Highland Thief by Alyson McLayne

Ten

Kerr sat on the bench at a table in the Great Hall, tapping his fingers on the wood. The sound of the pipes playing a feisty reel filled the air, but his fingers were not tapping in time to the music. Nay, they were tapping in time to his growing worry and frustration.

Where is she?

The tables had been pushed back, and Gavin’s clan, and warriors from the other clans, filled the large room—dancing, laughing, eating, and drinking. It was a celebration of their victory—a cèilidh. A celebration of life in the Highlands despite the struggles for power that took so many innocent lives—even with the protection of lairds like Gregor MacLeod and his foster sons.

Kerr sat back far enough so he could see all four entrances to the Great Hall—the main entrance, the side entrance that led out past the kitchen, the sets of stairs on opposite ends of the hall that bracketed the great hearth and led up to the living quarters of the laird’s family. Isobel had disappeared into her bedchamber hours ago and hadn’t come down yet for the celebration.

He was about to drag Deirdre away from Gavin and send her up to bring Isobel to the feast, when a bright swathe of white-blond hair caught his attention. He whipped his head around to see her standing on the first step of the staircase closest to him, glancing around the room. She had a smile on her face as if she were simply enjoying the dancers and the music, but her eyes landed intently on each face.

She’s looking for someone. For me? Nay, her gaze never strayed toward his despite how close he was.

She must have seen him when she first came down—before he’d seen her—and now she avoided his eyes. He was about to go to her when she stepped off the stair and walked purposefully into the crowd.

Her chin was raised in that haughty way he loved—the one that made him want to kiss her until all that attitude and queenliness melted away.

He noticed a folded piece of parchment in her hand that she tucked into a deep fold of her arisaid as she passed in front of him. A letter? Or maybe a list? Isobel loved making lists.

She disappeared into the crowd, and he rose from the bench to keep an eye on her. She should be easy to see with her height and bright hair, especially since he towered over almost everyone, but she was gone.

He strode quickly around the table and moved into the throng of revelers. The people stepped back to make way for him, drunken smiles etched on many of their faces. Finally, he spotted her sitting at a table on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with Father Lundie—the priest who had married all of his foster brothers and whom he hoped one day would marry him and Isobel.

The father had a befuddled look on his face, and then his brow rose in surprise at whatever Isobel had said to him. She lifted her hand from the table to pat his arm in reassurance, and Kerr noticed the parchment she’d put in her pocket moments ago now sitting on the table where her hand had been.

She glanced up when he approached and quickly covered the parchment again, drawing it closer toward her.

She leaned forward and whispered into the priest’s ear, causing his cheeks to redden. Kerr stopped directly in front of them, his eyes jumping from one to the other.

“Father Lundie. Isobel,” he said in greeting.

The priest smiled up at him. “Laird MacAlister, please join us!”

Isobel’s brow furrowed before she dropped her gaze and angled her head downward—which meant she didn’t want him to read her expression.

Because she’s hiding something?

He sat on the bench across from them and pushed his foot forward until it bumped into hers. She flicked her gaze upward, and he saw annoyance there but also excitement.

Aye, she was up to no good, and his blood surged in anticipation.

“Lady Isobel was just asking me about handfasting,” the priest said. “’Tis considered a binding ceremony before God, of course, but you must know that the two of you doona need—”

“Father Lundie!” Isobel said sharply.

He swung his gaze toward her, looking befuddled again, and hesitated. “My lady…’tis only that I’m leaving on the morrow for Castle MacAlister to see Father Grant…’tis early enough in the season that you could travel there for a wedding…or I could come back and perform the ceremony here, of course…I’m sure I willna be long.” He stumbled as Isobel’s frown deepened with every word. “I only meant that you doona need to resort to handfasting…”

Kerr also frowned, growing still on the outside, while inside, that dark part of him raged. Why is Isobel talking to the priest about handfasting?

She quickly tucked the parchment into her arisaid, stood up from the bench, and then darted into the crowd again. Kerr rose as well and stared after her, but as quickly as before, she disappeared.

He fought the urge to bellow her name. Instead, he stepped onto the bench for a better look. He should be able to spot her from here.

A bright flash—there!

She was talking to her guard, Lyle, at the base of the second set of stairs that led up to the keep’s private quarters. She’d pulled up her plaid like a hood so her hair was covered, but she’d turned back to look at him and he’d seen the bright flash of long blond tresses hanging down the front of her body.

Their eyes met over the boisterous crowd, and this time he did bellow. “Isobel!”

People looked up at him, raised their drinks, and laughed, but the clans were too intent on enjoying themselves to pay him much attention.

But she’d heard him. Aye. And she proceeded to ignore him.

