Highland Thief by Alyson McLayne

Six

Isobel rode her mare under the portcullis and into the bailey with her head held high and her shoulders back, despite the fact that she wanted to pull her plaid over her head and hide.

Her guard had said nothing to her, of course, but she could sense their amusement, and she knew they’d be talking about her later on. Which she wouldn’t have minded if she’d been successful.

She gusted out a frustrated breath. How could she have messed up so badly? Kerr hadn’t seen the trap—he’d seen her. All she’d had to do was ignore him, and he would have eventually tumbled in.

But nay, she’d tried to force the issue, and he’d picked up on her intent—not the trap.

Then there was the fact that he’d kissed her. He’d even bitten her ear! And what had she done? Had she hit him? Or called for her guard? Nay, she’d turned into a weak, blathering fool—not that she remembered a word she’d said.

Remembering would have meant thinking, and as far as she could tell, her brain had turned off.

And her body had taken over. Heat filled her cheeks again. She groaned silently and tilted her chin up higher.

“Isobel!”

Glancing toward the corral beside the stable, she saw Deirdre standing at the fence, waving at her. Behind her, Gavin was in the ring with Ewan, who rode a small, sedate mare.

Isobel hesitated before going over—Deirdre would want details, and she wasn’t yet ready to share them. But she couldn’t ignore her sister-in-law.

She forced a smile and steered her horse toward the corral. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think we’d see you for days,” she teased.

“Ewan wanted to show Gavin how he rode his horse. The new tricks he’d learned.” She blushed a little and laughed. “He kept knocking on the bedchamber door.”

Isobel laughed too, a real laugh, and suddenly she felt a little better. She wasn’t the only one who’d been thwarted today.

A groomsman came over when she dismounted. She gave the horse a customary rub on the nose before turning to lean back against the corral beside her friend.

“You told Gavin you’re with bairn?” she asked.

“Aye. He’s happy, of course, but I can sense a wee bit of worry too.”

Isobel looked over her shoulder at her brother—a changed man in the last four months after finding his son and meeting and marrying Deirdre. “Congratulations, Brother! I couldnae be happier for you!”

He walked toward them and gave her a tight hug over the fence. “Me too, Sister. Another bairn for us to cherish.”

Behind him, Ewan performed one of his tricks on the horse, and Deirdre’s eyes widened with concern. “Gavin!” she squeaked, pointing at their son, who had urged the mare into a trot across the corral.

Gavin raised his brow and strode back toward Ewan. “He knows how to keep his feet in the stirrups, love. Better than some people I know!”

Isobel snorted as Deirdre made a face at her husband’s back. He was right. Her sister-in-law was a terrible rider, and for some reason, she couldn’t keep her feet in the stirrups…and then she panicked when she couldn’t get them back in.

Deirdre stepped closer and dropped her voice. “Now, tell me what happened. I can see from your face that Kerr didnae fall for it.”

Isobel huffed, feeling irritated all over again. “My face?”

“Aye. You rode in verra queen-like. Your back straight and chin high. Haughty, even.” Deirdre’s eyes twinkled, and she pointed at her face. “That expression right there! ’Tis a sure sign that you’re displeased about something—usually having to do with Kerr.”

Isobel sighed and dropped her forehead onto her arms. “He knew. I was too impatient and tried to get him to step where I wanted him to step. I should have ignored him and done nothing out of the ordinary, exactly as you told me to do. All that work for naught.”

“I canna believe I’m encouraging you but…you’ll get him next time,” Deirdre said, patting her shoulder.

“There willna be a next time. At least, not like that. I need to think of some other way to trick him. One that doesn’t involve traps. No more manure or honey.”

“Or bees, or prickles, or buckets of ants… Or you could just marry him.”

She peered sideways at Deirdre. Her sister-in-law looked amused. And why wouldn’t she? Isobel was amusing everyone today. “I think maybe you’ve missed the point about the manure,” she said. “I did not try to dunk Kerr in it because I wanted to marry him. ’Tis quite the opposite. I thought you understood that.”

“Aye, so you’ve said, dearling. And I support your decision, of course, but you have to admit that he’s a braw man, and he adores you. The two of you together create sparks like steel against flint. Maybe before you make a decision, you should try kissing him. Or at least try not to fight with him. Give yourself a week or a month where you stop resisting and…allow him in. Who knows what will happen?”

“I can tell you what will happen—my head will burst from the pressure. He said so himself.”

She thought back to her conversation with Kerr about subjugation, and her gaze sought Deirdre’s. “Can I ask you something of a personal nature?”

“Of course. Anything.”

Isobel slid closer and dropped her voice. “Does Gavin ever subjugate you? Or maybe…you subjugate him?”

