The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  The sight of the comfortable rooms threatened to take her to her knees. It was a far cry from the stark room she’d rented from Madam Georgianna. Warmth and safety emanated from these rooms. A warmth and safety she’d not felt in ten years. She clenched her hands together, struggling to settle herself enough to speak.

  “Ye are safe here, Isobel,” Alasdair whispered as he eased a step closer. “And I hope ye’ll stay…for quite a while.”

  Auntie cleared her throat, fixing Isobel with a stern glare, then shifting it to Alasdair. She took hold of Connor and steered the boy through the door of the room on the left. “We wash, then you in bed.”

  “But my biscuits!”

  “You will wait in bed for biscuits.” Auntie gave her one last meaningful look, then closed the door behind them.

  “Thank ye for all ye’ve done.” Isobel stared down at her hands, worrying her thumb across the black powder marks from firing the pistol. A pricking uneasiness, a frustrated struggling between the past and the present, churned inside her. It was so much easier to feel only rage and betrayal when it came to Alasdair, but her wall of rage and betrayal was crumbling.

  Nay. She couldn’t allow feelings of warmth toward him. She lifted her chin, met Alasdair’s gaze, and took shelter behind the facade of the emotionless, detached smile she’d mastered to survive in her husband’s harsh world. “Ye’ve been most kind. But once I get us on our feet, we’ll be moving on. We dinna wish to be a burden.”

  His mouth tightened. As his broad shoulders slumped, he looked away and scrubbed a hand across his face. “I best go down and see about Connor’s biscuits. I wouldna wish the lad to think I forgot about him.” He took hold of the door latch, then stopped and stared down at the floor for a long moment. “The only way I’ll fail ye this time is if I cease to draw breath. I swear it.” He yanked open the door, strode through it, then clicked it shut behind him.

  “That is exactly what I fear,” she whispered. The last thing she wanted was Alasdair dead.

  Chapter Six

  Connor’s infectious peals of laughter filled the stable. Excited yips and barks and the boisterous rustling of fresh hay rose from one of the stalls.

  Alasdair couldn’t resist a wide grin, and he’d challenge anyone to remain sour-faced at the sound of such pure joy.

  “Those pups love that boy as much as he loves them,” observed Jock, the stable master who seemed as old and solid as stone. The talented horseman had come with the manor. He scrubbed his knobby fingers through his scraggly beard that was white as his hair. “Good lad, that one there.” With a shake of his head, he hitched down the aisle with a saddle thrown over one arm. “Endless havering, though. Wears a body’s ears clean off with all his chatter.”

  “He is a fine lad,” Alasdair agreed. With each passing day, he liked Connor more and more. It made him wonder what life would have been like if he and Isobel had married and had bairns of their own. The wondering pained him, festered inside like a wound refusing to heal. It was a deadly game of what if he played. It poisoned the joy he found in Isobel and Connor’s presence at the manor.

  Of the three, only the lad had seamlessly adapted into the household. Yeva and Mrs. Aggie never agreed on anything, constantly bickering like wild animals fighting for territory. Isobel had warmed toward him, but for the most part, she remained withdrawn and kept to her rooms when not chasing after her son.

  At least she lived in his home now. It was a step forward. Eventually, he would wear her down and make her forgive him. It was his greatest hope that she would someday realize how much he still loved her. Even if it took him the rest of his days. He was a patient man. Well, to a point. He had to admit the nights plagued him something fierce.

  The scent of her lingered in the halls and haunted his every waking hour. She had always smelled sweet as the Highlands, and that hadn’t changed. Then there was the agony of remembering how she had looked in that sheer chemise at Château Delatate. His man parts ached with the need to make her his. He shifted his stance, moving to stand behind one of the half-walls of the stable and prop his arms atop it. That’s all he needed. A tenting of his kilt to show all and sundry just how little control he possessed when it came to Isobel.

  “Connor!” Isobel’s call came from across the cobblestone courtyard, separating the stable from the main house. The property was a rarity in Edinburgh. Broad and sprawling within its gated boundaries, it seemed out of place inside the borders of the crowded city.

  “Lad!” Alasdair adjusted the front of his kilt and stepped away from the wall. “Yer mother calls.”