With a raised brow and a tilt of her chin, she turned back to a stony-faced Lyle, who listened to her with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze shifting between the two of them. She pulled out the parchment from her arisaid and pressed it into his hand. He nodded—once—and then tucked the letter into his sporran, before Isobel lifted her skirts and took the stairs upward, two at a time.

What was in the parchment?

Kerr stepped off the bench and marched toward Lyle, his eyes boring into him. People darted out of his way. Some of the braver men and women smacked him on the back as if encouraging him on his journey.

Lyle’s expression never changed, and his gaze never wavered.

Kerr stopped in front of him, and neither man spoke. Finally, Kerr said, “What’s she up to now?”

Lyle shrugged, and Kerr knew that unless Isobel was in danger, Lyle would give nothing away. He would never break his lady’s trust.

Kerr dropped his eyes to the man’s sporran and the letter hidden inside. “Give me the parchment and I’ll take care of it.” Lyle would never hand it over, but maybe he would throw something Kerr’s way—like who it was addressed to.

“Nay,” the guard said simply.

“Why not? You canna leave your post yet. I promise to deliver the letter for you.”

“I am to hand deliver it, as soon as it’s convenient.”

“To whom?”

Lyle’s lips stayed closed. Kerr threw his hands in the air in frustration. “God’s blood, man! Give me something. We both know the person Isobel needs protection from the most is herself. She’s planning something, and you’d better hope she doesn’t get hurt while she’s doing it or you willna see the light of day!”

Lyle never even twitched. Finally, he said, “’Tis her brother who will protect her. I’ll do as he asks.”

Kerr scowled at him. That was true, of course, but also utter shite. Lyle would take matters into his own hands if Isobel were in danger. He wanted to protect her almost as much as Kerr did, as much as Gavin did.

Then it dawned on him, and he searched Lyle’s face again. If he could hear the warrior’s thoughts behind that impassive expression, he was certain they’d be filled with the verbal equivalent of eye-rolling and foot tapping.

Aye, Lyle had given him a message, but Kerr had been too hot to pick up on it right away.

He spun back to the crowd, intent on finding his foster brother—doing exactly as Lyle had told him to do. Again, the crowd parted as he made his way through it.

The last place he’d seen Gavin was in Deirdre’s arms, dancing a feisty reel, but they weren’t on the dance floor anymore. He stood on the bench again for a better look, and after scanning the crowded dance floor, he finally saw Gavin leading his wife toward the other set of stairs on the opposite end of the hall from where Lyle stood guard. They were going to disappear upstairs.

Hell no!

It gave Kerr a perverse sense of satisfaction to whistle a sharp, piercing note that stopped his foster brother in his tracks. Gavin looked back over his shoulder with a frustrated frown and immediately saw Kerr standing on the bench. Deirdre passed him and kept going, tugging on her husband’s hand, but Gavin pulled her into his body for a hug and spoke into her ear. She nodded, and then proceeded by herself past the other guard stationed at the foot of the stairs and disappeared up the stairwell.

When Gavin caught his eye again, Kerr jerked his head toward Lyle. Gavin nodded, and with one last, longing gaze toward the empty stairwell into which Deirdre had disappeared, he reversed his steps.

From his perch on the bench, Kerr saw his other foster brothers and Gregor also heading in the same direction. They’d all heard the whistle and seen Kerr signal Gavin.

He pushed through the rest of the crowd, a little rough this time in his impatience. Gregor and Lachlan already stood beside Lyle, waiting. Callum and Darach arrived next, and then finally Gavin.

Lyle didn’t look the least bit intimidated by being surrounded by six imposing lairds. Especially Gavin, who had a scowl on his face.

Gavin’s eyes drilled into Kerr. “This had better be good. I have plans with my wife.”

His brothers snorted. Over the years, they’d taken great pleasure in foiling each other’s romantic interludes. That hadn’t stopped when they’d married.

“Deirdre looked done in after all that dancing,” Lachlan said, his eyes laughing. “I’d be worried if I were you.”

“Aye, she needs as much sleep as she can get at such a delicate time,” Darach added.

Callum patted his arm. “Treat her gently, Brother. Let her rest. Deep down, I know Maggie appreciates all my coddling.” He grinned as everyone scoffed.

Kerr’s impatience rose. “God’s blood, everyone stop talking! Pretend your lives depend on it…because, believe me, they do!” he threatened.

Silence reigned for a moment before Darach, Lachlan, and Callum burst out laughing. Gregor placed a calming hand on Kerr’s arm, but he could see the amusement in his foster father’s eyes too.

“For the love of God, Kerr, why am I here?” Gavin grated, his hands fisted on his hips.

Kerr pointed at Lyle, who didn’t even flinch. In fact, he suspected the bastard was enjoying himself. “He has a letter from Isobel and he willna let me see it.”

