Highland Thief Page 15

  “You have abducted me, Laird MacAlister. I am vulnerable. All women are vulnerable. And my nobility doesn’t protect me. Women of rank have less choice than many women of common birth. We may not starve, but we are traded at the whims of our fathers, our kings, sometimes even our husbands—abused by them, owned by them. You should understand this more than most.”

  His breath froze. She waited, holding her breath too. Finally, he said quietly, “You bring my mother into this, Izzy. Some would say that’s not a fair fight.” He turned her chin toward him, the tips of his fingers feeling like brands against her skin, and stared into her eyes. “I would ne’er abuse you, and you know that. But I’m fighting for something of great importance here. I’m fighting for us. And I willna be bought with your physical affection, although you can certainly keep trying.”

  He reached for the oars, forcing her to bend forward again, and then continued their journey. She missed his arms around her, and she closed her eyes to fight against the feeling, to contain it, but it felt too big for her skin.

  When she opened them, she peered into the dark night. She could barely make out the shore in front of her now and surmised they must be close to landing on the opposite side. She couldn’t believe how far they’d come in such a short time.

  Had she run out of options, then? Was she to be his prisoner on the mainland? She should try again. Perhaps she needed to be more explicit.

  “Not many men would turn down what I’m offering. I could not risk a bairn, of course, but surely there are acts other than tupping that you—”

  “Isobel,” he said tightly, sounding grim rather than enticed.

  Embarrassment flooded through her, but her anger soon followed. “What? ’Tis all right for you to say such things to me, but I canna say them to you?” She slung her words at him—like burning coals from a trebuchet. She wanted them to stick to him, burn down into his skin and set him on fire. “You can think of such things, dream of them, but I canna do the same? Think of what you’ll be missing, Laird MacAlister—my hands on you, stroking you. My mouth on you.” She hesitated before saying the last, hoping she had the right of it. “Sucking on you.”

  She’d heard the act described a few times, but she had a hard time imagining it.

  Apparently, she’d understood correctly for he exploded, “God’s blood, Isobel! Have you done these things already? To other men?”

  Her eyes widened, and she jumped when he dropped the oars with a loud thunk. His hands grasped her waist again and this time he lifted and turned her. She shrieked as the boat rocked, and she ended up facing him with her knees perched on the bench. She clutched his shoulders to balance herself.

  “Answer me!” he demanded.

  “Will you take me back if I do?”

  “Nay! ’Tis obvious to me, now, more than ever, that we have lost our way. Isobel, we are meant to be together.”

  “Then why did my mother demand, on her deathbed, that Gavin give me the choice of whom to marry? Why did she refuse him the right to pass me over to you?”

  “Because she loved you. And you should have that right. All women should.”

  “Yet you’re taking it away from me.”

  “Nay, I’m not. We need time together. I’ll row you back to Clan MacKinnon if you agree to come with me to Clan MacAlister so we can spend time together, so we can rebuild the trust between us that has somehow been broken. Stay with me over the winter, and if I havenae changed your mind by then, I’ll take you back and ne’er bother you again.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and rested their foreheads together. “Please, Izzy. Come with me.”

  The intensity and sincerity in his voice struck a chord in her heart, and she felt a “yes” rising in her chest. She wanted to please him. She wanted to cleave to him, to tilt her head the smallest amount and touch her lips to his, but then she heard a strange crunching sound, breaking the spell he’d cast over her, and the boat slowed and came to a halt.

  Lifting her gaze over his shoulder, she saw that they’d landed on a pebbled shore. A splash caught her attention, and this time when she looked, she could see Diabhla rising from the water, outlined against the sky by the moonlight.

  Relief shot through her to be back on land, even if it wasn’t her clan’s land, and nothing could stop her from getting off that boat.

  She turned her gaze back to Kerr, felt his fingers tighten in her hair as the boat gently swayed against the beach. The urge to smile, to laugh, bubbled up in her throat, and she realized that for all their fighting and the nerve-wracking trip across the loch, she was enjoying herself.

