Chapter 18
Lachlan had been awake long before the sun’s rays kissed the stones of Dunvegan. Sleep had come in fragments, shallow and restless, slipping away entirely the moment the first fingers of light touched the horizon.
He rose while the castle still lay in shadow and made his way down the narrow path that led toward the sea loch and the small islands that made up his holding.
The wind coming off the sea carried a sharp, unrelenting chill, cutting cleanly through the wool of his plaid as though it sought to strip away whatever warmth remained.
Below, the tide rolled steadily against the shore, the sound of it rising and falling in a rhythm that should have been calming and yet wasn’t.
Zeus perched on the stone wall beside him, his sable coat sleek and shiny.
Stoically he sat, his little whiskers twitching as he surveyed the landscape as though he were the real laird.
An image of Zeus with tiny golden rings on each of his fingers suddenly popped into his head and Lachlan had to stop himself from laughing aloud by himself. Or, he guessed, alone with his ferret.
A few small fishing boats had already pushed out from the small harbor of his village, their sails catching the faint light of dawn as they moved across the water.
Gulls circled above them, their cries sharp against the morning air as the fishermen cast their nets.
The Isle of Skye was waking, piece by piece.
The familiarity of everyday living might have steadied him, had he not known what was coming.
He had faced English blades without flinching. He had ridden into battles where the outcome had been uncertain and walked away from them with blood on his hands and victory at his back. War did not unsettle him. Even when he’d nearly died from a blasted spear in his leg.
But Isabel… she unmoored him.
The memory of Isabel in her chamber the night before refused to loosen its hold on him.
The feel of her hands gripping his leine, the way she had not pulled away, the certainty in the way she had kissed him back, lingered with a persistence he had not expected, threading through his thoughts in a way that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
The heat of her lips, her soft gasp against his mouth.
Lachlan dragged a hand down his face and exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him in a controlled release that did little to ease the tension in his chest.
He had kissed her as though nothing beyond that moment mattered. As though she were not Robert the Bruce’s niece. As though he were not the man responsible for her safety. As though the world outside that bedchamber did not exist.
And he knew better. Gods, did he know better. And yet, if she were here right now, the way his body burned for her, he’d haul her up against him and kiss her again.
Footsteps sounded behind him, light but deliberate.
Lachlan whipped around to see Isabel standing there, wrapped in a plaid cloak, her hair loose around her shoulders blowing in the breeze from the sea.
Freckles jumped from her shoulder and joined Zeus on the wall where they chittered as if discussing something important.
“I see I’m no’ the only one with a desire for a morning walk.” Isabel’s voice reached out to him, gripped him around the neck. Her gaze scanned his body, settling on the wooden walking stick at his side and she gave a satisfied nod.
Lachlan swallowed, trying to wrap his head around the idea of her standing a few feet away when he’d just sworn to himself if she was, he’d kiss her. Could he take back that declaration?
Keep your feet planted, lad, he said to himself.
Lachlan remained where he was for a moment longer, forcing his gaze to fix on the water below as though it might offer him some answer he had not yet found.
When he finally glanced over his shoulder, she stood a few paces away, her cloak drawn tightly around her against the cold, the tips of her pinkening fingers curled around the edges.
Summer mornings in Scotland were often chilly.
The early light caught in her hair, casting faint threads of gold against the darker strands.
“Ye’re awake early.” Lachlan groaned internally at such a dumb statement.
Isabel smirked. “I could say the same of ye.”
“War teaches a man no’ to sleep too deeply,” he replied, though the words felt inadequate even as he spoke to them, and he was starting to feel like an utter imbecile. Why could he not think of something cleverer to say? Something that would make her smile?
She stepped forward, coming to stand beside him at the edge of the path.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence that settled between them was not uncomfortable, but it was far from easy.
It carried awareness. Memory. The unspoken weight of what had passed between them the night before.
Lachlan’s limbs sizzled, and he moved the wooden walking stick in front of him, clenching it tight with both of his fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Your land is beautiful,” she said at last, her gaze drifting toward the fishing boats.
