Page 15 of The Highlander’s Illicit Bride (Wicked Highland Lairds #1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ W e should stop here fer the night,” Struan said.

“Here? On the moor?” Isolde asked. “There’s nay cover.”

Struan pointed to a pile of standing, craggy stone. “We can shelter behind those.”

“But willnae people see us out here?”

“Aye. But plenty of travelers take their rest on the moors,” he said. “Plus, it gives us the advantage of bein’ able tae see them comin’ too.”

They had ridden most of the day, stopping at a small open-air market to have something to eat and pick up some supplies before pushing on.

Struan guided the horse toward the pile of tall standing stones, then slipped off the back.

A small creek ran beside the sheltered area and the dark, craggy rocks kept the wind that was gently blowing across the moor off them.

It was the perfect area to shelter for the night.

He lifted Isolde out of the saddle and set her down. As he set up a line to tie the horse to, Isolde stretched her back and legs. They had ridden a tremendous distance since fleeing Moy Castle and despite spending most of the day in the saddle, Isolde had not complained once. He was impressed.

After setting the horse to graze and take water from the creek, Struan walked around and gathered up whatever he could find that might burn.

When he returned, Isolde was already getting things together for their evening meal.

It wasn’t long before he had a fire going and they both settled in close to the flames, soaking in the warmth.

Struan gazed at her from across the fire, savoring the way the orange, flickering light made her blue eyes sparkle like chips of sapphire and made her skin seem to glow with an inner light.

She was beautiful, there was no denying that.

But in that moment, in the glow of the fire, she was ethereal.

Struan couldn’t help but gasp at her sight.

“Wine?”

Her voice snapped him out of his reverie for a moment, and he reached out, taking the skin from her.

Their fingers brushed and Struan felt a tendril of warmth that had nothing to do with the fire, spread through his body, making his heart stutter.

She held his gaze for a moment, her full lips curling upward softly, before she turned away.

The wine quenched his suddenly dry mouth but when he met her eyes over the fire again, a lump rose in his throat.

“Thank ye,” he said and handed the skin back to her.

“’Tis nae a feast, but this should fill our bellies fer the night,” she said. “Come. Eat.”

Struan walked around the fire and sat down beside her. Between them, she had laid out some of the goods they’d purchased at the market. Dried meats, cheese, crusty bread, and a couple jars of pickled vegetables.

“Looks like a feast tae me,” he said.

She smiled and they tucked into their food. For a while, they said nothing as they ate. They simply stared into the flames, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Out on the moors, it was darker than pitch and Struan could not see much beyond the glow of their fire.

It was a good spot to take their ease. Though they had no real cover, the open stretch of the moors would allow them to see anybody riding through the night with torches or oil lamps miles before they reached them.

“’Tis a beautiful night,” Isolde said.

“Aye. ‘Tis beautiful,” he replied, though he was looking at her and not at the sky. “And ‘twas a fine meal ye made, Mrs. MacTavish.”

“Why thank ye, Mr. MacTavish.”

She turned to him with a smile upon her lips.

He reached out and gently brushed a lock of her hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

The urge to lean forward and kiss her was almost overwhelming.

But he managed to restrain himself. His lips burned though, desperate to feel the warmth of her mouth upon his.

“Ye seemed pretty comfortable bein’ me wife,” he said with a grin.

“Ye stop that.” Her cheeks burned brightly, even in the dim light.

“Stop it? Ye ken ‘tis true.”

Her laugh echoed across the moor and her face lit up, brighter than the stars overhead. “Nae nearly as comfortable as ye posin’ as me husband.”

“Ye think so, eh?”

“Oh, I ken so.”

“Ye seem pretty sure of yerself.”

“And why would I nae be, then?” she asked. “Ye’d be a lucky man tae call yerself me husband.”

His gazed lingered on hers for a long moment and the air between them grew suddenly charged, as if lightning was forming. It carried as sense of anticipation. Expectation, perhaps.

“Aye,” he said seriously. “I believe I would be.”

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. Her cheeks burned brightly but Struan could see the look of wonder upon her face and for a moment, he pondered its meaning.

They shared a laugh and Struan relished the easy, warm feeling between them.

