Chapter Fifteen
Ismay shivered stepping into the frigid water.
He’d kept his promise to bring her here this morning.
She knew he would, that was why she came prepared, wearing extra petticoats and a shorter leine beneath her longer one, so that when she removed the outer layers before stepping into the water, they would remain dry.
Most of all, thanks to the layer underneath she would not be completely indecent in the sight of the Lochiel.
She felt her face burn for the tenth time already since finding him outside her door.
All her blushing was born of one thing. His kiss in the solar.
Would the memory of it always make her insides, most specifically the place below her navel, burn?
She wished she had her fan. Though the air was crisp, her body felt uncomfortably warm.
What if he kissed her again? Would it seal her fate? It was why she chose to come here to the loch this morning. She knew he would not bring her alone.
She wished Joan would accompany her into the water but her friend refused to follow her into the icy depths. She squealed when the water touched her, as if in pain and causing the two men waiting by the trees to come running.
Ismay laughed and swam to the waterfall. The same thrill did not bubble Joan’s blood, but her friend did not leave the water’s edge while Ismay bathed and swam. Even Lachlan was forgotten while Ismay’s new dear friend watched over her as closely as the Lochiel did.
Twice, Ismay lightly splashed her and they laughed, the sound echoed by the men watching.
“Come closer,” Ismay invited with a sinister grin.
Her belly flipped when the chief laughed softly, knowing what she was devising.
“I dinna know what ye did with the old Lochiel,” Joan said, lowering her voice so only Ismay would hear, “but whatever it is, dinna bring him back. This Lochiel is more pleasant.”
Ismay splashed her, not so lightly this time, and then laughed and swam away when Joan vowed to catch her and make her sorry.
Escaping, Ismay let happiness spread its warmth on her.
Here she was, in a glorious loch where, if she closed her eyes, the sound of its waterfall reminded her of the waterfall near her father’s house.
She had a loyal friend in Joan, just as she had in Murrun back home.
And she had more. She had what had been missing in all the best scenarios of her life; a man she could allow into her heart, her life, and her bed.
She found him watching her from the close tree line. She waved. Lachlan and Joan waved back. It made Ismay cover her mouth to giggle. She had been accepted at Tor Castle. Every day it felt more familiar, more like home.
The only one who did not seem to want her there was Bethia, though she made it a point to always be the first one to attend Ismay. According to Constantine, Bethia came to Tor with his wife. It was understandable that Bethia was loyal to her lady. Ismay tried not to take it too personally.
Her eyes caught Constantine moving. He was making his way toward a row of twelve men carrying trays of food to the grass and setting down at their chief’s direction.
She remained in the water until the men left and then, under Joan’s careful guard, she left the water and changed into dry clothes.
When she was dressed, she made her way to him and stepped into the woolen plaid he held open to receive her.
“Did ye enjoy yerself?” His arms closing around her and his breath against her ear filled her with warmth.
She nodded, wanting to invite him in with her next time. She said nothing and closed her eyes as his scent of pine and morning mist covered her, filling every inch of her.
She knew he would be leaving any day now to battle the MacKintoshes once and for all. Would he return?
With a slight shake of her head that made her short tresses sway, she refused to think on such things. Of course, he would return. He was the Lochiel. The most savage man she had ever met.
“Ye’re shiverin’,” he said huskily and wrapped her up more tightly in the plaid.
“Och, lady!” Joan lamented, standing behind her and at least five safe steps away. “Yer hair is still wet! Why would ye bathe in the freezing lake?”
Ismay moved to smile and reassure her. “I’m well, Joan. Verra well.”
Her friend got the message, stopped, and smiled brightly at her, and then at the Lochiel holding her.
Because she decided at that moment to rest her cheek against his chest, her ear heard the sound of deep rumbling from someplace within him. Was it the sound of his resistance to what was clear to Joan?
Taking mercy on him, Ismay stepped back. But he didn’t let her go. She couldn’t lift her arms to embrace him or push him away, so she simply let him warm her.
She realized it was a vulnerable position to be in—unable to lift her arms in defense. But this was no mere chief. This was the man who had taken her under his protective arms and had not let go.
She trusted him without caring why she offered it to him so easily. He would not hurt her the way others had.
