Jocelyn would have an opinion on that, so he would wait to speak to her first. His sister was as stubborn as her husband, though she never recognised that she’d picked up and refined the trait from him. Once her mind was on something, she would not be turned from it.
He thought about that and wondered what else Jocelyn had her mind fixed to. If she was set on some plan that involved him and Isobel, he would have to make certain she knew it was not possible. Athdar climbed the steps into the keep and up to his chambers to wash the day’s grime from him before presenting himself at table. Not too much later, he made his way down to table and to the challenge he’d made to Isobel.
* * *
Jocelyn peered out the window of their chamber. The winds seemed to pick up with each passing hour and it was not a good sign. Her bones, in spite of her attempts to ignore how old they were getting, ached much as they did before any bad storm. Winter would come early this year. From the various signs and symptoms, winter was coming fast.
‘Aye. I think we need to be on our way at first light.’ Jocelyn turned to see the reactions of the other two women in the chamber. One looked accepting and understanding, the other disappointed and almost mutinous. ‘We cannot take the chance of being trapped here or, worse, trapped in the mountains once we leave.’
‘I will pack after supper,’ Margriet said, standing and coming closer. ‘Connor and Rurik would not be pleased to have to come to our rescue in those mountains.’
Jocelyn smiled. Both of their husbands would walk through the fires of hell if their wives needed them, and both she and Margriet knew it, as did most anyone who knew either of the men. They might be ruthless, brutal even, warriors, but Jocelyn and Margriet were their husbands’ weaknesses and nothing—not weather, war or God—would keep them apart if they needed them.
Isobel remained silent through this. She missed nothing but did not speak. A good trait, for she listened well before saying anything. Another reason why Jocelyn believed she would be a good match for her brother. She had a calm head and a good heart. But now they would leave and any chance of the two of them spending meaningful time together to learn if they did truly suit was gone.
‘Well, let’s get down to the hall and have our supper. We can pack and the men can make preparations after that and be ready to leave at first light.’
Margriet held out her hand to her daughter and Jocelyn walked behind them out of the chamber. Once they were near the centre of the hall she stopped and gazed around the place where she’d grown up. Most of the family she’d known were gone—her mother passed first just after Jocelyn’s marriage to Connor and then her father about a decade ago. Her older cousins had married and moved away. Joy and sorrow had lived in this hall, but now only sorrow remained. Isobel noticed she’d stopped and came back to her.
‘Is ought wrong, lady?’ she asked quietly.
‘Nay, just some memories of long-ago days here,’ she answered. ‘My cousins and I had the perfect hiding place when I wanted to avoid Athdar’s teasing. Up there,’ she said, pointing to the small, almost invisible alcove that sat up on the walkway of the top storey. Isobel nodded as she saw it. ‘Some days, some lazy days, I would hide up that so I wouldn’t have to do my chores.’
‘Surely not, lady!’ Isobel laughed.
‘Oh, I could be a tyrant in my childhood. Athdar was my target as frequently as he vexed me.’
Margriet turned to them. ‘Come, they are waiting for us.’
Jocelyn smiled at Isobel and wondered if she would need to beg forgiveness over this attempt of hers to match these two. The girl had been bold in coming directly to her about her interest in Athdar and, watching Isobel, Jocelyn knew she had tender feelings for him. If the girl was bold enough to take that chance and if she was wise enough to get the message Jocelyn was giving her, she could be the one to draw the poison from Athdar’s festering wound. Forgiveness would be the least of her troubles.
Athdar and the other men at the table stood when they approached and waited for the three women to be seated. She hoped that she was not wrong about Isobel. So much depended on Jocelyn not being wrong.
Chapter Eight
Jocelyn was up to something, of that he had no doubt. He recognised all the signs of it from a long history of doing battle with her. Athdar could feel it. A shiver ran down his spine as a warning to remember that his sister could be devious and stubborn when it was to her purpose. And watching her walk to the table along with Isobel, he knew she was up to something. The good thing was that she was leaving on the morrow. And that was the bad thing, as well, for Isobel would leave, too.
He let out a breath and watched as the servants began to serve bowls of thick, aromatic meat stew. Platters of roasted fowl and steaming loaves of bread followed. Soon the table was filled and everyone began passing the food and eating. Athdar tried to, but the tight feeling in his gut put off his appetite for food. The meal did pass by easily, talk of travelling and preparations filled any gaps in conversation and when it was over, everyone had tasks to complete before seeking their rest. He recognised the feeling as they finished eating.
Disappointment. He did not want Isobel to leave.
‘Will there still be time for a game, Isobel?’ he asked, not wanting to let the chance pass because he did not speak. Isobel glanced at her mother for an instant before answering him.
‘Aye. I will make time, Athdar,’ she said quietly. It felt as though she spoke only to him, but from the startled expressions, he knew others had heard not only the words, but also the tone. ‘If you are so willing and eager to face defeat again,’ she added.