“Aye,” he answered, his voice quieter now.
She watched the boats for a moment before asking, “Do the fishermen belong to your clan?”
“They do.”
“And the village?”
“Also mine.”
She turned slightly toward him then, her expression thoughtful in a way that made him pause. “Ye’re responsible for all of them.”
“Aye,” he said again, though the word felt different this time, heavier in his chest. “Did your da no’ have the same?”
“We had a castle, aye. Many servants. But my time was mostly spent at court. Ye seem much more… involved.”
Lachlan grunted. Not sure what to say in answer.
“’Tis admirable.”
“’Tis my duty.”
“Some men may no’ think so.”
She began walking, and he hurried to catch up, following the narrow path that wound down toward the village.
Dunvegan had fully awakened now, the quiet of dawn giving way to the steady rhythm of work.
Smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the scent of baking bread in the air, while voices rose and fell in conversation across the open space between crofts.
Children spotted Lachlan almost immediately.
“My laird!”
Ethan and Ewan, two wee lads, came running toward him, their bare feet striking the earth with unrestrained enthusiasm.
“Did ye fight the English again?” one asked, his eyes bright with curiosity.
“Aye,” Lachlan replied, unable to suppress the faint smile that followed.
“Did ye win?”
“We are still here, are we no’?”
The lads grinned, clearly satisfied with the answer, looking every bit like their father Mungo. Then one of them pointed at Isabel. “Who is she?”
Before Lachlan could respond, Ethan and Ewan’s younger sister Eva appeared behind them, studying Isabel with a seriousness that seemed far older than her years.
“Are ye staying?” she asked.
Isabel let out a soft laugh, though there was something uncertain beneath it. “For the time being.”
The girl considered that, then reached into her pocket and held out a small pink and purple swirling seashell. “For ye.”
Isabel accepted it with a warmth that felt entirely genuine. “Thank ye—and what is your name?”
“Eva,” the lass said before the children scattered again, their attention already pulled elsewhere.
Nearby, a group of women had been watching, and waved Isabel forward. She glanced up at him as if she were unsure how to respond.
“They might bite, but only strangers, and ye are with me. I’ll no’ let any MacLeod hurt ye.”
Isabel’s cheeks colored slightly, and she nodded, before approaching the women with grace.
He found himself watching her as she greeted the clanswomen.
Watching the way she spoke to them with ease, asking questions about their work as though she had always been part of such conversations, and the women appeared to accept her in kind.
Lachlan wasn’t sure why he was surprised that Isabel treated the women as equals rather than servants beneath her notice, from the very first day she’d arrived and insisted on helping prepare the meal.
Most noblewomen he had encountered wore their rank like armor, stiff with expectation and eager to remind others of their place.
But Isabel moved among the women with an ease that drew people toward her.
She listened when they spoke. She worked beside them without hesitation.
And though there was no mistaking the authority in her voice, it was not the sort born from arrogance.
It came from confidence, from competence.
People obeyed her not because they were forced to, but because before long they found themselves respecting her.
And he was not the only MacLeod to do so, it would seem.
They walked beyond the village soon after, the land opening again as the path circled back toward the sea loch.
She reached into the small pouch at her belt and withdrew the gold and ruby ring. “I have been studying this,” she said, holding it up so the light could catch the worn engraving.
Lachlan glanced at it, his attention narrowing on the small piece of jewelry. He was still unsure how Comyn figured into the plot, but when they’d been at his feast, instinct bid him keep the ring a secret, and Lachlan never ignored his instincts.
“A man who wears a ring like this is no’ a common soldier,” she continued.
“Nay.”
“He is someone of rank.”
She turned it slowly between her fingers, her focus intent. “Someone important enough to be recognized, to press his signet into wax. Someone important enough to be missed.”
Lachlan frowned slightly. “Ye think it belonged to the man who burned that abbey?”
“I think it belonged to someone who did no’ expect to lose it,” she replied. “Or did they?”
He studied her for a moment, taking in the crease of her brow, the purse of her lips. “What do ye mean?”
