Highland Thief Page 9

  He was a braw man and probably charming when he wanted to be. All good qualities in a spy. “And yet you threatened Lady Isobel?”

  “It wasn’t a threat. Not really. I was vexed by her attitude toward me, and I let my annoyance get the better of me. I didnae come here to harm anyone.”

  The words rang with truth, but it didn’t mean the man wasn’t here for nefarious reasons. Most likely the swords were his cover.

  Could it be that Laird Campbell was the head of the conspiracy against Kerr and his allies? The Campbells had always been on the list of clans who had the power and means to provide the money for it.

  Looking into Branon Campbell would be a good place to start their investigation.

  “Where were you last spring? My foster brother and laird of this clan, Gavin MacKinnon, was injured during a failed attempt to kill him and his allies. Gavin was fortunate to recover. He canna remember many details of the attack except this…the leader of our enemy had hair as dark as mine.”

  Branon’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that because my hair is dark, I must be this man? If I were, I’d be an idiot to come back here.”

  “I agree.”

  Footsteps sounded behind him, and Branon darted his eyes over Kerr’s shoulder. A soft whistle told Kerr it was his foster brothers and Gregor, alerted by Lyle’s men, no doubt.

  Kerr tightened his hold, and Branon brought his gaze back to him…and this time he looked worried.

  “I asked you a question,” Kerr said.

  Branon licked his lips. “I wasn’t anywhere near Clan MacKinnon when the attack happened. I was in Edinburgh all winter. I ne’er returned to the Highlands until last month. Several high-ranking people—including members of the clergy—can vouch for me.”

  Good to know. They could send their own spies to verify the information and find out what this man had been doing in Edinburgh.

  ’Twas significant that Branon Campbell had so far remained unknown to them. Kerr suspected he might be one of Campbell’s most valuable assets. A man that well-trained was trained for a reason.

  The question was what to do with him now—interrogate him further and see if they could break him, or set him free and follow him? He would assume he was being followed, of course, but Kerr suspected interrogation would not yield the results they wanted. Worse, they might be given false information and end up farther away from the truth than before.

  “Gregor?” he asked, knowing his foster father would understand—they were at a crossroads.

  “’Tis your call, lad,” Gregor said.

  He took a moment to decide, and then chose his words carefully. “Branon Campbell said he’s here to collect some swords for Laird Campbell. Bring the blacksmith here to verify his story. Apparently, the laird appreciates his artistry as much as we do. A good artisan is hard to come by.”

  Artisan was a code word, and someone left the stable immediately to bring back the blacksmith…but also someone else.

  Years ago, Gregor had woven a web of spies throughout the other clans that Kerr and his foster brothers had since added to. They’d also sent an artist into the clans to draw people’s faces—the laird’s family, important warriors and advisors, possible spies. The artist, Alec, could see a person one time and create his or her exact likeness.

  Before they let Branon Campbell go, his face would be recorded, and then they’d distribute the drawing to their web of informants. Branon’s days of living in the shadows were over.

  “Is this the kind of peace and protection the great Gregor MacLeod and his sons bring to the Highlands?” Branon asked indignantly. “I meant Lady Isobel no harm. Maybe I flirted a wee bit, but certainly not enough to bring death and destruction to all our clans. Laird Campbell will not take kindly to me being abused.”

  So, he’d decided to try and bluff his way out of his predicament. Kerr would play along. Maybe that would alleviate the man’s suspicions when he was finally released.

  “We only protect the innocent…and punish the offenders. I willna hesitate to beat—and kill—any man who threatens what is mine to protect.”

  “No one is killing anyone,” Gregor said, sounding a little irritated.

  “Aye. You need to be certain,” Darach said. “I canna afford another war at this time. I wouldnae have Caitlin worried unnecessarily with our wee bairn arriving so soon.”

  “Same. Maggie needs me at home. I doona want to leave again, if ’tis only a misunderstanding. We know how you feel about Isobel, Kerr. Is it possible you overreacted?” Callum asked.

  “Nay. Lyle confirmed it.” He would play the stubborn accuser who was won over by his brothers’ and Gregor’s reason.

  “Lyle’s made mistakes in the past,” Lachlan said.

  “Not this time. I saw it in the blackheart’s eyes.”

  “’Tis not unusual, surely, for men to be interested in Lady Isobel,” Branon reasoned. “Do you attack and interrogate all of them? Threaten to kill them? And the guard was nowhere near us when I spoke to your lady. No matter what tricks he used, he surely couldnae have discerned my words.”

  Footsteps sounded behind him as more people entered the stable. “Kerr,” Gavin said, moving to the front to stand beside him. His blond hair was mussed, and his plaid looked like it had been hastily thrown on. If the situation weren’t so serious, Kerr would have grinned at Gavin’s bad fortune—finally he was back with his wife, but duty and family kept interrupting their reunion. “The blacksmith is here. Let Branon Campbell go so we can ask him our questions.”

  Kerr met Branon’s eyes. The man was too highly skilled to give anything more away, but that didn’t matter; the interrogation was a ruse intended to give Alec time to study the blackheart.

