Highland Thief Page 8

  He was more like Callum, his body leaner but still muscular, his movements quick and decisive. Still, there was something about him that reminded her of Kerr. Was it the inky darkness of his hair?

  She moved a little closer, intrigued, and then froze in place when he met her gaze. And that’s where the similarities to Kerr ended.

  This man’s eyes were a bright blue, and his face, although strong and handsome, didn’t hold the power of Kerr’s face. She supposed many women would find him attractive, very attractive, but that flutter in her chest when she’d thought he was Kerr had died.

  She would have turned away, gone on with her business—a new plan to trick Kerr was already forming in her mind—but the stranger never took his gaze from her…which was unusual. When first meeting her, most men either dropped their eyes in deference or seemed to lose their ability to think and speak.

  This man had barely reacted, other than a slight widening of his eyes.

  It was…surprising.

  The horse nickered and then nudged him, and the stranger rubbed his hand up and down his mount’s nose, all while staring at Isobel.

  She cocked a brow at him, and suddenly he smiled. Twin dimples creased his cheeks, making him even more handsome. More a rogue.

  “You must be Lady Isobel,” he said.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me, it is.”

  He still hadn’t dropped her gaze, and she found herself tilting her head in curiosity. Where would he take this conversation?

  Surely he wouldn’t flirt with her. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. She was a laird’s daughter, a laird’s sister, and born to be a laird’s wife, although that was debatable. Men outside of her station, almost all men, it seemed, thought of her as untouchable—because of Kerr and Gavin, but also because of her.

  Her reputation for justice preceded her. Her power and wealth preceded her. Her physical appearance preceded her—the Beauty of the Highlands. It wasn’t that her clan didn’t love her—they did, and she certainly loved them—but she had no doubt many people were a wee bit intimidated by her.

  Yet this man hadn’t looked away. It was almost as if he challenged her. She found herself stepping closer.

  And then he ruined it by musing, “As I looked upon thee, I saw a Great Highland Beauty.”

  Isobel almost rolled her eyes. If this was flirting, she hadn’t missed much.

  Words flew from her mouth—words that Kerr would have batted back to her. “Nay, sir. I’m sorry to say you’re confused. The Great Highland Beauty is the other lass—the red-headed healer from Clan MacKay. Or perhaps you meant the black-haired beauty married to my brother? We doona have a name for her yet, but we’re taking suggestions. I’m the Beauty of the Highlands.”

  His brow crinkled. “I’ve only heard the song once, and I could have sworn the minstrel said Great Highland Beauty.”

  “Only once? Oh dear, my popularity must be waning.”

  He blinked at her. Several times. She barely restrained her smile.

  “Perhaps I can write you another one and revive it,” he suggested.

  “What a lovely idea, but you might name me the Lovely Lass of Loch Linnhe and confuse the matter further.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. Still, he gave her a small bow. “I am but the vessel, my lady. My muse takes me where she wills.”

  “Are you so easily led, then?”

  “By you? Aye.”

  She bit her lip to stop from laughing. She couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. It seemed Kerr had ruined her for conversation with other men.

  “Your name, sir? You doona belong to my clan. Are you a MacAlister, perhaps?”

  His head snapped back, and his dimples disappeared. “Nay. I’m Branon Campbell of Clan Campbell. Cousin to Laird Campbell.”

  She raised her brow. “I meant no offense. ’Tis only that you remind me of a MacAlister I know.”

  “None taken, of course.” He smiled again, but this time it didn’t meet his eyes. He looked away from her and moved to his saddle bag, which was strapped to his mount’s hindquarters. He opened one of them and rummaged inside.

  She watched him closely, wondering why he was here. He was a braw, well-spoken man, and it took a certain amount of confidence to speak to her in such a forward, familiar manner.

  She stepped to the side of his horse and ran her hand down its warm neck, the fur soft and smooth beneath her fingers. “What brings you to Clan MacKinnon, Branon Campbell?”

