Part 26 (1/2)
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Seduced by a Highlander Available in ma.s.s market in Fall 2010.
Chapter One.
Arrogant imbecile!” Isobel Fergusson pushed through the heavy wooden doors and entered Whitehall Palace's enormous privy garden with a dozen venomous oaths spilling from her lips. Her brother Alex was going to get them all killed. Oh, why had they come to England? And d.a.m.nation, if they had to attend the Duke of York's coronation, it should be Patrick, her eldest brother and heir to their father, the late Fergusson chieftain, here with her and not Alex. They were only supposed to stay for a se'nnight or two, but when the future king invited all his guests to remain at Whitehall for another month, Alex had accepted. She kicked a small rock out of her path and swore again. How could she have raised such an imprudent, thoughtless bratling?
'Twasn't that Isobel was impervious to the lure of Whitehall's luxurious feathered mattresses, its grand galleries with vaulted ceilings where even the softest whispers, uttered by elegant lords and ladies powdered to look like living, breathing statues, echoed. 'Twas all quite... unusual and beguiling in a queer sort of way. But Alex had accepted knowing the MacGregors were here!
”Dear G.o.d,” she beseeched, stopping at a large, stone sundial in the center of the garden, ”give me strength and my witless brother wisdom before he starts another war!”
A movement to her right drew her attention to a row of tall bronze statues gleaming in the sun. When one of them moved, Isobel startled back and b.u.mped her hip against the sundial.
”Careful, la.s.s.”
He wasn't a statue at all, but a man-though his face could have been crafted by the same artist who had created the masterpieces lining the garden. Isobel took in every inch of him as he stepped out from behind the golden likeness of an archangel, wings paused forever in flight as it landed on its pedestal. He wore the garb of an Englishman, but without all the finery... or the wig. His hair hung loose to his shoulders in shades of rich chestnut and sun-streaked gold. The ruffled collar of his cream-colored s.h.i.+rt hung open at his throat, giving him a more roguish appearance than a n.o.ble one. He was tall and lithe, with long, muscular legs encased in snug-fitting breeches and dull black boots. His steps were light but deliberate as he moved toward her.
”I didna' mean to startle ye.” The musical pitch of his voice branded him Scottish, mayhap even a Highlander. ”I thought ye were my sister.”
His smile was utterly guileless, save for the flash of a playful dimple in one cheek, and as warm and inviting as the heavenly body perched behind him. For a moment that went completely out of her control, Isobel could not move as she took in the full measure of his striking countenance. Save for the slight bend at the bridge, his nose was cla.s.sically cut, residing above a mouth fas.h.i.+oned to strip a woman of all her defenses, including reasonable thought. The way his eyes changed from brown to simmering gold, like a hawk's that spotted its prey, hinted of something far more primitive beyond the boyish smile.
”I am infinitely grateful that I was mistaken.”
Isobel took a step around the sundial, instinctively keeping her distance from a force that befuddled her logic and tightened her breath.
d.a.m.nation, she had to say something before he thought her exactly what she was-exactly what any other woman with two working eyes in her head was when they saw him-a doddering fool. With a tilt of her chin that suggested she was a fool for no man, she flicked her deep auburn braid over her shoulder and said, ”Yer sister thinks ye are an arrogant imbecile, also?”
”Aye,” he answered with a grin that was all innocence and innately seductive at the same time. ”That, and much worse.”
As if to prove his statement true, a movement beyond the statue caught Isobel's attention. She looked in time to spy a glimpse of sapphire blue skirts and flaxen curls rus.h.i.+ng back toward the palace.
”My guess,” Isobel muttered, peering around his back to watch the lady's departure, ”is that yer sister is likely correct.”
”She most certainly is,” he agreed, not bothering to look behind him. The cadence of his voice deepened with his smile. ”But I'm no' completely irredeemable.”
Rather than argue the point with such an obvious rogue when she should be thinking of a way to convince Alex to leave with her and Cam, Isobel quirked a dubious brow at him and turned to leave. ”As difficult as that is to believe, I will have to take ye at yer word. Good day.”
Her breath quickened an instant later when the stranger appeared at her side and leaned down toward her ear.
”Or ye could spend the afternoon with me and find oot fer yerself.”
His nearness permeated the air around her with heat and the familiar scent of heather. He was definitely a Highlander, mayhap a Gordon or of the Donaldson clan, though he wore no plaid. She thought to ask his name, but decided against it. He might consider her interest in him an acceptance of his offer. She could not afford to allow her senses to be addled by a whole afternoon spent with him when her family's safety was at stake.
”Thank ye, m'lord, but I've matters to think on.” She quickened her pace but he would not be so easily dismissed.
”Do these matters have to do with the witless brother ye were prayin' fer?”
”Why?” Isobel asked, trying to sound unaffected by his boldness to follow her. ”Are ye worried he might have usurped yer t.i.tle?”
She was completely unprepared for his laughter, or for the way it rang through her veins, coa.r.s.e and carefree. A dozen other men would have scowled at her accusation, though she meant it only to show her disinterest, but this charismatic stranger found it humorous. She liked that he had enough confidence to laugh, even at himself.
”His name is Alex,” she conceded with a smile and began to walk with him. ”And truly, if there is a t.i.tle of witless brother, he has already taken it.” She felt a tad bit guilty about speaking so of her brother with a man she didn't even know, but perhaps not knowing him made it easier. She needed someone to talk to about her dilemma. Someone to just listen and perhaps point her on the right path to take in order to get her brothers the h.e.l.l out of Whitehall the quickest way possible. This man seemed clever enough. Besides, he made her smile, and she hadn't done the like all morning.
Beside her, he bent to pick up a rock and threw it into a small pond a few feet ahead of them. ”And what has Alex done that is so terrible?”
”He refuses to leave Whitehall and go home.”
”Ah, unfergivable.”
Isobel cut him a sidelong glance and found him smiling back at her. ”Ye don't understand.”
He raised a dark brow and waited for her to continue.
She looked around before she spoke again. ”Our most hated enemies have recently arrived to pay homage to the king. Alex is c.o.c.ky and prideful. If we remain here, he is likely to insult them and bring the barbarians down on our heads once again.”
He nodded, leading her around the pool. ”Now I see yer point more clearly. But why is it yer strait to ponder?” he asked, turning to her. ”Where is yer faither that his son should make decisions which put his kin in jeopardy?”
”He's dead,” Isobel told him, her eyes going hard on the Palace doors and the beasts that strolled somewhere within. ”Killed by these same enemies. I swear if I could get just one of them alone, I would slice open his throat and sing him back to the devil who sp.a.w.ned him.”
She was a bit surprised to find both sympathy and amus.e.m.e.nt softening the man's features when she looked at him.
”It sounds to me like yer enemies have more to fear from ye, than ye do from them, la.s.s.”
Isobel shook her head. ”I am not foolhardy like Alex. I know that killing one of them would rekindle the feud. It has been ten years since they murdered my father. They have left us alone, and I wish it to stay that way.”
”Wise,” he said, and Isobel was glad she'd told him. He agreed that she was correct in wanting to leave. Perhaps he would be willing to talk some sense into Alex's ear.
”Alex thinks he is not afraid of them, but Oliver Cromwell himself shyt in his breeches at the mention of their name.”
The handsome stranger paused in his steps for a moment, his smile fading as if something unpleasant had just crossed his thoughts. ”Who are these unholy miscreants ye speak of?”
”The MacGregors,” Isobel told him quietly, hating to even have to utter their names. ”Do ye know them, then?” she asked when his eyes narrowed slightly on her.
As effortlessly as it had appeared the first time, his light smile returned. ”I know of them.”