Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) (16 page)

“Ye think ye saw a spirit?”

Isobel nodded. “There was an air of menace about it.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about Logan’s horse,” she said. “Tell me again, how did the poor creature die?”

“Logan’s horse was a perfect specimen of health and strength. Magnificent in battle and on the hunt, loyal, attuned to e’ery move Logan made, to e’ery subtle command. And then one day it sickened and died within hours. What are ye thinking, Isobel?”

“Who has access to the herbs on the ground floor?”

“The room is no’ locked. Any number of people make use of it, mostly the kitchen servants.” Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ye think his horse was deliberately poisoned?”

“’Tis a possibility.” She glanced shyly up into his face and was met with those smoldering amber eyes that held questions. She looked away quickly. His eyes did things to her, made her feel things she didn’t understand. “I am vera sorry,” she said, “I know ye must be missing Logan so much. I am sorry ye had to relive that awful day again when we found the arrows.”

He reached out a lean hand and tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. His hair was not tied back in a ribbon and it hung, black and silky, to his shoulders. She itched to touch it.

“Isobel, ye’ve nothing to be sorry about. Yer helping me. Yer visions are vera important. Whate’er ye see, always tell me. I think somehow this ghost ye saw, the arrows buried in the glen, my brother’s horse dying in a strange, unexplainable fit…I think ‘tis all connected. Though I dunna think it is a ghost we are hunting, but a flesh-and-blood killer that may vera well live within the walls of this keep.”

He stroked her cheek softly and then withdrew his hand. The fire crackled. “Isobel, do ye regret that I brought ye here?”

“Nay. I live because ye saved my life, Highlander, because ye believed the dream ye had was some kind of vision and ye were brave enough to act on it. ‘Tis the only reason I am alive.”

“Do ye e’er wonder what it would ha’e been like if things had been different, if we’d met under different circumstances?” he said.

“If ye mean had I met ye while walking a battlefield strewn with the dead and dying and ye were holding a battleaxe? To meet the Black Wolf of death? I wouldna have wanted to meet ye that way.”

“Ne’er call me that. And that is no’ what I meant.”

She frowned. “If we had met in a great hall, or in the teeming streets of a city, ye wouldna have noticed me, Leith.”

He studied her with curiosity and caressed an errant blonde curl. “Yer wrong,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I would ha’e noticed ye anywhere, for there is something compelling about ye, something I canna ignore.”

Isobel pulled away from his touch, confused by what he made her feel. “Ye have to be prepared, Leith. Ye may no’ like this path we travel together. Ye may no’ like what we discover. It will be painful. We may discover ghosts, old secrets and treachery, that people are no’ who ye thought they were, and we may vera well discover a murderer….”

He pulled her close, his arm around her back like an iron band, the other cradling the back of her head. He stared at her soft lips. “I ha’e a feeling we may discover something more important.”

His head descended and the touch of his lips was a warm shock that she could not fight. She had no desire to resist, so she did not. As before, when she thought she was dreaming, his lips were soft but possessive. His tongue caressed her lower lip before darting inside, causing a rush of warmth through her entire being, a primal ache between her legs.

His hand now cradled her jaw and he moaned as he moved his mouth across hers and pressed her small body to his tall frame. Tentatively her own tongue explored his lower lip, and in response, his mouth became more demanding, more insistent.

She almost whimpered when he pulled away, but his lips soon returned to her neck, making their way hotly toward her ear. “Always tell me the truth, Isobel. It can only help me. It can only help us.”

Her heart beat rapidly in her chest and her breathing became ragged with desire. Why must this man of all men affect her so?

His lips crushed hers again and the kiss was far beyond her experience. Her legs felt wobbly but she met his mouth urgently, something primal taking over her body, running through her limbs like fire.

“I will make ye forget Rory.”

In her passionate haze, Isobel only barely registered his words. “What?”

“There will always be a link between us,” he breathed, his hand cupping her breast over the material of her dress. Isobel gasped at the heat of his fingers through the fabric as he brushed her nipple, intensifying the ache in her body.

