Seduced by a Highlander (6 page)

“Ye claim that I am the thoughtless one, Isobel”—Alex leaned in to speak quietly against her ear—“yet it was ye who consorted with our enemies. What did ye tell him?”

“Nothing!” Isobel swore. She coughed and cursed her body as she drew in a tight gasp of air. Closing her eyes, she relaxed before she continued. “I did not know who he was. I thought him a noble gentleman.”

“Tristan MacGregor, a gentleman?” Her brother laughed. “He’s been here but a few days, and already whispers of his prowess with the ladies can be heard in every hall. Really, sister, ye must keep yer ears alert if ye mean to protect us from every evil.”

“I could use a bit of aid from ye in that area,” she pointed out, turning to him. “Alex, now more than ever I must insist we leave Whitehall the moment James is made king.”

“Would ye have us refuse an invitation from the king?”

“Aye!” she said without haste. “Did ye not see the Devil MacGregor, or the hatred in his eyes when he looked upon ye? He still blames ye fer starting the feud.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders and brought his spoon to his mouth. “It was not I who killed the earl.”

Dear God, she was going to pass out. “Alex”—her whisper was fraught with panic and pleading—“I beg ye, do not speak of it.”

“We cannot pretend it did not happen, Bel.”

Isobel closed her eyes at the sound of Cameron’s soft reproach. Dearest Cam. Of her six brothers, he was the quiet one, a ghost of who he once was, unseen and unheard. He’d been just eight summers old when their father was murdered, and he had never fully healed from the loss.

“We cannot pretend.” Isobel smiled, feigning courage for his sake. “But we can try to ferget. We need to go home, Cameron. I just need to bring ye both home safely.”

Shadows moved across his handsome features, dulling his somber green gaze behind a spray of deep auburn hair. He nodded and said nothing more.

Satisfied that at least one of her brothers had some sense in his head, Isobel scooped her spoon into her soup and brought it to her lips. Somehow, she would convince Alex to return home with her, but she would do so later, after she—Her gaze found Tristan over the span of tables separating them. Firelight shimmered across his features, softening the hard angles of his jaw, defining the naturally sensuous dip of his upper lip. After his swift departure from her this afternoon, she had expected to find him delighting in the company of a dozen giggling ladies all vying for his favor. What she found instead was a MacGregor with a dark temper and a sorcerer’s smile, both equally dangerous. Dear God, for a single instant, just after the Englishman who had insulted her brothers crashed to his arse, she almost hadn’t cared who her chivalrous stranger from the garden was. She looked away now, hating him even more than the rest of them.

She would think on him no more. She would enjoy the king’s feast and all the different spices that graced her palate. She tried to name each of them and remember which to add to her garden, but it was not an easy task to ignore a wolf in the midst of a flock of sheep. She’d known he was rogue an instant after she met him. How could she have let his vibrant smiles and witty words deceive her? How could she have thought him noble, thoughtful, and more exciting than any man she had ever known?

More times than she could stop them, her eyes drifted back to his table. She watched, torn between incredulity and disgust, while, over the course of supper, four different ladies found the empty chair between Tristan and his sister and sat themselves in it to share a word with him. He gave them that and much more—his full attention and that lightning-quick grin riddled with frivolity, which, oddly, made it even more alluring. The ladies all left giggling like overeager milkmaids.

Well, Isobel thought, tearing at her bread, she was no damned sheep. She knew exactly what kind of man he was behind those wide, winsome grins. Her gaze moved to Tristan’s father sitting at his right. They were MacGregors and they were all the same: loathsome, merciless, murdering bastards. She wished them all the same death.

Later, when the tables had been cleared away and the musicians took up their instruments, Isobel stood at the far end of the Banqueting House watching the dancers take the floor. She had no intention of joining the king’s elegant guests. She didn’t know how to dance, and even if she had, she’d much rather have looked on than participated. She’d never seen such magnificent gowns and wondered if she would be able to sew anything like them if she had the necessary materials. The colors swirling against the enormous hearth fire mesmerized her as beautiful ladies wove through rows of elegant men to music that made her forget the very different life she led.

Her heart warmed when Lady FitzSimmons, a striking young Frenchwoman, blushed—or mayhap it was just the red rouge painted against her ivory complexion—at Cameron’s ardent grin as he looped his arm through hers.

Isobel took delight in her brother’s pleasure, for he found so little of it at home. Truly, she hated cutting short his time here. She would have even agreed to let him remain with Alex if the MacGregors weren’t in attendance. Cameron was the one brother who would not reach for his sword simply because of an askew look flung his way. Still, she didn’t trust their enemies to not run any of her brothers through just to satisfy their thirst for revenge. And if they ever discovered the truth… Dear God, she couldn’t think of it. And she wouldn’t. Not now with the sounds of lute and harp filling the air.

She smiled at Cameron stepping around his partner and then cursed the night when she spotted Tristan weaving his way through the crowd. Her belly flipped when she realized that the fool was walking straight toward her, unconcerned with the danger in which he was about to put them both. Her eyes darted in Alex’s direction, praying to God that her brother would not rush to her side, his sword ready to protect her. Relieved to find him otherwise engaged with one of the king’s female guests, she slanted her nervous gaze back to Tristan. There was no mistaking his destination. He cut through the dancers with a predatory deliberateness, ignoring the come-hither glances of the ladies he passed. His eyes were fixed solely on her, as if she were the only other being in the house besides him. A wolf amidst the sheep. What did he want from her? Isobel exhaled, drawing her fingers to the tightening in her chest. Despite who he was, she could not deny his stark male beauty or the tender way he had touched his fingers to her cheek when she told him of watching her father die. He had seemed so sincerely sorry for her. But everything was a lie. She would not be so foolish again.

