‘Aye, lady. She called for a small meal for you since you...’ The words drifted off when the girl could not come up with a polite way of saying ‘since you have been lying in your bed like a lazy twit’, no doubt.
‘Tell her I will be there,’ she said, tugging the shift she’d worn to sleep in off and pulling the clean one on.
She was struggling with her gown when she felt Glenna’s hands make fast work of the laces. Isobel sat down and pulled the stockings on, tying them to keep them in place, as Glenna began untangling her hair. Within a few minutes, she was dressed and ready to find Lady Jocelyn. Glenna handed her a shawl before they left the room.
‘The weather has turned colder, lady. You may need that,’ Glenna said, walking just behind her to the front of the hall.
Isobel looked up to find that it was not only the lady waiting for her at table. Her mother smiled at her as she approached...as did the five young men and one older man who sat there. All of them stood as she grew nearer. If expressions could tell tales, her mother’s would be an endless one filled with laughter. Isobel paused and offered a slight curtsy to Lady Jocelyn.
‘My lady,’ she said as she sat in the empty chair, ‘forgive my tardiness.’
‘Isobel, Athdar asked that we introduce his kin to you,’ her mother said. ‘He thought you might like to meet Tomas, Dougal, Angus, Connor and James.’
Each man nodded when introduced to her. Once they were all named, and at her mother’s behest, they sat on the stools that now surrounded the table. Isobel understood her duty in this and engaged each man in conversation, eating the stew that appeared before her in between questions. Though she doubted any of these men could lay claim to a title, she suspected that they were among the wealthier landowners or craftsmen of the village.
The meal progressed and her mother and the lady joined in to keep it moving if she slowed. Soon, a reasonable time had passed and Isobel thanked them for visiting with her. The men each nodded, but no one moved until all the others did, apparently not willing to give any of them an advantage the others did not get. They walked away as a group and Isobel was so tempted to laugh at their boyish antics.
‘Your father would never approve of any of them, I fear,’ Lady Jocelyn said.
‘I wonder why your brother suggested they meet Isobel?’ her mother said.
That was exactly her own question. She waited for the lady’s answer, but none came. If she had not glanced up at just the right moment, she would have missed the look shared between the other two women. Now, she was more puzzled by their reaction than even to Athdar’s decision.
‘I told Laria I would come later today if I was able,’ she said, standing. ‘If neither of you needs me for anything, I will go there now.’
‘Do not exhaust yourself, Isobel,’ Lady Jocelyn warned. ‘I think this turn in the weather is a bad sign and we may have to leave sooner than we’d planned.’
‘Very well,’ she replied. In her mind, she made plans to work with Laria for a short time and return well before it grew dark. As the winter drew nearer, that happened sooner each day.
‘And take your heavier riding cloak. The day grows colder,’ her mother advised.
Isobel sent Glenna to bring her cloak and left through the kitchens, checking with the cook and the steward to see if they needed anything from Laria before making her way through the yard and gates and village to the woman’s cottage.
* * *
‘So, you came,’ Laria said, greeting her in the same brusque manner as was her custom. ‘I am nearly done my chores for today.’
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ Isobel asked. She’d learned the first day not to try to assume that Laria meant anything more than she said. And it seemed that no one was addressed any differently by her—whether man or woman, visitor or villager, laird or servant.
Lady Jocelyn’s words ran through her thoughts about Laria’s past and her manners now, but she hesitated to ask anything of a personal nature. Isobel was a guest and had no place to ask such things. She would ask Lady Jocelyn or her mother instead.
The cottage filled with the smell of some concoction cooking in the hearth. The aromatic puffs of steam that rose from the bubbling pot scented the entire room with something very appealing and soothing. Isobel paced around the work table, looking at the various piles and bowls.
‘The winds have changed. Winter will be upon us sooner than we thought.’ Laria pointed to two sacks on the end of the table. ‘I must get these to the miller.’
‘Is there someone to take you there?’ she asked, uncertain of what arrangements were made for this.
‘Nay, not now. The mill is not a far walk.’
The mill. Athdar was overseeing some work on the mill. He’d arrived back at the keep late each day because of it.
‘Should we go now?’ The words were out before she could stop them.
‘Aye. Let me move the pot,’ Laria said. She wrapped her apron around her hand and pushed the pot over into the corner and away from the flames. ‘That will keep.’
Though she’d not walked to the mill, Isobel knew the direction of it and estimated it would take about an hour or so to reach it.
‘Is this to be milled?’ she asked once they were on the road that led along the stream to where it grew wider and where the mill sat. ‘Athdar has been overseeing repairs to it these last few days.’
Isobel felt that same shift between them that she’d noticed the first time they’d met—and at the mention of Athdar. Mayhap Laria was offended by her casual way of speaking about the laird? Glancing over at the woman, she thought it might be something more than that. But as quickly as the chilliness came, it left Laria’s voice and face, making Isobel question whether it had happened or not.
The rest of their journey was accomplished in silence, only occasionally interrupted when Laria pointed out something of interest. A scurrying animal moving in the bushes. A different plant or tree she’d not seen before. A villager passing by on their way to their chores. Although the day was colder than the previous one, Isobel hardly noticed it as they walked away from the village.