“We are both smothered by our pasts…by tragedy…misunderstood by those around us…doubted at e’ery turn. I canna explain it, but Isobel, I feel as if I could no’ do this, be the laird I am meant to be, without ye by my side.”

She took a deep breath and placed her cheek against his chest, the rhythm of his heart fast and strong. She wanted to feel him, she could not deny it; she wanted to touch him as she had when he’d kissed her before, when she thought it was a dream, when she felt no fear, only excitement and curiosity.
When they were just a man and a woman, not a laird and his Seer.

His black hair fell over his shoulder and she reached up to touch it, then to caress his face, moving her fingers in wonder over his square jaw, tracing them over his lips. She traced his scar and he tensed.

His eyes were dark and heated. “Isobel, ‘tis a dangerous game we play.” His dark brows were frowning over his startling eyes. They had no right to be so beautiful and flashing in such a dark face.

She pulled away from him, regaining some composure, adjusting her tunic, his words sobering her mood. “I am no’ playing a game. I think yer merely feeling emotional after finding yer brother’s arrows. I dunna understand yer actions as I know ye think me hideous compared to Lady Katherine’s beauty.”

“Where do ye get such odd ideas?”

She couldn’t help but remember the disgust she’d seen in his eyes when she’d stood naked in front of him after her bath. “I should go.” She made her way to the door.

“Nay. Bathe me first.”

She felt the heat rise to her face. “I will do no such thing. It is much too intimate.”

He laughed, sure he had already won this battle. “’Tis common for ladies to help a laird wash the dust and sweat of the day from his body. And have ye no’ heard about Paris, about the steam baths? Naked bodies sweating, sponged down side by side from water heated by wood fires. No one is ashamed.” He motioned behind him.

“As ye can see, the servants finished preparing my bath water just before we arrived.” Steam rose from the heavy, iron-bound tub behind him. “I visited Paris once, Isobel. Logan and I, and my da. Criers used to run through the streets announcing when the water for the baths was hot.” He smiled at the memory.

He pulled her back into his embrace and traced a lean finger down her cheek. “I will bathe ye too, Isobel. The basin is full of hot, fresh herbs and the water is fair warm with rose petals. And there is no wild lettuce to be found.” He laughed and then he turned serious, his gaze one of lust. “I think ye like the touch of my lips, Isobel. Do ye deny it?”

She shook her head.

“I think ye would like the touch of my hands as well.”

Isobel’s nerves grew taut. She could not speak. Her heart was beating erratically and a strange, warm ache was pulsing between her legs.

“I think ye would like the feel of me inside ye.” His lips found her neck again and he began to kiss her softly.

Isobel wanted his touch, more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life. His touch was both warm and dangerous. Yet she knew he could not offer her anything, for he was determined to marry Lady Katherine at all costs. Determined to honor the vow he made to his brother. He felt he had a duty to keep the peace of his clans, and it was not a duty he took lightly. He’d boldly stated before all in his clan that one did not marry for love; one married for practicality. One made alliances to keep the clan safe. But if she let him touch her that way, her heart would follow, and when he married Lady Katherine, what then?

She thought again of the time he had stormed into the bedchamber to find her standing naked in the tub. “I thought ye found me…displeasing. Ye have seen my body dripping with water from the bath, and I thought ye found what ye saw no’ only displeasing but disgusting. I canna compare to Lady Katherine, no’ with my scars from the fire.”

He gripped her chin forcefully but not painfully. “Where do ye get such strange ideas about yerself?”

“Errol said I’m about as comely as a toad.”

“Errol was lying. Any man can see yer a dazzling beauty. Errol was only trying to hurt ye because he hates yer clan and he will ne’er trust a MacKinnon.”

He shook his head and stared at her lips. “After seeing ye that way, naked and dripping wet, I could no’ sleep that night for being filled with lustful thoughts of touching ye, of yer body entwined with my own. I think yer beautiful, Isobel, yer body and yer heart.”

“But I ha’e been burned. I am scarred….”

He responded by capturing her lips in a fierce kiss, pulling her against him so she could feel the beating of his heart beneath her fingertips. He palmed her warm sex through her tunic and his hand was a heated shock. She moaned as he moved his hand over the fabric.

