Seduced by a Highlander (11 page)

“Why do ye not wear yer plaid like the others?” she asked him before she could stop herself. “Are ye not proud of yer heritage—even though ye are a MacGregor?” She said the last letting him hear the distaste in her mouth.

“I’m happy to be who I am, a MacGregor and a Campbell combined.”

Aye, he was the late Earl of Argyll’s nephew. She had almost let herself forget that. Not wanting the conversation to head in that direction, she veered off into another. “And what kind of name is Tristan fer a Highlander anyway? According to your story of King Arthur, it is an English name.”

He opened his eyes and quirked his mouth at her. “ ’Tis a knightly name.”

She quirked her mouth right back at him. “Why ever then did yer mother give it to ye?”

His smile widened into a grin. It was quite irritating.

“My name was taken from the
Prose Tristan,
the true
tale of Malory’s Tristan and Iseult in
Le Morte d’ Arthur
. ’Twas my mother’s favorite tale when she was a child. She and my uncle read it to me often. Would ye like me to tell it to ye?”

“I would not,” she told him, looking away. Heavens, but he was peculiar. What kind of rascal, who by his own admission cared little about the consequences of his deeds, held knightly deeds in such esteem? “I am not at all interested,” she lied.

“ ’Tis the story of a legendary knight and the lady he loved and how he betrayed his beloved king.” He sat up straighter, seeming a bit more clearheaded. “I havena’ thought of that tale fer many years, though my name reminds me of it each day.” He smiled to himself and then, as if remembering she was there, blinked at her. “Now that I remember it,” he said softly, his smile fading, “ ’tis a story I dinna’ think ye’d enjoy after all. The endin’ is tragic.”

Isobel turned away from the seductive warmth heating his eyes, its source some inner flame that always burned—to draw insects to their deaths.

“ ’Twould be a cruel twist of fate if we ever came to care aboot each other as my namesake and his lady did.”

Lord, but he was arrogant, as well as curious. “I can assure ye,” she replied, “that is not something ye need to fret over.”

“I will if ye continue to enchant me with yer sassy mouth.”

She gave him a pointed look. She had to admit the rogue’s tongue was very likely the best weapon in his arsenal. Why, he didn’t even bother to wear a sword at his side or behind his back.

“Are ye going to try to beguile me fer the remainder of
our short visit, Mister MacGregor? Because if so, then ye are only wasting my time and yers. I would much prefer yer frankness, no matter how crude it might be. If there is something ye wish to ask me, then simply do so and let us get this pretense over with.”

He stared at her for a moment, looking a bit bewildered. Then his eyes darkened, falling to her mouth. Isobel was prepared for him to ask her about his uncle’s death. She suspected that was what he had been doing with her from the beginning—hoping to seduce her into talking. She was not prepared for him to ask her for another kiss.

She closed her eyes, turning away from him again. She couldn’t let him do it and still hate him.

But Tristan MacGregor did not ask for a kiss. What he asked for was far more dangerous.

“Isobel.” He set his hand atop hers, setting her heart racing. “Will ye accept my sincerest condolences fer the death of yer faither?”

She didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Did he speak in earnest? A small part of her wanted to believe he did. Hadn’t he already told her this very day, just a few dozen yards from where they sat now, that he did not think like his kin and that he did not approve of what they had done? But he was clever. He would do anything, say anything to seduce her into liking him, trusting him. Was he so determined in his task that he would abandon his charm and feign contrition in order to win her favor?

“Bel?”

She vaulted to her feet at the sound of her brother’s voice just a few feet away. It was Cameron, and he’d seen them together, their enemy’s hand locked over hers.

“We began to worry when ye did not return to our
chamber.” His eyes darted to Tristan, then sank to the ground.

Isobel straightened her spine, forcing her lungs to expand, trying to think clearly. But how could she explain what she was doing here alone with a MacGregor? Especially to Cam? She wished it had been Alex who found them. She would have preferred his sharp tongue and cruel temper to the disbelief and fear she saw in Cam’s eyes.

“Fergive me fer making ye fret, Cameron. I was… I was…”

“She was on her way to ye when I stopped her.” Tristan rose to his feet, a full head above Cam. “The fault is mine, so ’tis I who should ask yer—”

“No,” Isobel warned him on a scathing breath. She would
not
let him weave his artful spell over Cam. “Come, Cameron,” she said, taking her brother’s arm, wanting to get him away from Tristan without anything else said between them. “We must pack fer our morning’s journey.”

“Wait,” Tristan said, stopping her. “Ye’re leavin’ Whitehall?”

The disappointment in his voice urged her to turn around and look at him one last time. “Aye, we are going home.”

He broke his gaze away from hers, carefully shielding what she’d heard in his voice. His purpose had failed, at least with her.

“Mister MacGregor.” She took a step toward him. “I would ask ye to grant me one thing before I go.”

“What is it?”

“I cannot persuade Alex to return with us. I ask ye to stay away from him. Please, do not speak to him at all and
do not cause him any harm, no matter how troublesome he may become. Will ye grant me this?”

He didn’t ask her why he should grant her anything at all. She didn’t think he would agree to her request and almost smiled at him when he looked at her again and nodded.

“Of course, Miss Fergusson. Have I no’ already proven that to ye?”

“Ye have.” She nodded. “But if ye should desire to speak to him…”

“He is in nae danger from me. Ye have my solemn vow.”

She left, feeling a bit better. She believed him. She didn’t know why, or if she was the biggest fool in England. But she believed him.