  Kerr released him. “Come forward, Bruce,” he said as he turned his head to look for the blacksmith. In the back, shrouded in shadows, he spotted Alec, avidly taking in every detail of Branon Campbell’s face.

  Bruce stepped up beside Kerr. “Aye, laird?”

  “Do you recognize this man? He says his name is Branon Campbell and he’s here to buy swords from you.”

  “I’ve ne’er seen him before, but I am expecting a man by that name. He’s to buy five of my swords for his laird—the fancy ones. Has he done something wrong?”

  “Aye, he threatened Lady Isobel.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  But Bruce knew better than to doubt Kerr, and he scowled at Branon. “The blackheart! He’ll have no swords from me.”

  “I believe your telling is true, Kerr…” Gavin said, holding up his hand as Callum and Darach protested, “…but I willna risk war at this time. We’ve been besieged from all sides. Clan MacKinnon, all of our clans, needs time to rest and regroup. I’m sure Isobel would understand.”

  He walked forward and stared into Campbell’s eyes. “If my family have no more questions for you, you may go—immediately and without your swords—but doona return to my land. Ever. Else you’ll lose your head.”

  Gavin turned and left the stable. Then a whistle sounded outside. The message to the warriors was clear—be vigilant.

  Word would spread. They had an enemy in their midst.

  Kerr stepped back and let Branon Campbell walk away.

  Eight

  Kerr took the stairs two at a time up toward the highest turret in Castle MacKinnon. The lairds had regrouped in Gavin’s solar after the interrogation, and they’d all agreed that Branon Campbell was most likely a spy, putting Laird Campbell at the top of the list for who led the conspiracy against them—or at least provided the men and the gold for it.

  Gavin remained adamant that the man who’d led the attack against him last spring, the tall one with the long black hair, was the leader. If Laird Campbell was involved, and it made sense that he was, the other man was still the driving force behind the attacks.

  But Gavin had also said
that Branon Campbell seemed…familiar. Kerr had had the same feeling, and his gut was telling him Branon was more than just a pawn or a soldier.

  They’d released him only after Alec had finished his first few drawings and their trackers had been set in place. He had no doubt they would lose Branon at one point, but now that they knew his face, they would find him again.

  He paused on the landing at the top of the stairs and placed his candle next to another lit one in a wall sconce—a clear indication that someone, most likely Isobel, was outside. This was a favorite spot of hers when she wanted to be alone.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t disturb her. He hesitated and looked back down the stairs. If she hadn’t ordered him out of her home in two days’ time, he would be able to continue their courtship at a slower pace. But even with the progress he’d made with her today—touching her intimately for the first time—he didn’t think he could convince her to marry him so soon.

  Every moment had to count.

  He reached into his sporran for a leather tie and secured his hair at the back of his neck. He knew from experience that the wind blew harder up here than down below, no matter what time of day or year. When he was done, he braced his hand on the heavy wooden door, pushed it open, and stepped outside into the cool, gusty breeze.

  The turret was only about four paces square, and in the distance, Kerr could see the half-built cathedral, the village, and the forest beyond. The loch snaked down one side of the village.

  Isobel sat on the stone floor with her plaid covering her head, her back against the castle wall, and her legs stretched out in front of her toward the battlements.

  She did not look up at him when he came out.

  He eased the door closed so the wind wouldn’t bang it shut, and then slid down the wall perpendicular to her.

  The battlements blocked some of the wind from blowing down this low, but it was still cool, and the occasional gust caught his plaid and tried to rip it from his body. Kerr did as she did and tucked the material around his knees and over his head.

  He stretched out his legs so their feet almost touched. When she pulled her heels up toward her arse and tucked her skirts in around her knees, his gut tightened.

  She would not make this easy for him.

  “I remember you coming up here often when you were younger, especially after your father died,” he said.

  Her fingers, which had been restlessly plucking at her plaid, stilled. “Aye. ’Tis a good place to grieve. No one can hear you if you cry out your heart to the wind.”

  He nodded. “’Tis what Gavin did when Ewan went missing.”

  Sadness transformed her face, despite the fact that her nephew had been recovered and Deirdre had been brought into their lives because of it.

  “I’m sure this spot felt like his only refuge,” she said. “He still had to be laird, he still had to be strong for his allies. He couldnae fall apart, no matter how much he might have wanted to.”

  “You stayed strong too, Isobel. We managed—all of us—to help Gavin through it as much as we could. We worked together.”

  “We did.”

  “You and I made a good team.”

  Her fingers tapped against her leg—once, and then twice more. She looked at him. “You know what else I do up here?”

  He paused, knowing that she was setting him up for something—something he wouldn’t like. “What?”

  “I think. And I plan. Some of my best traps have been imagined up here.”

  “Is that what you were doing? Planning another trap…for me?”

  She turned her face forward again and pulled her hood farther over her head. “Perhaps. But two days isna much time to execute it.”

  Two days. It hung in the air between them like an executioner’s blade.

