“If you wait much longer, your head may burst. ’Tis too much fire to hold in, dearling. Havenae you been to the blacksmiths? Verily, so much heat and pressure will lead to an explosion. What am I to tell poor Gavin and Deirdre?”
She gave him an icy smile and turned away. He wanted to rile her and ’twas hard not to give in. Maybe she should start yelling at him. That always made her feel better, in control, especially if he yelled back. Their argumentative back and forth was a dynamic she was used to—one she excelled at—not this talking about sexual deeds she didn’t understand…but wanted to.
What did he mean?
“You want to know,” he said, almost mimicking her thoughts. “Your curiosity is boundless.”
When she bit her tongue instead of answering, he shrugged and looked forward. “Or you can play it safe and skip over all those unsettling feelings that are making your pulse quicken and your mind fluster like a—”
“I am not flustered!”
“Then ask me a question…anything. About the battle, about war in general, about what I supped on last night. Rabbit, by the way, roasted over the fire.”
She squeezed her lips together again before she blurted out something else she’d regret. Or worse yet—laughed. She did not want to go back to talking about subjugation—at least not with him. But she did want to know about the battle. And the conspiracy. And about his childhood, and his father, and how Kerr had killed him.
She’d wanted to know those details for years. He was right; she had an insatiable desire to know everything.
“Was it good?” she asked.
“My dinner? Aye, it was verra good. Gregor always brings along some of his special spice to put on it. The flavor bursts in your mouth.”
The talk of spiced rabbit only reminded her that she hadn’t eaten much of her midday meal and she already felt a twinge of hunger. She ignored it and turned her horse away from the castle in the opposite direction of the village.
“You asked earlier about the battle,” he said. “We weren’t trying to exclude you. But…”
“But what?” she prompted.
“We killed men, Isobel. Young men who had wee sisters who adored them and mothers and fathers praying for their return. Older men with lads and lassies at home and wives who couldnae feed them on their own. Even if you manage a quick kill, their deaths stay with you. As they should. We do what we can afterward to help the innocent victims, but it’s ne’er enough.”
“I’m sorry. I know that, of course, but…”
“But you want to know about the strategy we used. How we outsmarted them. Our triumphs, our mistakes. The broad strokes. I’ll tell you, but understand that for you, it’s an intellectual exercise…for the men who fought—including Gregor and my brothers—it’s a horrific reality.”
Guilt swamped her. “Forgive me. You doona have to say anything. I shouldnae have asked.”
“Nay, I want to. My brothers go home to their wives and perhaps share the details that bother them most. I’ll tell you what I can. Maybe it will ease my mind too.”
She looked down and squeezed her hands around the reins. Why, if she knew it hurt him to tell the tale, did she want to know? Why couldn’t she be more like Deirdre and be happy raising her bairns, loving her husband, and helping her clan?
She was certain Deirdre had never been struck with the burning desire to see justice done over what some may consider small slights within the clan—a scorned woman, a bullied man, a child made to feel like an outcast.
“I feel…incomplete without the knowledge,” she said hesitantly, trying to make him understand, to make herself understand. “Like I’m missing pieces of the picture. I doona need all the details, but I do need to know. Even in broad strokes, like you say—the order of events, why you made the decisions you did, how you executed your plan.”
Kerr didn’t answer immediately, and she found herself holding her breath. When he nodded, she let it out quietly. They were almost at the forest’s edge and that would give them another ten minutes to talk before they reached the trap site.
“The MacIntyres knew we were coming, of course,” he began. “The village had been abandoned, and everyone was walled up within the castle, which is set up much the same as Castle MacKinnon—no moat, no mound that it was built upon, but tall, strong walls, and set within cleared land so they could see us coming.”
“Why did they fight, when their laird was already dead from the attack on us last spring?” she asked.
“He’d left someone in charge of the castle. It was that man’s decision.”
“Did you parlay with them first? How did you approach the castle without being stuck with arrows, like Lachlan said?”
“We tried to parlay, but they refused. We set up just out of range—surrounded the castle—and waited.”
“For what?”
“For our men inside—our spies—to aid us in taking the castle, mostly. But we also hoped that seeing our greater number would weaken their resolve, and they would surrender before lives were lost.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she raised her brow. His answers so far only made her want to know more.
He continued. “The night before we attacked, some of our men approached the wall by crawling across the open field unseen. They were hidden at the base of the curtain wall when the assault began. Inside, our spies had created a diversion by starting a fire that raged quickly in the tannery. MacIntyre men had to be diverted from manning the walls to put out the fire. Before that, a small group of us had entered through a hidden door into the castle, let in by the steward, who sided with us. Once inside, we waited for the fire to start, and then split our forces. Half of us headed to the portcullis to open the gates for our approaching army, led by Gregor, who charged the wall on horseback. The other half searched for the MacIntyre leaders to take them out.”
“And it worked?” she asked, her breath held tight in her throat.
