Then she sighed and kissed the top of his muzzle. “But still kissable.”
The rain barrel stood at the corner of the cabin, and she walked over to it. As she lifted the lid and dipped the bowl in, she wondered if there was enough water in there for her to have a bath later on. She shivered as she imagined herself naked in the tub with Kerr right outside.
Or what would happen if he came barging in.
“Concentrate on the task at hand, Isobel,” she chastised herself, and then headed back inside.
Kerr stood at the table, peeling turnips with his dagger. The sight stopped her short and she almost burst into laughter. He looked up at her and smiled, causing her heart to do a wee flip.
“What?” he asked. “Did you ne’er expect to see me preparing vegetables?”
“Um… I suppose I didn’t.” She moved forward and placed the bowl of water on the table beside him.
He pointed to the three peeled turnips sitting in a pile. “You can rinse those, and then give the meat a stir.”
She did as he asked, her fingers cooling in the water as she sneaked sideways glances at him. “What else do you know how to do besides cook?”
“Lots of things,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. “I’d be happy to show you some of them later on.”
He was trying to make her laugh. It was working. “Can you cook anything besides stew?”
“Porridge, of course, and oat cakes. Nothing fancy. Soups and stew are easy, and they taste delicious. I also do as Eirik did today and throw greens into a pot with some barley. You can learn too, if you want, Izzy.”
“Does Gavin know how to cook?”
“Aye. Gregor made sure all of us knew how to survive in the woods. We learned to forage for food and to identify which plants were edible and which were poisonous. Otherwise, we could throw the wrong kind of mushrooms into our soup and die. If all we knew how to do was hunt, we’d get sick of our meals before long—as well as get sick. People who only eat meat doona fare well o’er the long run.”
She finished with the turnips and stepped to the hearth to stir the chunks of rabbit in the pot. It confounded her to think that Gavin and Kerr knew how to cook—they all did. What else had they been taught that she’d missed out on besides fighting and weaponry?
Her mother had tried to teach her needlepoint, but it had bored Isobel to tears and she’d never had any real talent for it. Her mother had created some beautiful pieces that Isobel now cherished.
“Can you sew?” she asked as he brought the turnips over and began cutting them up and dropping them into the pot.
“Aye. ’Tis verra inconvenient to be on a mountain and have a tear in your plaid or a hole in your shirt and not know how to repair it. Many a time I’ve darned socks while sitting in front of the campfire. We all have.”
“And what about things like herbs for medicine? Do you know how to use those too?”
“In a rudimentary way, aye, but not like Lachlan’s wife Amber. She’s the finest healer I’ve e’er met.”
He said it with such respect, almost reverence, that Isobel felt a stab of jealousy. What greater skill was there than saving people’s lives and helping to bring new lives into the world? And she’d heard all about how skilled Callum’s wife Maggie was with her bow and dagger. She’d saved Callum and his people several times. The way she’d heard Gavin’s men tell the tale, Maggie was a modern-day Valkyrie.
Kerr reached for the wild garlic and onions lying on the table and swished them in the water before slicing them over the pot like he’d done with the turnips.
He glanced over at her, and then back down. “What’s that look on your face mean?” he asked as the pungent vegetables fell over the meat.
She shot him a startled glance. “I doona have a look.”
“Aye, you did. Your mouth was pursed almost as if you were angry, yet your eyes revealed a vulnerability you usually doona show. And you’re gripping the spoon as if you want to strangle it.”
She dropped the spoon with a clatter into the pot—she probably would have ruined the food anyway—and stepped back. Her chin lifted automatically, trying to look down her nose at him even though he was a head taller. When she realized what she was doing, she dropped her chin and sighed, mad at herself.
“There it is again,” he said, his keen gaze on her face. He finished up with the vegetables, put his dagger on the mantel, and pulled on the chain to raise the pot higher over the fire. After wiping his hands, he turned to her and laced his fingers with hers. “What is it, Izzy? As much as I try, I canna always read your mind.”
She huffed, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “But you can sometimes?”
“Better than anyone.”
She pressed her lips together, knowing how it would sound if she grumbled about her limited education. She’d been the cherished daughter of a laird and was now the sister of a powerful laird. She’d had tutors who’d taught her to read, and they’d discussed history, literature, and commerce with her—far more than what most women, common or noble, were taught.
And she’d been afforded the freedom to choose her own husband and spend her days as she pleased, which usually meant mingling with her clan and listening to their successes and failures, their laughter and complaints—and then acting accordingly, so every small injustice was investigated and put right.
No one had told her to do that. One day she just did. And then the next, and the next.
But right here, right now, she had nothing to contribute, no useful skills. It made her life so far seem…silly.
“I just…I wish that I could be someone about whom people spoke with esteem, like you did when you mentioned Amber. Or how I’ve heard Finn and Artair speak about Callum’s wife, Maggie. They couldnae stop talking about her skill with the bow and dagger and how she fought the men that came after them.” She curled her fingers into fists and punched him lightly to demonstrate.
