The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) (2 page)

What was it about Lady Isabel Stewart that made him feel as if a nettle had worked its way under his plaid and wouldn’t stop poking? There was nothing outwardly in her appearance to give an indication of trouble. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, with pretty enough, finely boned features, she was so serene-looking her likeness would not have seemed out of place on a church wall.

Too bad her temperament didn’t match.

From the first moment they’d met, he sensed that she was amused by him—and not in the way he was used to amusing women. Nay, it was almost as if she was laughing
at
him. Which was ridiculous. Women didn’t laugh at him. They smiled, flirted, and occasionally simpered, but they definitely didn’t laugh. They might bat their eyes, but they sure as hell didn’t roll them, as he could swear he’d seen her do more than once.

What the Devil was wrong with the lass?

She didn’t even look at him the way other women did. He hadn’t noticed the difference until meeting her had made it clear.
Un
awareness. That’s what it was, and he didn’t like it. Especially as he could hardly make the same claim toward her. He was oddly attracted to her, which under the circumstances, only increased his annoyance. He was about to ask her extremely beautiful and would-make-him-a-perfect-wife cousin to marry him, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t be thinking of ways to make Isabel—“Izzie” as her family called her—aware of him. Plenty of women were aware of him; he didn’t need another.

But it didn’t stop him from imagining how satisfying it would be to see those big, laughing blue eyes darken with arousal and those pink lips, always set in a wry grin, part with a gasp of pleasure.

It wasn’t just her unawareness riling his irritation this time, however. Unknowingly she’d struck a tender spot. Learning hadn’t come easy to him. “Not all of us are born to be clerks or churchmen.” With a long, meaningful look, he couldn’t resist adding, “Indeed there are other things in which I do excel that ensure priesthood will never be in my future.”

When she took his meaning, he was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath that if not a hint of passion, was close enough for him to imagine it could be. Viscerally. He felt it run through him in a hot buzz as if a lightning bolt had been set at the base of his spine.

Their eyes met, and in her shock, he wondered if maybe she wasn’t quite as unaware as he thought.

But just as he was about chastise himself for acting like an arse by baiting her—inappropriately—to salve his pride, she did it again. She laughed and gave a half roll of her eyes. “So I’ve heard.”

Damn her. At least if she were haughty, condescending, or judgmental, he’d have cause to be so irritated. But it was partly the good humor with which she imparted her indifference that annoyed him. She might have been a distant aunt, teasing him for being incorrigible.

But she wasn’t his aunt, damn it. She was the twenty-two-year-old unmarried daughter of the great patriot hero John Stewart of Bonkyll, who’d died leading his archers beside William Wallace at Falkirk sixteen years ago. She was also cousin to both the Lord of Douglas and the current Steward of Scotland. In other words, she was just the kind of well-connected young noblewoman who usually tried to impress
him
.

But she didn’t seem to care what he thought, and he knew it wasn’t because he was nearly engaged to her cousin. Nay, she’d simply sized him up and found him somehow wanting.
Him.
Wanting! And that irritated him to no end.

She was a young woman at court for the first time, and he was one of the most important knights in the kingdom. It was unnatural, blast it.

What did he need to do to impress her, slay a dragon? Hell, that probably wouldn’t even do it. She was remarkably
un
impressible.

Why the hell was he even thinking about this? It was probably the novelty of having a young woman not interested in him. Aye, that must be it.

Still, he couldn’t resist prodding her a little. “I’d tell you not to believe everything you hear, but in this case…” He shrugged with a wicked smile.

To which she was completely immune. His comment merely elicited another eye roll and an adorably twitching mouth. “I’m sure everything you do is perfect, my lord.”

He pulled on the reins, and swung around his horse to face her. “What the Devil is that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t seem taken aback by his anger at all. Rather the opposite as a matter of fact. The lass was entirely too self-possessed for one so young. It was disconcerting, and he didn’t like it.

