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

by Julie Johnstone

  Men immediately surged toward him, but he held up a hand to wave them off with his purpose burning in his mind. As he moved through the crowd toward his brothers and the king, he caught sight of Marion marching toward him with a concerned look on her face. He didn’t bother trying to wave his brother’s wife away. When she had her mind set, she was more determined than the fiercest warrior. Isobel, he realized, was much like Marion.

  Marion strode up to him and scowled. “You are ill.”

  He forced his mouth into a smirk, the simple gesture taking great effort. “What made ye aware?” he teased as her gaze fastened to his shoulder.

  She clucked her tongue at him. “I will never understand why you Scots think ignoring injuries makes you brave.”

  He quirked his eyebrows up at her. “It dunnae?”

  “It makes you a clot-heid,” she snapped, sliding her arm around him. “I insist you come inside at once and let me tend to you.”

  “I’d be happy to,” he replied, chuckling at her shocked look. She’d been expecting an argument, but she wouldn’t get one, not now.

  He tried not to lean on her too much as they made their way through the crowd toward the king and his brothers, but she tugged on him. It was her way of silently demanding he let her aid him. He relented because fighting her would require more effort than he could muster at the moment. When they got close to the king and his brothers, he said, “I’ll follow ye in shortly, after I speak with the king and my brothers.”

  “You should come now,” she insisted. “You look as if you will fall over soon.”

  He nodded. “I feel like I will.” He tried to smile, but his skin was so taught with heat that it felt as if his cheeks would split.

  “Then come with me now,” she encouraged.

  He shook his head. “I’ve something I must attend to.”

  “It can wait,” she rebutted, her hands coming to her hips.

  “Nay. I—” He scrubbed a hand over his aching neck, his skin hurting from his own touch. “I must attend to Isobel Campbell’s welfare.”

  Marion’s gaze flew past him to look, no doubt, at Isobel and Marsaili. “Which woman is the informant and which is the heiress?”

  “The brunette is Isobel,” he replied, his head swimming.

  “She’s glaring at me,” Marion said, surprise in her voice.

  “Och.” Graham tried to wave a dismissive hand, but his arm would not cooperate. “She is likely glaring at me.”

  Marion shook her head as a contemplative look swept her face. “I think not. She is staring directly at me with a look I vow appears to be jealousy.” Marion faced him, her eyebrows arching. “Surely, that cannot be. Surely, the woman you seized, your enemy, is not jealous of you talking with another woman?”

  Despite how terrible he felt, Marion’s words filled his chest with a satisfaction that he knew he had no right to enjoy. Isobel Campbell was trouble both when she tried to be and when she did not. He should stay far away from the lass and leave her concerns to his brother, but he knew very well he could not.

  Isobel frowned as she glanced around the unfamiliar keep, and her mouth parted at the hundreds of men lined along either side of the castle entrance, fully armed with gleaming swords and bows and arrows.

  These men were ready for war, and she suspected the opponent they prepared to battle was her father. Low murmurs filled the keep, mostly the deep voices of men, but up ahead, to the right of the castle door, stood two women: one tall with bright-red hair and one of medium height with russet hair close to the color of Graham’s, and skin—from what Isobel could tell in the fading daylight—that looked as pale as the moon where clean patches showed. The woman appeared an unkempt mess with a dirty face, knotted hair, and a soiled gown. She turned her head from the conversation with the other woman, and hate-filled eyes locked on Isobel, causing her to take an involuntary step back.

  When she did, she bumped into Cameron. “Where is Graham?” she asked, hating that her voice wobbled.

  Cameron pointed, and Isobel followed his motion to Graham as he stood speaking to a petite woman with blond hair. Intense jealousy flared inside Isobel, which shocked and horrified her. “Who is that woman?” she asked, then cursed herself inwardly for doing so.

  Cameron did not flick his gaze to her as he answered. “That is Marion, my brother Iain’s wife.”

  Undeniable relief surged through her, which made her horror grow. Somehow she had become attached to Graham MacLeod in the short time she had known him. No matter the strife between them, he had been honorable and protective of her, which was a great deal more than her father and brother had been. Graham was by far the best man she had known, far more trustworthy than either man to whom her father intended to marry her.