And as they walked, the anticipation grew within her at the expectation that she would see Athdar. They had not really spoken since they met on the bridge the day after her arrival. Now she would have a chance to watch him in his duties as laird. Familiar with him more as kin or family of kin, she’d had little experience with him in his position over his clan.
* * *
They heard the sounds before they reached the curve in the road. As the mill came in sight, Isobel saw a group of men struggling to move a new millstone into place. The side wall of the millhouse was gone, taken down to allow them access. She looked for Athdar, but she did not recognise the man directing the work.
Walking closer, she watched as the men hauling the stone worked together. Isobel recognised the man guiding it to its place on the frame—Athdar, in the thick of things, doing the hardest part of the labour. Not wishing to disturb or distract them, she touched Laria’s arm and held her back.
It took only a few more minutes before the stone dropped into place. A cheer went up from those watching at the successful—and critical, she knew—placement of it. Soon, others began reattaching ropes and the connections that would allow the stone to be turned by the waters coursing beneath the mill. That was when Athdar glanced up and met her gaze. Waving to her, he left the millhouse and strode towards her. Laria walked towards the man who had been directing the work—he must be the miller or stonemason—while Isobel waited for Athdar.
She tried not to notice that he wore no tunic. She tried not to stare at his sculpted chest and stomach. More, she tried not to imagine what the rest of his body looked like as he grew closer. Suddenly the day was not cold at all. Now, she wanted to peel off the heavy cloak and dab her face.
; Athdar did not seem to notice the cold, either, his body giving off steam as he reached her. Isobel fought the urge to follow a trickle of moisture down his chest as it made its way beneath the trews he wore. Thankfully, he seemed not to notice her own discomfort.
‘Your mother said you were indisposed this morn. ’Tis good to see you up and about.’
She held up the sack she’d carried from the cottage. ‘Laria needed my help,’ she said. It was the weakest excuse she’d ever given, but Athdar didn’t seem to recognise it.
‘Broc! Take this to Lyall,’ he called out to his steward as he took the sack from her. ‘Ask Laria about it.’
Broc, the sinfully handsome man, stopped before her and bowed. ‘Isobel. How do you fare?’ His green eyes sparkled and his gaze focused on her mouth. ‘I feared you were taking ill when Lady Jocelyn said you would remain abed this morn.’
Athdar elbowed Broc before she could say anything about her condition, or lack of one, to either of them. He stumbled away, with a nod to her. The man was an unrepentant flirt and she’d watched as other women fell under his spell. For some reason, though she would admit she liked him and had blushed at their first meeting, his antics did not affect her the same way now. Not after spending more time with Athdar.
‘In all seriousness, Isobel...’ Athdar began. He took his shirt and a cloth from the young boy who brought them to him. ‘How do you fare this day? In speaking to your mother, I realised that you have been doing much during your visit.’
‘I am well, Athdar. Truly,’ she said. ‘I was simply feeling lazy this morn and my mother and your sister indulged me in it.’
‘You are a guest here, Isobel. I would not see you abused and overwrought because you fear saying no to someone’s request. Even my sister can be a bit of a tyrant at times.’
He used the cloth to dry his chest and back and then pulled the shirt over his head. She did not turn her gaze away as a demure maiden should—she could not help but notice the way his muscles rippled and flexed as he tugged on the shirt. Her cheeks heated then and she touched them as he finished putting his belt in place, accepting the length of plaid from the boy who tended him. He sent the boy back to the others and then held out his hand to her. She gave him hers and he wrapped his fingers around her hand, tugging her along with him.
‘Come meet Lyall and his sons.’ He held her hand tightly until they reached the others who continued to finish work on the mill’s walls. ‘He and his father before him have worked the mill for my clan. Lyall, meet Isobel Ruriksdottir.’
‘Lady,’ Lyall said, bowing to her. A gaggle of boys surrounded the man and he touched some of their heads with clear affection. ‘These are my sons.’ He laughed as one or two of them pushed forwards to be introduced. ‘No matter their names, they belong to me.’
But one stood out. Not a boy, but a girl dressed as one.
‘Ah, my wee lass who tries to keep up with her brothers. Ye noticed her, did ye? That is Elizabeth, named after her maither, God rest her soul.’ Lyall leaned in and whispered to Isobel, ‘She has the look of her maither, too.’
Isobel’s eyes began to burn with tears at the thought of these children without a mother, but Lyall’s love for them shone brightly in his gaze when he looked at them and in the way he watched them.
‘You are a lucky man to have such a family, Lyall,’ she said.
She’d grown up with a younger brother and sister and her parents, but she’d been surrounded with love and hoped to have such a family of her own, God willing, one day. Isobel glanced up at Athdar just then and he would not meet her gaze, staring at something a distance away among the trees. She recognised the pain in his eyes and her heart hurt for him.
In that moment, she promised herself to do something to help him, even if she was not the woman for him. Even if this ended as nothing more than a simple visit and she returned home with her mother with no betrothal in the plans, she would find a way to release him from the pain that marked and marred him now.
