A Highlander’s Homecoming (11 page)

“Have you no understanding of yer place in the world, lass? Do you no see how easy it would be for someone to capture you, or worse,” he demanded roughly, practically shouting to be heard over the din.

Her answer was a blow to his chest, delivered with a great deal more force than he might have expected. For an instant, he wondered if he’d missed some weapon she’d carried as the strike sent a knife-sharp pain slashing through his ribs. He staggered back from Isabella, holding his side as disbelief flooded his mind and he gasped for air.

She stumbled away from him into the dark of the stable, screaming again as she did so, heralding another round of ear-splitting cacophony, the braying of animals lost in the frenzy of the storm raging outside.

His pain disappeared as quickly as it had begun and he breathed in deeply, straightening in time to see flames from the lantern Isa had been carrying spread through the dry floor covering.

Falling to one knee, Robert pounded at the spreading
fire with his bare hands, quickly losing the battle as the sparks fed on the dry rushes.

With a
whoosh,
Isa’s cloak floated past his head and down onto the fire, suffocating the flames and leaving them both in total darkness.

“Are you hurt?”

Robert ignored her question as he staggered to the door, flinging it open to the howling wind and rain. Fresh air washed over him and into the enclosure and he gulped it in, steadying himself before he spoke.

“What the hell did you hit me with?” he demanded, the memory of the unexpected pain still fresh.

“I . . . nothing,” she stammered. “I jabbed you with my elbow and nothing more. Did I hurt you?”

He snorted his disbelief and reached out to where he knew she stood from the sound of her voice. Grasping her arm, he pulled her along with him, toward the door.

“You belong inside yer cottage, behind a bolted door, where you’ll be safe.” Inside, where in spite of her claims he could see for himself whether or not she carried any weapons.

“Wait. I’ve a need to
 
 . . .” She pulled her arm from his loose grasp and leaned down before finishing. “I canna move with any speed wearing these pattens.”

She darted out into the driving rain ahead of him, leading the way to her front door. This time when they reached it she held it open, allowing him to follow her inside. Not that he would have settled for any attempt on her part to keep him out as he had earlier.

In three steps he reached the hearth, and pulled his shirt up and over his head as he did so. He took only the barest notice of his blistered hands as he ran them
over his chest, searching, amazed to find nothing there. Nothing but the familiar thin silver trail, a reminder of the wound that would have taken his life almost a decade past.

As he turned, Isabella gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. When he met her gaze, he realized it was the scar that had captured her attention, but it was Isabella herself that captured his.

The woman standing before him now bore no resemblance at all to the one he’d seen earlier today.

Her hair hung over her shoulder, captured in a neat braid that easily reached below her waist. Wet tendrils curled around her face, framing eyes so intensely green he’d swear she wore colored contacts if he were home.

Though the nightdress she wore would be relegated to the oldest of grannies in the time he considered his own, it occurred to him the clothing was seriously underrated. The heavy wet cloth clung to her body, outlining her curves in a manner more enticing than anything he’d ever seen.

She seemed to come to her senses first. Her hands flew to her hair and her eyes rounded, as if she’d just realized she stood in front of him without her disguise. It was obvious when she also realized she wore only her nightdress, dropping her arms to cross them protectively in front of her.

To Robert’s way of thinking, the gesture did more to highlight than to conceal.

When she looked to her feet self-consciously, he forced himself back to business, to deal with the situation at hand.

“You should get yerself into some dry things.”

“And you as well,” she responded, glancing up first at him and then to the door. “I’d ask you to turn yer back so that I might change in privacy.”

“I can wait outside,” he offered, strangely relieved when she shook her head no.

He turned his back and moved closer to the fire, locking his gaze into the dancing flames. Behind him, the slap of wet cloth hitting the stone floor jolted him hard enough he had to close his eyes to keep from looking around.

What was wrong with him? She was a woman under his protection, not someone he’d picked up in a bar. Everything about him felt off-center tonight, from the pain he’d experienced when Isabella had jabbed him with her elbow right up to the unusually strong attraction he experienced when he was near her.

Perhaps it was the leftover effects of the Faerie Magic that had sent him hurtling through time. That must be it. He could think of no other logical reason for his bizarre responses.

“MacQuarrie?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but he jumped and whirled around as if she’d yelled at him.

Not a foot away, her eyes rounded again, and she took a step backward before lifting her chin and offering him the bundle she held.

“I’ve no shirt that will fit you, but yer welcome to this plaid. Though it’s old, it’s clean and dry.”

“Old?” he heard himself echo lamely. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth as he stared at her.

“Aye. It belonged to my father,” she answered almost apologetically before she retraced her steps to the other end of the room, bowing her head and facing the wall.

His fingers fumbled clumsily with his belt as he turned his back to her. Behind him, she coughed when he began to unwrap his soggy plaid, and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering whether or not she fought the need as he had to steal a quick look.

“Damn fool,” he muttered as he twined Thomas’s plaid about his body and refastened his belt.

He turned to find Isabella’s rigid back still to him, her hands knotted in the soft material of the shift she’d donned earlier.

“I’m finished,” he called, ashamed of his thoughts when she turned, her face red with her embarrassment.

Some fine Guardian he was turning out to be, lusting after the innocent woman he was sworn to protect.

Isabella fought the need to fan herself as she brushed past her visitor. The Fates themselves would surely strike her down for her audacity, but she didn’t care. Whatever happened would be a small price to pay for the quick peek she’d had of MacQuarrie’s fine, strong arse.