He impatiently sought what was beneath her tunic, lifting the fabric, his fingers caressing her naked thigh and then her womanhood. Her breath caught at the feel of his masculine hand on her most intimate parts and a throb and an ache began that threatened to steal all her reason away.

And then his fingers slid inside her. She closed her eyes in ecstasy and leaned into his chest.

“Ye want me too, Isobel.” He took her hand and placed it on the front of his trews, so she could feel his desire. He was large and hard and the feel of him frightened her. She started to pull away.

“Nay,” he breathed. “Dunna pull away. Let me hold ye. ‘Tis the only thing that brings me any peace of late. Life is short and brutal, and we should seize those moments that fill us somehow with heat, wonder, and excitement.” He held her fast with one arm behind her back while his other hand tangled in her hair. Isobel trembled at his touch.

“Oh, Isobel. I want to feel ye, I want to touch ye, I want yer hands on me, but I will no’ force it. Only if ye want it, too. I dunna understand my feelings where ye are concerned, I freely admit it, but they are there.” His brow was furrowed in concentration, his winged black brows drawn together over the jutting blade of his nose. His jaw was set as firmly as ever. His mouth was beautifully shaped and his lips sensual.

An odd tremor shot through her. She noticed all these things about him always, as she had from the first day she’d seen him. And she held them close to her heart. She did not understand her feelings for the Highland warrior either.
And yet they were there.

“I must go.” She pulled away from him. He did not try to stop her but he sighed heavily.

“Isobel. Wait.”

She turned to find a puzzled look on his face. Tall, lean, his legs braced apart, he was every inch the arrogant Highland warrior. “Ye will come to the feasting tonight.”

“I see no reason why I should.”

“Ye will come, nonetheless.”

“I dunna have appropriate clothing to wear.” Isobel felt shame and would not look at him now. She stared at the stone floor. “Lady Katherine gave me one of her cast off gowns,” she admitted, “but I will ne’er wear it.”

“Ye need no’ wear Lady Katherine’s cast-off gowns. Shortly after ye arrived here, I gave Maida the task of finding ye suitable clothing so that ye may attend the feasts and the dancing.”

She risked glancing at him again and raised her chin a notch. “’Tis no’ necessary.”

“I wanted to give ye something nice. I want ye there.” There was an odd glint in his eyes. “Tonight will be…different.”

Isobel nodded before scurrying off, horrified that she was trembling. It was not from fear.

22

The feasting had no’ yet begun so Isobel donned her cloak and slipped outside unnoticed.

For once, it was not snowing. The evening meal would be late tonight. The moon was full, and lit the way as she approached the stables by way of the courtyard. By now, the stable boys would have mucked out the stalls for the day and fed and watered the horses. The stables should be quiet, except for the horses themselves, of course.

Inside, Isobel acclimated herself to the darkness. There was only the soft whinnying of the animals. No one seemed to be about.

Which stall had Logan’s horse occupied?

She walked deeper into the darkness as she heard voices in the courtyard. There was a ghostly flash of Maclean plaid and she smiled. Logan was showing her the way. His spirit disappeared quickly and she made her way to the third stall on the left.

It was not occupied by a horse now, but there was still hay strewn on the ground. She pushed the stall door open and quietly went inside, a shaft of moonlight her only guidance.

Isobel didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But she felt a great sadness for the magnificent, loyal creature who had met an unfortunate and possibly cruel end.

She walked around the box stall, stirring up the hay, looking for some clue. The voices of two stable boys startled her and she crouched low in the corner.

“I dunna like coming here at night,” one of them said. “I swear the stall where Logan’s horse was kept is haunted.”

“Och, dunna be such a spurgalled half-wit.”

“But I heard
strange noises
coming from that stall.”

“Of course ye did. It was probably me and Corinna. She dared me to make love to her in that stall and I lifted her skirts and did me manly duty.”

“Nay!”

“Aye! And what a wild night it was!”

