When a Highlander Loses His Heart (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 4)

by Julie Johnstone

  “Nay,” she replied, surprising herself.

  “Isobel—” he started warily.

  “I’ve sealed many a wound,” she said firmly. “I will do it. Better me with a gentle touch than Rory Mac or one of yer other men. They will make it worse.”

  He stared at her, and she could see him considering her words. “Ye’re certain ye can do this?” He waved a hand at his raw wound.

  Her stomach tightened, but she nodded. “I’m certain.”

  Without a word, he strode toward his men, and took the hot dagger from Rory Mac. Graham arched his eyebrows at her, as if giving her one last opportunity to change her mind, but she grasped the blade’s hilt firmly.

  She looked to Rory Mac. “Fetch a stick for him to bite.”

  Rory Mac glanced to Graham. “Nay,” Graham replied. His tone left no room for argument, and Isobel sighed. She would get no help from Rory Mac. The man did not like her, and she supposed she had given him good reason.

  She turned to Cameron. “Do ye have a flagon of wine?”

  Cameron raised his eyebrows at her. “Ye want a wee drink before ye seal his wound?”

  “Nay, ye clot-heid,” she muttered. “It’s for Graham.”

  “I dunnae wish it,” Graham growled.

  She started to respond but Cameron spoke. “Save yer breath, Isobel. My brother is nae a normal man. He dunnae feel pain as we humans do.”

  She made a derisive sound and glowered at Cameron for encouraging such foolish obstinacy. “Graham—” she placed her hand on his arm without thought, and his steely gaze moved to her “—all men feel pain, even ye.”

  “Aye, I feel pain, but I dunnae let it conquer me. I will nae need the wine, Isobel.”

  “But—”

  “Nay.” The sharp response had a ring of finality.

  Sighing again, she nodded and then took his hand in hers. His eyes rounded. “Come,” she said softly. “I prefer ye to sit while I close the wound.” In actuality, she feared he would fall over from the agony brought about by what she had to do. The man was far too prideful for her to say that, though.

  His strong fingers closed around hers, and he followed her to a log that was set before the fire. She held the blade over the flame once more, fearing it had become too cool, and as she waited, she spoke in a hushed tone, explaining what was to come. His men had lined up around him, and she had to will her hand not to shake as she brought the bright blade out of the flame.

  “I’ll set it to ye now. It will burn and smell—”

  “Do it now, Isobel,” Graham interrupted. “We must ride soon. I’ll nae chance yer father or brother overcoming us.”

  She nodded. She’d rather not be overcome by them, either—or the man her father had intended her to marry, for that matter. With a pounding heart and sweaty palms, she set the metal to Graham’s skin. Tears sprang to her eyes as his flesh sizzled, and the smell almost made her ill. As she watched him, she could scarcely believe what she saw—or did not see.

  He did not move, nor even flinch. His hands rested on his knee, but his fingers were not curled against pain as she might have expected. They were stretched full out and drumming, as if he was keeping a beat in his head. The only indication that he felt the burning flesh was the furious tick on the side of his jaw.

  When she was finished, she was shaking all over. She threw the dagger into the fire, only then realizing it was the very one she had used to wound him. Hot tears trickled down her cheeks, and when she went to brush them away, he grasped her wrist, stilling her.

  “Why do ye cry?” he demanded, his voice rough and edged with strain.

  She glanced behind her, embarrassed that his men might think her weak, and was astounded to find she and Graham were completely alone. She had not even realized the others had backed away, but when she searched them out, she found everyone mounted on their horses with their backs to the fire. She frowned. Had Graham given a signal she had somehow missed or had they left him alone because they knew he’d not want witnesses to his pain? Not that he’d shown any outward signs of it.

  “I cry for ye,” she admitted. “And I cry for my shame. I’m sorry that I tried to stab ye. I was desperate.”

  He studied her with an intensity that sent prickles of awareness all over her body. “Ye cry for me?” he finally repeated, his voice full of skepticism.