  “Isobel—”

  “Nay, Kerr. I willna change my mind, and ’tis beneath you to beg.”

  Now he tapped his fingers on his leg. If she would not relent and let him stay until fall, how could he possibly convince her? He did not want to spend another winter alone in his castle.

  “If I’m to go home so soon, then we doona have much time.”

  “Time for what?” she asked.

  “Time to talk about us.”

  “There is no us.”

  “Aye, there is. There has been for years.” He said it quietly, yet with steel in his tone. “We just havenae been saying it with words.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Your brains are addled if you think me dumping you in manure is the same as me professing our togetherness.”

  It was a lie. He heard it in her voice and saw it in the way she shoved a stray lock of hair that had blown across her face back under her hood.

  “Be brave, Isobel. Take a chance.”

  “I willna be with someone who annoys me.”

  “I only annoy you because you want something else from me. Something you’re afraid to ask for or to receive. You doona have to be strong with me all the time—like the castle’s curtain wall. I’m not an invader. Let me in, and I will fight with you, beside you.”

  In a heartbeat, he shifted his body next to hers. She glanced at him, startled, and panic crossed her face.

  At me being so close? Or at the conversation we’re having?

  Or her response to it?

  He trailed his knuckles down her cheek. “If there’s something between us, something I’ve done in the past that’s hurt you, tell me so I can make it right.”

  Something flashed in her eyes. Pain of some kind.

  “What is it, love? Isobel…let me in.”

  For half a moment, he thought she would relent; he could see she wanted to, but then she pulled her head away and scooted sideways—still within reach, but their bodies no longer touched.

  She cleared her throat and then said, “Two days, Kerr.”

  He ground his teeth together. What could he say to get through to her? They needed time together to dig out what was wedged between them, to relearn how to behave with each other. She had to know that he was her safe place.

  “If I am to go home in two days’ time, Isobel, then you shall be coming with me—that is what we need to plan for.” There. He’d said it. Truth…even though she wouldn’t want to hear it.

  Her brow rose. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Besides, I have other plans.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  She shrugged.

  “Tell me, Isobel!” His voice had deepened, and he knew he wasn’t doing himself any favors.

  “My plans doona include you, Kerr. They are not your concern.”

  “Are you going somewhere?” he rasped.

  She looked at him, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “For God’s sake, Izzy, answer me!”

  “I havenae decided yet, but it looks better and better by the second that yes, I am going somewhere. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Nay! I want to hear again that you missed me when I was gone. That you worried about me—like you admitted to before. That you were happy to see me arrive back safe and sound. That when I kissed your neck today, your knees grew weak and shivers ran up your spine. That when we spar, or you try to trick me and dump me in a pile of dung, you feel more alive than at any other time during your day. That when you see my hands, or my body, or my lips, you think about them touching your hands, and your body, and your lips.

  “That when you see me, really see me, Isobel, that you know I really see you too.”

  Her cheeks had flushed a bright pink, and her mouth had parted on a little “oh.” The vein in her neck beat quickly, matching the quick pace of his own heart.

  He took a breath, tried to calm himself before he said…

  “Isobel, I want you to marry me!”

  ***

  Emotion swamped Isobel—turbulent, choppy wa
ves of ecstasy and anger, disbelief and frustration, desire and denial—all underscored by a great need and confusion. She experienced so much all at once that she didn’t feel like she could contain it within the confines of her body.

  She wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to laugh and whoop. She wanted to run away screaming. She wanted to hurl herself into his arms.

  To shout “Nay!” To sob “Aye!”

  Isobel wanted to melt into his skin so no space existed between their bodies, so she was a part of him and nothing existed but them. But she also wanted to hit him. Hard. To shove him backward against the wall and…and what? Crawl up his big, braw body? Or smack him in that beloved face?

  Nay, not beloved—smirking face!

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Being with him scared her to death. Kerr would take her over. Not only would she lose herself, she’d be left with no ability to think for herself.

  “You canna force me to go anywhere,” she rasped, ignoring what he’d asked her. How his words had made her feel.

  She finally looked at him. He’d raised his brow, his eyes intent on her. A muscle twitched in his jaw above his scraggly black beard that he’d probably hacked at with a knife and no more. Rarely had she seen him clean-shaven. The last time had been at Gavin’s wedding. She’d wanted to rub her fingers over his skin then, feel the tiny prick of the whiskers growing back in. Now, after two months of him sleeping around campfires and bathing in streams, she wanted to scrape her fingers through the coarse hair, grab hold of it, and tug.

  He rubbed his hand over his nape and sighed. “Then doona make me leave the day after tomorrow. Isobel, I asked you a question.”

  She shoved herself up from the stone floor, and he rose to face her, his big body swamping hers in every way—taller, broader, thicker, harder. And blocking her from the door.

  Fear at her own weakness drove her, and she stumbled backward until she hit the battlements behind her. He followed, his arms raised to steady her.

  She wanted to swat his hands away, but at the same time she wanted him to pull her safely into his arms and tuck her beneath his chin.