  “I have some business with your blacksmith.”

  “He’s a fine craftsman. Are you buying weapons from him?”

  “Five claymores for Laird Campbell. The MacKinnon blacksmith has an attention to detail that our blacksmith does not, although his swords are just as sharp, strong, and well-balanced.”

  “And as deadly,” she said.

  “Aye. You doona need a fancy sword to kill a man.” His eyes met hers. “Or a woman.”

  Her hand stilled on his horse. Was that a threat? She sharpened her gaze on him and looked for any telltale signs of anger, but his expression was pleasant, his tone agreeable.

  Which was worrying, if indeed he was upset.

  What did she know about the Campbells? The obvious, of course—they were a large, strong clan who had warred with many other clans in the past. Their laird, Camran Campbell, was old enough to be Gregor’s father, and he was considered a man of great cunning and intelligence, but also a careful man. She’d once heard her father describe him as having the patience of Job.

  “Does my brother, Laird MacKinnon, know you’re here?” she asked.

  “I assume his men reported my arrival. Not much seems to happen in the clan without his knowledge.”

  “True. You canna get anything past him and his allies.”

  For some reason, she wanted him to believe the MacKinnons were invincible, but after the near-fatal attack last spring, she knew that to be a fallacy. Every clan could be infiltrated. Every castle could be invaded. Every laird could be struck down.

  She thought back on the papers she’d sifted through in her brother’s solar. In particular, the parchments she’d studied from Callum’s wife, Maggie—cobbled together from when she’d spied on her black-hearted cousin—and the notes that Gavin, Kerr, and the other lairds had added to it.

  Nothing about the Campbells had come up in Maggie’s report. The lairds had discussed whether that made them more or less suspicious.

  She’d always thought it made them more suspicious, but she had a conniving mind.

  “Sir!” a voice called from the direction of the stable.

  She looked over to see a skinny, pimply-faced groomsman hurrying toward them. Behind him, her guard, Lyle, faded into the shadows of the stable. He must have sent the groom over to break up her conversation with Branon Campbell.

  She repressed an irritated sigh. God save her from overprotective men.

  “May I help you?” the groom asked Campbell.

  “I have business with the blacksmith on the morrow,” he replied. “I need to stable my horse.”

  “Aye, we have room.” The lad grasped the reins and shot Isobel a nervous look. Her clan knew she did not like to be handled.

  “Eachann,” she greeted him.

  “My lady,” he stammered. Then he grabbed Campbell’s shirt sleeve and tugged him toward the stable, the horse trailing behind.

  Branon glanced at her over his shoulder and nodded. She nodded back, not bothering with a smile this time.

  The man may be tall and braw, and most women probably found him charming and intelligent, but to her, he wasn’t tall enough or broad enough. And he definitely wasn’t annoying enough—and that fact left her both cold and hot at the same time.

  Especially when that ever-present annoying voice growled at her from behind. �
�Who was that?” Followed by Kerr’s warm, heavy hand landing possessively on her shoulder.

  Seven

  Isobel stiffened beneath his hand, and Kerr knew he’d made a mistake. But right now, he didn’t care.

  A dark possessiveness had overtaken him when he’d seen her with that man, and it didn’t matter if it was an innocent exchange, he’d been pushed by a primitive instinct to protect and claim his mate.

  Marching in long, hard strides across the bailey, he’d arrived just as the man turned and walked into the stables.

  Kerr wanted his head…almost as much as he wanted Isobel’s heart.

  And he couldn’t have either…yet.

  Slowly, she turned toward him, looking every inch the queen—her eyes narrowed, her back straight, her chin high—and he braced himself for a meteor shower of sharp, cutting words she would surely rain down upon him for his overprotective, possessive behavior.

  Instead, she opened her mouth and said, “Mooooo.” Like a cow. A really good impression of a cow.

