Highland Thief Page 13

  An icy fear crystallized in his veins, and the air punched up from his lungs in a sudden whoosh. She’d been slipping away from him for years, and he’d just let her drift like a skiff floating away on the loch as he’d helped his brothers secure their clans and their futures…their families.

  But now it was his turn. He had to make Isobel listen to him, to hear him. And he needed somewhere private to do that—without her brother or her guard getting in the way, without Deirdre or this other man claiming her attention.

  But first he had to find her.

  As he approached the stable, he whistled sharply. A groomsman came running with Diabhla saddled and ready to go. Someone must have given the order already.

  When a grim-faced Lyle followed behind Diabhla with the rest of Isobel’s guard, Kerr cursed under his breath.

  He didn’t have a plan yet, but he knew whatever it was, Lyle wouldn’t like it. Gavin either, although Gavin would understand—and trust him—even if he kicked Kerr in the arse when he saw him again.

  Aye, that was a certainty.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d evaded her guard, and Kerr knew it wouldn’t be the last, but this time felt more urgent. And not only to him—he could see a pinch of worry at the corners of Lyle’s eyes.

  “’Tis worse than we thought,” Lyle said. “I received word that Branon Campbell escaped his guard before he crossed the border. He could be anywhere.”

  “God’s blood! We knew we would lose him, but not this soon. What happened?”

  Lyle shrugged and mounted his horse. “She’s about fifteen minutes ahead of us. She didn’t take a horse from the stable, but she did ask earlier if she needed a special bridle to take a horse across the loch. So…we could assume she has a horse—provided by someone else—and she plans to cross with it to the mainland.”

  Kerr mounted Diabhla and urged the stallion toward the portcullis. Lyle fell in beside him. “Or we could assume that she’s set a false trail and isna going anywhere near the water. ’Twas obvious you’d ask the groomsman about her horse.”

  It suited him to nudge Lyle in a different direction. If she was with another man and they were making a run for the border, as her letter suggested, Lyle would find her before she left MacKinnon land. But if this was an elaborate ruse set up for him, he wanted to be alone when he found her.

  Lyle fisted his hand around the reins. “I agree. She’s a clever woman. Maybe too clever this time.”

  The observation irritated Kerr. Isobel wasn’t too much or too little of anything—she was just Isobel. Smart, caring, amusing, devious—and he wanted the whole of her, not just parts of her. Aye, she had her faults, but so did he.

  He inhaled deeply before speaking to calm his temper. Even so, his words came out clipped. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up. She may talk her way past the sentries at the ports and the borders, the same as she did with the guards at the gate. You should go there.”

  “And where will you go?” Lyle asked as they passed unhindered under the portcullis and onto the open road, picking up speed.

  “I doona know yet. I need to be alone to hear what my gut is telling me.”

  Lyle frowned. “If she’s with someone else—”

  “She’s not!” Kerr reined in and spun toward Lyle, who did the same. The others gathered around them on their horses. “She’s waiting. For me.”

  There. He’d said it. And to his relief, he realized he believed it.

  “You don’t know that. She may not choose you.”

  “Aye. But she’s not choosing anyone else either.”

  “You canna stop her, Laird MacAlister.”

  “I doona have to. She’ll stop herself.”

  “For her sake, I hope that’s true.” Then Lyle whistled sharply and veered off with his men, shouting instructions to them as he went.

  Kerr heaved a frustrated sigh and squeezed the back of his neck. He’d been terse with Lyle and regretted it. Not that the man would care; he was too focused on doing his job to be put off by Kerr’s rudeness.

  He turned Diabhla back to the path and urged the stallion into a trot. They knew from the guard at the gate that Isobel had come this way on foot.

  Unprotected.

  The thought sent a chill up his spine. He leaned forward and Diabhla picked up his pace. His enemy, and that of his allies, was still out there, still plotting against them. The conspirators would love to get their hands on the beloved sister of Laird MacKinnon and future wife of Laird MacAlister.