  “I ken ye dunnae believe me.” Weariness pulsed within her. “I’ve given ye reason to doubt my word, but aye, my tears are for ye and the pain I ken I have caused ye.”

  “I’m nae in pain.”

  She frowned at the stubborn man before her. He could be writhing on the inside and he would never admit it. To a man like Graham, whose very honor and existence was intertwined with bravery and strength, admitting he was in pain would be acknowledging a weakness, and she knew well he’d never do that, not willingly anyway.

  She brushed at her tears, which trailed a warm path down her cooling skin. “Nay. I can see that now. Please forgive my tears.”

  He released her wrist and brought a finger to her cheek, rubbing her tears gently away before doing the same on her other cheek. “I thank ye for yer tears. And I forgive ye for trying to stab me, but Isobel, if ye try such again—”

  “I will nae,” she vowed solemnly and meant it. “Ye were my enemy, but ye are nae now. It’s all so tangled.”

  “Aye,” he agreed as he stood. “’Tis that indeed, but I vow nae to make it more so again. I am sorry about earlier.” His gaze shifted to her lips, and the way his eyes moved over them felt almost like a caress. Perchance he had been as overcome by their kiss as she had, but then he shrugged. “I should nae have let my anger overcome me. I wanted ye to ken I was in control.”

  “Ye kissed me to show me ye were in control,” she murmured, embarrassment searing her cheeks. What a fool she was! Of course the kiss had not affected him. Why, a man like Graham had probably kissed more women than he could even recall!

  “Come,” he said, turning his gaze abruptly from hers and holding his hand out behind him. Mortification had her squaring her shoulders and marching past him to Rory Mac, but when she stopped at Rory Mac’s destrier, the infuriating man glanced at Graham for his command.

  Graham strode past her and swung onto his beast before answering Rory Mac’s silent question. “She rides with me,” he said.

  With a quick nod, Rory Mac turned his horse and left her standing there like a clot-heid, and one by one, Graham’s men followed, including Cameron, who rode with Marsaili. She offered Isobel a pitying glance, but Isobel ignored it.

  After all his men had started away, she was forced to look at Graham as he stared down at her with an unreadable face. It was as if he had donned a mask to hide all emotion. When he finally reached a hand out to her, she clenched her teeth and allowed him to help her swing onto his horse. A pained grunt came from him, but she refused to inquire if his pain was still tolerable.

  Instead, she wiggled away from him, and as he set the horse to a fast pace and the chilled wind swept over her, her teeth chattered so hard that she feared biting a chunk out of her tongue. She huddled downward, trying to block the wind as best she could, but it was useless. Desperate for warmth, she begrudgingly decided that mayhap she would have to seek it in Graham’s arms.

  She glanced behind her, and Graham arched his eyebrows. “Are ye cold, lass?”

  “Did my ch-ch-chattering teeth give me away?”

  “Amongst other things,” he replied slowly, his gaze sweeping over. That gaze was so smoldering that she vowed she felt warmth from it.

  She quirked her mouth this way and that, trying to shove her pride aside so she could ask him to put his arms around her. Blowing out a frustrated breath, she started to look forward once more when he said, “The wind is chilling me, as well.”

  She eyed him. He looked perfectly warm to her with a flush to his skin and his brow damp. She suspected he was lying to save her pride, and she had never been more grateful in her life. “If ye wish, I could
move back so we could share heat,” she offered.

  His gaze burned suddenly bright. “Be careful who ye offer that to, Isobel,” he said gruffly, captured her by the waist, and pulled her between his powerful thighs. He locked his heavy arm close under her breasts. Desire sprang forth, making her want to groan with frustration. There was something very wrong with her to yearn for a man who had seized her, but more than that, a man who had made it clear that he did not share that same wanting. Yet, the looks he gave her seemed to contradict his words.

  She sighed. As cocooned as she now was by his body, she felt truly protected and almost cherished, which she knew very well was false. It was her own longing to be loved causing the feelings. Graham was taking her to his king to be married to another man. He would do his best to ensure the man was honorable, she was sure of that, but that did not mean the king would take Graham’s counsel. And whether the king did or not, she knew Graham would accept the king’s decision.

