Seduced by a Highlander (20 page)

She met her brothers in the field and began her work, determined not to spare Tristan another thought. After an hour of digging holes that made her think of graves she might as well be digging for herself if she continued to let the warmth of his rigid belly invade her thoughts and influence her opinion of him, she felt miserable. Why in blazes could she not be anywhere near the man without finding something attractive about him? She wished he would recover fully and be quick about it and be on his way.

“Why did ye offer him the comfort of our fire?” she asked Patrick when he came up beside her and took the shovel from her hands. It was her brothers she had to look out for the most. They weren’t familiar with Tristan’s persuasive abilities. Trusting him could cost them their lives.

“His body is recovering and susceptible to chill,” Patrick told her. “Would ye have him grow sick and remain here longer?”

Isobel couldn’t argue with that bit of logic. “Still, we must remember who he is and what has most likely brought him here.”

“He will not get what he seeks from me, Bel,” Patrick assured her.

“Nor from me,” she promised back.

He smiled and gently hauled her around. “Go back to the house. Take John with ye and—”

“No.” She turned back to him. “I will not have ye do this alone.”

“There is not much more to be done,” Patrick insisted. “Ye look a bit pale, and without yer butterbur I will not have ye overworked. Now go. The rest of us will join ye shortly.”

Isobel left the field with John at her side and another of her brothers on her mind. Curse Alex for staying in England when he was needed here. Then again, had Alex been the one to find Tristan hurt and helpless on their land, he would have gladly killed him.

Tristan. She looked toward the manor. He was alive and vibrant and, she hoped, asleep in his bed. The house was quiet and the halls empty when she entered, but she could feel his presence, sense it all around her, like a lioness picking up the scent of a male. She peered toward the stairs as John broke away from her and headed to the kitchen.

Slowly, she walked down the softly lit hall, toward the sitting room and the crackling fire growing louder as she came closer. She wasn’t sure what she was doing or why she didn’t rush up the stairs to her room. She had no intention of speaking to Tristan if he was awake. She was too damned tired to engage in a battle of wits with him. She reached the door and found it ajar, spilling golden
light and heat into the hall. She looked inside. He was there, before the fire, partially hidden from her view by the door and by Patrick’s high-backed chair, in which he sat.

Part of Isobel wanted to storm inside and order him out of the Chieftain’s seat. Another part of her refused to move, to blink, to breathe. Damn it all to hell, but his profile was handsome against the firelight. She wondered what he was thinking, staring into the flames as if the answer to all life’s secrets could be found there.

Her secrets.

“What are ye doing, Isobel?”

She whirled around and aimed the full force of her scowl at John.

“What did I do?” he asked, then looked around her into the sitting room. When he saw Tristan inside, he pulled back, glanced up at her, and then back at the door. “Well,” he said, coming to some conclusion in his mind that Isobel was certain was the incorrect one, “we should probably go inside now.”

She couldn’t. She didn’t want to go in there and see Tristan smirking at her mortification. But she didn’t want to send John in alone for fear of what questions Tristan might put to him. With no choice now but to follow her brother, she smoothed her skirts and squared her shoulders. “We will only stay fer a moment.”

John nodded and stepped around her. He disappeared inside before Isobel had time to finish composing herself.

Damn it. She put one foot in front of the other and forced herself onward. She glanced up long enough to see Tristan rise from the chair when she entered. He had to have known she’d been standing outside the door spying
on him before John exposed her, but he didn’t offer her a smug greeting. In fact, he looked a bit unsettled, as if their arrival had disturbed some great quandary he’d been contemplating.

“We came to check on ye,” John informed him, saving Isobel from having to speak. “Are ye faring all right?”

“Aye,” Tristan replied, his magnetic smile returning to its full glory and aimed straight at Isobel. “I was just thinkin’ how much I like this room. It reminds me of another. Quiet and peaceful.”

“Oh?” her brother asked, slipping into one of the other chairs as Tristan regained his seat. “A room in yer castle?”

“Nae, somewhere else I havena’ been to in a long time.”

“Are there many people where ye live then?”

“Aye, more than I can sometimes stand.” His gaze rose to Isobel, still standing close to the door. “Miss Fergusson, am I sittin’ in yer chair?”

She blinked, trying to scatter from her mind the images of his heated, far less courteous gaze when they were alone in her garden. “Ye are in Patrick’s chair,” she blurted out coolly.

“Patrick will not care,” John announced, sparing her a brief glance before turning back to Tristan. “What is yer castle like, Mister MacGregor?”

Oh, she could have slapped him! She sank into the nearest chair instead and listened while Tristan spoke of his hated clan. It was all too intimate, too comfortable. A MacGregor, sitting here in her favorite room, beside her hearth fire, talking softly to her brother as if they were friends. They weren’t. They could never be. John was too young to remember what had happened, and they
barely spoke about it, save for when Alex had too much to drink. Tomorrow she would warn John to stay away from Tristan. Right now though, she had to fight sleep and stay alert.

“… And my faither’s sister, Maggie, does no’ eat meat, though I believe Isobel’s cookin’ could convert her.” Tristan smiled at her across the room and she closed her eyes, concentrating on her brother’s sweet voice instead of Tristan’s husky one.

“Who is seeing to yer chores while ye are away?”

A pause, and then, “My brother Rob sees to most of them with my faither.”

“So then, what do ye do all day?”

Isobel opened her eyes and waited for Tristan’s answer.

“I am… no’ needed as much as ye all are here. There are many strong men at Camlochlin who see to the daily chores.”

“Will ye not be missed then?”

Looking at him closely for the first time since she came into the room, Isobel noted the forced smile Tristan wore when he shook his head. “I willna’ be gone long enough to be missed. Besides, my kin know that I plan on leavin’ fer good next spring.”

