Seduced by a Highlander (36 page)

“Ye are correct in that, faither,” Tristan told him, again
unexpectedly. “But I have changed, and she is the reason fer it. I’m no’ leavin’ her.”

His father looked as if he wanted to say more, but he shook his head and looked up at the heavens. “Were the years yer brother took off my life when he chose
his
wife no’ enough?”

Astoundingly, Tristan’s humor returned. “At least ye dinna’ have to worry about a Dutch army attackin’ Camlochlin again.”

His father did not smile back. “I would rather face an army than yer mother.”

Tristan’s smile faded. “I know.”

“Good, because I willna’ be the one to tell her that ye have given yer heart to a Fergusson. Ye will. Both of ye get yer things so we can leave this den of Presbyterian cutthroats.”

“No, Tristan!” Isobel protested immediately. He simply could not mean for her to go to Camlochlin with him. Oh, she thought she could marry him. She told herself they could find happiness together even if he learned the truth. She knew in her heart that he would never hurt Cam. But seeing his father before her, just as huge, just as menacing as when she was a girl of ten, convinced her that there would never be anything between their families but hatred. Sending provisions every year was a kind gesture, but it was not the same as forgiveness. “I cannot go with ye!”

“Isobel, my love…” Still holding her hand, he brought it to his heart.

“Fergive me,” she pleaded. She couldn’t bear the thought of going and looking into his mother’s eyes. What would she see? Accusation, more bitter hatred. His kin, all unhappy at her presence. She hadn’t considered
it all before. If she had, she might have fooled herself yet again into thinking she could actually face them all, for Tristan’s sake. Now, though, after hearing in the Chief’s voice the amount of control it took for him to even speak to her, let alone be somewhat courteous about it, she knew she could not do it.

“I will not go there to be spat upon,” she told him, covering their entwined fingers with her other hand. “I realize that what they lost was great, but none of us came out of this unscathed.”

“Ye’re right,” he told her. “And that is why ye must come with me. So that they can know it as well. ’Tis the only way to begin anew, Isobel. Fer all of us.”

She shook her head, but she knew she had just lost the battle. For she understood in that moment who he was and why he needed to make things right. She wanted it for him. He deserved it. She almost loved his uncle Robert for the man he had taught Tristan to be, antiquated and all. She would go with him and do whatever she could to help him in his quest, but she could never marry him. Their union would bring their families together as it did now, many more times, mayhap enough for them to discover the truth on their own—and she could never risk that.

She nodded her consent and watched his beautiful smile wash over him, knowing that what they thought they had could never truly be. Not with her family’s secret always threatening to destroy all that Tristan had accomplished.

“I am coming also.”

Isobel wiped the moisture from her eyes and glared at Cameron. “Ye are not coming. Go home with—”

“With the laird’s permission, of course.”

Callum MacGregor blinked at her brother’s slight bow and then nodded, tightening his jaw as if he already regretted his reply but could not take it back.

“Cameron, I forbid it!” Isobel pushed Tristan out of her way, but Cam was already halfway up the stairs.

“I must tell Annie not to fret. All will be well.”

The MacGregor watched him go and then exchanged a knowing look with his eldest son. Together, they eyed Tristan, recognizing his work.

“Tamas”—Isobel pushed him forward—“go with him and tell the Kennedys to bring ye home to Pat—”

“And miss seeing a castle?” Tamas snorted. “I am coming with ye.” When she opened her mouth to set him straight, he stopped her. “I was not going to tell ye this, but Roger Kennedy cuffed me hard on the head last eve. Twice. I do not think he likes me very—”

“Mister Fergusson!” The Chief’s voice boomed through the inn calling for Cameron and startling her and Tamas both. “We are leavin’! Now!”

W
hat is the matter with her?”

Tristan glanced at Isobel slumped against the tree a few feet away from the fire, then at his father standing over her.

“She has a breathin’ condition.” He turned back to the butterbur tea boiling over the flames and was glad she had remembered to pack it for their journey to Dumfries. This attack wasn’t too bad—not like the one she’d had at home the night Andrew had upset her—but Tristan wanted to give her some tea before her breaths became any more shallow.

“It is almost ready,” Cam said, squatting beside him.

“She is sickly, then,” his father murmured, shaking his head at her. Isobel glared at him in return.

“Nae.” Tristan gave him a hard look as well. “It only comes upon her at times. I think being on a horse all day has irritated her lungs.” And seeing his kin towering over her at the inn likely hadn’t helped either. “She will be better soon.”

His father made a small grunting sound, as if tugging
with his own conscience. “We will make camp here fer the night, then.”

Tristan watched him saunter back to where Rob sat on the stump of a tree. The two of them shared a few words before Rob rose to unpack the horses.

“I am glad we are resting.” Cameron looked at Tristan and smiled. “My thighs and arse feel like someone took a mallet to them.”

Aye, Tristan knew the Fergussons were not used to being in the saddle for so long. Poor Isobel had to be in pain from riding with him all the way to Dumbarton, but she hadn’t complained. In fact, she hadn’t said much of anything at all the entire way.

“My apologies fer this, Cam. The cart would never have made it to Camlochlin. I’m grateful to the Kennedys fer lettin’ us use their horses.”

Cam shrugged it off. “It is better this way. Henry and Roger will return our wares to Patrick, and Annie will assure him that we are safe. Although I do not fancy the thought of traveling so far with Tamas in my lap.”

“I do not like it either, Cam,” Tamas complained from across the fire. “I want my own horse.”