  Aye, she was sparring with Kerr, pitting her wits against his, and while he may have won their last two battles, no way would he win this one.

  She grasped his wrists and pulled them down so he no longer held her head, and then straightened. The anticipation hung between them as she let him wait—let him wonder—before finally pursing her lips in a queenly manner. “’Tis too late, Kerr MacAlister. We have already arrived.”

  Twelve

  Kerr grasped the end of Diabhla’s lead in one hand, his sword in the other, and heaved a frustrated sigh as he trailed behind Isobel through the woods. He couldn’t see her anymore—he’d deliberately fallen back out of sight in a failed attempt to bring her to heel—but he could still hear her as she cursed and stomped through the underbrush like an angry boar.

  Occasionally, she shouted a barbed insult at him which usually involved more cursing and a fair amount of name-calling. He would have felt guilty about putting her in this situation except he could tell by the tone of her voice and the feistiness of her insults that deep down she was relishing their adventure. Only his Isobel would consider a morning of wandering aimlessly through the forest, besieged by mud, sharp twigs, and insects, in another laird’s territory—after she’d been kidnapped—a fine way to spend the day.

  Although she would never tell him that. Quite the opposite.

  Aye, if she were truly unhappy, she would be poking his chest in furious condemnation and yelling at him. The difference was subtle, and maybe other people wouldn’t see it, but to him it was obvious.

  She was enjoying their game—except Kerr wasn’t playing.

  Last night, she’d stayed with him after he’d found them shelter and built a fire to keep them warm. He’d wanted to hold her as they slept, sharing their body warmth and his spare plaid while their others dried near the fire, but she’d kept her distance—and he’d insisted she keep his plaid.

  But when he’d woken briefly, as light began to creep over the horizon, he discovered she’d moved a little closer and had stretched out the plaid in the night to cover them both, giving him hope for their future. The second time he’d awoken, he’d been fully covered and she’d been pinning her now-dry arisaid in place—and then refused to wait for him as he strode out to a point to get his bearings. He was pretty sure a hunting cabin he’d been to as a young man was only a few hours’ ride away. He would have liked to take her there, but she refused to follow him in the direction he wanted to go.

  Instead, she’d turned the opposite way. When the trail she’d been following petered out, she forged her own path through the woods—without any kind of sword or dagger to clear the way.

  He’d tried to reason with her, to cajole her into cooperating, but she wouldn’t be swayed. He’d even tried to intimidate her with a pointed glare and growl in his voice that would have frozen the most seasoned warrior in his tracks. But not Isobel…nay, she just kept walking away from him with no purpose in mind other than to do the opposite of whatever he wanted.

  And part of him rejoiced at that. Aye, he’d worried that the bond between them had been broken over the years, but he could see now that Isobel trusted him completely with her well-being. She was not afraid to stand up to him or disregard his wishes, and it was obvious she had no fear that he would abandon her, no matter how much
she pushed him away. Even when she couldn’t see or hear him trailing behind her through the woods, she still believed he was there…that he would never leave her. Otherwise, what was the point of all the insults?

  “God save us!” she exclaimed from the other side of the bramble bush he’d been walking quietly beside. “’Tis your changeling I’m looking at, Laird MacAlister. A knotted, wicked-looking stump that could be your brother—with your wooden heart too.”

  He squinted at the bramble bush between them, but he couldn’t see her…or his stumpy likeness. A clever retort sat on the tip of his tongue, but he would not reveal himself to her until she called out for him.

  If he did, his only option would be to follow docilely behind her or lift her up in front of him on Diabhla and ride away. But that was a last resort. To do so was far more of a betrayal than stealing away with her on the loch.

  She’d put herself on the boat, even when she couldn’t swim. She’d trapped herself. Forcing her to ride away with him would be using his strength against her.

  Besides, he’d gotten what he wanted—time alone with Isobel away from her castle and clan. He would wait her out. She’d need him soon enough. Her stubbornness was no match for her being tired, cold, and hungry.