Finally, he bent his head and shoulders back to take a look at her. His dark eyes moved over her wet strands and she struggled a little to instinctively lift her hand to her hair. He lifted his to it instead.
From behind her she heard Joan’s startled intake of breath. Ismay worried he might kiss her in front of the others. She wished they were alone so that he would indeed kiss her. He didn’t. He pulled the length of the plaid over her head and rubbed it on her head.
When he finally let her go, she felt cold and alone for an instant. But his warm gaze on her was like hot coals heating the deepest cavern of her heart.
They ate a feast of braised duck, and pheasant. Hare stew with turnips, mushrooms, and carrots. This morning’s black bread with honey, currant tarts, along with dried and smoked herring, various custards and savory and sweet pies.
While they filled their bellies, she learned from the worshipful words of Lachlan, things Joan could not tell her about the Lochiel because she had not been privy to them.
Like how Constantine had saved his men during all six of their major battles against both Cromwellian garrisons making their way into the Highlands, and enemy clans, like the MacKintoshes, MacPhersons, and even sometimes Campbells.
Ismay wasn’t surprised by any of it. He had appeared fearless when the MacKintoshes had arrived at the inn. But she wished he did not enjoy fighting so much. One day, his life would catch up with him.
“Do ye have to fight?” she asked, hating herself for it.
He looked up from his cup of water and simply stared at her. Then, with a hint of a smile on his decadent lips, “I will do all I can to avoid it.”
She was tempted to gape at him, but fought it, not wishing to appear a hapless dolt. “Ye will?”
“Ye will?” Lachlan almost sprang to his feet. “Do ye jest?”
“I want to give killin’ up and live a wee bit, if I can,” he told his cousin—who didn’t care what he looked like with his mouth hanging open.
“What will we all do withoot ye, Lochiel?”
Constantine let out a sigh and shook his head. “I will fight when I’m needed.”
At this, Ismay tossed the younger Cameron a dark glare. She said nothing in front of him, lest she become the enemy before his men even found out she was a MacPherson. She would not make Constantine’s decisions for him, unless they might get him killed.
Nae. She quickly shook her head at herself. It was not for her to say. His life was his own. He hadn’t pledged it to her.
“Let us not speak of fighting on such a perfect day,” she suggested, doing her best not to worry about tomorrow or the day after that.
After they ate, they rode to the Doomsday Tavern and Inn for drinks with Lewis.
While Ismay watched Constantine and his cousins, she marveled that the Lochiel was the same man who had stood with his back against the wall while she wept into her stew.
He hadn’t laughed then. He hadn’t smiled.
He looked mildly interested in the goings on around him—except when his dark gaze found hers.
His cousins also appeared surprised but happy at his recent mood.
“Lady Ismay,” Lewis turned to her, holding his cup to his lips. “Did ye already mention who was yer father? There was a patron here this mornin’ who spoke aboot the daughter of his lord running off in the night.”
Her belly tightened into a knot. She felt lightheaded at the table and tried to conceal it from Constantine.
“Did this patron mention who is the lord whose daughter ran off in the night?” he asked.
Lewis shook his head. “He seemed fiercely loyal to his lord—or his lord’s daughter. He said only this when I asked him, ‘If she left, she likely wants to stay hidden.’”
Ismay sat in silence, fighting to keep her tears at bay.
She tried to ask a question twice, and both times a lump in her throat made it almost impossible to speak.
Finally, she managed, keeping the quaver that felt as if it were shaking her whole body, out of her voice.
“Who was the patron? Did he tell ye that much, at least?”
Lewis shook his head and turned his gaze to Constantine, who was staring at him with a spark in his glaring gaze.
“What?” Lewis asked, sounding hurt.
“Ye upset her,” their chief said in a low growl.
Ismay turned to him. Was he angry over such a thing? “Nae, I’m quite all right, Chief.”
He didn’t look convinced. She turned an apologetic look on Lewis. “Thank ye fer sharing that tale with me, Lewis,” she told him letting him—and the chief—know he was forgiven.
“I didna mean to upset ye, Miss Drummond,” Lewis told her, dipping his repentant gaze. “Fergive me.”