Isobel crouched even lower to the ground as she heard them walk by the stall. Dust motes swirled around her in a thread of silky moonlight and she held her breath for fear of sneezing.

“Och, let’s go. We’ll be late to the feasting.”

“I just came back to get my cloak. I left it on the horse cart.”

As they walked away, Isobel released her breath. And that’s when she saw it. Small and sparkling. She carefully brushed away the hay and picked up the tiny object, holding it in the moonlight. It was a small jewel, a sapphire, exactly the size that might fit on a respectable lady’s riding glove. She frowned and brushed more of the hay aside.
Yew leaves. Tiny and crushed, but they were there.

Yew was extremely poisonous. Animals usually died within a few hours of eating it.

Isobel had not seen any yew trees near the stable, so it was not possible that the yew had been carried inside the stall by a strong breeze. Yew trees were usually found on church grounds. Isobel recalled seeing yew trees near the chapel that she and Leith had visited.              

No one would have brought yew into the keep, for that was a very unlucky thing to do.

She kept the jewel hidden in her palm as she left the stable. She was about to enter the great hall when Rolph stepped from the shadows and startled her.

“Out for a pleasant winter’s walk?” he said, his eyes sparkling with malice and his voice hollow. “Where ha’e ye been, witch? Ye look done in. Like ye’ve seen a ghost.” Despite the fur cloak she wore, his eyes traveled over her body, as if he could see beneath it. “Or mayhap ye were spreading yer legs for one of the stable boys? Is the laird’s prick no’ enough for ye?”

“I merely needed to take some e’ening air,” Isobel said.

Rolph reached out and touched her hair. Isobel pulled back. He laughed and pressed her close to the wall, an arm on either side of her head, so that she could not escape him. “Ye smell like the stables and ye have hay sticking to yer cloak. Did ye meet someone there and spread yer legs for him? Are ye a witch
and
a whore?”

Beneath her cloak, Isobel gripped the tiny ragged jewel in her hand so tightly that it pricked her and drew blood.

Rolph’s mouth descended on hers without warning, without grace or tenderness. His kiss was solely meant to punish. He kissed her hard, his breath sour with whisky, almost as if he were biting her. Isobel pushed against him and struggled to breathe. She finally tore her lips from his. “Get off me!” she cried.

“I think ye should do as the lady says.”

They both turned to see Errol standing there, his hand resting atop the hilt of his long, black-handled dirk.

“Well, ‘tis the war advisor, itching as always for a fight, eh?” Rolph said.

He moved back from Isobel, his hands in the air, a smirk on his face. “I dunna fight over whores, Errol. I merely wanted a taste of what the stable boys are getting. What other reason would our Seer have for taking nightly walks in the middle of winter unless she was spreading her legs for a man?” He made a mock bow and strode away.

“Are ye alright?” Errol asked.

“Aye,” Isobel said. “I was about to bring that pot down on his head.” She pointed to a pot in the corner that was far from her reach.

Errol frowned, looking doubtful. “Is it wise to wander the castle grounds at night alone?”

“I was no’ meeting anyone!” Isobel cried. “And Leith and I do no’…. I merely needed some air.”

“Ye dunna need to explain yerself to me. Just, in future lass, use some common sense when yer crawling about the keep like a hairy spider. Ye ha’e enemies here.”

“Well I know,” she said, but Errol had turned and gone.

Isobel walked briskly through the hall, keeping her head down, and climbed the stairs to her room. Once she was safely inside with the door latched, she took a deep breath and removed her fur cloak.

She stared at the tiny jewel in her hand. Lady Katherine would no doubt be belowstairs now; she’d want to be the center of attention as the festivities began. She crept along to Lady Katherine’s room, knocked, but got no answer. She pushed the door gently and found it was not latched.

Lady Katherine’s riding gloves were tossed carelessly across a wooden chest. Isobel held the tiny jewel up to the glove, examining the place where a jewel was clearly missing from the fabric. It was a perfect match. Isobel frowned. Was it possible that Lady Katherine had been involved in Logan’s death? She professed to love him deeply. Had
she
poisoned Logan’s horse? Or had she merely gone riding with Logan? It didn’t make sense that the jewel would be found in the stall. Why would Lady Katherine be involved in killing the man she professed to love?

