Seduced by a Highlander (27 page)

Andrew’s eyes opened wide on Patrick and then grew dark on Tristan.

“Ye had it coming,” John defended.

“And ye have a rock coming to yer—” Tamas’s threat came to an abrupt halt when Tristan leaned down and whispered something into his ear.

Isobel inhaled a deep breath and prayed for patience when Annie smiled at Tristan’s backside. They just had to get through this night and Andrew would be gone. She spared Patrick one last scathing look for putting her in this predicament by promising her to Andrew. She still didn’t know how she was going to get out of it, but she would try not to think of it tonight. “John, come help me serve supper.”

“Let me.” Tristan offered her a bright grin and, before she or anyone else could object, sauntered past her into the kitchen.

“Tell me, Isobel, I beg ye,” he said, reaching for the bowls on the shelf above his head, “ye’re not honestly considerin’ marryin’ that hairy simpleton.”

“Lower yer voice,” she warned, taking a bowl from his hand. “He already does not like ye.”

“Pity.” Tristan’s smile was rapier thin. “I was so lookin’ forward to a long, lastin’ friendship with him. Mayhap I could wed his sister and we could raise our bairns together.”

Isobel paused at the trivet and offered him a murderous glare.

“Dinna’ look at me like that,” he said brusquely. “The prospect of me weddin’ her is as ridiculous as ye marryin’ her brother.”

“What would ye have me do, Tristan?” She filled the bowl with rabbit stew, handed it back to him, and snatched another from his fingers. “Patrick is Chieftain. He is trying to do what is best fer me.”

“Andrew Kennedy is no’ best fer ye,” he argued, watching her fill the next bowl.

“Who is, then?” When he remained silent, she had the urge to dump someone’s supper over his head. “At least I will know that Andrew’s heart will be true to me.”

She marched out of the kitchen and back into the dining room with Tristan hot on her heels. They both slammed the bowls they carried onto the table, too busy glaring at each other to notice Patrick and Andrew glaring at them.

“Are ye sayin’ my heart would no’ be true to ye?” Tristan demanded the moment they returned to the kitchen.

“Yer heart is not meant to love, but to conquer.” She sashayed past him on her way to the rest of the bowls. “I am certain any lady in Whitehall Palace or in Skye would agree with me.”

His fingers closing tightly around her wrist stopped her. When he pulled her around to face him, his eyes on her were hard and a bit hurt.

“Do ye deny it?” She prayed that he would. She prayed for some of his pretty words to adorn his proclamation of love for her. When none came, she blinked back the sting of tears behind her eyes. She was a fool for allowing herself to believe he could come to care for her. “Let me go.”

He released her with a pained smile and turned on his heel to leave. He came face to face with Patrick standing at the doorway.

“Tristan,” her brother said quietly, looking from her glistening eyes to Tristan’s dark ones. “She belongs to Andrew. I should not have allowed this thing between ye.”

“There is nothing between us,” Isobel interjected.

Patrick held up his palm to quiet her and returned his gaze to Tristan. “I gave him my word, which he reminds me of even now. Would ye have me go back on it?”

“Nae.” Tristan shook his head, stepping around him. “I wouldna’ ask that of ye.”

I
sobel murmured an oath under her breath as she toted two buckets of goat milk from the barn to the house. She squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun and swore silently again at Andrew leaning against the front of the house, polishing his sword. Her pounding head didn’t improve her sour mood, nor did the memory of Andrew’s insisting, after he arrived two nights ago, that he and Annie should remain at the manor house for a few more days.

Of course, Tristan had everything to do with Andrew’s wanting to stay. For two days she’d had to put up with Andrew following her everywhere she went, clinging to her arm the moment Tristan entered the same room. Andrew had always been kind to her, but lately he was sickeningly sweet, doting on her every word, complimenting her cooking before he even shoved his spoon into his mouth.

Isobel truly didn’t understand why her unwanted betrothed was behaving so possessively. Tristan had barely spoken to her since his little talk with Patrick in the kitchen. She hardly saw him at all. He spent every day-light
hour with her brothers, practicing with them behind the house, or going out of his way to find some chore to do that would keep him away from her. He’d even given up his nightly talks in the sitting room, much to her younger brothers’ disappointment. His voluntary absence was driving her mad. Did he truly not care one whit about her? She had begun to believe he did, that she meant a little more to him than his need to pay for a tragedy that was not his fault, but he showed no signs of jealousy or anger. He simply stopped paying any attention to her. It was worse for her than finding out he was a MacGregor.

“Do ye need help with those buckets, m’dear?”

Isobel scowled at Andrew. Did she need help? Did the milk sloshing all over her shoes not give him a clue? “No, but ye could open the door, if it is not too much of a bother.”

Why the hell was he polishing his sword anyway? Tristan hadn’t threatened him. He did smile at him, though, but that was only after Andrew had insulted him upon learning who their Highlander was. She had to marvel at Tristan’s ability to remain unfazed—untouched.

From the kitchen where she poured the milk into jugs, she heard the front door slam shut.

“I could help ye plant,” Annie’s breathless voice pleaded. “I have seen Isobel do it. I know how.”