  The surprise was enough to bring him back to himself, and his dark side, that he worried was like his father, receded back to where it had come from.

  “What was that?” he asked. He furrowed his brow, but he was pretty sure he knew where she was going with this, and he didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling that rose within him one bit—guilt, chagrin.

  “Mooooo,” she said again.

  “All right, Isobel. I understand. You doona need to rub it in.”

  “Mooooo,” she repeated.

  He sighed in frustration and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. Trying to figure out what to say—how to get out of this.

  “You’re making a point. You’re a woman, not a cow, and I doona own you, but—”

  “Mooooo!”

  He planted his hands on his hips and glared at her, but he could see in her eyes she was enjoying herself, and a laugh built up in his chest. Well…if she was his cow, and he was her owner, then she needed branding.

  He stepped in close and cupped her cheeks, holding her head lightly in place before leaning in for a kiss.

  She jumped back as their mouths touched, and he had a fleeting impression of softness and warmth. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

  “Sorcery!” he yelled, placing a hand over his heart. “A talking cow!”

  She had no trouble sustaining her glare. “You doona own me, Kerr MacAlister. I may speak to whomever I please or do whatever I please. Especially in my own home! I am not your wife, your betrothed, or even a member of your family. If I need protection, I have a guard, my brother, my clan. I doona need you.”

  He winced. “I liked you better when you were a cow. Your soft, sweet mooing didnae hurt my ears so much.”

  “I’ll hurt your ears plenty if you doona get it through your thick primitive skull that I am not yours.”

  The words hurt, especially as he knew she was right—for now, at least. He tried to look conciliatory as he raised his hand and brushed his palm down the outside of her arm. “But you could be. If you wanted to.” He grasped the tips of her fingers between his. “Isobel—”

  She let out an exasperated sigh, yanked her hand away, and marched past him toward the keep, her guard moving with her. They blended into their surroundings and looked like regular castle folk.

  He turned to watch her go, so tall and slender in her green and red arisaid, her neat pleats from before a little askew. He reminded himself she’d only been talking to that man. Kerr was the one who’d messed up her pleats earlier. And she’d liked it.

  He smiled slowly. And she’d liked their discussion just then. Aye, he’d seen the way her eyes had lit up in excitement as she mooed at him. Even when she was yelling at him, she’d been excited.

  And she’d been more than excited when she’d lain on top of him in the woods earlier, when she’d pushed herself upward and sat with her knees on either side of his hips.

  He sighed and rubbed his hand over his chest, the feeling there expanding until it felt like it pushed against his ribcage.

  Isobel MacKinnon likes me.

  She climbed the stairs, and when she reached the top and pulled open the door to the Great Hall, she finally glanced back at him.

  He lifted his hand and waved. “Until later, dearling!”

  He could imagine the huffing sound she’d most likely made, and he grinned—until she pointed toward the portcullis and yelled, “Two days!”

  Then she turned and entered the keep, letting the door slam shut behind her.

  His stomach churned. What exactly had she meant by that? Was she telling him he had to leave in two days?

  God’s blood! Why didn’t I just walk into the pit of manure and make her happy?

  A whistle caught his attention, and he spun back toward the stable to see Lyle standing at the doors, signaling for Kerr to come quickly but cautiously. Then he disappeared inside.

  Kerr growled and stalked forward. He knew that man Isobel had been talking to was no good. Lyle wouldn’t have signaled him without reason.

  He paused inside the doors and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Lyle stood about halfway down the aisle between the stalls. The man who’d been talking to Isobel stood at the door to a stall on the opposite side between them—and he was ready for an attack.

  He didn’t hold his sword, it was still in the leather sheath on his hip, but Kerr noted the slight widening of his stance, the subtle angling of his body, and how he balanced on his feet to enable sudden movement. He held his hands loosely by his sides, so he was ready to grip his sword and pull it out if either Kerr or Lyle came at him.

