Timothy was yanked up to his feet, Gavin’s hold broken by the sure grip of James as he yanked the offensive boy away. James had Timothy by the front of his tunic and put his face very close to Timothy, uncaring that his father stood close. “We dinna disrespect our own. Ever.” His voice was dangerously low and firm.
Timothy smirked and dared, “Everyone ken she’s a wild one. Charged six pence for—”
James cuffed him upside his head. “What did I just say?”
Timothy recovered from the smack and frowned at James before sending a glance to his father.
Callum glowered at his son but did not interfere.
James poked his chest, looking down with hard eyes. “If you canna even show respect for the people in your village, those who do good, why would I want you representing the Camerons outside Wolvesley? Maybe you’d be better served with some duties in the granary, rather than soldiering.”
Timothy’s eyes bulged. Meekly, he apologized for his disrespect.
“Dinna be sorry to me, lad. Tell Gavin you’ll no speak such of his sister.”
Very grudgingly, Timothy made a weak apology to Gavin, who’d risen and brushed it off, seemingly put out by the attention given to the matter.
Gavin brushed past Timothy and walked to fetch his flagon of ale, taking a long sip. James followed.
“You have to speak up against that, son,” he advised, out of hearing of the other lads, whom Callum now directed.
Gavin shrugged, his face reddening. “It will no change anything. They called her whore and temptress. Now it’s sorceress and witch. It’s her own fault.”
James was taken aback by this, by all of it. But he began with, “Why the hell would that be her fault?”
Gavin made a face to show his discomfort or dislike of this line of questioning. “Ye see how she looks. And now she’s playing at healing. What did she think would happen?”
James grabbed him up by his shirtfront, same as he had Timothy only minutes before. “I dinna ken what your anger is all about. But you lose it toward your sister and lose it fast. I dinna start hearing you defend her from now on, and understanding what is right, I’ll put you in that granary as well. Or maybe I’ll send you off to the church.”
Gavin blanched.
“Is your sister a witch? A whore?” Gavin shrugged. James shook him, frowning hard at him. “Seriously, you dinna ken?”
“But her eyes. And da said she had no purpose but to spread her—”
James cut him off with a ferocious growl, shoving the boy to the ground. “Get out of my sight.” Gavin scrambled to his feet and made to rejoin the lads, casting a wary and confused frown back at James. “Get out!” James barked. “Back to barracks! I dinna ken what I’ll do yet with you. Get out of my sight until then.”
He didn’t wait around for Gavin’s reaction to this, his anger spurring him to find his horse and get away from such unaccountable and sickening narrow-mindedness. He kicked the steed into a hard gallop, away from the training field. His own seething occupied him so fully that he was half way to Edine’s cottage—Isla’s cottage now—before he truly realized his intent.
He’d overreacted with the boy. It was ridiculous. What the hell did he care what Gavin or Timothy or anyone else thought? But he did. And he knew as well that right now, he was using what he’d just learned, and the anger that had come with it, as a pitiful excuse to see her.
Not that he hadn’t tried. He’d ridden over to the cottage several times, had never found her at home. And he’d been away this past week, up to Stonehaven to see Gregor Kincaid, as he had news of their king, which was not to be trusted to paper. He’d arrived home yesterday, too late to pay a visit, having no excuse to do so.
He knew it was untenable, unreasonable, but he hadn’t passed a day without thinking on her, on those kisses. So much of him wanted to break through that icy shield that surrounded her—and for good reason, he now understood, if what her brother said was true. He’d asked her once why she hadn’t any friends. She’d blushed, had looked uncomfortable, had said she didn’t know.
James kept the horse at a gallop across the meadow, his eyes on the cottage as it came into view, looking for any sign of current occupancy. There should be smoke rising from the chimney but there was not. He hadn’t any idea, really, what her daily routine required, imagined it changed often, was never the same. But still, he thought it rather inconvenient that he couldn’t seem to find her here, that he hadn’t seen her in weeks. He shook his head with some derision, questioning this juvenile bedevilment that had him wondering if she ever thought of him.