  “Dinna tell her I’m here,” Connor pleaded, peeping out of the stall, a fuzzy black and white pup tucked in the crook of each arm. “It be time for my lessons, and they’re nothing but a waste a time.” His eyes rounded with the seriousness of the situation. “I’m bound to be a pirate, I am, and pirates dinna speak Latin or Ar-ar-meanun.”

  “Aye, but the richest pirates study their history to learn of lost treasures. Learn their sums, too. How will ye know if one of yer crew is cheating ye?” Alasdair pointed toward the house. “Out wi’ ye now. There’ll be no hiding or lying to yer mother. She’ll skin us both, ye ken?”

  “Aye.” With a dejected huff, Connor lowered the pups to the ground and tromped over to Alasdair’s side.

  “Connor William James Cuthbarten!”

  “Ye best run to her, lad. Yer full Christian name means ye’re spoiling for a smack on yer arse.” Alasdair nudged him to move at a faster pace than that of a salted slug.

  The sight of Isobel standing with her arms crossed and a toe tapping gave Alasdair pause. She wore one of the revealing gowns Fanny had sent over. Dresses commissioned for the brothel’s hostess to wear as she tended men in the smoking room waiting for their ladies. Some might consider them modest compared to the revealing apparel of the harlots, but he deemed them the sort of garment no proper lady would wear in the presence of anyone but her husband. Too low a neckline. Shoulders exposed. An overtight bodice that forced her breasts upward until they threatened to spill out. The lacy hem on one side of her skirts was pinned clean up to her knee, revealing her ruffled petticoats and even part of her ankle. She had swept her dark hair into a cascade of ringlets at the back of her head and brought down teasing strands to frame her high cheekbones.

  “Why are ye dressed like that?” He already knew the answer, but it was the best way he could think of to start what he felt certain would become an argument.

  Isobel’s eyes flashed, then narrowed. She held up a silencing hand as Connor came to a halt in front of her. Ignoring Alasdair, she focused her attention on her son. “From now on, ye dinna visit the stable until ye’ve finished all yer lessons. Do ye hear? Auntie Yeva is beside herself.”

  “But—”

  She caught hold of Connor’s chin and bent to level her gaze with his. “Do ye wish to lose the privilege of playing with the pups completely?”

  “Nay, Mama.” Connor squirmed, his chin caught in his mother’s firm hold. “I am verra sorry I made Auntie Yeva fret by slipping out when she went to use the chamber pot.”

  “Do better.” She fixed him with a stern look that softened as she pecked a quick kiss to his forehead, then released him. “I love ye, Connor. Now, off wi’ ye.”

  “Love ye too, Mama,” Connor said in a sullen tone as he stomped off toward the house.

  “And mind the pouting, or there’ll be no jam and butter on yer bread this afternoon, ye ken?” Isobel shook her head, scowling after her son, as she watched him disappear through the side door. “That lad.”

  “Stubborn as his mother.” Alasdair took the spot Connor had just vacated, the space directly in front of Isobel. “Now, I would appreciate an answer.” He nodded toward her displayed cleavage. “Why are ye wearing that infernal gown?”

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “This is my work attire. I’m returning to the château this evening.”

  “Like hell, ye are.” He widened his stan
ce, struggling to keep his tone civil. “Ye are not going back there, Isobel.”

  “I dinna believe ye have a say in it, Alasdair.” Color riding high on her cheeks, she resettled her full skirts around her. “I shan’t allow us to be a burden on yer hospitality forever.”

  “Ye are not a burden.” Without thinking, he took hold of her upper arms and pulled her close, so close, she bumped into his chest. The thought of losing her again drove him beyond reason. He had to make her understand. “I need ye safe, m’love, which means I need ye here.” The temptation of her mouth was right there. He swallowed hard, holding back a groan, then bent closer. Unbearable longing filled him. Just one wee sampling. Surely, she would allow—

  “Unhand me!” Isobel shoved at his shoulders, pushing away. “Unhand me, now.” A panicked cry escaped her.

