but a few feet away.”

  “Let’s go to bed, then, fer I canna’ wait to have ye.”

  Isobel cleared her throat and cut her gaze to Davina only inches away. “What of yer word to Cameron about waiting for a priest?”

  “I gave him my word to find a priest as quickly as I could. That word I have kept.” He smiled rather wickedly. “I did try to wait until the priest arrived, but ye, my lovely, would no’ have it.”

  She blushed, knowing he spoke the truth. She turned back to him only to find his mouth closer to hers. “Well, ye will have to wait now.”

  “Ye enjoy torturin’ me.”

  “Only a little,” she admitted with a playful smile and a provocative wink. “Not too much longer, though.”

  He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and gave her rump a squeeze as she stepped away from him.

  Tristan watched the gentle sway of Isobel’s backside while she walked away. He smiled, eager to get his hands on it. Hell, but she looked fine in that gown. The creamy color suited her complexion and the snug fit accentuated all her womanly curves. Still, it didn’t stop him from wanting to peel her out of it and taste every inch of her.

  Drawn by desire and the need to be near her, he made his way to the family table and took his seat beside her. He leaned closer to inhale the sensual curve of her neck while she shared a word with Finn. She still smelled fresh from their bath, with a hint of his own scent still lingering on her skin from their lovemaking. He straightened, doing all in his power not to haul her into his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bed.

  The celebration was finally winding down, with many of the men in the hall too drunk to do anything more than slump over their chairs. At Tristan’s table, though, his kin showed no signs of growing weary from their laughter and drinking. Of course, Angus and Brodie MacGregor could have consumed every last drop of whisky in Camlochlin and still found their way to the victorious side of a battlefield.

  As it grew somewhat quieter in the hall, the women at his table, including Isobel, found it easier to talk about everything from sewing to babes, while the men’s conversations turned inevitably to fighting. Tristan shifted in his chair, not quite interested in any opinion but one about the fastest way to get his betrothed into bed. And no one was offering that discussion.

  “Isobel, tell us about your home.”

  Tristan cut his mother a dismal glance, which she completely missed, and reached over to swipe Angus’s cup and empty its contents before the brute had time to take a swing at him.

  “So ’tis just the seven of ye who do all the work, then?” his father asked. “Ye have nae tenants to help?”

  Tristan looked at him through watery eyes, thanks to the potency of Angus’s brew, and couldn’t help smiling at Tamas, the youngest warrior at the table, leaning against his father’s strong arm, trying to stay awake.

  “They all left us after…” Isobel didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. Everyone at the table suspected the reason and grew quiet.

  “Patrick could use some aid, faither,” Tristan told him. “Now that we’re all kin…”

  “Of course,” Callum agreed easily. “Take with ye as many men as ye need.”

  Isobel turned to further muddle Tristan’s head with her most radiant, grateful smile. He leaned in to kiss her but missed when she turned back to his father.

  “That is most kind. And let me also thank ye fer the goods ye have sent over the years. I did not know they were from ye, but they helped in some of our most difficult times.”

  The laird nodded, looking a bit uncomfortable, as though he’d been caught being soft. Not that everyone didn’t already know, but none would dare accuse the mighty Devil MacGregor of having a heart. Tristan was glad he saw it now. He was glad they had finally spoken about things that had been hidden for so long. Mostly, he was glad that he had room in his heart to love with equal measure the two men who raised him. He had dressed himself as the fool for so long, always afraid of never being the man his uncle was, afraid he could never be the warrior he thought his father wanted him to be.

  But even warriors had honor.

  His wound had been healed. And he had Isobel to thank for it.

  “Tamas sleeps,” he noted with enough enthusiasm in his voice to give him away—at least to Isobel. “Isobel and I will bring him to his bed.”

  The blush that stole over her cheeks as Tristan stood to his feet, pulling her along with him, drew the attention
of one other Highlander at the table.

  “Since when,” Will asked him with a teasing quirk of his brow when Tristan rounded the table to gather Tamas into his arms, “d’ye need an excuse to leave the table fer other pursuits?”

  The challenge that sparked Tristan’s eyes drew a rueful smile from Rob, who knew all too well what was coming. Tristan might have set his feet on the right path, but he was still Tristan.

  “Mayhap the question ye should be askin’ is why my pursuits have always left ye as ye are now, Will, caressin’ a drink rather than a lass.” He offered his cousin a rapier-sharp smirk and a slight bow. “Dinna’ fear, with me gone and a wee bit of fortune on yer side, what I leave behind can be yers.”

  “Ye are a devil!” Isobel told him as they left the hall.

  “Nae, my lovely, I am the Devil’s son.” He looked down at Tamas, asleep in his arms, and kissed the boy’s forehead. “And if good fortune still loves me, we shall take great pleasure in tryin’ to make one of our own.”

  Chapter Forty

  After putting Tamas into bed, Tristan waited by the open door while Isobel tucked her brother in. He held his hand out to her when she was done and waited for her to take it. When she did, he swept her into the hall and waved his other arm across his waist, offering her the path to his room.

  “So gallant are we about it, then?” Isobel cut him a hooded glance.

  “Is it gallant to admit that all I want to do right now”—with a flick of his wrist, he twirled her on her slippers, gracefully ending up behind her—“is look at ye from this angle?”

  He felt himself go hard at the perfect roundness of her bottom. It wasn’t a good condition to be caught in, standing in the corridor, wearing a plaid with no breeches beneath. He didn’t help matters by imagining himself bending her over his bed and taking her from behind. She turned to look at him just as he tucked his erection beneath his belt.