The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  “Isobel.”

  A sharp gasp escaped her as she turned. Her dark eyes, the deepest, richest brown and framed in thick black lashes, flared wide. Fear. Anger. Sorrow. Hatred. All shone in her face. Shouted at him. Accused him. She recoiled a step.

  God help me make her understand. He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. If possible, her loveliness had increased over the course of the past ten years. But his beloved Isobel had lost the soft innocence of her youth. She had hardened, become a vision of feral grace. An angry leeriness tightened her stance. His lost love bore the look of a beast escaped from a snare and willing to fight to the death before being trapped again.

  “Isobel,” he repeated in a softer tone. He longed to close the distance between them and gather her into his arms, but instinct warned him to hold fast.

  She bared her teeth and pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out.” Stomping forward, she shook a finger at the door again. “Ye’ve no business here. Get out before I ring for Einrich and have ye thrown out.”

  Gut wrenching at her reaction, Alasdair held the key aloft with the green ribbon. “I am yer gentleman for the evening.”

  She lowered her hand and fisted it at her side. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she jutted her chin upward. “A shameful ploy. Even for ye, Alasdair.” She clutched her arms across her body and made a jerking nod in his direction. “Was it not enough that ye lied to me all those years ago? Deserted me? Left me with a cruel, perverted man? Do ye now pay to see the depths ye’ve forced me to sink to?” The purest hatred shown in her face. “Are ye satisfied now?” She flipped a hand in his direction. “Go ahead. Laugh all ye like. Ye always accused me of putting on airs. Well done, Master Cameron. Ye knocked me from my pedestal.”

  He tucked the key into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, then scrubbed both hands down his face. Her words cut him worse than any dagger. How could he make her understand? “I never meant to hurt ye, mo chridhe.”

  “Dinna call me that!” She stormed back to the window and threw herself down on the pillowed couch in front of it. “Ye have no right to call me that. I am not yer heart. Not anymore.”

  So much loss. So much pain. The suffering he heard in her voice ripped him in two.

  She shot a hard look in his direction. “Ye gave up yer right to say such to me when ye forgot I existed. Understand?”

  “I never forgot ye existed. Ye looked happy when last I saw ye.” His voice broke against his will. He swallowed hard and tried again. “I came for ye, Isobel. I swear I did. I saw ye there with him. In the gardens. Smiling. Laughing. Looking up at the fool as though he was all ye ever wanted.” He shook his head, wishing he could travel back in time and make a different choice. “Ye looked settled. Contented. Well suited to a life I could never hope to offer ye.”

  She rocked forward, cupping her face in her hands. “Looks deceive.” She straightened and combed her fingers back through her hair. Hopelessness painted shadows under her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. She fixed her gaze upon him, unblinking. “Why did ye not come to the chapel? Ye promised me, Alasdair. Ye swore on yer mam’s grave.”

  “Morbid sore throat took out most of the clan. Few of us survived, and it took us weeks to regain enough strength to put one foot in front of the other.” Alasdair cringed. The excuse sounded lame even to him. Isobel thought the same. He saw it in her eyes. He swayed a step forward. “I came here to beg yer forgiveness.”

  “Well, ye canna have it,” she spit out the words as though they tasted of poison. “I wouldha gladly returned to Skye with ye, had ye but asked. We couldha rebuilt the clan. Ye had a croft. Land. What more would we have needed?”

  “I had nothing.” He risked another step forward. “I lost it all. Without the protection of the MacCoinnich Clan, with our people all but wiped out, Campbells took control of our land with the crown’s blessing. The handful of us that lived through the sickness only survived by leaving Skye and becoming mercenaries.”

  “I wouldha happily lived with nothing but yer plaid to shield me from the weather.” She scooted back against the cushions, drawing her knees to her chest, and wrapping her arms around them. “Ye didna even give me the chance to decide, Alasdair. Ye denied me the choice that was rightfully mine to make—not yers!”