Deirdre’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You mean like…control him? Make him do what I want?”

“Aye, in an intimate way. Bed play. Is this something people do?”

Deirdre’s cheeks flushed. “I doona know what other people do, but…well, Gavin’s a strong man, and he certainly led our intimacy in the beginning. Sometimes he’ll hold me still or…position me,” she whispered the last words. “Is that what you mean?”

“I’m not sure. ’Tis something Kerr said. Or rather, how he said it.”

Deirdre’s eyes widened, and her voice rose. “You’ve been talking to Kerr about bed play?”

Isobel glanced around quickly, her cheeks heating. “Shhhh.” When she saw no one was watching, she leaned toward Deirdre again. “Not really. Just small things to irritate me. He knew I didn’t know what it meant.”

“I doona know what it means. When you finally allow him to subjugate you, let me know.”

“Allow him to?”

“Aye, although it doesn’t sound like you’ll have much say in the matter—if you’re being subjugated. It could be interesting.” Deirdre smiled and winked. Twice.

Isobel felt the urge to poke her friend in the offending eye. The last thing she wanted to think about was interesting bed play with Kerr. She had enough of that in her dreams.

“Mama! Aunt Isobel!” Ewan yelled. They looked up to see Gavin walking across the corral toward them with an excited Ewan in his arms.

“Did you see me?” Ewan asked.

“I did, sweet boy, and you even kept your feet in the stirrups.” Isobel couldn’t help the wee jab at Deirdre—not after she’d suggested Isobel let Kerr subjugate her.

“It’s nap time, Ewan,” Gavin said firmly. He handed his son to Deirdre then climbed over the fence. “Annag will stay with you, while your mother and I have our own nap.”

Ewan’s face lit up, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Deirdre quickly cut him off. “Nay, you canna sleep with us. Your father was mistaken, we’re not napping. We have work to do.”

Gavin’s eyes closed as he realized his blunder. Isobel bit her lip to stop from laughing.

“What kind of work?” Ewan asked.

“Important work. Mathematical work that you haven’t learned yet,” Deirdre said.

Isobel snorted. “Aye, your father is using your mother’s geometry set to determine the best angle for entry.”

Deirdre kicked her in the shin, and Isobel hopped backward, her laugh breaking free. “I didn’t say entry to where.”

“Entry to where?” Ewan asked.

“To my solar.” Gavin lifted his son into his arms again. “Your ma and I will be working in there.”

“On the desk, sweetling,” Isobel explained. “And your da may be doing all the work. In fact, I think your ma’s only there for the ride.”

Gavin shot his sister a frown. “Brat,” he said, then grasped his wife’s hand and led her toward the keep. Ewan stuck out his tongue at her as they retreated, and Isobel returned the gesture, making her nephew giggle.

Deirdre glanced back over her shoulder, a smirk on her face. “Isobel, go get subjugated.”

She froze in place, then frantically cast her gaze around the bailey, looking for Kerr, praying he wasn’t nearby. When she didn’t see him, and no one was eyeing her with shock or, even worse, speculation, she sighed in relief. The last thing she wanted was for Kerr to know she’d been asking her sister-in-law about that.

She looked back and saw her brother lean over and kiss the top of his wife’s head, their child between them. A wave of longing filled Isobel at the simple show of affection, making her feel the absence of love in her own life all the more keenly.

It surprised her how much.

She glanced back toward the portcullis, her eyes drawn there again as if looking for someone. Then she huffed in denial.

I amnot looking for him.

But when men on horseback entered the bailey, she couldn’t look away. After a moment, she saw Kerr’s dark head poking up from behind another warrior. A strange fluttering sensation filled her chest.

God’s blood, I am an idiotic woman.

She couldn’t help thinking about what Deirdre had said—about letting Kerr kiss her, about letting him in, even just for a short while.

Her friend hadn’t meant into her body, although that’s what Isobel would like, there was no denying that. Aye, she’d more than enjoyed the feeling of him beneath her in the forest, her legs on either side of his hips. And when he’d kissed her neck and bit her ear, she’d had to lean against him for support, her knees turning to mush.

He switched direction, heading toward the stables, and when Isobel saw his face clearly, she let out a shocked gasp… It wasn’t Kerr!

This man’s face was leaner, finer, and his hair, although the same color and texture as Kerr’s, was cut to the base of his neck. Kerr’s hair hung down to his shoulders.

When the man drew near, he reined in and dismounted not far from where Isobel stood. Who was he? He was tall like Kerr, and she could see he was strong and knew how to handle his weapon—he’d hefted the claymore one-handed from his saddle and sheathed it across his back without looking—but he wasn’t as broad through the shoulders and chest as Kerr. Not many men were, not even Gavin.

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.