HER BASKET NEAR FULL of the seeds and bark she’d gathered over the last half hour, Isla gave a call to Fynn, who gone off after a long legged hare some minutes ago and started back toward the cottage. Fynn appeared shortly, his wiry fur only a blur as he bounced across the path in front of her. “Home, Fynn!” She called after him. She could hear him still, crashing through brush and over crunchy undergrowth. The snows had melted, and the deep cold was gone, she hoped, though she still had need of her worn cloak, though less so the hood.
At the back of the cottage, Fynn appeared again, barking now and racing around to the front. Since he rarely barked, except only at people, she guessed someone was at the front of the cottage, in need of her healing. While she still suffered moments of uncertainty in regard to her qualifications and competence, she knew that her self-assurance did grow daily, in conjunction with her skill. Edine had warned her she would suffer feelings of unworthiness, but that she must persevere, she must not be dissuaded.
Three weeks had passed already though sometimes it seemed the old woman was here only yesterday. And, oh, how she wished she were! Not for the teaching and the learning did she ache, but just for her friend. She missed Edine, missed her company and her wit and her little scratchy chuckle.
Thoughts of Edine fled, then, as Isla came around the front of the cottage.
James Cameron had come. He was petting Fynn, rubbing the hound’s big head, but looked up as Isla came into view.
Their eyes met. Isla moved hers away first. Sometimes, the intensity of his expression unraveled her. She had not exactly forgotten that, though it had been weeks since she’d seen him, was only startled by it once again.
She thought herself an idiot, couldn’t seem to put words out, only gave him some half-questioning, half-uncertain smile. He responded rather wonderfully, beautifully, by giving her a full smile that seemed only to say he was happy to see her.
“Good day, Isla.”
“And to you.” She’d stopped walking, stood now at the corner of the front of the cottage.
“I’d come by a few times to see how you were getting on,” he said. “Never seemed to find you at home.”
Home. Yes, she supposed it was, though she still thought of it as Edine’s cottage.
“And Lady Cameron said you were gone to Stonehaven this past week.”
“Aye.”
She nodded and thought to add, “I am well, getting on well, that is.”
“Have you been called out often?”
Not so much as Edine had been. “A bit.”
He stepped closer. Fynn followed, looking up at him, his tail wagging.
“You’ve no fire burning.”
Isla glanced at the door, then back at him.
“There’s no smoke,” he said by way of explanation, pointing to the stone chimney, which rose rather majestically from the thatch of the roof.
Oh. “I dinna like to leave it when I’m gone.” She also did not like returning to a cold room but thought an unattended fire a greater concern.
A few more steps and he stood now only two feet from her. Isla watched his eyes, trying to glean some purpose for his visit in them. Perhaps he would have come closer yet; his gaze fixed on her mouth. But Fynn came between them, not as protection, Isla knew, but for the attention. He lifted Isla’s hand with his head until she scratched idly behind his ears.
“You have no trai
ning today?” She knew, from her almost daily trips into the village or the keep, that the soldiers regularly were upon the practice field, learning and honing skills.
His broad shoulders lifted. “Just came from there. Had some words with your brother.”
Isla raised a brow at this, not terribly surprised. “I imagine you’ll instill in him the discipline our da never did, and I never could.”
“I am attempting to do just that.”
Isla shifted her hip, wanting to be inside. His piercing gaze, the seriousness and intensity with which he studied her had once again unsettled her. “Why have you come?”
He tilted his head, attempting to read her still. “I came to see you, Isla.”
“Why?”—rather just fell out.
He smiled now. Isla didn’t want to be captivated by that smile. Fynn may have sensed her growing unease. He whined and tipped his head back at her.