“It’s for you?” Gavin asked with a confused frown.

“Nay, it’s for you!” He switched his attention to Lyle. “Give it to him now!”

Lyle didn’t move, other than to shift his gaze to his laird.

“Lyle?” Gavin asked with an exasperated sigh.

“Lady Isobel gave me a parchment, and she asked me to give it to you…and only you.” He dug his hand into his sporran and took out the folded piece of paper that had Gavin’s name written across it in Isobel’s distinctive handwriting. Lyle handed it to his laird.

“How long ago did she give it to you?” Gavin asked.

“Nay more than a few minutes. Laird MacAlister was dogging her heels. He signaled you almost immediately.”

“What does it say?” Kerr asked, even though Gavin hadn’t opened it yet. He crowded behind his foster brother for a better look, resisting the urge—barely—to snatch it from him. His gut was hammering at him that something was about to go very wrong.

“Not here,” Gregor said. “Take it up to Gavin’s solar. We’ll look at it there.”

“’Tis probably another of Isobel’s traps. And Kerr is stepping right into it,” Lachlan said.

Kerr gnashed his teeth together, and then he grabbed the parchment and raced up the stairs. Gavin cursed loudly and chased after him, but Kerr didn’t care. If he had to wait one more minute to know what Isobel was up to, he was going to start breaking things.

Could she really leave me and elope with another?

The thought left him feeling cold and scared, but also hot and furious at the same time. Panic beat within his chest like a trapped animal.

The other lairds followed behind them. Their boots scuffed on the stone steps and echoed loudly in the circular stairwell.

When Kerr reached the top, he marched down the shadowy hallway, lit by candles in wall sconces every few feet. His eyes darted to Isobel’s door as he strode past, but he resisted knocking. He needed to see what was in the letter first.

At the end of the hallway, he stopped in front of Gavin’s solar and looked back at his foster brother, barely able to contain himself. Gavin scowled at him and snatched back the letter before he fished out his key from his sporran and swung the door open.

He walked to his desk and sat down. Kerr stood directly in front of him.

“Take a bloody seat, you donkey,” Gavin said.

Kerr didn’t want to, but he forced himself onto one of the chairs. Behind him, he heard the clang of the poker and another log being added to the fire. Sparks crackled, and the room brightened.

Gregor placed a lit candle on Gavin’s desk as Gavin finally broke the seal on Isobel’s letter. He opened it as the other men settled in around them, some standing, some sitting in additional chairs.

When Gavin’s jaw tightened and a muscle jumped in his cheek, Kerr sprang up from his chair. “God’s blood, what does it say?”

***

Isobel sprinted past the kitchens and toward the keep’s side exit near the stables, praying she’d been successful in avoiding her guards. She didn’t have much time. Kerr would be right behind her once he’d read her letter and searched her room.

She’d exchanged the soft, fine clothes and slippers she’d been wearing at the cèilidh for rugged boots she’d be able to run in, and a sturdy wool arisaid in grays and browns that would blend into the night. Then she’d tied back her bright hair and grabbed her bag from under the bed.

The clues she wanted Kerr to find in her bedchamber had been planted earlier in the day—her mostly empty wardrobe, her desk cleared of all her parchment save one piece of paper that had fallen beside the bed with a partial list penned onto it—including items such as extra blankets in case one fell into the loch—and she’d hidden a pewter love token under her pillow that her father had bought her at a spring market when she was a lass. She’d fallen in love with the pretty flowering heart back then, and he’d happily indulged her.

She didn’t think Gavin would recognize it, since he’d been living with Gregor and his foster brothers by then, and she hoped Kerr at least would believe it was from another man.

Pushing through the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway, she stepped out of the keep and into the dark bailey. When she could see well enough to make her way, she hustled along the perimeter, passing several lovers clinched together. A frisson of envy jolted through her every time she came across a whispering, panting pair, and she couldn’t stop the images from earlier in the day flooding her mind—Kerr holding her from behind as he nuzzled her neck, her body lying on his with her legs spread across his hips, her head tucked beneath his chin as he swung her in a circle.

She didn’t stop at the stable for a horse. Instead, she wasted no time heading toward the portcullis on foot. She planned to walk through the gates with a smile on her face like she owned the place.

Her brother may be laird here, and Deirdre his new lady, but she was the old laird’s daughter, and she’d been taking care of everyone since her mother had died. No one would stop her.

She lifted her chin and repeated those words to herself as she made her way around the bailey.

It was still early enough that a few people streamed into the castle, but no one, other than her, was heading out. She decided that if the guards tried to stop her, she’d bluff her way through with a smile on her face.

As she approached the gates, a large group entered from outside, talking and laughing. One of the guards stopped to talk to them. A second guard eyed her closely as she walked around them on her way out.