  She was right. How could he argue with the truth? He pulled an armchair out of the corner of the room, angled it in front of her, and lowered himself into it. He’d rather sit closer, share the couch with her. But to approach her now would be a mistake. “I was wrong, Isobel, and dinna think I havena suffered with the foolishness of my decision.”

  “Ye suffered?” She huffed out a bitter laugh. “Ye have no idea about suffering.” She flipped a hand toward the window. “I suppose ye left yer wife for the evening. Does she know ye spent her household money on a harlot?”

  “I have no wife.” He clenched the wooden arms of the chair, digging his fingers into the grain of the wood. “Ye were the only woman I ever wished to marry. The only woman of my heart.”

  Her soulful eyes flashed with fury. “Dinna insult me with more lies. I am no longer the naïve lass who once believed every word that fell from yer lips.”

  Someone knocked softly on the door.

  Heart heavy, Alasdair went to the door but didn’t open it. Instead, he held the latch and leaned close. “Aye?”

  “Madam and I thought ye might need some refreshments to get through the night. I’ve brought a tray for ye.” Fanny’s voice held a note of expectancy laced with worry.

  They must think him a fool. The women were checking on Isobel’s welfare. The harlots had taken her in and considered her one of their own. He unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped aside, all the while keeping an eye on Isobel. He’d not be surprised if the woman attempted to bolt.

  Holding an overflowing tray of bread, cheese, and dried fruit piled around several bottles of wine and a pair of glasses, Fanny stepped into the room. “There now. Here be a fine lovely repast to get ye through the night.”

  “I will never forgive ye,” Isobel snapped, her venomous glare locked on Fanny.

  Fanny gave her an apologetic smile. “I know, lass. I know.” Without another word, she deposited the tray on top of the low dresser against the wall and left the room.

  Alasdair closed the door behind her and locked it. This evening was far from over.

  Chapter Four

  How dare he come here and witness her shame. Isobel clutched a hand to her throat as she stared out the window. Nay. This was not shame. She was not ashamed of anything she had done to keep Connor safe from his wicked father’s influence. A deep breath failed at calming her.

  And how dare he look at her that way. How dare he stir the long-buried memories of her heart. The hopeless love she had locked away and done her best to forget. By the saints above, how could he still have such power over her after all that had come to pass?

  “Would ye rather port or whisky?”

  “I’d rather ye left.” The words slipped out with little effort. She prayed Alasdair would heed the acidic hate laced in them and give up this cruel farce. She needed him to leave. Every time he spoke, the treacherous memories of all they had once hoped to share threatened to surface and cloud her judgment. The mere sight of him had rendered her weak. Damn him. Damn him straight to hell.

  “Port, it is.” The soft shushing of liquid gurgling into a glass broke the strained silence between them. Floorboards creaked. Boots thumped dangerously close. “Isobel.”

  Even before she faced him, the heat of him touched her, making her wish she could shy away. She daren’t allow herself any closer. It would be like a midge risking a spider’s deadly web. She shifted on the couch, scooting as far back in the corner as she could. A glance up at him almost choked her. She had forgotten how much his eyes reminded her of storm clouds one minute and soft morning mist the next. Avoiding the slightest brush of his fingers, she accepted the goblet of port. “Thank ye.”

  He
gave her a polite nod that didn’t mask the fact he’d noticed she’d done her best not to touch him. He returned to his seat in the center of the room. With elbows propped on his knees, he rolled the glass of whisky between his palms, staring into it as if in a trance. “I am sorry, Isobel,” he said soft and low. “Sorrier than ye shall ever know.”

  She sipped at the port to keep from blurting out her pain and sounding like some hysterical, empty-headed lass. She had shared enough for one day. He’d caught her off guard. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction again. Rubbing a fingertip around the rim of her goblet, she allowed herself a bitter smile. Her reflection in the drink looked quite the sullen shrew, and she felt it to her bones. ’Twas easy to embrace the part. “Aye. Ye said that a’ready.”

  “And I shall keep saying it until ye believe the truth of it.” He sipped at his whisky, but she could tell he longed to toss it back and pour himself another. Alasdair had always loved his whisky and handled it well.