“Why will ye leave?” Isobel was drawn to ask him by that same innate instinct she had to take care of her family.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Because I dinna’ belong there.”

She wanted to ask him why, but Patrick stepped into the room with Cameron and stopped when he saw Tristan sitting in his chair. Tristan was about to rise, but Patrick motioned for him to stay where he was.

“John, off to bed with ye now,” he ordered gently, then turned to Isobel as he sat. “Some warm mead, please, sister.”

“Of course.” She got up and left the room without another word.

She returned a short while later carrying a tray with four cups of mead. After Patrick and Cam took theirs, she held the tray to Tristan. He eyed the cup suspiciously until Isobel snatched Patrick’s from his fingers and gave him Tristan’s cup instead.

Patrick hid his smile behind his drink while Isobel marched back to her chair with a string of muttered oaths spilling from her lips.

“My sister would tell me to go to Hades if I asked her to serve me,” Tristan told her brother and sipped his drink.

“Mayhap,” Isobel said, hating that her anger only seemed to fuel Tristan’s delight, “that is because yer father and brother do all the work.” She didn’t look at him to see if her words had the desired effect. She looked at Cam instead, and then wished she hadn’t when he cast her a disapproving glance.

Damnation, she was tired and in no mood to be pleasant to a man who was afraid to put anything she served him into his mouth. She snuggled deep into her chair, happy that she had used all that extra sheeps’ wool when she restuffed it last winter, and angry with her brothers for being so patient with a MacGregor. She closed her eyes, half-aware, as she drifted off to sleep, of Patrick’s voice asking Tristan if he cared for a game of chess. She should stop them. Tristan was a snake with a forked tongue. The Devil’s son, with eyes the color of sunset and strong, quick hands that could hold her still while he whispered of his forbidden desire.

• • •

“Does she snore every night?” Tristan asked Patrick, and moved his rook two spaces to the right. He’d played chess hundreds of times at home and almost always won, but tonight he found himself losing. He couldn’t concentrate with Isobel’s limp body draped over her chair, her braid spilling into her lap, her plump lips relaxed and softly parted. Every muscle in his body ached to go to her, lift her gently in his arms, and carry her to her bed.

“Is it distracting ye?” her brother asked, capturing his knight.

“Nae, ’tis…” What the hell did he almost just say? ’Twas what? Endearing? A sweet respite from her sharp tongue? “I… what I mean to say is…” Damn, being at a loss for words whenever Isobel was involved in them was beginning to worry him.

“Do not fret that I will be offended, MacGregor. I want to beat ye fairly.” Without another word, Patrick rose from his seat and went to his sister.

“Come, love, to bed with ye,” Tristan heard him mutter as he pulled his sister gently to her feet. He motioned for Cameron, who had been watching the game in silence, to help her to her room.

Isobel swayed a moment, her sleepy gaze settling on Tristan first and then moving back to Patrick. “Do not trust him,” she said, falling against his broad chest. Patrick whispered something to her that Tristan couldn’t hear and then handed her over to Cameron. She smiled. “And do not let him kiss ye.”

Both brothers went still. Both turned slowly to graze Tristan with very different looks, one blacker than the night sky, the other fearful and wary.

Tristan stood to his feet, leaning on his walking stick
as Patrick waited for Cam to lead her out of the sitting room. When they were alone, the hulking Chieftain took a step forward around the chess table.

“Is this how ye intend to end the hatred between our clans? By kissing my sister?”

Tristan had never run from anything in his life. Well, almost nothing—but never from a man. Still, Patrick Fergusson’s arms were cut with slabs of muscle from his long hours of labor, and Tristan did not fancy a fight with him. He could deny the charge easily enough, but deceit would not earn him this man’s favor or respect, and he needed it to see his task through.

“She didna’ enjoy it,” he admitted, and closed his eyes as Patrick’s fist sailed through the air and smashed into his jaw.

Tristan didn’t go completely unconscious. He fell back into his chair with a hard thump and was aware of three things. A tooth in the back of his mouth had come loose, his indiscretions had finally caught up with him, and last, Patrick growled deeply as he sat back down and said, “Yer move, ye bastard.”

T
ristan opened his eyes and groaned. Would there ever come a day when he woke up in this blasted small bed without pain searing through his body? He touched his palm to his jaw, then pulled it away with a muffled curse. He guessed he deserved Patrick’s blow, and losing to him at chess, but if he had to get hit by one of Isobel’s brothers, he would have preferred John. Still, it said much about the young Fergusson Chieftain’s even temper that he had hit Tristan only once.

Tossing his feet over the side of the bed, he stretched, rolled his shoulder, and looked around for his walking stick. He spotted it by the open window and scratched his head. He didn’t remember leaving it there, but then, Patrick’s heavy fist had jumbled most of his senses. He was fortunate to have made it to the bed without falling back down the stairs.

He stood up and felt his plaid slip off his waist and crumple to his ankles. Where the hell was his belt? For a moment, he felt completely disoriented, as if he hadn’t yet fully awakened and might still be dreaming. Had all the
blows to his head finally taken their toll? He bent to his plaid, snatched it up, and lumbered over to the window to retrieve his stick. He looked out over the landscape, carefully shielding his groin with his bunched-up plaid. He saw Patrick at work in the fields with Cam and Lachlan, but Isobel was nowhere in sight. He remembered her snoring last eve and smiled, thinking about what it might be like to wake up with her in his bed. He remembered Andrew Kennedy and cursed under his breath. Did Isobel love him? If she did, how could Tristan continue to try to win her when she belonged to another? In the past, a lady’s betrothal might not have stopped him. But wasn’t he trying to be someone different? Wasn’t that why he had come here?