Highland Thief by Alyson McLayne

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.”

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.