He nodded. “We took the castle in less than an hour and were able to put out the fire with only minimal damage to the other buildings. We started rebuilding the tannery, with the help of the MacIntyre tanner, the next afternoon.”
“What group were you with?” she asked.
“I snuck through the passageway and then fought to open the portcullis.”
“And Gavin?”
“He killed the man who was leading the MacIntyre defense.”
The breath gushed from her lungs on a sharp exhale. Suddenly the battle didn’t seem so exciting. This was what Kerr had meant—the intellectual experience of the battle versus the reality of war.
“Did he try to surrender?” she asked.
“Of course not. Gavin would ne’er have killed him if he had. The man was a good fighter, defending his home—doing what he was charged to do. His mistake was in failing to take into account that his people came first. His laird was dead. He was their leader now. He should have negotiated a surrender.”
She nodded, still deflated. “Your reputation for fairness and justice should have swayed him.”
“That was our hope.”
The trail they’d been following narrowed, and Kerr moved closer, his leg brushing hers. A tree branch protruded into her path at eye level, and before she could push it out of her way, he reached across and snapped it off, his massive, muscular body looming over her. He then tossed the offending branch to the ground and sat back in his saddle.
As much as she denied it, a melting sensation invaded her muscles. It was the same feeling she’d felt when he’d swirled her around and her head had tucked up so perfectly beneath his chin.
She’d turned soft then too—and hated herself for it.
Or maybe she hated being perceived as soft—as weak and ineffective. Wasn’t it the same thing? Maybe not. Deirdre was soft, but she wasn’t weak or ineffective.
Gah! It was too much
for her to figure out right now. Especially with Kerr riding so close.
Up ahead, a glade appeared, and Isobel brought her attention back to the task at hand. She reined in her mount at the end of the trail and surveyed her handiwork, trying not to let her eyes rest anywhere that might give the trap away. Kerr stopped beside her and also perused the glade.
She held her breath and wondered what he saw.
She’d marked the edges of the pit with a fallen twig on one side and an overturned stump on the other. To her eyes, it looked natural. She’d carefully chosen the spot to dig and then spent a full day shoveling manure into the hole and weaving the long grass, leaves, and twigs to go over top. The moment he stepped on it, Kerr would fall through.
High up in the tree branches on the other side, she’d rigged a second trap that was a decoy. That was the trap she wanted Kerr to see, to focus on. She’d also laid a trip wire near the stump that would release the trap up in the tree and send “manure” raining down on him. Of course, there wasn’t really any manure up in the tree, only dirt, so the cloth bag, covered in leaves, had the proper weight to it.
She wanted Kerr to see the trip wire and walk across the glade to investigate it, telling her the entire time that she needed his help, that Gavin would see the trap like he had.
Right up until he stepped into the pit of manure.
A perfect plan…that she now felt reluctant to set in motion. He’d been so open with her, shared the emotional toll of war with her. How could she reward him for it by dumping him in horse shite?
“Dearest, do you intend to sit here all day?” Kerr asked. “Are you so enamored with my presence that you doona want to proceed? ’Tis not often we get to sit so close.”
Her cheeks heated, and irritation raced through her, chasing away her hesitation. She threw him a look that would shrivel a weaker man.
Pit of manure it is.
She dismounted, and her guard settled into the trees around the glade, staying far away from her handiwork. They knew better than to warn one of her targets what they were walking into.
Isobel grasped her mare’s reins, led her to a tree in the glade, and tied the horse to a branch. Then she unfastened the pony’s lead from the saddle and pulled it toward the stump, the cart following behind. She parked the manure on the safe side of the stump, leaving the pathway over the pit the most logical way to reach her side.
It also camouflaged the smell of the manure she’d already shoveled into the pit yesterday.
She didn’t look at Kerr as she crouched to tie the pony’s lead to the overturned stump—she didn’t dare—but she strained her ears for any sounds of his horse, or his feet, walking across the grass toward her.
Surely he’ll tie his stallion beside mine and then cross to my side? And be looking up.
When she heard his mount on the opposite side of the glade, she jerked her head toward it, only to see the horse happily munching on some grass…alone.
Kerr had to be behind her. Either watching her or looking for her traps. Had he seen them?
She straightened and glanced up at the decoy in the trees before quickly dropping her gaze—as if she hadn’t wanted him to see her doing that. Then she turned around and gasped.
He stood right behind her…so big and tall, his wild hair snarled across his shoulders, his gaze—dark and rapt—on her face.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart thrummed in her chest—even more than it had from the excitement of finally getting the better of him. His gaze held hers, and she shivered.
This wasn’t the Kerr bent on riling her, or the noisy and boisterous one who was full of mirth and loved playing with the bairns, or the Kerr who scared her sometimes when he sensed danger, and all that energy within him coiled into deadly readiness.
Nay, this Kerr was someone else entirely. He peered at her like he wanted to swallow her whole, his every sense tuned to her—her eyes, her expression, every twitch of her body—and right into her mind.
He raised his hand, gently rubbed his knuckles down her cheek, and then squeezed her chin between his thumb and knuckle. “What are you up to, love?”