Sometimes people are no’ who they seem to be.

Isobel heard voices in the corridor and panicked. If she were found in Lady Katherine’s room alone, she would give the excuse that she had come to retrieve gowns to mend. She held her breath, but the footsteps continued on through the corridor, the sound echoing past Lady Katherine’s room.

She replaced the glove where she’d found it and peered into the hall. No one was about. She quickly made her way back to her room and found a safe hiding place for the jewel in Logan’s writing desk. Then she washed her hands in a bowl, the cut from the jewel stinging, and combed her hair. It was then she noticed the beautiful gowns on the bed. She nearly cried out in delight, for they were just as beautiful as Lady Katherine’s. Where had they come from? How had Maida had them delivered so quickly? Would they fit her?

There was a gown of lovely pale green, one of shimmering sea-blue, and a gown of deep red. Isobel favored the green gown and quickly shed her clothes to see if it fit.

Miraculously, it did. It was only slightly big in the waist area. She noticed that Maida had left matching slippers in blue, green, and red, and matching ribbons. Isobel frowned, looking at the expensive ribbons, remembering the night Bothen had cruelly shorn off her braid, holding it up for all to see, remembering Glynis’ red ribbon unraveling in the wind.

Would her hair be long enough for a ribbon? Maybe just so. Bravely, Isobel experimented with her hair. When she was finished, she glanced in the mirror that Maida had thought to provide. She’d never had one of her own, for mirrors were rare items and costly. If her hair wasn’t elegant, it was at least a stylish change from the curls bouncing riotously about her head.

She continued to study her reflection. The neckline of the gown plunged low and her stone pendant was visible at the base of her throat. It felt strange, and wonderful, to be attired so. Her face had color and vitality and she knew why.
The Highlander.
His kiss, the wounded, desirous way he looked at her, the feel of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips.
Leith made her feel alive. But ‘twas dangerous and foolish to feel such things, for what she could she ever be to him but a Seer?

Would Leith notice the change in her? She’d been brought here dirty, wet, bloodied, wounded, filthy, and practically frozen. Or would he only see Lady Katherine’s beauty this night?

She was admiring the soft silk of the green gown, rippling like the sea beneath her fingertips, when she remembered that Rory was chained in the dungeons. Guilt stabbed her. Had he been fed and given ale? Later, she would do something about that. After everyone was abed. She would make her way quietly through the dark shadows and bring him food. She had done the same thing when her own father had been chained in the MacKinnon dungeons by her half-brother Calum.

Isobel remembered Mary Francis talking about the laird’s ear. Was there one in Logan’s room? She searched near the fireplace and found nothing. She lifted some of the tapestries on the walls but there was no Laird’s Ear. Then she entered the small alcove and reexamined the curtain near the washstand. Gently she pushed it aside, and when she leaned close, she could hear the muffle of many voices, people who must be gathered around the hearth in the great hall.

She pulled the desk chair over to the washstand and listened, but there were too many voices and she could not make out what they were saying. A fiddle started up and the voices thinned, no doubt the people to whom the voices belonged having joined in a dance.

It was silent for a while. Isobel decided it was time to join the feasting. She was surprised that she was actually looking forward to watching the dances and listening to the musicians. Maybe even Cook would get the bashed neeps right this time.

As she stood up, she heard a male voice, clear as day. “Rory MacKinnon dies tonight, when everyone is abed.” Her skin crawled. She did not recognize the voice.

“Aye, after midnight, the filthy MacKinnon swine will feel the prick of my blade. We’ll make it look like he attacked us first, as we were bringing him something to eat. I doubt anyone will care that his blood has been spilled, except for our overly just and meritorious laird who gives succor to his loathsome enemies
.
”

Isobel did not recognize either voice. She had to tell Leith. She had to help Rory. Her heart beating, she forced herself to remain calm as she descended the staircase to the great hall, lifting the hem of her gown, not used to the feel of the elegant fabric.