“My lady,” he called out when he recognized her, sounding startled.

She waved and kept going. “Good evening, Kenneth. I willna be long!”

“Where’s your guard?” The young warrior followed her, his brow furrowed with concern.

She laughed and pointed into the inky darkness ahead of her. “Didn’t you see them? Ah, well, ’tis not your fault. Lyle could sneak through a room full of hounds without alerting them. Keep a sharp eye out for the men behind me, though. Doona let them sneak by too!”

Kenneth slowed and looked back toward his abandoned post.

Isobel squeezed his arm. “’Tis all right, lad.”

He nodded and hurried back. “Thank you, my lady. They willna get past me this time.”

A niggle of guilt flared in her breast. She had no doubt he would catch hell from Gavin and Kerr for letting her continue without a chaperone, but when she thought about Kerr’s face when she sprang her trick—and the chagrined expression he was sure to be wearing—she decided it was worth it.

So what if she was outside of the castle walls on her own for a short while? All the village folk came and went by themselves. All the maids and cooks in the castle walked around freely on their own. Those women didn’t have a guard.

Still, she glanced around a little uneasily as the night swallowed her up. Deirdre’s words circled in her head: Our enemies will not hesitate to take you too if they catch you.

A shiver ran up her spine. She straightened her shoulders and walked faster.

She had a long way to go if she intended to beat Kerr to the loch. Hooking her leather bag firmly over her shoulders, she lifted her skirts and sprinted along the path.

Few people could run as fast she could with her long legs and quick stride, and even less people could run as long as she could without having to stop. Tonight, she needed both speed and distance.

When she reached the halfway point to the village, she slowed and came to a stop near a lone Scots pine. In the distance, the half-built cathedral loomed faintly against the moonlit sky.

Where is he?She caught her breath and peered into the darkness.

A whicker sounded softly, and then a voice whispered, “My lady.”

She let out a startled squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” a lad said, his voice cracking mid-sentence and dropping an octave. He stepped out from the shadows of the tree, pulling a horse by its reins.

“Alick?” she asked.

“Aye.”

She heaved a sigh of relief and squeezed the young man’s arm. “Did you have any trouble?”

“Nay. Everyone assumed I was coming up for the cèilidh.”

“And you are.” She took the reins from the lad. “Go enjoy yourself. I saw Flora inside, dancing up a storm. No doubt she misses you.” Isobel moved to the side of the horse, stepped up into the stirrup, and swung her leg over the saddle.

Alick remained where he was, looking up at her. “Are you certain you want to do this, my lady? I’ll come down to the loch with you. Make sure you’re all right.”

“Doona worry, lad. My brother and the other lairds will be right behind me. Naught will happen. Have fun tonight…and thank you!”

She pressed her heels into the horse and clicked her tongue behind her teeth. Alick stepped back as her mount surged forward. A gleeful, perhaps even wicked laugh escaped her as she guided the horse onto a less travelled path that led down toward the loch. The rocky beach was her favorite place for a picnic, and a good spot to anchor a boat.

Not that she intended to go far on the damn thing. Rowing over the loch was the last way she wanted to travel, and Kerr knew it. But her home was almost entirely surrounded by water. If she were truly eloping, she’d have little choice.

Tonight, however, was just for show. Thank the saints she didn’t intend to push off from shore—at least not far. She’d never learned how to swim, no matter how much she’d practiced. She was too skinny to keep her head and body above water easily, and eventually she’d sink like a bag of bones—which sometimes she thought she was.

A day at the beach never involved a leisurely swim for her. More like wild thrashing in the water as she tried to stop herself from drowning.

When she arrived at the edge of the sand, a horn blared in the distance, the note long and haunting. She whipped her head around and peered into the darkness as if the man she’d run from could cross the land between them in one giant stride and emerge out of the night like a Celtic warrior of old—sword in hand, massive chest and shoulders blocking out the moonlight, and an intent stare on his face reserved for her only.

An excited shiver raced up her spine.

Kerr was coming for her.

***

Kerr stormed across the bailey, Isobel’s letter crushed in his fist. Torches lit up the darkness. Revelers who’d spilled out from the cèilidh quickly stepped back when they saw him coming.

His face felt etched into a permanent scowl.

After reading Isobel’s letter and finding her room empty, his brothers and Gregor had tried to convince him that Isobel was setting him up. Gavin was near certain of it and thought he should leave Isobel to stew in her own mess, but Kerr refused to listen.

He couldn’t take the chance they might be wrong.

Hopefully, she was tricking him—lying about the other man in order to best Kerr in some way. If that were true, it meant she wanted to be caught, wanted him to chase her.

But does she stillwant me?

Or was this Isobel’s way of proving to him that he’d never be more than the foil to one of her tricks?

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 about 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.