B
y the time we arrived,” Colin MacGregor told his kin in the privacy of the clan Chief’s guest bedchamber, “St. Christopher’s Abbey was engulfed in flames.”

Tristan’s youngest brother had arrived at Whitehall an hour ago with Captain Connor Grant and his band of English soldiers. His appearance had, at first, brought joy to his parents’ faces, but when they realized that neither Rob nor any of the others in his party traveled with him, they grew concerned and fearful.

Colin’s usual sedate tone did not change when he assured them that their brother Rob and the rest were safe and on their way back to Camlochlin, and then requested an urgent audience with the king a moment later.

His request was denied, at least until his father heard first what had happened since Angus left them.

“We rode on to Ayrshire to deliver Lady Montgomery to the sisters of Courlochcraig, but…”

Watching Colin across the firelight, Tristan tried to discern what it was about his brother that had changed
since the last time he’d seen him. Other than his generally scruffy appearance, Colin was the same unflappable, cocksure lad who had parted from his father’s company a fortnight ago. But now, an undercurrent of softness marked the unflinching timbre of his voice when—

“… It turned out that Davina… that is, Lady Montgomery was not safe in Ayr either.”

—he spoke of the lass Rob had rescued.

Tristan smiled and reminded himself to tease Colin about his obvious infatuation later. Right now, though, he yawned at the whole tedious tale. His thoughts wandered, as they did more times during the day than he would ever admit, to Isobel. He tried to push her from his memory, since she’d left Whitehall a sennight ago, but she returned, plaguing him like an irksome nettle wedged in his boot, always there, always just beyond his reach, impossible to pluck out. Truly, he didn’t know why his days seemed less vibrant without her in them. He hardly knew her, but strangely he felt as if he’d been waiting for her all his life. She most certainly did not like him and he should not like her. But, hell, he did. He liked the feeling it gave him when he helped her, and she seemed to need a lot of aid—mostly with her brother, and with drunken Lowlanders. But there was more to be done if what she had told him about her life was true. And it wasn’t just his dusty sense of chivalry that drew him to her. He liked the fire in her temper and the pride in her step and the fact that she would not be easily seduced. He wanted to pursue her, catch her, and enjoy her. But even if winning her was somehow possible—he looked to where his mother sat—succeeding might cost him his kin.

Kate Campbell didn’t give a rat’s arse if anyone approved of her son and the way he lived his life. She had
told him once, after his aunt Maggie compared him to his older brother, that his passion sprang from a different source, and therefore led him on a separate path in search of it. But he hadn’t searched at all. It seemed, instead, that his path had found him.

What would his mother think of him if he told her that the path to regaining his honor began with Isobel Fergusson? That mayhap, while he could not bring back the dead, he could heal the living and restore what he had helped to destroy.

Aye, it was a quest his uncle would have been proud of. Tristan had started the feud between the MacGregors and the Fergussons. He wanted to be the one to end it.

“Who is she?” Callum asked, jarring Tristan from his vexation. “What do the king of England’s enemies care aboot a novice of the order that they would burn doun her abbey and pursue her across the braes?”

Ah, now they were getting somewhere. His interest piqued, Tristan caught the anxious glance his best friend, Connor, tossed at Colin. A moment or two passed in silence with all ears perked.

“I gave Rob my word to tell no one here who she is, including the king,” Captain Grant finally said. “But ye are his kin and ye should know the danger he is in. The danger I fear he may be bringing on Camlochlin.”

Callum moved forward in his chair, as did Tristan. Rob putting Camlochlin in danger? It was difficult to believe.

A short time later, while everyone else remained stunned in his or her seat after learning Lady Montgomery’s true identity, Callum bolted from his. “Pack yer things. We’re goin’ home.”

• • •

Isobel pushed a shrub out of her way after her careful inspection revealed it to be useless. She swiped her forearm across her brow and continued along the rocky riverbed. How long had he been searching for the vital addition to her garden? Four hours? Five? Every year her precious butterbur became harder to find. She had to keep looking, else it would be too late to replant. She needed it for her tea in the winter months when it became harder to breathe.

What made her lonely quest more difficult was that Tristan MacGregor was with her almost every step of the way. He invaded her thoughts in the day and in the night, no matter what she was doing, no matter how hard she chased him away. She’d been afraid of him at Whitehall—afraid of what he wanted. Afraid of how he looked at her, as if he meant to possess her at any cost. Why would he want her? And why could she not put his kiss out of her thoughts?

She hated him for haunting her, and in her mind she told him so, often. But he only smiled.

It was a peculiar thing about his smile. At the palace, it always seemed to be lurking somewhere about his face, ready to shine forth and ravish the heart of anyone looking at it. Ah, the first two days spent with him, before she knew who he was, had been blissful indeed. His laughter made her forget everything else. He seemed to take such joy in simply living—though at times she was certain she saw a hint of melancholy carefully shielded behind the crook of his decadent mouth. What was his inner turmoil? Did he hate himself for being a rogue instead of being one of the men from his tales of chivalry? She almost laughed at the thought of him hating himself. Indeed, the man knew he was mesmerizing and wonderful. For a MacGregor, that is.

Being away from him this last sennight had done nothing to lessen his effect on her. In fact, during Patrick’s tirade when she’d returned home without Alex, she had found the memory of his smile rather calming. It was careless and unshakable, as if nothing was bad enough to spoil his day—no matter how gloomy. She wished she possessed that kind of resolve.