  He recognized her fear for what it was. Those damnable memories held her prisoner. The bastard had left his scars upon her, and they ran deep. He released her and stepped an arm’s length back. “Forgive me,” he said as he retreated another step to give her even more space and hopefully, the certainty that he’d never hurt her. “I should nay have touched ye without yer permission.”

  Teeth clenched, he struggled to find the words to put her at ease and also make her abandon her foolish plan to return to the brothel. “Please, Isobel, I beg ye. Dinna go back to the château. And please know, I would never hurt ye, nor ever force ye to do anything ye nay wished to do.” Guilt and anger at his own stupidity filled him. How could he have acted in such a way? He was worse than a stag in rut. “Forgive me. Please. It’s just…”

  “This is why I must return to work.” She stood with a hand pressed to her throat, taking in deep breaths. “We…ye and I, what we had before, it belongs in the past, and there it shall stay. It is too late, Alasdair. I willna risk yer life any more than I have already.” Her voice dropped so low, he strained to hear her. “I canna bear to hear of yer death a second time, and this time, know it to be true.” Smoothing her hands down her bodice, she composed herself into a vision of grace. “Connor, Auntie, and I still plan to build a simple life in the Highlands.” She managed a strained smile. “We are grateful for all ye have done for us, truly we are, but we will nay interrupt yer life here in Edinburgh any longer than necessary.”

  Her words fed the hope that had sprouted and grown ever stronger with each passing day since they had taken up residence in his home. The hope that he might not only win her forgiveness but reclaim her heart as well. She sounded as though she might still care for him just a wee bit. A plan, a logical plan, formed in his mind, falling in place like the meticulous strategy for a victorious battle. He resolved she would remain in his life forever.

  “First, ye are nay a burden nor an interruption.” He chose his words with care. “And neither is Connor nor yer aunt.” He tossed a glance at the manor, the truth of what he was about to say, tugging the corners of his mouth into a sad smile. “This is the first time since I’ve lived here that the place has felt like a home.” He shrugged. “Ye brought light into my darkness, and wee Connor fills the lonely silence with laughter.” He shook his head, praying she’d truly hear his words. “How could anyone think that a burden or an interruption?”

  Brows drawn together and eyes shimmering with emotion, Isobel looked away, hugging herself as she turned. “I promised myself if I was successful in my escape, I’d spend the rest of my life devoted to the raising of my son—nothing else.” Her lips trembled as she glanced skyward. “I promised God, as well.” Her gaze sank to the ground. “We canna stay here indefinitely. I fear neither of us could…” Her voice trailed off as though she hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. She turned and faced him, sadness etched in her features. “We are a danger to ye here. Temsworth will surely find ye and discover ye’ve helped me. I canna bear to be the reason ye come to harm.”

  The more she talked, the more his spirits lifted. Aye, she still had feelings for him, feelings he could nurture and feed. He could win her trust—if he tended her with care. A monumental task but well worth it. She was a wounded soul in dire need of healing, and he relished the opportunity.

  “Since ye no longer feel safe here in Edinburgh, allow me to take ye to Tor Ruadh. I feel certain Clan MacCoinnich will take ye in. Alexander is their chief. Ye remember, Alexander?”

  Isobel frowned and stepped closer. Suspicion hardened her features. “Ye told me our clans were no more. Ye said the Campbells seized MacCoinnich and MacNaughton lands.”

  “Alexander’s wife was a Neal. She saved his life after Glencoe. Saved all of us, in fact.” A shiver ran across him at the memory. Seven of them had escaped the February 1692 massacre at Glencoe by fleeing north into the mountains. Wounded. No supplies. They’d taken shelter in a cave, trying to escape the cruel clutches of the bitter Highland winter. Clan Neal’s hunters had come upon them and carried them to their keep, Tor Ruadh.

  “After Alexander married Catriona, the Neal clan took the MacCoinnich name as their own. It’s a twisted tale. One I’ll leave for Catriona and Alexander to share with ye.” He shifted in place, fisting his hands at his sides. He wanted so much to hold her, reassure her, make her know he’d never deceive her. “Tor Ruadh is their stronghold. Built into the side of Ben Nevis. Nearly impenetrable.”