  Graham and Marion moved toward the castle door, and Isobel found herself shifting from foot to foot. He was not going to simply abandon her without so much as a farewell, was he?

  As he and his brother’s wife reached the castle door, they paused, and a tall, black-haired man slipped his arm briefly around Marion. “Yer brother Iain?” Isobel asked Cameron.

  He nodded. “I should hope so. He’d cut off the hand of any man who dared to touch his wife so familiarly.”

  Isobel sucked in a sharp breath. “Ye are teasing?”

  “Nay. He dunnae care for any man touching his wife but him. It is apparently something that happens to clot-heid MacLeod men when they foolishly allow a woman to soften them.”

  Isobel felt a smile pull at her lips. “Why do ye say that?”

  “Well,” Cameron said, “it happened to Iain after he married Marion, and then it happened to Lachlan before the fool even married Bridgette. He almost beat Graham senseless one time for saying something Lachlan considered disparaging of Bridgette’s character.”

  “I can nae imagine anyone able to defeat Graham in a battle,” Isobel replied. The words slipped out before she realized it might make her sound besotted with Graham.

  Cameron chuckled. “That’s because Graham has come a long way in a verra short time. I am nae so certain that Lachlan could defeat him now, but dunnae tell Lachlan I said so. They are both fierce warriors and that would be a battle I’d nae wish to see. And I dunnae believe we ever will. The differences that were between them have been settled, thank God.”

  Longing tugged at Isobel. The MacLeod brothers clearly loved and supported one another, and it was something she had never had and likely never would. She and Marsaili could be close, she thought, but they would never get the chance since she was going to be married off and shipped away. And God above only knew of what family Isobel would soon be a member. She hoped and prayed it would be a good one, and that perchance someday the family would love her as Graham and his brothers loved one another.

  She glanced around the men with whom Graham stood. Marion went inside the castle, leaving the men to themselves. Her husband, Iain, stood by Graham’s side, and on Graham’s other side, stood another tall, imposing figure of a man. He had russet-colored hair that matched that of the woman who had looked at Isobel with such shocking hatred.

  “Is the man to Graham’s left yer brother Lachlan?” Isobel asked.

  “Aye,” Cameron replied, “and before them is King David.”

  Isobel studied the king. He had brown hair that grazed his shoulders and a dark-brown beard. He was a daunting figure in his own right, though not as tall as Graham and with a slighter build. He wore a golden cloak that almost shimmered in the fading light, and he waved his hands as he spoke.

  Marsaili, who had been standing some distance away with Rory Mac, came to Isobel’s side and took her hand. “Dunnae fash yerself. Graham will nae let harm come to ye. I’m certain of it.”

  Isobel swallowed the sudden lump of fear in her throat and stared at Graham, whose back was to her. Why had he left her? Was it simply to speak with the king without her being present? As if he knew she was thinking of him, he glanced her way suddenly, as did the king.

  “Sire,” Gra
ham managed, though his tongue felt thick and his mouth felt as if it were filled with sand.

  Lachlan and Iain frowned at him, both their gazes going to his shoulder where his wound was. He tried to chuckle, but it came out a croak. “A wolf bit me, and the wound was ripped open by a dagger.”

  “One of the Campbells?” Iain growled.

  Graham nodded, not wishing to tell them that it was Isobel and give them any other reason to dislike her. “Sire, the mission was successful.” Graham pointed toward Isobel. “There is Isobel Campbell.”

  The king grinned and clapped Graham on the arm, making him grimace. “Ye have done well bringing me my prize, Graham.”

  Graham clenched his teeth. Isobel was a prize, to be certain, but not because of her inheritance. The woman was special in her own right.

  Lachlan said something to Graham, but his brother’s words were muffled, the roar in Graham’s ears from his own heartbeat deafening. He found it suddenly hard to draw a breath, and his vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes open and closed several times, and on the last attempt to clear his vision, he opened his eyes to see two images of the king and his brothers. He gripped Lachlan by the shoulder, needing something to steady him.

  “Sire,” Graham panted, “I’d ask ye the favor of waiting until I’m well to choose Isobel’s husband.”