She turned the ring over in her hand thoughtfully. “Maybe they wanted us to find it, to put us off their trail.”
“Ye think the ring does no’ belong to our traitor?”
“Aye. They could be deliberately trying to mislead us.”
“I’d no’ put it past someone who was willing to risk the lives of their people on a battlefield to throw someone else off a cliff.”
They reached the edge of the sea loch, where gentle waves lapped against the pebbled embankment, and a small village across the harbor teamed with life. For a time, they stood in silence, the salty wind moving between them.
“Did ye recognize the signet,” she asked quietly.
“Nay. But I swear we’ll find out who it belongs to.” He pressed his walking stick into the earth, a subtle show of how he planned to carve out the enemy.
“I’m relieved no’ to have recognized it myself,” she said. “That means ’tis no’ someone so close to me.”
“Aye.” Lachlan turned to face her fully, reaching out with his free hand to tuck her windblown hair behind her ear. “I’ll no’ let any harm come to ye, lass. I swear it.”
She smiled, searching his gaze. For what, he did not know. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to put words to it. His gaze roved from her blue eyes to her lush mouth and everything inside him tightened.
Unbidden, he stepped closer. The decision felt inevitable, though he could not have said when it had been made. His hand found the curve of her waist, steady and certain, drawing her toward him as though the movement required no thought at all.
Isabel did not pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, the soft curves of her body pressing to his.
“Ye should no’ do that,” she murmured, though the protest lacked conviction, as she pressed a hand over his heart, her fingers curling.
“Do ye want me to let go?” he asked, his voice low.
“Nay, I dinna want ye to let go,” she breathed softly.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I dinna want to either. And I know I should. That ye’re meant for another. That touching ye… kissing ye, goes against my orders, duty. But I find I dinna much care.”
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous truth of all.
That he was willing to risk the wrath of his future king just to feel her mouth on his.
With that knowledge floating between them, Lachlan threw caution to the wind.
He bent his head and captured her mouth with his.
Soft at first, then more urgent, his tongue pressing between the seam of her lips.
And when she opened for him, he nearly died at the soft stroke of their tongues.
The wind tore at them, pulling at cloak and hair, but neither of them seemed to notice.
Isabel’s hands rose to his shoulders, gripping tight and drawing him closer, his hand sliding along her back with a possessiveness that should have startled her, but she reciprocated in kind.
Pressing closer, as though the world beyond them had narrowed to something far smaller and far more immediate. Far more forbidden.
Lachlan’s hands roved lower, over the swell of her hips, to her bottom. Cupping the supple roundness and… my god… Isabel groaned against his mouth, tucking her hips close to this tightening groin.
He should stop. Now. Or else he was going to—
“My laird!” The voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Lachlan yanked back just as Angus rode up the path, the urgency in his posture unmistakable. Isabel’s face was red, her lips swollen from his kiss, her hair mussed from more than the wind. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from Angus’s view.
“What is it?” Lachlan asked, his voice already shifting back into command, the desire that had taken over a moment ago still gripping him like a vice.
Angus scrutinized the two of them. As astute as he was, there was no doubt he knew exactly what he’d just interrupted. “A messenger has arrived.”
“From where?”
“Robert the Bruce.”
Lachlan let out a curse under his breath. If ever he needed a reminder in that moment of why he should not have been caressing her arse and licking her mouth, here it was.
Angus dismounted quickly, handing over a sealed letter. Dust coated his boots, and his horse’s flanks were damp with sweat. The ride had been fast. Lachlan broke the seal without hesitation and read.
As his eyes moved across the page, the calm of the morning disappeared.
“What is it?” Isabel’s voice was filled with the same dread he felt in his gut.
He lowered the letter slowly, the wind catching the edge of the parchment and snapping it in his grip. Lachlan crinkled the missive in his fist.
“Peace,” he said quietly, “may no’ last as long as we hoped. The Bruce warns that Longshanks has made plans to travel from the mainland to the Isle of Skye, and that he’s bringing half his army with him.”