Seduced by a Highlander (21 page)

Turning on his heel, he set his weight on the walking stick for support. He heard the slight crack of wood an instant before he lurched forward and toppled over. He lay sprawled on the floor, his plaid landing a few feet away, his leg, arm, head, and jaw throbbing from the impact. He stayed there for a moment, thinking about what the hell had just happened and how close he had come to careening out the window. His temper rising like molten lava, he slanted his gaze to the broken walking stick, already knowing what he would find. The break was neat and clean. Someone had purposely cut the wood almost in half, leaving a bit intact so that it wouldn’t crack completely in two until he leaned on it.

Tamas.

Tristan barely felt any pain at all as he gained his feet. It was time for the hellion to pay.

Busy thinking up ways to make the runt’s life a living hell, Tristan seized the two sticks from the floor, wrapped his plaid loosely around his waist, and stormed
out of the room. On his way down the stairs, he told himself that helping Isobel wasn’t worth the injuries to his body. To hell with the feud! If the MacGregors ever came here again he would direct them straight to Tamas Fergusson.

He was still muttering to himself when he entered the kitchen, hungry for something to eat before he set hell loose on the deadly rascal. He looked up from tying the ends of his plaid into a knot below his belly and saw Isobel returning a pot to one of the shelves above her head.

Tristan’s eyes fell immediately to her rump, round and shapely beneath her woolen skirts. Her thick auburn hair fell like liquid fire down her back to her slender waistline. He wanted to run his hands through it, bury his face in it and breathe her into his lungs.

Hearing him enter, she turned to look over her shoulder. For an instant, he forgot everything else and smiled at the beguiling curve of her jaw, and the light spray of scarlet across the bridge of her nose, and her eyes, lighting on him like verdant pastures beneath the summer sun. Hell, she
was
worth it.

“I did not hear yer approach.” Her eyes widened, skimming across his torso.

“Fergive me.” He fumbled for the drape of his plaid to cover his bare belly, but he’d tied it too tightly at his hips. He gave up and dropped his hands to his sides. “Mayhap ye’ll return my clothes to me? I dinna’ want ye to think me too barbaric to look at.”

“I would not think that.” Her voice held a pleasant note that Tristan decided he liked. “I…” She blinked her gaze to his and blushed an even darker shade of crimson. “I was just noticing how nicely yer welts are healing.”

He couldn’t help the smile creeping up his lips. “My clothes?”

“Of course, I will bring them—What happened to ye?” she gasped suddenly, bringing her hands to her mouth.

Unfortunately, he remembered again all too quickly. “Yer brother is what happened to me, Isobel. I vow the wee bastard is bent on killin’ me. I will no’—”

“Tamas did that to ye?” she interrupted, pointing a finger at his jaw. “What in blazes did he strike ye with?”

“He didna’ strike me; Patrick did.” Her eyes opened even wider, but Tristan didn’t give her a chance to question him further. He held up his broken walking stick instead. “D’ye see this? ’Twas cut! Tamas did it and left it beside the window!”

When she gave him a befuddled look, he clenched his jaw and then cursed inwardly at the pain.

“He left it, seemingly in one piece, beside the window, hoping that when it broke, I would fall to my death! And I nearly did!” His voice rose along with his temper. “Och, and he didna’ stop there. Nae! He took my belt so that when I fell, I would do so naked! He’s a clever, evil work of the devil and—D’ye find this humorous?”

She shook her head, but Tristan was certain he heard her giggle behind her hand.

“He needs to be punished, Isobel.”

She nodded and moved toward him. “I will speak to Patrick about it.”

When she stopped directly in front of him, her earthy scent filled his lungs and muddled his wits. He shook his head to clear it.

“I will have John fetch ye a new walking stick.”

“I dinna’ need it,” he told her, his voice low and thick above her auburn crown. “My leg is better.” Good enough
to lift her off the floor, hike her legs around his waist, and take her on the way to the wall.

“Will ye be returning home soon then?”

Was that disappointment he heard at the edge of her voice? Hell, it was nice to think so. “I suspect I should.” But he couldn’t. Not yet. There was too much to do. She still didn’t like him. Her brothers still didn’t trust him. Thanks to his wounds he hadn’t yet done anything to restore his honor.

“Your jaw is purple.” She lifted her fingers to it for a closer examination. “Why did Patrick strike ye?”

When his gaze dropped to the billowy mounds of her bosom beneath his nose, she moved away, leaving him cold. “He was angry that I kissed ye.”

She reeled back, horrified. “Ye told him?”

“Nae, ye did, and Cameron along with him.” He looked around the kitchen for food. It seemed that everyone had already eaten.

“Ye are mad! I never told them any such—”

“Ye were half asleep and ye warned Cameron no’ to let me kiss him. They figured oot the rest.”

Her face went pale as she looked toward the window and twisted her apron into a wrinkled mess. “Why has Patrick said nothing to me about it this morn?”

“I told him ye didna’ enjoy it. He is angry with me, no’ with ye.”

Her color returned a bit and she inhaled a deep breath. “Ye have my thanks fer telling him that,” she said, softly enough that he almost didn’t hear her.

“ ’Twas the truth, aye?” he asked her, speaking over the rumble of his belly.

Miracle of miracles, she smiled! “Ye may sit at the table. I will bring ye some food.”

Now this was better! Tristan gave her a cheerful thanks and turned to leave the kitchen while she plucked a plate from another shelf.