Kerr raised his brow, one corner of his mouth tipping up as he caught her hands again. “Maggie didnae fight with her fists, Izzy. She flung her daggers and shot her arrows—better than anyone I’ve seen. She was brave, aye, but she never engaged in hand-to-hand combat with enemy warriors. They would have broken her in two.” His brow furrowed and then cleared. “Maybe you’re thinking of Amber. She had some tricks up her sleeve. She knocked me down the day we met and twisted my stones.” He laughed as he said it, his eyes shining with amusement but also admiration. “Of course, Lachlan towered o’er us in seconds, glaring at me and threatening to stick a sword in me if I hurt her. Otherwise, I would have dislodged her immediately, twisted stones or not.”
Astonishment rippled through her, and her jaw dropped. “The healer is also a fighter?”
“Not a fighter in the way you’re thinking, but she knew how to defend herself, how best to escape if she was attacked. ’Twas a difficult and dangerous time for her before Lachlan arrived, yet she still tended to her people—like you do.”
“Me? I doona heal anyone, and God knows someone is always on my heels to make sure I’m safe.” She rolled her eyes as she said it, even though she knew she was being ungrateful. But some days she longed to be able to wander through the woods alone or shop in the markets without one of her guards coming after her.
“God willing, someone will always be with you. Your brother protects you and Deirdre the same way the rest of my foster brothers protect their wives. The same way Gregor protected us when we were young. ’Tis no shame in that, Isobel.” He cupped his hand around her cheek and caught her gaze so she couldn’t look away. “And you do heal. You heal the fabric of your clan. You spot injustice, see what needs to be done, and do it. You are their lady. Queen Isobel. You lead them as much as Gavin does—or your father did before him. Every person in your clan knows they have equal value in your eyes.”
He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss
to her lips. “That is your talent.”
“So you’re saying I have a skill for…strategy? For understanding people and clan politics, and then…fixing things?”
“That’s part of it, aye. You know what needs to be done to bring people together, to make things right.”
Her mind whirled as validation saturated every inch of her. She’d thought Kerr and the other lairds were dismissive of her accomplishments and considered them to be nothing more than pranks—amusing tricks she pulled with little value to the clan.
“Does Gavin feel this way?” she asked.
“Most of the time. Certainly he does when he sees the good it does.”
She scrunched up her brow, trying to understand. “Then why do you shut me out? If I’m such a valuable resource, why do you and Gavin and the others ne’er include me in your discussions? This conspiracy against us…I may see something that the rest of you have missed. Or know something you don’t.”
“No one doubts your abilities…”
“Then what? Is it because I’m a woman? Do you not trust me? Do they not trust me?”
Kerr lifted his hand and squeezed the back of his neck. “’Tis not you they mistrust.” Then he turned back to the hearth, lowered the pot over the fire and gave it a stir.
Isobel stared at his back, so broad and powerful, the muscles flexing and contracting under his thin, linen léine as he put down the spoon and crouched beside his saddlebag, looking for something.
“Kerr,” she said, her hands fisted at her sides, her jaw tight. “What does that mean?”
He rose with a full leather flask in his hands, pulled the wooden stopper, and took a drink. She watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. When he finished, he held it out to her. “’Tis ale.”
She shook her head, and he slowly tipped some ale into the pot and stirred the mixture.
“Kerr,” she pressed him.
“What it means is that you may marry someone who is not an ally to Gavin and the rest of us. You will be loyal to him, not to us. If he is a laird, you will be lady of his clan, not mine or Gavin’s. You will have his best interests and your children’s best interests at heart.” He took another swig of the ale, and then stoppered it and put it on the mantel. “As it should be.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and a chill rolled over her. “What are you saying? That I would betray you? All of you?”
Kerr continued to stir the stew, not looking at her. The silence stretched between them. “You wouldnae want to, but it could happen,” he said finally. “If you loved him, you would want to please him. If he was a conniving man, he could trick you or wear you down. If he was an evil man, he would leave you with little choice. What if he threatened to harm you or your children? Or anyone else?”
“Gavin would ne’er let me marry someone like that.”
He snorted in disbelief. “When you want something badly enough, Izzy, you doona give up until you get it. And your mother made sure Gavin doesn’t have a say when it comes to that.”
She continued to stare at him, her chest constricted, her skin feeling hot and tight. “Well, I would ne’er marry someone like that!”
“Then what if you marry a good man, but one who isna as strong as you? What if someone else convinces him to get information from you? Maybe they offer him money, and he thinks it will impress you. He loves you, you love him, he’s a good father…”
“For heaven’s sake, you’re being absurd! I would ne’er marry a man like that either.”
He spun to her, his eyes hooded, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. “Then what kind of man would you marry? Because you’ve already said you wouldnae marry someone like me.”
Heat and ice invaded her body at the same time. “And do you wonder why? The fact that we are here, alone in this cabin, proves it. No other man but you would have dared take me against my will.”