Just as he was about to reach her, she turned her back.

“I wish to have a word with ye, Miss Fergusson,” he whispered against her hair as he came to stand behind her.

Her shoulders stiffened, along with her spine. “So ye can ‘adorn’ me with pretty words again? I think not!”

The sound of his easy laughter had a maddening effect on her nerves and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to whirl around and claw out his eyes.

“Go straight to hell, MacGregor,” she said before she could stop herself. The last thing she wanted to do was to give any of the savages a reason to seek retaliation, even over an insult, but he deserved it for being so bold.

“Come with me to the garden, Isobel.”

Was he mad, mayhap a halfwit? Or did he have other, more nefarious schemes in mind? “Are ye determined to start yet another feud?”

“Nae.” Behind her, his breath fell softly to her ear, as warm as the lilting caress of his voice. “ ’Tis why I suggest we leave. If we dance in here, knives will fly.”

Dance? Isobel balled her fingers into fists and glared at him over her shoulder. “D’ye truly think I would ever let any part of ye touch me again?”

She was tempted to touch him with the palm of her hand across his face when his dimple flashed, but thinking of her brothers, she held her temper. “I assure ye, MacGregor,” she said, softening the edge in her voice and presenting him with a glib smile of her own, “I would rather be beheaded in the courtyard than dance with ye. Now please, be gone from my sight.” She turned away, returning her attention to the dancers.

“Fergive me, then,” he went on, ignoring her request.
“I thought ye might want to thank me fer speakin’ to my faither on yer brother’s behalf—”

Thank him? Thank him for telling his father everything she had innocently shared with him about Alex? Oh, she wanted to kill him and to hell with the consequences! She spun on her heel with such force that he snapped his mouth shut and took a step back. “Stay away from my brothers, Tristan MacGregor, or I vow I will cut out yer heart and display it on my front door as a warning to the rest of yer devil-spawned kin.”

Her reluctance to spill his blood was sorely tested when a brighter, more vibrant smile than the ones before it curled his lips.

“Ye speak boldly fer one who claims to be afraid of my kin.”

“I never claimed to be afraid,” she assured him, staring him straight in the eye to prove her point. “I said I hated them.”

“Well, that is unacceptable to me,” he told her, completely unfazed by her scathing retort. “Both our families are guilty of the same crime. I wish to—”

“Our crimes are not equal!” She nearly shouted, then looked around, praying that she had not just drawn every eye in the house in her direction. Satisfied that she hadn’t, she returned her glare to the man facing her. “Yer kin took our father from us.”

“I know, and yer faither took my uncle,” he replied without pause. “But neither of us will gain anythin’ back by hatin’ each other.”

Damn him, Isobel thought, looking up at the thick, sooty lashes wreathing his topaz eyes. He was more beautiful than any law should allow. What a waste on such a cold, flippant MacGregor heart. “Ye must not have
loved yer uncle verra much if ye can put aside his death so easily.”

“I loved him more than anyone will ever know, save now, fer ye. He was… like a faither to me.”

Isobel blinked away from his steady gaze. His uncle—the one who had told him his knightly tales. So, they had both suffered because of pride. It did not make them alike. It would never make them anything but enemies. If he truly did love his uncle, then she was sorry Tristan had lost him. But he would get no more than that.

And how much more did he want? Why was he standing here, determined to speak to someone he hated and risking another five or six years of raids when he could be sharing a more pleasant evening with a dozen ladies more beautiful than she? What had his purpose been in seducing her into liking him?

“What do ye want from me?” she asked him, drawing in a deep, silent sigh, afraid that he was after a truth she would die before giving up.

“A walk.” His long lashes swept downward as he leaned toward her. “A smile, a chance to win yer favor again.”

Isobel shook her head, already stepping away from him. “Ye must think me as mad as ye then.”

“Give me but a wee bit of yer time and I’ll tell ye what I think of ye.”

She would not let her breath falter at the lush depth of his voice, or the way his gaze warmed on her, letting her know already what he thought. She had admired his honesty, but now she doubted there was any truth to his words. He was intelligent and well versed in the art of seduction. But truly, did he think she would give her favor to a MacGregor? If he did, then he was the most arrogant
man she’d ever known. It made the satisfaction of refusing him even more pleasurable. “There is nothing ye have to say to me that I want to hear.”

He looked about to say something more, but then his smile changed into one more practiced and courteous. Offering her a slight bow, he said, “Verra well then, Miss Fergusson. Farewell.”

Isobel did not reply but watched him leave the Banqueting House alone. “Farewell, Mister MacGregor, and good riddance to ye.” When she returned her gaze to Cameron finishing his dance with Lady FitzSimmons, she forced herself to smile. She hadn’t felt this miserable in a very long time.

H
ow do you feel about the coronation tomorrow?” Lady Margaret Ashley asked Tristan as they strolled through Whitehall’s Stone Gallery overlooking the Thames. “Tristan?” She tugged his sleeve.

He looked into her lovely, if a bit lackluster, blue eyes and then at her mouth. “Aye?”

“The coronation? We will have a Catholic king on the morrow.”

“Aye, we will.”

“And what do you think of that?”