  Where would Isobel go? He knew how strong and fast she was, and he suspected she’d broken into a run as soon as she was out of sight of the castle. But was she still on foot? Or had someone given her a horse?

  A lone tree loomed ahead of him, a common place for people to meet, and Kerr slowed. He peered at the ground, looking for signs in the dirt that she’d been there, but the light from the moon shone too weakly for him to make out fresh prints. He could light a torch, but he shouldn’t need to—not when Isobel had planted clues for him to follow.

  He looked up at the tree again, and then turned to a faint path that led away from the main road toward the loch and a small, rocky beach. They’d taken Ewan there for a picnic the day Gavin had snuck off with Deirdre, intent on returning her to Lewis MacIntyre. Fortunately, Gavin had brought her home again that night.

  Was that where Isobel had gone?

  He closed his eyes, tried to quiet his doubt and fear so he could hear what his heart, his body, was telling him. There, deep in his gut.

  An urge to ride forward.

  He pressed his heels to Diabhla’s flanks, and the stallion broke into a swift canter.

  The anticipation of what he would find at the beach beat at his imagination, and he quickly tempered it—he couldn’t be distracted by his own hopes or fears.

  He would deal with what he found when he found it—and if an opportunity to get closer to Isobel presented itself to him, he would take it.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the trail ended at the top of a bluff, and he heard a horse nicker nearby. Drawing his sword silently, he guided Diabhla off the trail and dismounted.

  Loosely tied to a branch on a scraggly tree, a mare stood with her ears pricked forward. She’d turned her head to watch Kerr and Diabhla approach. When he rubbed his hand up her nose and whispered soothingly in her ear, she leaned into his palm and huffed out a breath.

  Did the horse belong to Isobel or to someone else? He dropped Diabhla’s lead and softly commanded him to stay put, before approaching the edge of the bluff, crawling on his belly the last few feet.

  He squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the dark. Someone was crouched by the water where a small fishing boat with oars had been pulled onto the sand. The figure rose, and he almost whooped triumphantly.

  It appeared to be a woman—a tall woman—although it was difficult to get a sense of perspective from up here. Her hood was pulled over her head, so he couldn’t be certain, but deep down he knew it was her.

  She moved like Isobel. She held herself like Isobel. She had the shape of Isobel.

  And she seemed to be alone.

  He waited a few more minutes, watching her, trying to get a sense of her plan as she paced beside the boat. She looked often toward the bluff and the bottom of the trail that led to the beach, like she was waiting for someone.

  For him? Or her mysterious lover?

  She crouched down again and fiddled with something on the beach. Then she rose and shoved the vessel into the water while she remained on shore.

  What’s she doing?

  The boat glided out about fifteen feet and then stopped. She tugged on something next to a large rock—maybe the rope—like she was testing it.

  Aye, that was it exactly. The last thing she wanted was the boat to get away, especially with her on it. Isobel was fearless abou
t everything except being on the water.

  She must be planning to board the boat and then let it float out to sea like she was escaping. But without actually drifting away.

  That was the trick. She wanted to make him think she was eloping when she wasn’t.

  He sighed and scrubbed his hand through his beard. His fingers scraped through soft, trim strands instead of the thick scraggly mess he was expecting. He’d forgotten he’d asked one of the maids to thin and shape his beard before the cèilidh, as well as fix the uneven way Gregor had hacked off his hair after they’d taken the MacIntyre castle. The heavy mane was barely long enough now to tie back with a leather thong.

  Which he would do if he was going into battle—and this was battle.

  My toughest and most important one yet.

  He reached into his sporran, pulled out a tie, and secured his hair at the back of his neck. Then he returned to the horses and set Isobel’s mount free with a slap on the rump. The mare ran back in the direction of the castle. Someone would find her tomorrow.