“And no other woman but you would have set up a trap in the middle of the night, by herself, and on the bloody loch when you canna even swim. And I’ve known too many men who have taken women against their will. Most of whom I’ve killed because of it—including my own father. The difference between me and those men is I have your best interests at heart!”
“Nay, you have your best interests at heart.” She poked her finger hard in his chest when she said it.
He caught the offending digit and pressed it flat against his body. His heart pounded beneath her palm. “When do you ever feel more alive, Isobel, than when you’re with me?”
The question startled her, and her eyes widened under the directness of his gaze. She pulled her hand away. “I feel verra much alive when I’m lying in my own bed under my own covers by myself—safe.”
“You’d feel more alive if you were in your own bed under your own covers but with me.” He stepped back and released her hand. “But keep lying to yourself, sweetling. The more you protest, the harder you’ll fall when the time comes.”
She gasped, infuriated, and an angry denial formed in her head, but it got tangled on her tongue and she sputtered like an idiot.
He turned away from her and quickly stirred the stew. “There’s some barley in my bag. Toss a small handful in and let it cook for a while, stirring occasionally. If it gets too thick, add some more ale or water.” He pulled on the chain again so the pot rose a few inches above the fire.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, her anger evaporating.
She knew Kerr wouldn’t leave her to fend for herself, but a gulf had widened between them with every sharp jab of their tongues, especially when they’d talked about her marrying someone else. Now, she wanted to grab onto his shirt and yank him back to her.
He handed her the spoon. She clutched it like a shield.
“I’ll be outside. Bar the door if you feel you must. Maybe you’ll feel safer with me sleeping out there.”
Then he grabbed his dagger from the mantel and strode to the door. It banged shut behind him, sounding like a ball of iron flung from a trebuchet and into a castle wall.
A fatal shot.
She instinctively wrapped her arms around her middle to cover the wound. Still, it spread until her chest constricted and her throat ached.
She’d been fighting with Kerr her whole life, so why was he affecting her this way now?
Nay, not her whole life…she’d adored him when she was younger, had been half in love with him at fifteen. She’d only been fighting with him since…since that night. Since she’d felt such a sense of rejection and betrayal that she’d frozen on the inside—except for the humiliation. Aye, she’d felt that emotion burning like a red-hot coal in her belly.
But then she’d stopped crying, put on her queenly smile, and boxed up her heart.
She’d been a younger version of herself—still a lass, but well on her way to being the Beauty of the Highlands, the woman they all talked about, the girl who held a special place in Kerr MacAlister’s heart—except he’d chosen someone else.
She sighed and pressed her thumb and fingers over her eyes.
Maybe it was time to let that painful memory go…if she could dig that deep.
***
Kerr sat on the sturdy branch of the Scots pine, his back against the trunk, his feet tucked up, and his plaid blending into the foliage. No one would see him if they came near the cabin.
Below him, Diabhla grazed in the moonlit field.
He had his dagger out in case someone did approach, and he’d been idly carving a stick in his hands as his mind played over the recent exchange with Isobel—the different twists and turns it had taken, the different emotions she’d displayed—and the way his dark side had emerged at the end, agitated over the talk of Isobel marrying someone else.
He’d had to leave before he scared her, before the cruelty of his father’s blood undid all the progress he’d made between them the last few d
ays…although progress sounded like wishful thinking right about now.
She was such a complicated woman—fierce, brave, and keenly intelligent, as well as kind and generous, with a wit that kept him on his toes. On the surface, she often appeared proud and haughty—and she was; she truly owned her place in the world as Lady MacKinnon—but below that shield of privilege, she had a softer side—a vulnerable side.
But vulnerable to what? To whom?
Surely she knew that she owned him?
It surprised him that she envied Amber and Maggie… Or maybe she envied their purpose and their free rein to use their skills. She’d been born to lead but she wasn’t allowed to—she’d been excluded from the inner circle of his alliance with his foster brothers and Gregor.
He could understand how that would infuriate her. Hurt her.
Well, if stubborn Isobel MacKinnon would ever marry him, become Lady MacAlister, she could rule equally by his side.
Alas, his Izzy knew how to hold a grudge, and she was angry at him for something.
He heard the door squeak and looked up to see her step out of the cabin and onto the porch. She carried something in her hands, but even with the moon out, it was too dim to see what it was. A bowl of stew, perhaps?
She glanced around the porch, as if looking for him, and then peered into the moonlit glen surrounding the cabin. Her gaze drifted to the lean-to on the opposite side of the clearing before she spotted Diabhla. Kerr unfolded from his plaid and dropped his leg off the branch, swinging it to catch her attention.
When she saw him, he waited for her to say something. If he spoke, his voice would surely come out a growl—his anger still simmered below the surface.
Besides, if he did speak first, what would he say? Apologize for leaving or for wanting her to marry him? Nay, he wasn’t sorry for either of those things. While he had many regrets in his life, asking Isobel to be his wife wasn’t one of them. He didn’t want her to have any doubt about his intentions.
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