She stopped her own horse and turned to face him, shaking her head with a wry smile and something of an “Are you kidding me?” expression on her face. “Come now, my lord, is that not what I’m supposed to think? Sir Thomas Randolph, the perfect, quintessential knight: handsome, charming, chivalrous to the core, whose prowess on the battlefield is only equaled by his prowess in the bedchamber?”

Randolph’s mouth might have gaped. She’d shocked him speechless. Now, admittedly he’d been suggesting that very thing, but for her to come out and actually say it was different. It made him feel almost… embarrassed. Hell, he
was
embarrassed.

How did she do this, damn it? How did she so easily turn the tables on him when he was the aggrieved party? Wasn’t he?

Bloody hell.

He would have dragged his fingers through his hair if he wasn’t wearing a helm. “It isn’t like that.”

She smiled, clearly amused. “Isn’t it? But no matter, my lord. I did not mean to offend you. I think it’s just that we don’t share the same sense of humor.”

That was an understatement.

She tilted her head, her mouth in a bit of a frown. “Do you ever laugh, my lord?”

“Of course.” All the women found him quite witty. All except her, that is. He laughed with them… didn’t he?

Her mouth twitched again, and he knew she was fighting a smile. He suspected because he’d been scowling as he answered. “I should like to see it.”

His scowl deepened. She had an uncanny way of making him feel defensive. “Perhaps you might try by saying something that was actually funny.”

The words were out before he could stop them. It was a rude and ungallant thing to say. He was
never
rude and ungallant—especially to a young lady.

But if he was worried about offending her, he should have known better.

She looked over at him, clearly startled, and then did something extraordinary. She burst out into laughter. Deep, honest-to-God, joyous laughter. It was beautiful to hear—even more so than her singing the day before, which had conjured images of angels and other heavenly creatures.

“I suppose I deserved that,” she said with her typical good-natured wryness. She tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made him vaguely uncomfortable. “You should be forthcoming more often, my lord. It becomes you.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He gave her an odd look. He didn’t know what the hell to make of her, and it showed. “You are an unusual young woman, Lady Isabel.”

Proving the truth of his comment, she beamed. “Thank you. I think that is the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

He hadn’t necessarily meant it as a compliment.

She laughed again, demonstrating a disconcerting ability to read his thoughts. “Even if you hadn’t meant it as a compliment.” When he reflexively started to assure her otherwise, she stopped him. “No pretty protests, please. Do not ruin the good impression left by your honesty. Perhaps you can think of something else rude to say instead?”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. They were the prettiest shade of light blue—like the sun on a crystal clear spring day. A day much like today as a matter of fact.

Randolph was pretty sure this was the oddest conversation he’d ever had. “Give me a minute or two. I’m sure you’ll make me think of something.”

She laughed again. “Keep this up, my lord, and you will have me swooning at your feet.”

I’d pay to see that.

He didn’t realize he’d muttered it aloud until she gave a fresh burst of laughter. “Why, when there are so many willing to do so for free?”

Their eyes met. Was she teasing him or laughing at him again? He couldn’t tell. That was part of the problem.

Suspecting that if he tried to continue the conversation, she’d keep getting the last word, he did something rare and gave up.

They rode for a few minutes in companionable silence until he heard her gasp.

“Is that it?” she asked, pointing to the hill and cliffs that had just appeared before them.

“Aye. The hill is known as Arthur’s Seat, and those oddly shaped columns of rock in the cliffs on the southwest side are Samson’s Ribs.”

Her eyes lit with excitement, and it hit him with the force of a hammer. Low in his gut at first, then stirring rather hard below his belt.

Christ, she should look like that all the time. Animated and full of excitement, she was about as far from serene as he could imagine. She was lovely… absolutely breathtaking.

“They are magnificent! I’ve never seen cliffs shaped like that. And they are aptly named, indeed; the square sided columns look like ribs.”

“Hexagonal,” he corrected automatically. “When you get up close you can see the six sides of the columns. There are similar rocks on the Isle of Staffa and along the coast of Northern Ireland.”