  A plan was forming in his mind—one that would upset numerous people. But if it brought him closer to Isobel, it was worth it. Act now and apologize later had seen him through many complicated situations in his life.

  This was one of them.

  He ran his hand over Diabhla’s flank and found the waterproof leather pouches over the horse’s rump. After untethering them, he hung them around his neck. The rain wouldn’t soak through the leather, but a full dip in the loch would not keep the water out, and the essential goods he always carried would end up drenched.

  Grasping the reins, Kerr led the stallion away from the main trail Isobel expected him to ride down and toward the head of a steeper trail he knew emerged onto the beach closer to the boat. If she was watching the other bluff, it would also put him behind her.

  He might be able to surprise her, and she wouldn’t have as much time to make her escape.

  Not that he didn’t want her to. Aye, that would play right into his hands.

  At the trail’s head, he dropped the reins and whispered for Diabhla to halt. He didn’t want the horse to lose his footing and run him down, even though he was more likely to take a tumble in the dark. Over the years, Diabhla had proved that his senses were sharper than Kerr’s at night.

  He waited until Isobel turned away from him and paced in the opposite direction along the shore. Her steps on the loose rocks echoed loudly in the quiet of the night, making his ire rise all over again.

  She was alone, unprotected, when their enemies could be anywhere—anyone. And they were deadly.

  He maneuvered down the steep decline—knees bent, crouched over, hands grabbing rocks and shrubs to stop him falling. He reached the bottom as she turned around and saw him. She stopped in her tracks with a loud gasp as he straightened to his full height.

  “Isobel,” he said evenly, so she would know it was him and wouldn’t be frightened.

  She let out a squeak—a sound she would surely deny were he to remind her of it later—before lifting her skirts and dashing toward the boat. The exertion caused her hood to fall back and the bright strands of her hair to loosen behind her. Her long, quick gait ate up the distance.

  He could have beaten her there, but that wasn’t his intent. Nay, he wanted her on that boat.

  Striding toward her, he let out a sharp whistle for Diabhla. The stallion whickered in response before following Kerr down the trail, his hooves thumping on the dirt path and loosing rocks that slid noisily to the bottom. When he reached the beach, his iron shoes clipped rhythmically along the stony shore toward Kerr.

  Isobel shoved hard on the boat to push it into the loch, and then she scrambled on board, her skirts and leather shoes getting soaked in the process. Fierce triumph shone on her face in the moonlight as the skiff glided away from him.

  His heart expanded proudly, and a grin tilted up the corners of his mouth. That was his lass. She hadn’t trained in weapons, like Callum’s wife, Maggie, or self-defense, like Lachlan’s wife, Amber, yet she was still out here, executing her plan—successfully!

  She’d had to escape the castle, get him here alone while sending the others in another direction, and trick him into thinking she was eloping.

  “Well done, love,” he shouted as she used an oar to shove the boat out farther, causing the rope to stretch taut between them. Diabhla huffed in his ear behind him, almost as if he laughed at the two of them.

  “You canna stop me, Kerr MacAlister,” she said, standing to face him, her voice filled with glee. “I love another.”

  “I doona intend to stop you. I intend to join you.”

  “What?”

  Without missing a step, he reached behind his shoulder, pulled his big sword from the sheath that was strapped across his back, and in one swing, cut through the rope that anchored the little boat to shore.

  “Kerr, nay!” she yelled. He felt a moment’s guilt upon hearing the fear and panic in her voice as the boat floated untethered upon the water. Then he hardened his heart. He had to do this. For both their sakes.

  He stepped into the loch as he re-sheathed his sword, the icy cold soaking through his leathers and freezing his skin beneath his wool socks. The air had cooled, and the chill wasn’t pleasant—the days may still retain the warmth of summer, but at night, fall approached like a charging boar.

  Reaching behind him again, he grasped Diabhla’s lead and slid his hand to the end before tugging on it. The stallion followed without protest, his hooves splashing into the water.