  The blackheart knew how to fight, and Kerr suspected he would fight dirty. Which suited him just fine.

  Kerr leaned against the doorjamb almost lazily, but inside, anger and suspicion raged. More so knowing that this man—this stranger—had been near his Isobel, possibly putting her in danger.

  His gaze never left the stranger’s face, which remained expressionless. But that revealed as much to Kerr as if he’d looked panicked or fearful. The man was no stranger to conflict and believed in his ability to hold his own against two hardened warriors—especially one of Kerr’s size and renowned caliber.

  Kerr pulled his knife from his belt, reached for an apple that sat in a bucket on a shelf next to him, and proceeded to peel it.

  “Lyle,” he said, nodding.

  “Laird MacAlister,” Lyle replied.

  Kerr sliced off a piece of the fruit and put it in his mouth. “Is there a problem?” he asked between chews.

  “Could be. I was just asking our visitor why he’d threatened Lady Isobel.”

  Kerr straightened from the doorjamb, all pretense of being relaxed gone. He eyed the stranger with deadly intent.

  “’Tis not true,” the man said, his eyes darting from one to the other. “I did no such thing.”

  But Kerr knew that Lyle was seldom wrong in his analysis of situations, and he had an advantage over most men—he could read lips, and he understood body language better even than Gregor. He’d been born partially deaf and had honed that ability in order to “hear” as best he could.

  “Tell me,” Kerr said, his voice flat and hard.

  “He was intent on our lady, too intent, and when he didnae like how she responded, he said the swords he was here to buy would be able to kill a man…and a woman. His implication was clear—to me and to her.”

  The stranger’s eyes widened with surprise, and his gaze darted to Lyle, the first uncontrolled reaction Kerr had seen from him, telling Kerr that Lyle’s interpretation had been correct.

  In that instant, Kerr leapt toward the blackheart, grabbing a long, heavy wooden hoe that leaned against the wall, and smashed the handle down on the man’s wrist as he tried to pull his sword from the leather sheath.

  The man
grunted in pain as his sword clattered to the ground. But he didn’t cry out as most men would have done, and instead moved to grab Kerr’s sword with his other hand, proving he was a highly trained warrior and a dangerous man.

  But Kerr was bigger and stronger and even more dangerous, more deadly with the MacAlister rage—his father’s rage—burning behind his eyes. He forced the stranger backward into the stall and pinned him against the wall. The horse neighed in alarm, and Lyle smacked its rump to get it out of the way.

  “Who are you?” Kerr growled, nose to nose with the stranger. He’d pressed his knife to the blackheart’s throat and leaned his body heavily against him so he couldn’t move. Lyle stood close beside him, ready to help if needed, but he knew better than to interfere.

  Kerr would take care of the man himself for daring to threaten Isobel.

  “Branon Campbell,” the man finally wheezed, after he stopped struggling.

  “He said he’s Laird Campbell’s cousin,” Lyle added.

  Kerr eyed the man’s face. Something about him looked familiar, but he was certain he’d never seen him before. “I’m acquainted with Laird Campbell, and I know many of his cousins. I doona recognize you.”

  It was possible the man had lied to impress Isobel. The thought almost made Kerr smile. Campbell could have said he was a king and Isobel wouldn’t have been impressed.

  “I’m a bastard. My mother was Laird Campbell’s cousin. I was raised in a small keep on the edge of the eastern border.”

  “And now you’re close to the laird?”

  “Nay, not close, but…I do what he asks of me.”

  “And what did he ask you to do here?”

  “To pick up some swords from the blacksmith. Fancy ones. That’s all, I swear.” His gaze turned pleading. “Please… Talking to Lady Isobel was a mistake. But I’d heard the songs sung about her, and I was curious. I’m used to…”

  “Having your way with women?” Kerr asked through gritted teeth, ready to slice the man’s throat.

  “Not in that way, I promise! Women like me. They always have. I’ve…known several highborn ladies.”