The clay shattering to the floor an instant later stopped him. He turned and found Isobel gaping at his backside. He looked down over his shoulder. His bare backside. He hooked his mouth into a repentant smile and released the bundled hem of his plaid behind him.

“Apologies fer that,” he said, leaving her floundering for her composure.

Isobel lived in a house with six males. She’d seen men’s backsides before, but seeing Tristan’s tilted her world on its axis. It wasn’t just the tight, decadent shape that made her mouth go dry and her palms grow hot, though Heaven help her, that would have been enough. The full vision of his fine buttocks and thick, muscular thighs sparked a lurid desire in her to see the rest of him. And that wicked grin! Dear God, he knew how ruthlessly beautiful he was, and he enjoyed knowing she knew it, too.

She slammed a new plate down on the table before him and turned to walk away. She wasn’t angry with him for being so damned appealing, but it was her only defense against him, and every day she needed it more than the day before. His potent gaze melted her insides. His artful, easy smile snatched the breath from her lungs, and when he spoke, she had to call upon every shred of control she possessed to withstand the passion in his words. He was, quite honestly, the most vibrant, the most irritatingly irresistible man she had ever met. Why, oh why did he have to be a MacGregor?

“Will ye sit with me fer a moment or two?” He looked up at her before she stepped away. “I dinna’ like eatin’ alone.”

God help them all, that sweet trace of humility softening his smile was more lethal than a thousand wicked grins. “I should not.”

“Why?”

“I have much to do.”

“I’ll help ye do whatever ’tis. I ask fer but a few moments with ye.”

She guessed she owed him a moment or two, since he’d told Patrick that she didn’t enjoy their kiss. It was the truth—as he understood it—but he didn’t have to tell it to her brother. He’d protected her yet again, and still she didn’t know why. He’d also taken a beating from the rest of her brothers since arriving and he hadn’t really complained all that much. Could he possibly be the man he claimed to be?

“May I ask ye a question?” She pulled out a chair and sat beside him.

“Only one?”

“It is a good one.” She couldn’t help returning his smile when he glanced at her from his plate. The moment was much like the one they had shared the first day they met. They both remembered it. “Why did ye stop at only breaking Alex’s nose when he provoked ye to fight him?”

“Should I have drawn blood from him because he is prideful?”

“Another man would have.”

“I am no’ another man.”

No, he wasn’t. He was two men; one elegant and the other untamed. One wickedly irresponsible and the other charmingly irresistible. He was a rogue, self-admittedly “less concerned with every consequence,” and yet he had gone out of his way to aid her with dilemmas that had nothing to do with him.

“Who are ye then?” she asked him quietly, needing to know. Wanting to believe that it was the gallant man who had come to her and not the seducer of women’s secrets.

“I canna’ tell ye that yet.”

He could not or he would not? Damnation, it was not the answer she was looking for. “Verra well, then,” she said, leaving her chair. If he refused to tell her the truth, then she would not sit here with him another minute. “I will get ye something fer yer jaw. It looks like it is paining ye—and then I have work to do.”

He caught her hand and looked up at her from beneath his lusciously long lashes. “Stay. ’Tis no’ too bad, and ye’ve already done enough fer me. I’ll be in yer debt until I’m an old man.”

Two men.

She watched him, her body going rigid while he drew her hand tenderly toward his mouth. “Yer hands are as rough as my brother Rob’s. Ye do too much.”

“I do what is needed of me.”

Her inhalation of breath was cut short when he dipped his head and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Let me help ye, lass.”

“Please, do not…” She pulled away, her voice trembling from the aftermath of his intimate touch.

“Help ye?”

“Kiss me again.”

His smile faded as he let her go. “Fergive me, ye are betrothed.”

Since when did that matter to a rogue? She backed away when he rose from his seat only inches from her. “Ye have my thanks fer the food. I promised to help John with his chores, so I’d best get to it.” His smile flashed and was gone an instant before he was.

T
ristan jabbed his pitchfork into the mound of hay and carried it inside the barn. His arm and leg were still sore, but the hay wasn’t heavy, and John and Lachlan’s endless questions took his mind off the dull pain—and off Isobel.

“D’ye know how to wield that sword Patrick carries around fer ye?”

Tristan nodded at Lachlan when he came back outside.

“Have ye killed many men, then?” John asked him, scratching his nose.

“I havena’ killed any.”

“Why not?”

“Because ’tis no’ always the right thing to kill every man who comes against ye.”

Lachlan cut him a skeptical glance, then shrugged his shoulders. “I can fire an arrow and hit my target at a hundred paces.”

“So then,” Tristan said dryly, stabbing the mound again. “Ye were no’ aimin’ fer my heart when ye shot me?”

“We had no intention of killing ye,” John promised.

Tristan smiled at him. He liked this little one. John reminded him of himself at about the same age. “Then ye’re on the right path.”

“We cannot speak fer Tamas, though,” John admitted with a dash of sympathy shading his smile. “He is a menace.”

Tristan knew that all too well. “Aye,” he said, carrying his hay back to the barn. “I’ve already figured that oot.”

“Isobel was mad as hell when he shot ye and ye dropped into her garden,” Lachlan called out, following him with his own bale.

Was she angry with her brothers for shooting him, Tristan wondered, or with him for destroying half her crop? Angry or not, she had tended to him and nursed him back to good health—so that a MacGregor would not die on her land.

“She was angry only because ye killed her butterbur,” John offered in Isobel’s defense a moment later when Tristan rejoined him.