  She expected anger to roll over her, but when it did not come, she clenched her teeth. She could not even hate him! She admired his devotion to his family and the king. Slowly, the warmth from his body seeped into hers to rid her of the cold. As they rode, her body grew heavy, and as the galloping lulled her tired body into a drowsy state, she wondered groggily what he would say if he knew of the confused feelings she held for him. Likely not much, since he did not care for her beyond the responsibility he felt given he had seized her, only to discover she was not evil.

  A battle between desire and honor raged inside Graham as he held Isobel securely in his arms on the horse. She slept like a bairn, deep and with a trust that no harm would come to her. He was glad for it, because he feared that if she were still awake, she would read the fierce yearning for her in his expression—or more likely, feel how simply holding her made his body react. He was painfully hard and burning hot, though he knew the fire that seemed to be flowing through his body was not simply his reaction to her.

  Fever was setting in. He’d been struck with a rapid fever before, when he’d been severely wounded protecting Bridgette and Iain’s wife, Marion, from the English swine who had stolen Marion. He’d likely never forget the feel of that heat. It had felt much like his body was burning slowly from the inside out, especially at the site of his wound, just as it now did.

  His shoulder throbbed something fierce from the wolf bite and from the stab wound, and from the sealing of the stab wound. He glanced down at Isobel. She looked so fragile in sleep, yet he knew now she had a fierce inner strength. Not many lasses would have been able to stomach the cleansing and sealing of his injury, ye she had insisted upon performing the task and had done it well. Admiration tugged at him once more, but this time he did not fight it. Daughter of his enemy or not, Isobel had many qualities that he found commendable.

  Several shots of pain suddenly lanced through his shoulder, and he shifted her in his arms to reduce the pressure on his wounded arm. She sighed with the movement but did not waken. Her lips pursed as if she was thinking of something irritating in her sleep. Mayhap it was the pounding of the horse, or more likely, it was him she was thinking of that was making her frown.

  The idea made him chuckle, but then he frowned. This woman had a strange power over him that he didn’t like. But what he liked less was his part in taking away her say in who she would marry. When he was younger, he’d had too many of his own choices stripped from him, and he couldn’t believe he was doing the same thing to another.

  He tried to focus his thoughts. They felt as if they were wildly swinging. Taking Isobel should not have been complicated with guilt, but she was surprisingly so very innocent. Yes, she had deceived him when she had tried to escape, and yes, she’d intended to stab him, but now that his anger had abated, he found he did not blame her. He would have done the same if he had been in her position, and though the very fact that she had proven she would try to escape should make him no longer trust her, he still did.

  Mayhap it was the look of horror on her face when the tip of her blade had actually made contact with his skin. She clearly had no taste for killing, as her brothers and father did. Mayhap it was the tears that she had shed for the pain she had caused him. Or mayhap it was her eager, passionate response to his kiss.

  An ache gripped his jaw, and he worked it back and forth, only then realizing he had been clenching it. He should not have kissed her. He had no right, no claim on her. Loyalty to his family, who had been so harmed by hers, should have kept him from touching her, but it had not. His promise to deliver her to the king to be married to another man should have stayed his fingers from grazing her skin, his mouth from claiming hers. Yet that promise had been nowhere in his mind when he had looked into her eyes. Honor demanded he not touch what would never be his. She was a woman who, by no fault of her own, represented the memories of atrocities perpetrated by her family on his. Likely her mere presence at Dunvegan would make Lena withdraw further than she already had or even cause her to become dangerously angry.

  None of these things had stopped him as they ought to have done. With a look, Isobel had stolen the control he swore long ago never to lose again and fought so long and hard to cultivate, and that worried him. By all rights, he knew he should not let the worry fester. He was not bound to this woman, so whatever odd effects she had on him would soon not matter, yet that truth bothered him even more. That fact sat like a stone in his belly. Soon, they would reach Dunvegan and he would bring her in front of King David and offer her up like the prize she was. The reality left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Worry gnawed him at. Would the king take his counsel or not? With the thought, the fierce protectiveness simmering within him started to turn to possessiveness.