  “What are you doing?” Isobel yelled as she tried to control the boat with the oar—and failed miserably.

  In his other hand, he grasped the rope floating nearby that had anchored the skiff to shore. He quickly knotted it to Diabhla’s lead and then let go. He stepped toward her, the water rising icily along his legs with every stride. “I canna have you leaving with another, Isobel—whether your intent to do so is true or not.”

  “You canna stop me. You doona own me, Laird MacAlister!”

  “Maybe not, but you sure as shite own me.”

  He grasped his pack from around his neck and tossed it toward the boat. It landed at Isobel’s feet, and she jumped in surprise, her arms flailing as the boat rocked. She tumbled backward and landed on her arse on the wooden bench behind her with a yelp.

  He pushed off with his feet and made it to the boat in a few long strokes, fear that she would fall in or toss his pack into the water fueling his speed.

  “Hold on,” he said, as he grasped the side and then hauled himself upward.

  She screeched again, curses filling the air this time as his weight caused the boat to almost tip over—or at least it felt that way. He pulled himself over the edge, and then grasped her arm as the keel straightened, so she didn’t fly off the other side and into the water. They had a long night ahead of them. He did not want her soaked too.

  Instead, she fell against his chest, causing him to tumble backward against the stern. He squeezed his arm tightly around her waist to steady both of them, and her breath puffed like hot, wet kisses against his neck…and despite the freezing swim he’d taken in the loch, his body stirred as warmth spread through him like wildfire.

  He grunted in response, and she raised her face to his—so stunning in the moonlight—her eyes filled with anger and fear, but also with excitement. And something else…desire.

  He raised his other hand and stroked back the bright stands of hair that had fallen across her cheek. “Good plan, love. It’s worked out beautifully.”

  Then he cupped the back of her head, lowered his mouth, and for the first time ever, pressed his lips to hers.

  Eleven

  The blood in Isobel’s veins pounded through her body and whooshed past her ears like a rising gale, blocking out all sound. She could barely think, barely breathe, as Kerr, his lips cool from his
swim yet still so soft, kissed her.

  He kissed her!

  Not tentatively, nay, there was no doubt he’d taken control, yet he didn’t shove his way in. Instead, he enticed her, seduced her with gentle, firm pressure that ebbed and flowed like waves, his tongue sliding—barely there—against the seam of her lips. A whisper of sensation exploded into an inferno and cascaded through her body.

  She gasped as heat and lust roared within her, causing her lips to part and her body to shudder. She cleaved to him, closer, tighter, her hands squeezing the sodden material of his linen shirt. She wanted to sink into the massive chest and abdomen beneath her, to sink onto the hard ridge at his pelvis.

  Aye, exactly like in her dreams. She wanted to be impaled by him.

  In every fantasy, every nighttime reverie she’d had about Kerr, even when she’d been too young to fully understand them, he had slowly taken her over.

  Taken her.

  His big hands guiding her, driving her to release. That other big part of him, the cock she’d heard others whisper about when they’d thought no one was listening, the one that was a constant source of ribbing, and possibly envy, between him and his foster brothers, pushing unerringly inside her body.

  God in heaven, she ached to be joined to him now.

  He groaned as she moved against him, and the vibration rumbled along her skin, setting the tips of her breasts and that heated, heaviness between her legs on fire. She moved again—undulating like an animal in heat—and he squeezed her waist, keeping her tightly in place against him. The other hand fisted in her hair, holding her still, as his tongue thrust into her mouth. He filled the sensitive cavern, rubbing like silk against her tongue and along the roof of her mouth. She thrust back—with her tongue and with that other greedy part of her—her knees opening to ride up alongside his hips.

  His mouth tore from hers with a groan, and his head tipped back as she jerked against him again, unable to stop herself—not that she wanted to. Nay, she felt a surge of power, even though she’d completely lost control. And the expression on his familiar face was contorted into one she’d never seen before—a grimace of pained desire.