“I find myself thinking on you. I’d gone to Stonehaven but had been wishing I were here instead.”
Green eyes widened. She felt more inept in this arena than she ever had in all her thus far short life of healing. He unnerved her, completely undid her with words such as these. She concentrated on breathing normally, impossible it seemed when his eyes raked her so.
“You think to kiss me again.” Not a question, but a statement, confirmed by the answering widening smile.
“All the time.”
He moved, stepped closer, forcing Fynn out of the way.
Isla wanted his kiss. His kiss did strange and wonderful, and frightening things to her. But she wanted him to kiss her. Yet, she put her hand on his chest as he closed the distance between them almost completely. “What is your purpose? You kiss me and then what? You lay with me, bring me back to court, charge me another six pence? Leave me ruined for another?”
His smile had only a moment ago faded, overtaken by his intent. He’d already begun to lower his head. Her words straightened him. Dark brows lowered as the space above his nose, between his eyes, crinkled with anger or confusion, or both.
Then the brows relaxed. Intent reappeared. “’Tis only a kiss, Isla.”
Less true words had surely never been spoken. Isla swallowed tightly and felt her heart pound an irregular rhythm.
James kissed her, slow and thoughtful, with practiced persuasion. He rubbed his mouth along the soft contours of hers, traced the seam of her lips with his tongue until she opened for him. His tongue melted into hers, insistent and beguiling but not threatening, though Isla was reminded of his statement about the air crackling with its own emotion; the air around James Cameron reeked of it just now, tension and hunger and restraint. Of its own accord, her hand left his chest, slid up around his nape, curled into his hair. She felt his arm slide around her waist, she was pulled up against him. The kiss deepened, deliciously so. Her body was leaden, weighted against him, her fingers against his neck tightening, wanting him even closer.
And then he stopped. Just lifted his head and stepped back, left her dazed and saddened. Isla did not immediately open her eyes.
“You canna hide by closing your eyes.” His voice was husky and intense.
She opened them, considered his darkened gaze. “When you kiss me, I dinna ken myself. I become... weak.”
James grinned at her. “That means it’s working, lass.”
Isla surprised herself by smiling at this. She bit her lip then, staring at him, waiting maybe.
“Only a kiss, Isla.”
Some courageous, knowing entity made her ask him, “Is that what it feels like to you?”
James Cameron did not come closer again, did not reclaim her lips, did not show her that devilish grin of his. He shook his head very slowly. His gaze, darkened and hungry, held hers. But he said nothing.
Isla nodded and walked away from him, amazed that her still trembling limbs could carry her. She turned back to him when she’d reached the door, her trembling hand on the knob. He watched her, waiting.
“You’re playing, Sir James. And I dinna like games.”
Chapter 11
Isla hurried to the keep, having been summoned by one of the Cameron soldiers at the behest of Lady Cameron. The laird’s condition had changed.
Though Edine had given her clear and specific instructions for the laird’s care, Isla was nervous. The feeling of ineptness was strong in her today as she entered the hall and used the rear staircase to find the laird’s chamber. Lady Cameron greeted her, took her hands in her cool ones, her usually genial face strained with worry.
Isla blurted, “I am scared, my lady. I owe you and the laird much, and if I canna help....”
Lady Cameron’s eyes watered as she squeezed Isla’s hands. “He cannot be made well again, Isla. But you can make him comfortable, preserve his dignity. You’ve been thus far just the Godsend that Edine promised. You’ve done well, lass.”
These words were exactly what Isla needed. With that, she removed her cloak, laid it on the empty chair as she often did, and approached the second earl Cameron and noted immediately his pallor and his changed breathing. Yes, the end was near. And yes, she could make it easier on everyone.
“I’ll need to visit the kitchen, my lady, things to be boiled,” Isla explained. Lady Cameron nodded and Isla took only her basket, opening the door she’d only just closed and crashing immediately into a hard chest.