  “The sickness took my clan, too,” she volunteered. She didn’t know why she said it. The words seemed to surface of their own accord. “Temsworth informed me—daily, in fact—that all I had ever known or loved was dead, and I was alone in this world.”

  He studied her, a pained frown knotting his dark brows. “I had heard of yer father’s death. I am sorry.”

  “Dinna be. Father turned out to be a self-serving, greedy man who cared for nothing other than gaining enough gold to fund his travels.”

  She shifted on the seat, rearranging her chemise to cover herself as best she could. It was bad enough having her feelings exposed to Alasdair much less her body. She took another sip as she allowed herself to look over this man who had once held the key to all her hopes and dreams.

  He was still the strong, muscular Highlander who made a lass’s heart beat faster. But the longer she watched him, the more she realized he had changed. Hardened. Seasoned. Less the arrogant, self-assured youth she had once known. He seemed almost humbled. A strained weariness tensed his broad shoulders, and the little finger on his left hand appeared permanently bent at an odd angle. It must have been broken and poorly set. “Ye’ve gone a bit gray at the temples, Alasdair.”

  He touched a hand to the side of his dark hair slicked back in a queue. “Aye. I suppose I have.” He locked eyes with her. “Ye’re as lovely as ye ever were. Even more so if that’s possible.”

  He shouldn’t look at her like that. She cleared her throat. “If I am to understand ye correctly, ye came here this evening to confess yer sins and beg forgiveness from me, aye?” If forgiveness would rid her of him, perhaps she should feign it, so he’d be gone from her.

  “In part.”

  “In part?” She drained her glass, unsure whether she wished him to continue. Surely, he didn’t suggest… She swallowed hard. When she had told Madam and Fanny, she wished to become one of their ladies, she had felt certain she could follow through and do whatever it took—as long as she kept the thought of securing funding for the Highlands firm in her mind. But with Alasdair? The courage required for that fled her. “Am I to understand, ye’re a regular here at Château Delatate then? Like yer brother?”

  He scowled at her with the same perturbed look he’d often given her when they were young. “I am not a regular here.” He rose and held out his hand for her glass. “I came here to beg yer forgiveness and offer my help. Madam and Fanny informed me about Temsworth sniffing about and yer fear of discovery.”

  She’d not be bullied with the mention of Temsworth. “Ye know I have a son.” That should run him off quick enough. What man wished to offer protection for another man’s child? Especially when that child was a duke’s only heir.

  Alasdair handed her the refilled glass, this time taking care to brush his fingertips across hers. “Madam and Fanny told me of yer son. Young Connor.” He gave her a smile, but sorrow darkened his eyes. “Full of piss and vinegar, Fanny said.”

  His touch addled her more than she cared to admit. She switched her glass to the other hand and tucked the fingers he’d touched under her arm as though to warm them. “Aye,” she agreed softly, then took a quick drink to steady her inner storm.

  “Tell me of him.” He had the audacity to seat himself beside her. Granted, he sat on the other end of the long couch but was still beside her just the same.

  If she rose and paced about the room, the infernal chemise she’d allowed Fanny to convince her to wear would leave nothing to the imagination. Every dimpled dip and scar showed through the gauzy material. So, she tucked herself even tighter against the rolled arm of the couch and leaned away, putting as much distance as possible between them.

  “Tell me of yer Connor, Isobel. Please?”

  She was not a fool. She knew what he played at, but if he wished to perpetuate this laughable game, she’d play along. After all, he’d paid for the entire night, and Fanny had stressed several times that clients of Château Delatate always got their money’s worth. Isobel could only assume that rule included Alasdair.

  “Connor is my dearest heart.” She allowed herself a faint smile. “Braw, courageous wee lad, he is. Five years old this month.” She eased out the softest sigh. “He is my only joy.” A long drink of the port sobered her. She turned and glared at Alasdair, willing him to understand. “I will do anything to protect him.”

  “Spoken like the fine mother I always knew ye’d be.”