He laughed. ‘Not willing or eager, Isobel. But I cannot allow that kind of challenge to stand without my honour being questioned. So, you shall have your game.’ He stood as the women did and watched them walk to their chambers.
She would return.
‘What the bloody hell was that about, Dar?’ Padruig asked, as he sat down next to him and put a full goblet of ale before him.
‘A game. We played the first night my sister arrived, but have not played since. I should have lost the first game and did lose the second one.’
‘You were not speaking about chess to the young woman just then.’ Padruig was too keen and saw too much. ‘You remember who you will face if there is anything untoward between the two of you?’
‘Aye.’ Athdar took and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls before saying more.
Both he and Padruig had been at Lairig Dubh when young Rob Mathieson arrived to demand the hand of Connor’s eldest daughter. Rurik had met him first, as the MacLerie champion, and Rob had barely survived it. Despite his age, Rurik was still the fiercest fighter Athdar had ever seen and one he did not wish to face on a field. And since he planned to do nothing that would dishonour Rurik’s daughter, he was not worried about it.
‘So, do you want to tell me what the hell you are trying to do?’
‘I like her, Padruig. I like her.’ It felt good to admit it. He faced his friend then and waited for Padruig’s reply.
‘Anyone with eyes can see that. And she likes you. But what will come of it since you’ve sworn not to marry again?’
He would not admit it, even to his closest friend over a mug of ale, but she’d begun to make him want to forswear his oath.
‘We will play a game or two of chess. She will leave on the morrow and return to Lairig Dubh.’
Padruig mumbled something as he took another swig from his mug. He did not need to hear the words to know the curse within them. Padruig relied on a few, favoured, well-chosen words when he was angry, ones his friends could repeat along with him.
The servants approached to clear the table and Broc ceased flirting with both women and went off to see to preparations, leaving only him and Padruig at table. Rubbing his hands over his face, he suddenly felt as old as every year he had
lived. Padruig had a family, a wife of more than a score of years along with three children—one, a son nearly full-grown.
Athdar had nothing.
‘Have you thought of trying—?’ Padruig began.
‘I have thought of nothing else.’ He slammed his fists down on the table. ‘After Mairi, I did. After Seonag, I did. But Tavia’s death made it clear I could not put another woman in danger. And you know what happened then.’
He did not want to talk about or even dwell on these matters—they were better left in the dark of an unhappy past. Padruig must have realised he’d overstepped for he sat and drank the rest of his ale without uttering another word.
‘She comes,’ Padruig whispered.
Athdar looked up and saw Isobel approaching. She walked quickly and decisively towards him. Padruig stood to leave, but he put his hand on Athdar’s shoulder and squeezed.
‘You do not stand a chance, my friend.’
Athdar wanted to ask what he meant before Isobel got close enough to hear. Padruig laughed then, smacked his back and moved away.
‘Lady,’ he said as he passed Isobel, ‘he mounts a strong defence, but dinna be fooled by it.’ Padruig warned her loud enough for Athdar to hear.
If Isobel was disturbed by it, she showed no sign of being so. Athdar dragged two chairs close together, near the warmth of the hearth. Isobel grabbed the small table and pulled it between them.
‘You finished packing quickly,’ he said as he reached for the wooden box and game board. ‘I did not expect you for nigh on another hour or more.’
‘My mother said I was making a mess of things, so she told me to leave!’
He waited for her to sit and then did so. ‘I suspect you have used that tactic in the past with great success.’ Her cheeks took on a pale pink hue as she blushed, confirming his suspicions without answering. ‘Which colour would you like?’
‘I like the black pieces,’ she said. Lifting one up, she wrapped her fingers around it and rubbed the edges of it. Athdar swore he felt her touch on the hard parts of his anatomy and tried not to show it. ‘The dark appeals to me.’
Though he would die before doing anything dishonourable, he was thinking of many, many things he would like to do with her as he watched her caress the carved wooden figure. He shook himself free of desire’s control and took up the red pieces, arranging them in lines on the board. With the way she’d played the first night, he needed his wits about him if he stood a chance of winning or even drawing a tie.
He allowed her the first move and it was not long before she began taunting him with risky moves, placing her pieces in harm’s, or his, way. Athdar resisted the urge to fall for her feints. She would make a remarkable strategist in any battle or war, he thought, as she claimed yet another of his. It took losing nearly half of his ‘army’ before he saw her pattern. He laughed aloud when he did, finally seeing the simple way she tested and took or tested and retreated from a confrontation.
Then it was too late for him, so caught up in appreciating the intelligence of her play that he missed her final series of moves that took his queen, then his king. This time she laughed, too, along with him. A few of the servants still working in the hall turned at the sound of it.
‘Another?’ he asked, motioning at the main table for cups and a pitcher. Ailean saw it and brought them. Isobel glanced around the hall and then back at him.
‘The polite thing for me to do is to beg off from another game, but I would like to continue,’ she answered.
‘Then, let’s,’ he said, with a motion of his hand to let her take the first move.