She froze in place and had to swallow before answering. “I told you. ’Tis a trap for Gavin.”
He continued to stare at her and then slowly glanced up at the trees where she’d looked moments before. His eyes shifted down and she knew he was tracing the trip wire all the way to the stump by her feet.
He released her and squatted on his haunches, studying the glade with his eyes alone and not moving in any direction. Certainly not to the edge of the pit like she’d planned for him to do.
She turned away and fussed with the tarp tied over the cart. When he didn’t say anything, she swung back and glowered at him, hands fisted on her hips. He rose to his feet, and she had to tip up her chin to maintain eye contact. “I suppose you’re going to say that Gavin will see the trap. That if you can see it, then he’ll see it too. But you were looking for it. Gavin will be too intent on Deirdre and Ewan to see anything out of the ordinary.”
“Nay. He’ll be even more diligent with his wife and son here. But earlier you were adamant that they wouldn’t be, which is it, dearling?”
Before she could respond, he took a slow step sideways away from her. Not toward the pit, exactly, but now, at least, he was directly in line with it. The urge to move behind him and shove him into it struck hard, but she knew she had about as much a chance of doing that as she had of moving a mountain. She spun around and strode three steps down the side of the pit away from him—the suspense was killing her, and she couldn’t stand still doing nothing.
After a small hesitation, she also stepped sideways so now she was directly across from him—on the other side of the pit.
How can I make him step forward?
She looked up at the decoy and placed her hands on her hips. Then she sighed. Loudly. “So how do I make him not see it, then?”
When he didn’t answer, her muscles tightened until she felt pulled taut, like the strings on a lute. After what seemed like forever, she glanced over her shoulder. He stood in the same spot. Watching her.
Nerves tightened her belly and caused a muscle to twitch in her cheek. Thankfully it was the cheek facing away from him or he would have noticed; he stood only three paces behind her.
“Or have you not seen it, after all? Have my trap-making abilities finally outpaced your trap-detecting senses?”
“I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen you too.”
“Of course you have. I’m right here, Kerr.” She smiled at him, softly, enticingly, and then lowered her eyes before turning back.
She strained her ears, waiting to hear a yelp or a grunt. A thud as he stepped toward her into the pit. It wasn’t deep, only about three feet, but it was filled halfway with animal dung from the stables—mostly horse manure, but goat, sheep, and cow dung too. He would fall in almost up to his knees, at least.
And he would ne’er forget it. More importantly, neither would she, or his foster family, or either of their clans—the MacAlisters or the MacKinnons.
More time ticked by. She felt like ants were crawling all over her as she waited. What is he doing?
She couldn’t risk glancing back again. Instead, she reached with one arm behind her neck and slowly pulled her long swathe of hair forward over one shoulder, exposing her nape.
And then she waited.
Five
Kerr stared at the back of Isobel’s neck—long and strong, yet also vulnerable and tender-looking. Her hair shone brightly in the sun, and damp tendrils curled around her hairline from their midday ride.
His fingers twitched, wanting to touch the silky tresses, and his mouth watered, wanting to kiss below her ear.
She was Eve to his Adam. Delilah to his Samson.
She was Isobel and he was Kerr, and she would never entice him to her si
de. Ever.
Unless she wants me there for a reason.
He looked at the ground and saw nothing out of the ordinary—leaves, grass, a few twigs—nothing to indicate anything was amiss. He stepped forward carefully, feeling first with his foot, dipping his toes down…and then he stopped.
There.
He grinned and looked back up at her exposed neck, tempting him closer. Who was he to refuse her? Without another thought, he leapt forward and landed directly behind her—almost on top of her.
Her shriek of alarm pierced his ears as he clamped his arm around her waist and squeezed her against his chest.
So worth it.
“Kerr!” she yelled, her hands clutching his forearms.
Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the crook of her neck.
Her skin was warm and soft, and despite the strong smell of manure around them, she smelled sweet like wild roses when he inhaled.
And wasn’t that like the dichotomy of Isobel herself? The Beauty of the Highlands was the same woman who made traps filled with animal dung. The Lady of Clan MacKinnon, hostess to great lairds and ladies, also dug through abandoned hedgehog dens to find quills to dump on people’s heads.
“What are you doing?” she squealed, her words strained. She rested heavily against him, as if she couldn’t hold herself upright.
He brushed his lips along the side of her neck to her ear and nipped the lobe. The air shuddered from her body.
“Exactly as you wanted, am I not?” he asked.
“No, I—”
He nipped her ear higher up. “Truth, Isobel. You lured me across. You wanted me to walk toward you. I succumbed.” A hint of amusement laced his voice, and he knew she would hear it, would react to it.
“I did no such thing. You’ve lost your bloody mind.” She regained her strength and pulled his arms away from her middle, then stepped forward and turned to face him. A hectic flush covered her chest and cheeks. Her lips had reddened, and her blue-green eyes glittered at him brightly. They looked like jewels, almost too stunning to be real.
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