They had come so far in such a short time—and he wasn’t talking about the distance from Moy Castle.

And her smile… it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

The corners of her eyes crinkled, and her lips curved.

It was a sight that nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

An addictive glimpse of pure joy. Struan could not get enough of seeing it.

Isolde met his eyes, and another shy, demure smile touched her lips. But then she cleared her throat and sat up, a curious expression crossing her face.

“Ye are more devoted tae yer people than any laird I’ve ever seen. Ye seem tae think of them in everythin’ ye dae. ‘Tis a rare thing,” she said.

“It shouldnae be.”

“But ‘tis rare indeed,” she replied. “Ye’re different.”

He shook his head. “Nay. I’m nae so different. I ken more lairds who think like I dae than those who dinnae. Those like yer faither.”

A shadow passed over her face at the mention of her father, chasing away the light in her eyes. Struan felt its absence keenly and frowned at himself. He hadn’t meant to upset her.

“I saw the kind of laird me faither was and decided I wanted tae be like that,” he said. “Me faither believed a laird’s duty was tae serve his people and the land—never the other way around. ‘Tis how I was raised, how I was taught.”

“’Tis noble.”

“Shouldnae be,” he countered. “Those with more should dae all they can tae help those with less. I think the world would be a better place if more people did that, lairds or nae.”

“Aye. I agree,” she said softly. “The world would be a much better place if more people acted as ye dae than how me faither daes.”

The fire sparkled in her eyes and that warmth returned to them, making Struan’s heart swell.

She stared at him with something akin to admiration, which made him squirm.

Though fearless in battle, he never liked being stared at the way Isolde was staring at him.

Like he was something special. Like he was something…

noble. He was not. He was simply a man trying to do right by his people.

“Yer faither sounds like a good man,” she said.

“Aye. He was a good faither,” he said wistfully.

When Struan saw her face fall as memories, painful by the look of them, swept across her features, he fell silent, biting off the rest of his words.

He recognized the fact that while he’d had a good father, a man who cared for him greatly, Isolde’s experience had been far different.

She hadn’t had the sort of love and care he had had.

And it made him feel terrible for her. Struan wanted to pull her to him and hold her. To comfort her. But he stayed his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, settling for the warmth in his voice. “I didnae mean tae bring up bad memories fer ye.”

She shook her head. “Nay. ‘Tis nae ye. I’m glad ye had such a pleasant upbringin’,” she said. “Me experience was just… the opposite. I used tae dream of havin’ a faither like yers.”

“’Tis nae right.”

She shrugged. “I wish it had stopped affectin’ me long ago. But every time I think of it—think of him—I’m filled with anger. And grief.”

Isolde fell silent and the only sound in the air around them was the crackle and pop of the fire.

Struan felt like she wanted to speak more so he remained quiet, silently encouraging her to continue.

He had the idea she had never spoken these thoughts aloud and knew the only way to guide her through the labyrinth of dark thoughts in her mind was to let her purge them from her soul.

“Me maither died while she was givin’ birth tae me,” she said. “And me faither… he treated me like it was me fault. Never let me forget that I’m the reason she died and he never got a son.”

Struan did not censor himself this time and reached out, putting a gentle hand on hers. She stiffened for a brief moment before relaxing again, letting him hold her hand. She did not turn to him though, keeping her gaze locked firmly on the fire in front of them.

“All I’ve ever kent about me faither is that people fear him.

Nae respect him. Fear him,” she said. “I grew up surrounded by people who never wanted anythin’ tae dae with me fer fear of him.

I grew up in a castle filled with people, but I was always alone.

I always wanted tae believe ‘twas his grief that made him so cold. But I dinnae think it is true.”

“Sounds like a horrible way tae grow up.”

“I wouldnae recommend it,” she said with a bark of bitter laughter.

“I can see why ye wanted tae run away.”

“Aye. I have always wanted tae live me own life, away from all that. ‘Tis been a dream since I was a lass.”

She shifted and moved closer to the fire, her shoulder brushing against his. The gentle touch sent an electric thrill through him, and he found himself longing to be nearer to her. She surprised him when she leaned closer to him, as if seeking out his touch as much as he craved hers.