  The king frowned. “Why? Ye have done yer part.”

  Graham shook his head, trying to clear the noise. “It’s nae as simple as I thought. I…” His words trailed off as he lost his thought and then, with great will, found it again. “I beseech ye to wait to marry her—” He pictured her in another man’s arms, another man’s bed, and every muscle in his body coiled in protest. He could lay no claim. The king would likely not wish it, as his family was already a longtime, reliable ally and David wished to use Isobel to bind a newer ally to increase their numbers. Beyond that, tying himself to Isobel could very likely bring havoc to the peace his family needed.

  “What is the complication ye speak of?” David demanded, his legendary temper showing.

  Graham could not make his tongue form the words, as he swayed precariously, and Iain and Graham both took an arm to hold him up.

  “By the saints,” Iain swore, “ye’re burning up.”

  Graham jerked his head in agreement and struggled once more to speak. “I dunnae—” The ground beneath his feet tilted. “Inside,” he murmured. He felt himself being swiftly dragged into his home, just as his head lolled forward and blackness claimed him.

  Isobel frowned as Graham’s brothers moved closer to him all at once. Were they grabbing him by the arms? Fear lodged in her chest.

  She turned to Cameron, and as she did, she saw the tall red-haired woman and the one with the russet-colored hair approaching rapidly. A woman with curly brown hair stopped the woman with red hair and handed her a bairn. She drew the bundle into the crook of her arms, and Isobel noticed that her belly was swollen with a coming child.

  The women were in front of Isobel before she could even ask who they were. Neither woman looked particularly friendly. The flame-haired woman spoke first. “Cameron, it is good to see ye returned home healthy.”

  Cameron smiled. “It is good to see ye back at Dunvegan, as well, Bridgette.” He motioned to her belly. “I see my brother and ye have had good fortune.”

  The woman, Bridgette, grinned and glanced briefly down at her belly. “Aye. We should have a wee bairn come the summer.” A dark look suddenly crossed her face, and she grumbled. “Lachlan says I kinnae fight in any more battles until the bairn has arrived.”

  Cameron chuckled. “Lachlan is a wise man. I hear that ye chased down and felled four of my uncle’s men.”

  She winked. “Aye. I did. Lachlan only felled three.” Her face grew serious once more. “What of Jamie? Any new findings?”

  Cameron nodded. “I killed him.” It was not said boastfully or with pride, but as a simple statement. He motioned to Isobel. “She helped me. This is Isobel Campbell.”

  “We suspected,” Bridgette said, her obvious dislike of Isobel apparent in her tone. Isobel stiffened her spine and refused to cower when Bridgette turned a glacial glare upon her. “Stay away from my husband,” she hissed.

  “Bridgette!” Cameron chided. “She is nae like her sister Helena.”

  Bridgette snorted. “She’s beguiled ye with her beauty.”

  “I’m nae beguiled,” Cameron protested. “Neither Isobel nor Marsaili”—he motioned to Marsaili, who had thus far stood silently—“are like their father or yer husband, Lena.”

  Isobel’s hand fluttered to her throat in horror. So this was Lena MacLeod—or rather, Lena Campbell.

  Isobel’s gaze inadvertently drew first to Lena’s wrist and then Bridgette’s. She gaped when she saw the brandings on both women. “I kinnae believe Findlay would do such a thing,” she said, her heart heavy. The brother she had known could never have hurt someone so.

  Bridgette did not react, but Lena screeched in rage and lunged for Isobel. When Marsaili moved to step in front of her to protect her, Isobel shoved her sister aside. Marsaili may be the only person who would ever truly care for her, and she was not about to let Lena hurt her. Beyond that, she knew Lena was angry because of what had been done to her, and she must have misunderstood Isobel’s words.

  When the woman went to grab Isobel’s hair, Cameron clutched his sister before Isobel could react. “Lena,” he bit out. “Calm yerself!”

  “Calm myself!” Lena screeched. “I’ll kill her!” She turned wild eyes upon Isobel that sent fright swirling inside her. “Yer spawned from the devil; therefore, ye are the devil, as well!”