  “Nearly?” She arched a brow and gave him the same look he’d seen her give Connor when catching the boy in a lie.

  “There was a wee difference of opinion before Alexander and Catriona married. We had to break in.” He risked moving a step closer. She hadn’t refused his suggestion, but she still hadn’t agreed. “But it was the seven of us. The four MacCoinnichs. Magnus de Gray. Ian and I.” He allowed himself a proud smile. “No fortress can withstand us.”

  Isobel rolled her eyes, but he spotted the hint of a smile tickling across her mouth and was glad of it. “What say ye? Ye know as well as I that Alexander will nay refuse ye sanctuary.”

  “I had thought to go farther north than Ben Nevis. Closer to Skye. Seek shelter from the clans once allied with the MacNaughtons.” She dropped her gaze again, tracing the toe of her shoe along the edge of a cobblestone. “Think ye Ben Nevis would truly be safe from Temsworth?”

  His heart soared, but he kept his voice calm and without emotion. He didn’t wish to frighten her now. She was as delicate and skittish as an orphaned colt. “Aye, I do. And my taking ye to Tor Ruadh will be a damn sight safer than yer traveling into the Highlands with only Connor and yer aunt. Temsworth will have his men looking for two women and a boy. They willna be watching for a group.”

  “A group?”

  “Aye.” Alasdair nodded and eased even closer. “I’ll have two of the lads come along to drive the wagon and help me keep an eye out.”

  She fixed him with an unreadable look. A troubled squint crinkled the corners of her eyes as she swiped a stray curl back behind her ear. “Ye would do all this even though ye understand well enough we shall never be as we once were? I canna break my promise. Connor is my life’s purpose now.” She looked away, scowling, then turned back to him. “And ye know Temsworth is sure to have ye watched whilst trying to find me. I’ve endangered ye enough as it is. Ye would still make such a trip knowing all this?”

  He held out both hands and waited. “Aye, mo chridhe. I do it because I love ye and always will no matter our situation.” He held his breath, praying he hadn’t overplayed his hand. “I shall be whatever ye wish me to be in yer life. Trusted friend. Ally. Protector. The choice will always be yers, Isobel. Never again will I make the mistake of choosing for ye.”

  “Mo chridhe, my heart. Ye always used to call me that.” She visibly swallowed hard and he spotted the sheen of tears in her eyes. She inched a step forward and rested her hands atop his. A weak smile trembled across her lips. “I accept yer offer to escort us to Tor Ruadh.” She glanced down at her breasts, then lifted her head, fixing a shy look upon him. “I shall return this dress to Fanny with a note that says I’ll not be working any longer at Ch�
�teau Delatate.” Her smile steadied. “Thank ye, Alasdair. Truly.” She pecked a quick kiss to his cheek, then fled up the path leading to the house.

  Alasdair pressed a hand to his cheek, cherishing her kiss more than any amount of gold. He’d meant what he said. The choice was hers. He just prayed he could convince her to give their love another chance. He understood the promise she’d made to herself and God. A desperate bargain made during a desperate time. But surely, the Almighty would understand and smile upon them. He intended to convince her of such.

  “Why are ye standing there holding yer face?” Ian followed the question with a jaw-cracking yawn as he entered the courtyard and meandered up the cobblestoned path.

  Alasdair glanced up at the sun. “Lettie let ye sleep later than usual.”

  His brother’s face darkened. With a sad shake of his head, he scratched at the dusting of stubble along his jaw. “Lettie sent me away. Refuses to see me again. She’s worse. Ye should see the blood when she coughs.” He clenched his bared teeth and stared down at the ground, kicking aside a loose rock in his path. “Says she willna have me sit there and watch her die. Said she’d rather die alone knowing that I’d remember her as she once was.”

  Ian didn’t handle loss well, and fate had cursed the poor man with more than his share of painful situations. Alasdair’s heart went out to his brother. “I am sorry.”

  Ian shrugged, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have news for ye. News ye need to hear.” He rolled his shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and did his best to stand taller. “The duke’s offered a reward for the lad. Enough gold to make it dangerous. He’s reported him kidnapped. Says he’ll pay double to any man ensuring Isobel dies during the boy’s recovery.”