“This one,” Will drawled, pointing at Tamas before he sat beside him, “is goin’ to set Camlochlin on its bluidy arse. Ye should have left him at the inn.”

“And I should have aimed my rock at yer head instead of yer Chief’s.”

Will only smiled at Tristan, his point proved.

Ignoring the lot of them, Tristan poured Isobel’s tea into a piece of hollowed bark, blew on it, and then fed it to her.

“Do not let him hurt him,” Isobel said between sips.

“Ye need no’ worry aboot Will. He is a good-natured fellow fer all his bluster.”

Isobel looked up from her tea and sighed. “I was speaking of Tamas causing Will injury, not the other way around.”

Tristan laughed softly and stroked her cheek while she drank. “All will be well, my love. Trust me, aye?”

“I do,” she said, making his heart clatter in his chest.

He bent to kiss her forehead, then turned to look directly into another set of bright green eyes.

“I never would have believed it if I did not see it fer myself.”

“Go away, Finn.” Tristan gave him a playful push that set the crouching young Highlander flat on his rump. “Yer duty is to follow Rob, no’ me.”

Finn set himself right and aimed his wide grin at Isobel. “ ’Tis not my duty yet,” he explained, though she hadn’t asked. “But I do hope to someday be the new laird’s bard. I am Finlay Grant, son of Commander Graham Grant, brother of Captain Connor—”

Tristan shoved him off his haunches a second time and then smiled when Isobel giggled. She was feeling better.

Finn thought so, too, and graced her with his sweetest smile. “Ye may call me Finn.”

“Finn, the lady is—why the hell are ye starin’ at me like that?”

“ ’Tis hard to believe that ye lost yer heart to one lass, Tristan. ’Tis going to leave many at Camlochlin heartsick. I would wager…” His voice trailed off as Tristan aimed his darkest glare on him.

“Aye, then. I am going.” Rising to his feet, Finn dusted off his plaid and offered Isobel one last breathtaking smile. “He is not usually so sour. We can speak later when we get home.”

“Dinna’ believe a word he tells ye aboot me,” Tristan told her as Finn joined the others around the fire.

“I already know what a rogue ye are, Tristan MacGregor,” she said softly, touching her finger to his dimple.

“Nae, no’ anymore,” he promised her, turning his head to kiss her fingers. “That is no’ me.”

“I know that, too.”

Hell, how did she manage to wind his heart so tightly around her delicate, callused fingers? He had indeed been a rogue, taking lasses to his bed from Skye to Inverness, taking what they offered without giving anything in return. Never, ever his heart. How could he give away what he did not feel? His heart had stopped beating for a single moment when he’d realized his uncle was never going to get up off the floor—and it was because of him that he was dead. When it began pumping again, it beat within the chest of someone different. He’d been changed, lost, and falling without an anchor, without knowing how to feel anything anymore. His father expected him to be strong—needed him to be strong for his mother’s sake.

Life went on in Camlochlin, at least for most. The loss of her brother had forever changed Kate MacGregor also. Eventually, her laughter rang through the halls once again, but she saved her warmest smiles for Tristan. They had never spoken about why he had chosen such a reckless path. She knew it was easier to pretend.

“Ye’ve made me feel my heart again, Isobel.”

“Tristan,” his father called out as Tristan lowered his mouth to hers. “Bring her to the fire and come eat with us. Yer mother and Maggie have packed enough food fer an army.”

His mother. How was he going to tell her about Isobel? And worse, the nettle that had been pricking his side all day, what if his father somehow discovered the Fergussons’ secret? How far would he go to protect Cam—to protect Isobel? He looked at his father again. Would he have to protect them? He didn’t know. He didn’t know the man sitting a few feet away from him. “Come.” He smiled at Isobel. “Before he sends Finn back.”

“Is yer castle far?” Tamas asked him, pulling his teeth on a length of dried meat after everyone settled in.

“Aye, ’tis over the mountains, across deep lochs, and beyond the misty cliffs.”

“Cliffs?” Tamas’s sleepy eyes rounded with excitement.

“Narrow cliffs,” Will answered him, tossing an apple stem over his shoulder. “The kind wee lads have trouble guiding their horses over and fall to their grisly death.”

“Tell that to Cam.” Tamas shrugged, unfazed. “He will be steering.”

Tristan nodded when Will threw him a look filled with surprise, admiration, and pity. “We are workin’ on it.”

“ ’Tis like ye, Tristan.”

They all turned to Callum MacGregor, peeling a pear with his dagger.

“What is like me, faither?” Tristan met his gleaming gaze over the flames when his father finally looked up from his work.

“Stayin’ away fer almost a month. Never considerin’ what ye put us through. I know ye are a man, but ye are a reckless one. We canna’ help but worry that ye will get yerself killed by some enraged husband or faither—or brother. And Patrick Fergusson of all brothers. When Davina told Rob where ye might have gone, we…” He did
not finish, but looked away into the darkness of the trees instead.

“Fergive me.”

A twig snapped in the fire, the only sound that was heard as Callum turned back to his son.

Tristan almost smiled when his father blinked at him as if he didn’t know the man sitting across the flames. He didn’t, and Tristan hoped to right that, too. “Because of him”—he motioned to Tamas—“I know what I have put ye through all these years, and I ask yer fergiveness fer it.”

“Granted,” his father said, then cleared his throat to vanquish the tenderness softening his gaze. “Hell, the runt must be riotous indeed.”

“Far worse than I ever was,” Tristan said, tearing a chunk of black bread in half and handing a piece to Isobel.