  “Did you hear me, Kerr? I said—”

  She stopped talking in midsentence, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He listened intently, his sword ready to hack through the bushes in one slice to get to her.

  Her steps had also stopped, but he could hear nothing else alarming. Was she toying with him, seeing if he would reveal himself? Or was someone else there? Or something?

  To hell with his plan. He dropped Diabhla’s lead and brought his great claymore down on the brambles in front of him, just as Isobel screamed—a real scream. He leapt through the gap, the prickles scratching at his plaid, but he didn’t see her.

  There! The bottom of her skirts, almost camouflaged by the underbrush, poked out from behind the trunk of a large Scots pine. He raced to her in several strides, faster than he’d ever run before. The dead leaves and twigs scattered under his feet. More of her became visible as he drew near. Her plaid was open, the hood hanging down her back and her hair loosely braided over one shoulder. Her hand covered her mouth while the other gripped the tree beside her.

  Grasping her arm, he pulled her behind him and scanned the small clearing in front of them for danger—his sword raised and his weight balanced perfectly on his feet. A man about Kerr’s age sat in front of a small fire, eating his meal of what looked like roasted rabbit. A huge battle axe—as big as Kerr had ever seen—rested beside him against a fallen log.

  He was as dark as a MacAlister but for his eyes, which even from this distance Kerr could see were a bright blue. And even though he was sitting down, the man was obviously larger than him, which was surprising because Kerr had outgrown the biggest man he’d ever met—Gregor—by the time he was sixteen years old.

  A veritable giant, the stranger looked as unconcerned to see a hardened and skilled warrior raise his sword to him as he might if a cook in the MacKinnon kitchens had swung a carrot with deadly purpose.

  “Kerr,” Isobel squeaked from behind his shoulder. “The wolf!”

  The gigantic man glanced behind the log to where a patch of sunlight shone through the trees. Kerr followed his gaze, and his eyes widened at seeing the tip of a gray tail poking out from behind one end of the log and the tops of two soft-looking white ears poking out from the other end. A wolf, indeed. And a large one, if the length from tip to tail was any indication.

  “She sleeps,” the man said, reaching behind the log to pat what apparently was a monster wolf. “She brought me one rabbit and ate the remaining five. She’s mad at me.”

  The man spoke with an unusual accent, which sounded like it had a Norse influence. A sell-sword, perhaps? His clothing was not typical of a Scot—he wore leather braies and a fur vest, with golden arm bands around massive biceps. Light glinted off a gold pendant that rested in the hollow of his throat.

  His dark hair hung to his waist, braided at the sides and tied back—neat and clean without the tangles or mats common for a lone male traveler. His clothing was neat and clean too, with signs of repair rather than thread worn and ripped.

  Kerr lowered his sword to waist-level and scanned the glen. When he saw no sign of other men, or worse, other wolves, he returned his gaze to the stranger, who now gnawed on a bone.

  The man dropped his hand to his leg and grunted in frustration. “She gave me the skinniest one, too, greedy female.” He tossed the small bone over the log and a soft growl emerged from behind it, the ears twitching.

  Isobel pressed closer to Kerr’s back, her hands clenching his waist and her body shuddering. It felt good to have her leaning on him—both physically and emotionally—and for a moment, he considered what he could say or do to make her press even closer. The man grinned at Kerr, revealing straight, well-cared-for teeth, and Kerr was suddenly reminded of his foster brothers—especially when the stranger lifted a brow and tossed another bone at the wolf, who growled again and then yawned. She emitted a funny little squeak at the end of the yawn, and sat up on her elbows to stare at them over the log.

  A chill ran down Kerr’s spine when he saw the she-wolf, yet at the same time he couldn’t help admiring her beauty, even with blood still crusted on her white muzzle. The light-gray markings around her blue eyes were perfectly symmetrical, and her ears looked soft enough to touch. Her head, however, was so large that Kerr worried about the size of her body. If she attacked, would he be able to stop her?

