Page 43 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
Isolde had been quiet most of the ride that day and as they drew near to Achnacarry, she was tense. Uncertainty radiated from her like warmth from the sun. And Struan knew she was still mentally flogging herself for what she believed was her hypocrisy. Of course, Struan wished she had told him about his brother earlier. But he understood why she’d kept it from him. He understood her fear and he did not fault her for it.
Of course, it made things more difficult for him. Though he would never say so to her, Struan wasn’t sure how he was going to keep her safe while keeping his clan away from battle at the same time. MacPherson and her father were already out there searching for them. If they didn’t know she was with him, they would soon enough. And when they did, it would ignite a war, bringing both forces to bear on him. On his kin.
Isolde turned in the saddle to face him. “Can I ask ye somethin’?”
“Aye.”
A worried frown flickered across her lips and her body tensed. “How… how will yer people receive me? I mean… bein’ the daughter of Murdoch Mackintosh, I cannae think they’re goin’ tae welcome me with open arms. If I’m bein’ honest, I’m… I’m a bit worried.”
It was a question Struan had been asking himself for a little while now. He knew his people would not welcome a Mackintosh into Achnacarry at all, let alone warmly.
“I cannae say what me Council will say or think, but I will dae everything in me power as the laird tae keep ye safe. And close tae me,” he said and winked at her.
Her cheeks flushed and an expression of gratitude washed over her face. Isolde leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, her hand resting briefly at the back of his neck. The warmth of her touch lingered, and Struan’s breath caught.
Her soft lips brushing against his skin made his heart swell so big, it suddenly felt ten sizes too big for his chest. She made him feel things he was unaccustomed to. And confoundingly, she seemed able to do it with nothing more than the bat of an eye or the flick of a wrist.
“Thank ye,” she said.
The rest of the journey to Achnacarry had been in a silence that was warm and companionable. As they approached the gates in the curtain wall, Struan felt her tense. Her shoulders bunched and her body was suddenly tauter than a bowstring.
“Easy, lass,” he said. “All will be well.”
“Easy fer ye tae say,” she whispered.
“Dae ye trust me?”
“Aye. I dae.”
“Then trust me now when I tell ye all will be well.”
They rode into the yard and were immediately surrounded by Struan’s guards and household staff. They all wore looks of relief on their faces as they helped him and Isolde down from the horse. The crowd parted as his younger sister, Mairi, came bursting through, throwing herself into Struan’s arms. She squeezed him tight as her hazel eyes shimmered with tears. Struan held the small, pixie-like girl tightly, gently stroking her curly red locks and murmuring words of reassurance.
She finally stepped back and turned her face, lightly dusted with freckles across the bridge of her nose, up to him. Struan smiled down at her. Mairi suddenly punched him in the arm, making him yelp then laugh.
“Ouch,” he said. “Me little sister’s gettin’ stronger.”
“Oh, shut it. Dae ye even ken how worried about ye I was?” she asked then gestured to the crowd. “How worried we all were?”
“I’m fine, little Sister.”
“Fool,” she teased before her expression grew serious. “What about Finlay?”
Struan’s smile flatted at the mention their brother. “We’re workin’ on that,” he replied.
Ewan MacAlistair, Struan’s battlefield companion and second in command stood behind her, his dark, steady eyes flat and emotionless. Tall and broad-shouldered, a scar marred his smooth, pale cheek, and he stood with his hands clasped in front of him, stoic as ever. But as his lifelong friend, Struan knew the man well enough to see the concern etched into his sharp features.
“’Tis good tae have ye home,” Ewan said, his voice a low rumble.
“’Tis good tae be home. And I wouldnae be if nae for this one,” he replied and motioned to Isolde whose face paled as her mouth fell open.
All eyes turned to her, and Struan watched as she stood straight, her shoulders squared, not allowing herself to flinch, no matter how uncomfortable she felt as she met the gazes of every stranger around her. She offered them a warm smile and a polite nod. He felt a flash of pride.
Ewan studied her for a moment and Struan saw the recognition dawn in his eyes.
“This is Isolde Mackintosh,” he said. “Daughter of Laird Murdoch Mackintosh.”
A gasp tore through the crowd followed by a ripple of murmurs. Accusing and angry eyes turned toward her, and Isolde’s fear was suddenly palpable to Struan. He turned his eyes to the crowd, sweeping everybody standing around. He wanted to choose his words more carefully when introducing Isolde—softening the blow, perhaps, to shield her name in a way that didn’t lay her bare like a lamb among wolves. But his best friend’s wit beat him to it. Now, it was too late.
