man’s barrel aimed at her face, she caught a breath that felt like the last one in her body.
“I need yer butterbur,” she said, trying to regain control over her breathing. “Please, lower yer pistol, sir.”
He was old, likely in his fiftieth year. His skin was tanned and weathered with wrinkles. His hair was long, scarce, and oily. He squinted at her and then turned his head and spat something out of his mouth.
“I have a… condition”—(her mother had taught her to never use the word
sickness,
lest others think her contagious)—“and the butterbur heals me. I have searched long fer it and have only found it here. I only need a small part to plant in my garden.”
For a moment, he looked about to refuse and shoot her between the eyes. “Take it. Then be gone and dinna’ come back. I know ye are the sister of those three red-haired, demon-spawned Fergusson lads. If I see them near my horses again, I’ll shoot them dead.”
Later, after Isobel returned home, she lingered over the small patch of freshly turned soil in her garden and admired her prize. Her feet were blistered, her hands lacerated, and she’d looked down the barrel of a pistol. But she had found it, and she would nurture it until it grew strong. Just as she had done with her brothers.
As dusk settled over the glen she wiped her hands and spread her gaze over the violet-hued hills. She spotted her brothers bringing in the last of their sheep and raised her arm over her head. They all did the same and she smiled. They were all she had in the world. All she needed to be happy.
That is, as long as no man ever kissed her again the way Tristan MacGregor had in the king’s Privy Garden.
Chapter Ten
I t is not like you to be so dismal.” Kate MacGregor reined her horse in beside Tristan’s as they traveled home. “Why, you look as if your closest friend just fell to the sword.”
Tristan glanced sideways at his mother. He could not tell her the truth about what was plaguing his thoughts. Alex Fergusson was not his closest friend. In fact, Tristan didn’t care for him at all, but that hadn’t stopped him from fearing for the fool’s life ever since they left Whitehall. “I was thinkin’ of Mairi and Colin,” he told her instead. It wasn’t really an untruth. “D’ye think ’twas wise to let them remain in England?”
“Aye, your father believes they will be safer there for now with Connor and the rest of the king’s army. If, heaven forbid, Camlochlin is attacked by the king’s enemies, your brother and sister would be the first to join in the battle.”
Tristan nodded, knowing she was correct. His younger siblings loved the sword as much as Rob loved the land. Neither of them would think twice about skewering Alex Fergusson to one of Whitehall’s painted walls if heinsulted the MacGregors in their presence. Hell, Isobel would never forgive him.
“I should have remained in England with them.” When Tristan realized he had spoken aloud, he flashed his mother a quick grin. “Alone, Connor doesna’ stand a chance against Mairi.”
Kate rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed, lightening Tristan’s mood. “I think the captain can take care of himself without your help.”
“Aye, but Mairi is his weakness.”
“True,” his mother conceded. “But it is Colin who concerns me more. He seemed to take a liking to the king. I fear he might find himself more suited to a life in the English army, as Connor did.”
“The captain had little choice; he has Stuart blood.”
Tristan looked up to find that his father had slowed his mount until they caught up with him.
“Colin is a MacGregor,” Callum continued when they reached him. His formidable gaze settled on Tristan first, then softened on his wife. “He’ll never leave Camlochlin to stand with the English.”
Tristan’s graceful smile was tinged with shadows of his boyhood, when both he and his father first began to understand that Tristan was not at all like the
“I need yer butterbur,” she said, trying to regain control over her breathing. “Please, lower yer pistol, sir.”
He was old, likely in his fiftieth year. His skin was tanned and weathered with wrinkles. His hair was long, scarce, and oily. He squinted at her and then turned his head and spat something out of his mouth.
“I have a… condition”—(her mother had taught her to never use the word
sickness,
lest others think her contagious)—“and the butterbur heals me. I have searched long fer it and have only found it here. I only need a small part to plant in my garden.”
For a moment, he looked about to refuse and shoot her between the eyes. “Take it. Then be gone and dinna’ come back. I know ye are the sister of those three red-haired, demon-spawned Fergusson lads. If I see them near my horses again, I’ll shoot them dead.”
Later, after Isobel returned home, she lingered over the small patch of freshly turned soil in her garden and admired her prize. Her feet were blistered, her hands lacerated, and she’d looked down the barrel of a pistol. But she had found it, and she would nurture it until it grew strong. Just as she had done with her brothers.
As dusk settled over the glen she wiped her hands and spread her gaze over the violet-hued hills. She spotted her brothers bringing in the last of their sheep and raised her arm over her head. They all did the same and she smiled. They were all she had in the world. All she needed to be happy.
That is, as long as no man ever kissed her again the way Tristan MacGregor had in the king’s Privy Garden.
Chapter Ten
I t is not like you to be so dismal.” Kate MacGregor reined her horse in beside Tristan’s as they traveled home. “Why, you look as if your closest friend just fell to the sword.”
Tristan glanced sideways at his mother. He could not tell her the truth about what was plaguing his thoughts. Alex Fergusson was not his closest friend. In fact, Tristan didn’t care for him at all, but that hadn’t stopped him from fearing for the fool’s life ever since they left Whitehall. “I was thinkin’ of Mairi and Colin,” he told her instead. It wasn’t really an untruth. “D’ye think ’twas wise to let them remain in England?”
“Aye, your father believes they will be safer there for now with Connor and the rest of the king’s army. If, heaven forbid, Camlochlin is attacked by the king’s enemies, your brother and sister would be the first to join in the battle.”
Tristan nodded, knowing she was correct. His younger siblings loved the sword as much as Rob loved the land. Neither of them would think twice about skewering Alex Fergusson to one of Whitehall’s painted walls if heinsulted the MacGregors in their presence. Hell, Isobel would never forgive him.
“I should have remained in England with them.” When Tristan realized he had spoken aloud, he flashed his mother a quick grin. “Alone, Connor doesna’ stand a chance against Mairi.”
Kate rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed, lightening Tristan’s mood. “I think the captain can take care of himself without your help.”
“Aye, but Mairi is his weakness.”
“True,” his mother conceded. “But it is Colin who concerns me more. He seemed to take a liking to the king. I fear he might find himself more suited to a life in the English army, as Connor did.”
“The captain had little choice; he has Stuart blood.”
Tristan looked up to find that his father had slowed his mount until they caught up with him.
“Colin is a MacGregor,” Callum continued when they reached him. His formidable gaze settled on Tristan first, then softened on his wife. “He’ll never leave Camlochlin to stand with the English.”
Tristan’s graceful smile was tinged with shadows of his boyhood, when both he and his father first began to understand that Tristan was not at all like the
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