  It must be the fever, he decided, rolling his tight shoulder, stunned at how weak he suddenly felt. He glanced ahead into the descending mist and then around him at the trees and streams, and tried to judge how long until they reached his home. At least a half day more.

  He let out a whistle, and Rory Mac and Cameron rode up beside him within a breath. He looked to his brother, who had Marsaili asleep in his arms.

  “I’m weakening,” Graham begrudgingly muttered. He had never been good at admitting his strength was failing.

  “Ye wish me to take the lass?” Rory Mac asked.

  Possessiveness pushed to the surface again, causing him to clench his teeth on the hot reply upon his tongue. She was not his to possess. And even if there was a possibility that she could be, it would be foolhardy to take it. He had no plans to marry ever, especially to a woman he could grow attached to, who stirred longings he could not permit and caused strife among his family. Knowing all this, he should let his friend take her.

  “Nay,” Graham bit out on a fresh wave of pain. He didn’t want to give her up to Rory Mac—hell, not to anyone. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to rid himself of the thought. When he opened them, he struggled to focus. It was the fever. That was what it was. Once the fever broke, he would return to his former self and these doubts would be gone.

  For the rest of the journey it was all he could do to concentrate on holding himself and Isobel on his horse. When he glimpsed Dunvegan rising above the cliff like the imposing fortress it was, relief made him sag. In the distance, horns sounded to announce that the castle guards had spotted their approach. By the time they gained the keep, his thoughts swayed along with his body.

  A crowd of men had already gathered, faces strained, appearing impatient to receive word of what had transpired with the enemy. King David, Iain, and Lachlan stood on the castle steps. Graham was not surprised to see that Lachlan had returned to the keep after his journey to retrieve Bridgette from when she had fled him out of shame for what Colin Campbell had done to her. Graham sought Bridgette out and found her standing to the right of the castle door with Marion and Lena. He took in Bridgette’s belly, clearly rounded with bairn, and a smile tugged at his lips, despite the pain pulsing through every part of his body. He felt nothin
g for her beyond happiness. No wanting. No desire.

  His gaze swung back to Lachlan, for whom Graham had spent years nurturing jealousy and almost hatred. A familiar shame roiled through him that he had been so foolish, but then he felt grateful that he’d relinquished his jealousy and gained his brother for it.

  He turned his gaze once more, this time to Lena, and winced at the picture she presented. Even from here, he could see she had still not bothered to brush her hair or freshen her gown, and the anger tightening her lovely face had grown. Lena was not getting better since they had recovered her from her captivity with Jamie and Findlay. She was worsening, and Graham feared what Marsaili’s presence would do to Lena, let alone Isobel’s. And in truth, he feared Lena might attempt to hurt Isobel or even encourage others in the castle to do so.

  The burning in his body increased, and his head felt as if it would split in two as he glanced around the rapidly filling courtyard. The noise was a roar in his ears, and when he tried to dismount his horse with Isobel in his arms, his injured shoulder would not cooperate. He glanced down at Cameron, who’d already dismounted.

  “Brother,” Graham croaked.

  Cameron swiftly looked to him, and his eyebrows shot upward. “Ye look like death.”

  “I feel like death,” Graham replied. “Will ye take Isobel?”

  Cameron nodded and reached up as Graham gritted his teeth against the pain and shifted Isobel toward his brother’s outstretched arms. He saw her eyelashes fluttering and knew she was waking. He wanted to stay by her side and assure her all would be fine, but he feared he’d not be much longer on his feet.

  Once Isobel was in Cameron’s arms, Graham slid off his horse, gripping the beast’s side to steady himself. He had to speak with the king and plead for him to wait to decide Isobel’s fate until Graham’s fever passed and he could truly discuss her with the king. He also had to speak with Iain and make him understand that Isobel had to be guarded and kept away from the others until they could be sure she would not be threatened or hurt, and until he had a chance to make Lena understand that Isobel was not the same as her father and her siblings.