  Behind him Diabhla let out an agitated huff. Kerr was glad to have the big stallion at his back, but at the same time, he worried about him. Would the wolf try to take him down?

  “A magnificent creature,” the other man said, referring to Diabhla. “He is safe. You are all safe. We do not hunt humans or working animals.”

  When the wolf flopped back down out of sight, Kerr slowly lowered his weapon. “Where are you from, outlander? I canna place your accent, although it has certain peculiarities of Norse travelers I have met.”

  “My mother was born in that place, but I was raised farther south on the mainland. I travelled to Orkney several years ago, and I’ve slowly been making my way south to Cambria. I like the legends I’ve heard about that land—of kings, wizards, and magical swords.”

  Isobel relaxed her grip on his waist, and he knew she was listening, her curiosity piqued. He hadn’t known she was so frightened of wolves, but he suspected that she had seen the animal before it lay down—and it was indeed a giant.

  “And how did you meet your travelling companion? Did you raise her as a pup?” He’d heard of a few other men, loners mostly, who had taken in wolf pups and lived with them like they were dogs. “Is she your pet?”

  The traveler barked out a laugh. The sound boomed across the glen, and Kerr actually felt it vibrate through his body.

  “Já, she’s my pet. She comes when I call her and chases her tail when I command it!” He patted the wolf behind the log again—loud whacks with the flat of his hand. “Sit up, puppy! Roll over, puppy!”

  “Not so rough! You’ll hurt her,” Isobel commanded, sounding like herself again. Kerr doubted she was right; the wolf had several layers of thick fur over bone and muscle. Still, he couldn’t help smiling at the tone of her voice as she spoke to this giant, dangerous-looking Norseman.

  The wolf sat up again, a blur of movement, and clenched the man’s hand in her jaws. Just as quickly, the man grabbed her head behind her ears with his other hand and they tussled for a moment before the man leaned over and kissed the wolf’s forehead. His fingers dug into the side of her neck and kneaded deeply. The wolf released the man’s hand, closed her eyes with a groan and leaned into his fingers.

  After one final scratch, the man let go and straightened in his seat. The wolf shook her head and r
ested her chin on the log, this time watching them with ice-blue eyes.

  The man stood, rising about a half foot taller than Kerr, and bowed his head in greeting. “I am Eirik Kron. Come, sit with us.” He waved them toward the fire, and then tossed the remains of the rabbit from the spit to the wolf. She caught the carcass in her mouth and crunched down. “We have guests, Siv, and little to feed them. Bring back more rabbits, and don’t eat them all this time.”

  The she-wolf’s name was Siv? It sounded familiar to him—like he’d read it during his youth at Gregor’s keep. Master MacBean, their tutor, had made him and his foster brothers study Norse mythology as well as other tales and legends. He was certain Siv was someone’s wife. Or Sif, maybe.

  “What a bonnie name,” Isobel said, stepping out from behind him. She hesitated for a moment before walking toward the giant man and his pet wolf. Kerr switched his weapon to his other hand, so his sword arm was on the opposite side of Isobel, and then stayed half a step ahead of her.

  “’Twas Thor’s wife’s name, correct?” Isobel asked.

  “Já.” A pleased smile crossed Eirik’s face. He stepped toward the edge of the glen, and with one hand, he lifted a huge log from the brush, dragged it to the fire as if it weighed no more than a spindly branch, and laid it down for them to sit upon. “You’ve read the stories, then?” he asked, brushing off the dirt and removing any twigs that stuck up from the bark. “Siv is a common name for females among my people.”

  “Aye,” Isobel said excitedly. “I read the Poetic Edda over and over when I was younger—it is a much cherished addition to our library. My ancestors are Norse. ’Tis said my grandfather, many generations back, crossed the sea and conquered this land. The story goes that his wife, Hilde, was a Shield Maiden who fought by his side. They named their first daughter Siv.”