  “I’m sorry,” Isobel blurted. “I’m sorry for what Findlay did to ye,” she said hurriedly, glancing at Bridgette. “I—” she gulped “—did nae mean to imply that I dunnae believe he had done this to ye, but that I am horrified by what he has done.”

  Lena writhed and kicked in Cameron’s arms, either not hearing Isobel’s explanation or not caring. Several of the nearby clansmen looked over at the frenzy Lena was causing. “Go about yer business,” Cameron barked. The area around them immediately cleared.

  “My sister,” Marsaili said in a steely tone, “Was nae raised with my family. If ye want to lunge at someone, lunge at me.”

  “Ye,” Lena spat, “are simpleminded, so we have heard, though ye dunnae sound so. Still… We make allowances for ye.”

  Without thought, Isobel stepped forward and slapped the woman hard across the face. Tense silence immediately fell as the they glared at each other. “Marsaili is nae simpleminded,” Isobel growled. “I imagine it amused my brothers and sister, Helena, to say so, but Marsaili is nae simpleminded.” She wanted to tell the woman then and there that Marsaili was her half sister, but she feared it would only enrage Lena more, especially given the circumstances of Marsaili’s birth. From the pained look on Marsaili’s face, Isobel suspected she wished the truth was known, too, but felt keeping the secret was best for now.

  To Lena’s credit, shame trickled across her face as she glanced at Marsaili. “I—” She turned her face away, unable to do so with her body as her brother still held her arms. “Findlay said ye were simpleminded, and I should nae have believed him.” She whipped her head back around and glanced between Isobel and Marsaili. “Is Findlay dead?” she asked. The hope in her voice was undeniable.

  Isobel and Marsaili both shook their heads, and Isobel’s heart twisted when Lena slumped in her brother’s arms. He immediately released her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Dunnae fret, Sister. Ye will nae ever have to go back to him.”

  “So ye say. But if the king seeks peace with the Campbells, I may well be one of the means to attain it. They have already requested the king order Iain to return me, and nae because Findlay loves me,” she said bitterly. “It pleases him to torment the sister of the MacLeod.”

  Cameron shook his head. “We will nae return ye. Ever,” he vowed. “And once Brigid Castle is securely in the control o
f those we can trust, Dunvegan will be safer than ever before.”

  All eyes rested upon Isobel. No one said it, but she knew: she was the means to either forge peace or start war between the king and the men who sought to topple him. Before anyone could say anything else, Iain came out of nowhere like a shadow.

  He had a fierce look on his face as he swept his gaze around the group. “Quit lingering,” he ordered Cameron. “Take Isobel to the guest room down the passage from my own and set guards to the doors.”

  “But Iain—” Cameron started to protest but fell immediately silent when his brother’s face grew dangerously dark. “Aye,” Cameron quickly agreed.

  Iain flicked his gaze to Bridgette. “Marion needs ye to help tend—” He cut his words off, as if not wishing to say more in front of Isobel and Marsaili. “Give me my son,” he said, the ferocious warrior suddenly gentling his tone and softening his face as he held his arms out for the bairn.

  Bridgette complied without hesitation, and Isobel watched as Iain’s dark expression became one of love and light. Her heart twisted as he cooed to the baby, who he called Royce. This man clearly held a great love for his child, and all Isobel’s yearning for love from her own father surged inside her once more. She would never have his love. Even if he had possessed any kindness to give, which he did not, she had betrayed him by running from him and the duty he demanded of her.

  Iain raised his gaze from his bairn’s sleeping face as Bridgette took Lena by the elbow and fairly dragged the woman away. Cameron motioned for Isobel to follow him. She hesitated, worried about Marsaili. By the fearful expression upon Marsaili’s face, she was nervous, too. Iain speared her with a wary look. “Graham told me who ye are, Sister.”

  Tears of thankfulness for Iain’s acceptance of Marsaili came to Isobel’s eyes, and when she stole a glance at Marsaili, her sister had tears of her own flowing down her face. Isobel put an arm around Marsaili’s shoulder and hugged her as Iain sighed. “I welcome ye here, but I kinnae say Lena will. And perchance not others.”