“There are?” She was honestly amazed, and for the first time he felt as if he might have impressed her with something. He liked the feeling. He liked it a lot.

“Can we get closer?” she asked.

“If you’d like.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before she snapped her reins and raced off ahead.

Strangely caught up in her enthusiasm, he told his men to wait there for them and set up their meal while he rode after her.

She was a good rider, he noticed, but that didn’t surprise him. She seemed the kind of woman who would be just as comfortable roaming the moors as she would be sitting on the dais in the Great Hall of some fine castle. There was a genuineness to her, a lack of pretense that made her seem grounded in whatever she seemed to be doing.

She was already tying her reins to a tree when he caught up to her.

He dismounted, tied up his own horse, and followed after her along the narrow path that circled the base of the rock.

She seemed to dance through the ankle-high grass, still brown from winter, as she walked. If he wasn’t so acutely aware of the shapely hips, round bottom, and very womanly chest revealed quite splendidly in her form-fitting, green wool gown, he might have thought he was watching a child let out of doors for the first time after a long, cold winter.

The thought made him smile, which he was still doing when she reached the furthermost curve and turned to look at him.

She seemed startled. He could have sworn he heard a sharp intake of breath, and the pulse at her neck appeared to flutter a little faster.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She blinked a few times and shook her head. “You’ve never smiled like that before.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

But she’d already turned from him to examine the rock face. She had her hand pressed against one of the flat surfaces when she turned back to him to ask, “How do you think it became shaped like this?”

The sun had turned her hair to shimmering silver, her eyes to aquamarine, and seemed to bathe her features in a warm light. He was struck by the delicate lines of her small, straight nose, her softly pointed chin, her deftly curved cheeks and brow, her big, wide-set eyes, and her dainty bow-shaped mouth.

“By the hand of God,” he answered, his voice oddly rough, not just thinking about the rocks.

The answer didn’t seem to satisfy her. She skimmed her hand over the mostly dark gray with an occasional tinge of pink, finely grained rock surface. “It’s magnificent.”

Could one be jealous of stone?
Clearly the stone had impressed her—which was more than he could say for himself.

He reached back through the recesses of his mind and pulled out a fact that had been buried a long time ago. “Pliny the Elder classified different kinds of rocks. He would have probably called this ‘tephrias’ as it appears volcanic in origin.” He frowned. “Or maybe ‘basanite,’ which is a specific type of volcanic rock used to carve ancient statues.”

She was looking at him as if he’d grown a second head. His face started to feel hot, and if he didn’t know better, he would say that he was actually feeling self-conscious.

“You’ve read
Naturalis Historia
?” she asked, obviously shocked.

“You know Pliny?” he asked, equally so.

“A little. Unfortunately, my brothers were more interested in learning about Sparta than they were natural philosophy.”

He chuckled. “I was, too, but I’ve always been interested in architecture.” It was his passion. He could talk about it for hours. “The book on mineralogy includes information about stones for building.”

Izzie hoped she didn’t look as surprised as she felt, but she suspected her expression matched her incredulity. First the smile—the
real
smile that nearly stole her breath—and now this?
He
liked architecture? Apparently, singing wasn’t the only anomaly of shared interests between them.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I wished to read it as well.”

She wasn’t alone in her shock—or in her ability to mask it. He was just as surprised as she. “
You
are interested in architecture?”

She shrugged, a little embarrassed. Her brothers teased her about her uncommon propensity for learning by telling her that if she wasn’t careful, they’d send her to a nunnery. But Randolph wasn’t her family. Would he understand the curiosity that took her in strange directions of study?

“Nothing so formal,” she said. “But when my brother had our donjon rebuilt—it had been hastily repaired after King Edward had it slighted in 1298—I worked with the master builder on the design. I loved it and wanted to learn more. He was the one who told me of Pliny’s work—among others. I tried to interest my younger brothers with the hope that their tutor would try to procure a copy, but alas…” She shrugged.