“I dinna’ need help, but ye have my thanks fer yer offer.”

Isobel turned in time to see Tristan heading straight for her. He met her gaze and then looked away.

“Ye see, lass? I told ye she was carryin’ the milk in by herself. If ye want to lend yer aid, lend it to Isobel.” Without another word or a glance in her direction, he turned and left the kitchen.

Isobel watched his departure. He’d come to her rescue again. Or at least, had tried to. But how had he seen her working from the fields? She didn’t care how. She wanted to go after him. She wanted to talk to him, walk with him, see him smile at her again, feel his mouth on hers.

“He is positively glorious,” Annie sighed.

Isobel really couldn’t blame the girl for following him around like a puppy begging for the bone in her master’s fingers. With a cloth tied around his head to hold back his shoulder-length hair, his damp shirt clinging to his corded torso, and snug breeches that boasted more than just muscular thighs, Tristan could make the most pious nun feel lewd and lusty.

“Really, Annie, ye know that Cameron fancies ye,” Isobel snapped at her. “It is cruel of ye to flaunt yer attraction to Tristan so openly.”

“In truth, I do not know what Cameron thinks of me,” Annie pouted. “He is so quiet all the time.”

“Well, now I have told ye, so please stop hounding Tristan.”

Annie’s mouth curled into a smile as impish as Tamas’s. “Why, Isobel, if I did not know any better I would think ye fancied Tristan fer yerself.”

“Do not be absurd.” Isobel laughed, and then quickly turned back to her milk.

“I thought mayhap he fancied ye as well,” Annie went on mercilessly. “Whenever ye are about, he stops what he is doing and looks after ye. I asked him if he meant to steal ye from Andrew.”

“And his reply?” Isobel asked and silently cursed her hands for trembling.

“He assured me that he is not a thief.”

So that was it? Isobel wiped her hands on her apron
and closed her eyes. Why did his reply make her feel as if she’d just been stabbed in the heart with his sword? Because she cared for him, God help her. She had let him seduce her just as he’d done with all the other women he played with and then left. He would leave her the same way. In the beginning she had wanted him to go, but not anymore. Now, she couldn’t imagine her days not filled with his vibrant smiles, or her nights robbed of his passionate kisses. But he didn’t love her. He was willing to hand her over to Andrew without so much as a raised eyebrow. She wanted to hate him for it.

Tristan did not go to the sitting room after supper that night, and neither did Isobel. She went to bed, promising herself, as she laid her head on her pillow, that she would never let herself fall in love with a man who did not love her in return.

She didn’t think Andrew loved her, but at least he was willing to fight for her.

T
ristan had never met a man he wanted to kill until he met Andrew Kennedy.

After what had happened with Alex when they were lads, Tristan had prided himself on his mild temper. He’d learned how to strengthen his hide against the emotions that raged within the hearts of other men. He’d refused to let envy corrode his soul when his brothers succeeded at drawing praise from their father’s lips where he had failed. He never succumbed outwardly to the wrath at losing his uncle or to the pain and loneliness that came soon after and never truly left. He did not hide his emotions; he simply mastered them.

But his resolve to honor Patrick’s promise to let Isobel wed Kennedy was quickly deteriorating.

If it weren’t for young Annie constantly under his feet, he would have dragged Isobel to the hills, the barn, anywhere they could have a few moments alone. He tried, ah, hell, how he tried to do the right thing and respect Patrick’s wishes, but after three days of biting his tongue and keeping his hands at his sides rather than around
Kennedy’s throat, he feared he might never find the honor he sought.

The worst part of it all was that he didn’t care. He could not let Isobel marry Andrew. The thought of losing her sparked a fear and a rage in him he never wanted to let loose. He had to speak to her alone and tell her that Andrew was not good enough for her. No mortal man was, but Tristan wanted to try.

He knew he should have thought out his course of action more thoroughly, but it was not in his nature to be cautious. He waited until after supper, when they all headed for the sitting room with warm mead in hand, and snatching Isobel’s arm, drew her back into the hall.

“Come with me to the hills. I wish to speak to ye.”

She looked so surprised and relieved, he was tempted to kiss her right there in the hall.

“Ye dinna’ love him, aye, Isobel?”

“Not him, no.” She shook her head and smiled with him.

Hell, she was bonnie. He missed her face and the way she looked at him. He did not want to wait until they were outside to tell her. “I have been miserable these last few days without ye.”

“Why have ye stayed away?” she asked him softly, bringing her hand to his jaw.

“I thought ’twas right.” He covered her hand with his and brought her fingers to his lips. “But I canna’ let ye wed him without—”

“MacGregor!” Andrew’s voice boomed through the hall. Get yer hands off her!”

Facing her, Tristan closed his eyes and drew in a frustrated sigh.

“Patrick, ye allow this?”

Splendid. Tristan ground his jaw as he turned his dark gaze on his accuser. Patrick was involved now as well, and being put to the test of his friendship. “What is it that ye’re implyin’ he allows, Mister Kennedy? Think well on yer answer,” he said, a silken thread of warning in his voice. “Fer I willna’ allow a slight on her honor to go unpunished.”