The Highlander's Dangerous Temptation

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‘I told Laria I would come later today if I was able,’ she said, standing. ‘If neither of you needs me for anything, I will go there now.’

‘Do not exhaust yourself, Isobel,’ Lady Jocelyn warned. ‘I think this turn in the weather is a bad sign and we may have to leave sooner than we’d planned.’

‘Very well,’ she replied. In her mind, she made plans to work with Laria for a short time and return well before it grew dark. As the winter drew nearer, that happened sooner each day.

‘And take your heavier riding cloak. The day grows colder,’ her mother advised.

Isobel sent Glenna to bring her cloak and left through the kitchens, checking with the cook and the steward to see if they needed anything from Laria before making her way through the yard and gates and village to the woman’s cottage.

* * *

‘So, you came,’ Laria said, greeting her in the same brusque manner as was her custom. ‘I am nearly done my chores for today.’

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ Isobel asked. She’d learned the first day not to try to assume that Laria meant anything more than she said. And it seemed that no one was addressed any differently by her—whether man or woman, visitor or villager, laird or servant.

Lady Jocelyn’s words ran through her thoughts about Laria’s past and her manners now, but she hesitated to ask anything of a personal nature. Isobel was a guest and had no place to ask such things. She would ask Lady Jocelyn or her mother instead.

The cottage filled with the smell of some concoction cooking in the hearth. The aromatic puffs of steam that rose from the bubbling pot scented the entire room with something very appealing and soothing. Isobel paced around the work table, looking at the various piles and bowls.

‘The winds have changed. Winter will be upon us sooner than we thought.’ Laria pointed to two sacks on the end of the table. ‘I must get these to the miller.’

‘Is there someone to take you there?’ she asked, uncertain of what arrangements were made for this.

‘Nay, not now. The mill is not a far walk.’

The mill. Athdar was overseeing some work on the mill. He’d arrived back at the keep late each day because of it.

‘Should we go now?’ The words were out before she could stop them.

‘Aye. Let me move the pot,’ Laria said. She wrapped her apron around her hand and pushed the pot over into the corner and away from the flames. ‘That will keep.’

Though she’d not walked to the mill, Isobel knew the direction of it and estimated it would take about an hour or so to reach it.

‘Is this to be milled?’ she asked once they were on the road that led along the stream to where it grew wider and where the mill sat. ‘Athdar has been overseeing repairs to it these last few days.’

Isobel felt that same shift between them that she’d noticed the first time they’d met—and at the mention of Athdar. Mayhap Laria was offended by her casual way of speaking about the laird? Glancing over at the woman, she thought it might be something more than that. But as quickly as the chilliness came, it left Laria’s voice and face, making Isobel question whether it had happened or not.

The rest of their journey was accomplished in silence, only occasionally interrupted when Laria pointed out something of interest. A scurrying animal moving in the bushes. A different plant or tree she’d not seen before. A villager passing by on their way to their chores. Although the day was colder than the previous one, Isobel hardly noticed it as they walked away from the village.

And as they walked, the anticipation grew within her at the expectation that she would see Athdar. They had not really spoken since they met on the bridge the day after her arrival. Now she would have a chance to watch him in his duties as laird. Familiar with him more as kin or family of kin, she’d had little experience with him in his position over his clan.

* * *

They heard the sounds before they reached the curve in the road. As the mill came in sight, Isobel saw a group of men struggling to move a new millstone into place. The side wall of the millhouse was gone, taken down to allow them access. She looked for Athdar, but she did not recognise the man directing the work.

Walking closer, she watched as the men hauling the stone worked together. Isobel recognised the man guiding it to its place on the frame—Athdar, in the thick of things, doing the hardest part of the labour. Not wishing to disturb or distract them, she touched Laria’s arm and held her back.

It took only a few more minutes before the stone dropped into place. A cheer went up from those watching at the successful—and critical, she knew—placement of it. Soon, others began reattaching ropes and the connections that would allow the stone to be turned by the waters coursing beneath the mill. That was when Athdar glanced up and met her gaze. Waving to her, he left the millhouse and strode towards her. Laria walked towards the man who had been directing the work—he must be the miller or stonemason—while Isobel waited for Athdar.

She tried not to notice that he wore no tunic. She tried not to stare at his sculpted chest and stomach. More, she tried not to imagine what the rest of his body looked like as he grew closer. Suddenly the day was not cold at all. Now, she wanted to peel off the heavy cloak and dab her face.

Athdar did not seem to notice the cold, either, his body giving off steam as he reached her. Isobel fought the urge to follow a trickle of moisture down his chest as it made its way beneath the trews he wore. Thankfully, he seemed not to notice her own discomfort.

‘Your mother said you were indisposed this morn. ’Tis good to see you up and about.’

She held up the sack she’d carried from the cottage. ‘Laria needed my help,’ she said. It was the weakest excuse she’d ever given, but Athdar didn’t seem to recognise it.

‘Broc! Take this to Lyall,’ he called out to his steward as he took the sack from her. ‘Ask Laria about it.’

Broc, the sinfully handsome man, stopped before her and bowed. ‘Isobel. How do you fare?’ His green eyes sparkled and his gaze focused on her mouth. ‘I feared you were taking ill when Lady Jocelyn said you would remain abed this morn.’

Athdar elbowed Broc before she could say anything about her condition, or lack of one, to either of them. He stumbled away, with a nod to her. The man was an unrepentant flirt and she’d watched as other women fell under his spell. For some reason, though she would admit she liked him and had blushed at their first meeting, his antics did not affect her the same way now. Not after spending more time with Athdar.

‘In all seriousness, Isobel...’ Athdar began. He took his shirt and a cloth from the young boy who brought them to him. ‘How do you fare this day? In speaking to your mother, I realised that you have been doing much during your visit.’

‘I am well, Athdar. Truly,’ she said. ‘I was simply feeling lazy this morn and my mother and your sister indulged me in it.’

‘You are a guest here, Isobel. I would not see you abused and overwrought because you fear saying no to someone’s request. Even my sister can be a bit of a tyrant at times.’

He used the cloth to dry his chest and back and then pulled the shirt over his head. She did not turn her gaze away as a demure maiden should—she could not help but notice the way his muscles rippled and flexed as he tugged on the shirt. Her cheeks heated then and she touched them as he finished putting his belt in place, accepting the length of plaid from the boy who tended him. He sent the boy back to the others and then held out his hand to her. She gave him hers and he wrapped his fingers around her hand, tugging her along with him.

‘Come meet Lyall and his sons.’ He held her hand tightly until they reached the others who continued to finish work on the mill’s walls. ‘He and his father before him have worked the mill for my clan. Lyall, meet Isobel Ruriksdottir.’