He’d learned much about her style of play and he was prepared for her this time. This game moved at a leisurely pace, each of them studying the board a bit longer than in the previous games. They’d taken several moves each, and he’d already lost a piece when she spoke.
‘So, what do you call your keep?’
‘The keep?’ he said, looking up at her. ‘I have no name for it.’ He thought about it for a moment and then realised what she meant. ‘It is not big and grand enough to have a name.’
‘Oh, it is big enough. And you could make it grand, if you wanted it so,’ she said.
‘Have you ever visited your grandfather’s?’ If she had, ’twas no wonder she thought of grander places—Rurik’s father was the Earl of Orkney and one of the wealthiest men in Norway.
‘I have met him, aye.’ She leaned in closer and lowered her voice so only he could hear it. ‘Father does not wish me to become accustomed to the way his father lives. But I have visited my grandmother in Caithness and stayed several months with her.’
Her father’s father had extraordinary wealth and power in the northern islands while her father’s mother was a nun, supervising a convent in the north-east of Scotland—two extremes in life—and yet Isobel seemed no more impressed by one than the other.
‘Your father is a practical man,’ he said.
Her eyes flashed and her cheeks turned bright red then. She laughed, leaning back against the chair and holding her stomach. She was so vibrant he thought the hall grew brighter from it. Only then did he notice that her hair was not bound up in a braid, but hanging loose and swirling around her as she moved.
‘In all my years...’
He frowned at her. All her years?
‘For as long as I can ever remember, you and my father have had nothing good to say about each other. Ever,’ she said, wiping her hand across her eyes. ‘I do not understand the basis for your animosity, though I have heard various rumoured bits of it.... That is the only good thing you have ever said about him.’
Her laughter yet echoed through his hall and he wanted to hear it go on and on. For so long, this had been a place of sadness, and would be again, but for now, he enjoyed her mirth.
‘I am certain I have said good things about him.’ Athdar searched his memory for that good thing now and could not bring it to mind. ‘I have admired his fighting skills.’
She stopped laughing, but her mouth curved in the most appealing smile then. ‘So tell me how it happened. I would like to hear the truth of it.’
Athdar hesitated. To put one’s humiliation on display was not done easily. Yet...
‘I was but ten-and-five and full of myself.’
‘As most young men are at that age,’ she added. She was much closer to that age than he was.
‘I travelled through Lairig Dubh on my father’s business and had the opportunity to watch your father in a fight with Connor. Apparently, it was a custom of theirs to engage in swordplay when they met up and I was witness to both their skill and strength. Scared the bravado right out of me.’
He shifted in his chair, wondering how to tell her the rest of it. She was, after all, a young woman with certain sensibilities.
‘I was a guest there and managed to get myself rather drunk one night at dinner. I insulted your father and found myself the victim, though at my own instigation, of his fury and his strength. I ended up with broken arms, nose and many, many bruises.’
It was worse than that, truly. The worst was not the two broken arms or the other physical injuries. The worst was when he understood the situation he’d drawn the unsuspecting and unwilling Jocelyn into because of his youthful stupidity. Her dreams of marrying the man she loved were torn apart by his foolish, drunken challenge that put him in the custody of the Beast of the Highlands.
Rurik had visited him in the depths of Broch Dubh and told him exactly what he would cost Jocelyn. All because he could not control himself. All because he did not think of the consequences of his actions. Not unlike an earlier time when...
A memory flared and faded in that moment. Something dark and terrifying flitted across his memories and sank back into the murky depths from which it had risen. Nausea followed, then his head felt as though struck fro
m behind.
‘Athdar?’
His vision narrowed and then widened. He could hear only a buzzing in his ears. Then all of it began to fade away.
‘Athdar?’ Isobel said, caressing his face. When had she touched him? When had she risen from her chair and approached him? ‘Are you ill?’ She crouched down closer before him and stroked his forehead and cheek with the back of her hand. ‘No fever.’
‘I am well,’ he said, though he was trying to convince himself of it more than her. ‘What happened?’ He swallowed, but his mouth and throat were parched. She noticed and held out a cup to him.
‘You were telling me of your confrontation with my father and then something happened. You looked as if in pain and then ill. Now?’ she asked, taking the cup from him and kneeling next to him.
Strange. He had been thinking about the true humiliation of learning the unintended consequences that Jocelyn suffered when some other memories or feelings surged forwards. Now they were gone and he felt fine.
‘’Tis a painful thing—exposing a man’s youthful stupidity to a beautiful woman who is the daughter of the man who exposed it in the first place. You now know my sordid past with your father, Isobel.’
Her hand still caressed his face and, with her kneeling at his side, it would be easy, oh so easy, to lean down and kiss the lips that tempted him so much. When she lifted her head and her mouth opened slightly, he did what he wanted to do.
Her lips were soft and warm against his and he could feel her heated breath against his mouth before he touched it with his. Athdar did not touch her, but she did not let go of his face, stroking it as he deepened the kiss by sliding his tongue along her lips until she opened to him.... For him.
The Highlander's Dangerous Temptation Page 7