‘Well, I’d best be getting myself back to the mill. ’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, my lady.’ Lyall bowed and took the children with him back towards the building being repaired. Isobel laughed at their antics, which continued all the way back.
Isobel watched as Laria finished giving Lyall instructions on how finely she needed her flour—well, her dried plants and beans—ground. Athdar stood a few paces away from her, still not giving her his attention, drowning in his sorrow so strongly she could feel it.
‘Athdar?’ she said quietly. ‘We will take our leave now.’
He shook himself free of the melancholy feelings that always struck when he thought about his dreams of having bairns of his own and faced Isobel. The expression in her lovely blue eyes told him she knew what he was thinking about. She saw the pain that never left his heart and soul.
‘Let me take you back to the keep,’ he said, motioning for his horse. ‘The winds are picking up and it is getting colder.’
‘Laria...’ She had not said no.
‘One of the boys will take her in Lyall’s cart.’
She looked to Laria for consent for only a moment and then nodded to him. The older woman’s brow gathered before she nodded. He did not think she would naysay him—she had never while he’d been laird—but he suspected she was thinking about doing just that. Not waiting for permission to be given by someone not entitled to do so, he took the reins and climbed on to his horse. Then he turned and held out his hand to Isobel.
If he thought she might hesitate, she proved him wrong for she took his hand, placed her foot on his and let him help her up to sit behind him astride the horse. He gave her a few moments to right her skirts and cloak before calling out to Broc and urging the horse to move. Athdar felt her hands slide around his waist to hold on and he placed one of his on top of hers.
Damn, but it felt so right to have and hold her close!
Once they followed the road around the curve away from the mill, he slowed the horse’s pace and found a comfortable gait. Her arms remained around him. It must be the chill in the air, he thought, or she would loosen her hold.
After a few minutes’ travel, she leaned her body away from his and he waited for her to move her hands. When she did not, he decided it felt good to him.
The strange thing was, he did not lack for feminine company. Not at all. There was a widow in the village who enjoyed his attentions. Another in Lairig Dubh as well. So, why this particular woman, why Isobel felt so right to him was a mystery and one he was not certain he wanted to solve.
A young woman of her standing and wealth was not suitable as a bed partner. She and her family, and Connor as her laird and his overlord, would have every expectation that any interest in her would be followed by an offer of marriage.
And that was the reason he would and could never pursue her. He could not and would not offer marriage to any woman and risk losing them to the strange twist of fate that dogged his life. Though others might laugh at the thought of a curse, that was exactly what it felt like to him—a curse placed by an angry god or spirit. A curse that killed anyone he loved or cared about. A curse that tore apart any bit of happiness he found.
Isobel did not deserve to have such a thing touch and possibly take her life.
Chapter Seven
The ride back to the keep had been a quiet one. Riding behind someone was not truly conducive to conversing, so she’d remained silent. He decided he liked the way she held on to him and he did nothing to change it. Isobel sat sheltered behind his body and when she leaned against him, he realised she must need the heat of his body to stay warm in the now much colder winds that blew along the road as the sun readied itself to set. Riding along in the many shadows caused by the forest that blocked the sun’s light, he did not mind providing her some shielding.
From the way she began to shift as they g
ot nearer to the keep, he knew she thought he’d stop and let her down there. He did not. Instead he rode right through the gates, waving to the guards, until they reached the steps. Taking her hand, he helped her to slide down and stand, not waiting for anyone else to come forwards to help her.
‘My thanks for that,’ she said.
The winds had loosened her hair, so she brushed it back over her shoulder as she adjusted her cloak. For a brief moment, he imagined running his hands through its length of white-golden curls, spreading them over his pillow as he pleasured her.
‘I did not want you so exhausted that you cannot accept my challenge this night,’ he answered as his body took all the meanings possible from his words and accepted all of the sexual innuendos in them. Before he could embarrass himself and her, he climbed down to walk the horse to the stables.
‘I think I can stay awake for a game after dinner,’ she said. Then she traced her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue and drove him mad. He coughed several times and bade her farewell. He needed to regain his control before going near her.
Athdar walked off, tugging his horse behind him and cursing himself for ever allowing her to affect him like this. She could make him feel what he longed to feel once more. She could make him dream for things he’d always wanted. She could make him...
It was only as he passed the cemetery on the way to the stables that sanity once more settled over him. Those gravestones, large and small, reminded him of his failures and brought back his control. He could recite each name even though some of the stones had grown smooth over the years. He’d never forgotten until a certain pale-haired woman entered his keep.
At least there would be peace for him once she left. If he was a little sadder to see her go, it was the price he had to pay for his failures.
He handed the horse off to one of the boys working in the stables and walked back to the keep. Supper would be ready soon and then the last game he would play with the fair Isobel. Broc had already mentioned Jocelyn’s plans to leave on the morrow to get ahead of what felt like an early winter change in the weather. The mountain pass would be deadly if a storm hit while they traversed it, so it seemed sensible and cautious for them to travel now before it grew dangerous. Mayhap he should ride with them to the edge of his lands and see them safe to the pass?
The Highlander's Dangerous Temptation Page 6