James Cameron had come, apparently having run, maybe having been summoned as Isla had been. His hands caught her arms, lest she topple backward. Isla had not encountered him since he’d kissed her once again four days ago. Instantly, the warmth of his large hands seeping through the linen of her sleeves, the closeness of him, imbued her with desire. She gasped at her own untenable, unwanted response, cast troubled eyes up to his.
His gaze devoured her. He closed his mouth. This close, she easily noted the flaring of his nostrils. His breath fanned her face, bringing his scent—spice and horse and man—to her. Maybe they’d have stayed like that longer than the too many seconds they did stare at each other, the proximity so potent, but that Lady Cameron cleared her throat from deep within the room. Isla was mortified, turned ashen by her response to him, and in front of his mother, and while his father lay dying. She tugged at her arms just as he released her and quickly scurried from the room.
JAMES STARED FOR A moment still at the space she had just occupied, looked at his hands, before remembering where he was and what he was about. Clearing his own throat now, he closed the door, keeping his back to his mother for several more seconds to regain control.
Jesu, that lass!
When he finally faced his mother, having clicked the door softly, she was smiling at him. Smiling a mother’s perceptive, happy smile. James ignored her, approached his father. He looked the same as he had for many months, James thought, wondering what had changed that he’d been recalled from the little town of Haddington, where he’d gone to meet with a certain patriot to transfer fifty soldiers and horses to the cause. He would join his Scots brothers in arms within a month with the rest of his army.
He watched his father for a few minutes and now realized the difference, the abnormal breathing and the notedly sunken cheeks. He took hold of his father’s once strong hand, now withered and crippled and cool. “I’m here, da.” No lifting of his brows as he sometimes did, even as recently as a week ago.
James raised his gaze to his mother, on the opposite side of the sickbed. “This is it, then.”
Lady Cameron nodded. “Isla will make sure there is no pain, no awareness at all.”
Just then, the audible breathing stopped. James startled and looked down at his beloved father again, who breathed again after many long seconds while James held his own breath.
“He’s been doing that all morning. Edine and Isla had warned me of it.” With that, she sat down, took her husband’s hand. It had been a long six months of bedside vigils. She’d learned months and months ago that life indeed would go on. “James, what are you doing with that lass?�
� She arched thin brows at her son.
Without moving his gaze away from his father, he asked, “What do you mean, mother?”
Lady Cameron smiled, despite their present sorrowful circumstance. “Aye, you do. Of course, her beauty is no trifling thing. And you’ve always had a soft spot for those you think need saving. But you ken, James, you cannot save all the Marguerites of the world.”
This brought his eyes to his dear mother, though his frown was instant. “She is no at all like Marguerite. Marguerite was... happy, hopeful. Isla Gordon looks at the world as if it had done her some harm, or if it might.
Lady Cameron shrugged. “It has. It will again. And she is very much like Marguerite—the flip side of a coin, I think, sans the smiling and giggling, of course.”
James deepened his frown. “She does ken how to smile, by the way.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. His mother didn’t need to know that.
“I’m sure it’s magnificent,” was given softly, reflectively.
“Aye,” he said, bringing the picture of it to his mind. “It... it transforms her.”
“Look at me, James.” When he did, allowing her to see just a hint of the softness that had encroached, that had come with only the memory of Isla’s rare smile, Lady Cameron said very softly, “Your father will die. Today, maybe tomorrow. You’ll be laird. You’ll go to war and you’ll come home. You’ll come and go over many years. You cannot only have Wolvesley as your constant. There must be more.”
“What are you saying, mother?”
“You’ll not come home if there’s no one here for whom to fight, no one to return to.” She tilted her head, waiting for him to understand.
“And?”
“Go make her smile. Let her be the one you come home to.”
“I really dinna want to talk about this now,” he said with some insistence. Where in the hell had all this come from?
And Then He Loved Me (A Highlander Novella Book 1) Page 8