Lo, but the man was a beauty, with legs as sturdy as tree trunks. Though she’d stolen only the briefest of glimpses, his magnificent body had fair taken her breath away, and she’d been forced to cover her inadvertent gasp with a false cough.

Did he have any idea what she’d done?

She pushed past him, busying her shaking hands by filling two mugs with hot broth.

What if he’d caught her looking? The possibility sent a fresh wave of humiliation cascading over her,
and she offered the broth to him without being able to make eye contact.

“Thank you.”

His voice brushed against her mind like the finest cloth against sensitive skin, and she shivered as she sat on one of the little stools near the hearth.

She chose a spot close to where he leaned his back against the stone wall. Close to him. But not too close. Not so close that their arms might accidentally touch.

At the moment, she wished for nothing so much as to hear him speak again. She had only to say a word or two of her own and she’d be rewarded with the sound of his deep voice, lulling her as a cool breeze on a warm day might.

But her tongue was as heavy and her senses as dulled as if she’d overindulged in spirits, and she could think of nothing to say to start a conversation with the man.

“Why the disguise at yer grandfather’s castle? Why pretend to be what you are not?”

Isa jumped when he broke the silence, her free hand flying up to her hair. The Fates certainly hadn’t waited long to take their vengeance. She’d been careless and now she was caught.

“I ask only to be left alone. No one bothers a witless scold living deep in the woods lest she curse them.” She allowed her eyes to travel up from her mug only to feel the breath catch in her throat when she saw the blisters on his big hands. “Yer burned! You should have spoken of it. I have a salve for that.”

“You’ve no a need to disguise yerself any longer, Isabella. I’m here to see to it that yer left alone until I can convince you there’s a safer place to be.”

She didn’t respond and he said nothing else as she fetched her herbals and gently fussed over his palm, finishing by wrapping strips of clean, soft cloth around his hand. He might think of himself as here to see to her privacy, but who would give her privacy from him? She shook off her concerns as she finished with his hand.

“It’s no so bad, MacQuarrie. If you’ll but use some caution . . .”

“Robert,” he interrupted, flinching as she rubbed her hand over the back of his. “My given name is Robert.”

She looked up into his eyes and froze. “No.” The name didn’t feel right. Besides, it was already hard enough to keep from thinking inappropriate thoughts about this man without allowing herself to become too familiar.

“Robbie, then,” he countered, his gaze holding hers. “That’s what yer father called me.”

“Robbie,” she heard herself murmur, as if she spoke against her own will. “Tell me of my father. Tell me how you came to give him yer oath.”

“Thomas saved my life,” he began.

She sank to the hearth and leaned closer, staring into the warm depths of his eyes as he continued to speak. This time she gave no thought as to whether or not their arms might touch or even to the words he spoke. She was lost in the music of his voice.

Robbie.

Now that felt right.

Chapter 9
 

“I am sorry, Father. His lairdship still refuses to repeat what he deems to have been a mistake.” Agneys nervously twisted a strand of hair between her fingers as she spoke. “I’ve told him he must not deny me because I . . . I love him. Just as you instructed me to.”

Roland glared at his daughter as he paced the length of her bedchamber. It was such a simple task he’d set her. Sleep with the laird, conceive a male child. An heir.

The laird’s heir and Roland’s as well, leaving Roland himself in control should anything . . . untimely happen to the laird.

A simple plan. A lovely young woman and a lonely old man. But there she sat, his useless daughter, unable to accomplish even that which any filthy tavern wench could have done.

Worthless. Just like her mother had been. All beauty and no brains.

“Do you carry his bairn?” He turned to her, pleased to see her flinch when he approached.

“I . . . I canna say just yet.” The useless mare continued to fidget with her hair, scooting farther back into her chair as if she thought she could escape him. “I’m no even sure his lairdship succeeded in . . . in doing what he needed to do in order to get me with child.”

“You’ll keep those thoughts to yerself,” he snapped, stomping back to stare into the dying fire.

Roland curled his lip in disgust at the frustrating turn his well-laid plans had taken. When he had first sent Agneys to the old laird, MacGahan had refused to bed her, calling it
unseemly behavior
. The great laird saw himself as such a fine, honorable gentleman, they’d been forced to ply him with an inordinate amount of whisky to lure him into Agneys’s bed the first time. Now he refused to touch the spirit.

He also refused to touch Agneys.

Events of the past few days had spiraled completely out of control, much too fast for his original plan to succeed. That bastard MacDowylt had shown up out
of nowhere, insisting on the payment Roland had promised, demanding marriage to MacGahan’s idiot granddaughter, determined now to have these holdings in return for his debt.

“We’ll see about that,” Roland hissed through clenched teeth. He’d spent too many years kissing the old laird’s arse, waiting to be named heir, to let everything slip through his fingers now that he was so close to his goal.

He’d figure out a way to deal with MacDowylt. It
would simply take a little time to come up with a proper course of action, but planning was, after all, his great strength.

As for Randulf, laird of the MacGahan?

There was no more time. If the old man wouldn’t cooperate of his own free will, Roland would simply have to force him into action. He’d realized the necessity of speed as soon as he’d heard of the MacDowylt’s approach. He was too smart to be outmaneuvered by the MacDowylt upstart or by the doddering old laird. Two days ago, he’d set the wheels of his plan in motion and now was the time for his next move.

Decision made, he whirled around and crossed to where Agneys cowered. Winding his hand into her hair, he used the heavy golden locks to jerk her to her feet. Her annoying whimpers ceased the moment he drew her face close to his.

“You will follow my lead, agreeing with whatever I say. Do I make myself clear?”