  They needed to change the subject. He had learned enough about her. Isobel shifted her gaze back to the faded wine stain on the golden damask of the sofa. “Madam and Fanny said Ian lost Janet in the massacre at Glencoe.”

  Alasdair frowned down at his whisky. “Aye. A Campbell bastard slit her throat, and Ian held her in his arms as she died.” His fingers flexed around the glass, his knuckles whitening. “She had just told him the night before that she carried his child.” He slowly shook his head. “For a while, I feared he’d take his own life—or fight with such abandon, his enemies would take it for him.”

  Sadness for Ian and all he had lost filled her. Alasdair’s only brother had always been such a dear soul. “God bless him,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” Alasdair said. “God bless him, indeed.” Silence once more settled between them, but it seemed softer, less threatening.

  With an impatient shifting on the couch, he faced her. “Allow me to help ye, Isobel. I can help ye, yer aunt, and Connor. Ye need safety. I can offer it. A young lad Connor’s age needs room to stretch his legs. My home has that both inside and out. Halls made for a boy’s running and a walled-in garden made for exploring. I know ye may never forgive me, but at least allow me to pay for my poor judgment by doing this for yerself and yer son.”

  “Do ye not realize once Temsworth discovers ye live in Edinburgh, he’ll turn up at yer home, too?” She stood. The sheer chemise be damned. She couldn’t sit still any longer. “He knew I loved ye when we married. Da told him all about ye. Even how ye offered for my hand after we made our promise in the caves. That’s one reason he taunted me with the lie about yer death for years. Every time he forced me to…” She refused to speak the rest of the despicable words. Instead, she hurried to refill her glass. “He is a powerful, heartless man, Alasdair. And he has a long reach that crushes his enemies. My only hope lies in the Highlands with whatever clan I can convince to take us in.” She took a deep drink. “We can hide there. Connor will be safe.”

  “Ye mean to go begging?” He stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. “Begging yer way through the Highlands ’til ye find a clan willing to take ye in after I’ve offered ye safe haven here?”

  “I would nay be begging.” She tightened her hold on her glass, fighting the urge to throw it in his face. “I can sew. Cook. I know the healing arts and herbs.” She stormed closer. “How do ye think I prevented myself from getting with child for the first five years of my hideous marriage?”

  He rose from his seat. A head taller, he had always been one of the few men who towered over her. His scowl grew d
angerously dark as he lunged a step closer. “Ye must not have been verra good at yer healing arts. Ye have a son, do ye not?”

  “Temsworth took away my herbs when he discovered them. That’s when he imprisoned me in the tower!” She shuddered, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from sobbing. Damn him for tricking her into speaking her mind. Ten years of pent-up rage threatened to explode. Nay. He would not be allowed to make her guilt any worse. She regretted so much. Regretted that she hadn’t left Temsworth sooner. “I am a good healer. Auntie Yeva taught me well.” She stood prouder. “And I love my son. I dinna regret having him.”

  “Imprisoned ye?” Alasdair reached out to her.

  Ingrained reflexes from past beatings took over. Isobel flinched and shied away, lifting both hands to fend off the strike. Too late, she realized her error. She stared at him for a long moment, then hugged herself and turned away.

  “Isobel?” he whispered. His tone made her want to retch.

  “Dinna pity me,” she warned in a low, growling sob. She fought away the dark memories. “I survived. I finally found my courage and escaped.” She faced him and lifted her chin. “And I saved my son and Auntie.”

  “Aye.” Alasdair eased closer. “That ye did, lass. Ye’ve more courage than most men I know.”

  “Dinna be condescending, either.” She couldn’t bear his kindness any more than she could bear his pity. And his kindness was far more dangerous. It risked eroding her defenses. She turned and busied herself at the tray of food beside the bottles, rearranging the bannocks and cheeses into orderly stacks. “Tell me of the MacCoinnichs. Did all the brothers survive?”

  “Aye.” Alasdair drew closer still. “All four.”

  Isobel closed her eyes against the feel of him so near. Would this accursed night never end?

  The lightest touch brushed her arm. She stiffened, hands fisting on either side of the tray atop the dresser.