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Losing her brother had cost his mother, Kate MacGregor, her laughter for so long Tristan feared he might never hear it again. The Earl of Argyll’s wife, Lady Anne, had near gone mad with grief and finally found her solace from God in a convent in France. They hadn’t seen her since then. And he, the nephew who had lost so much more than an uncle. He had lost his thirstfor being what his teacher had taught him to be, a man of integrity. A man of honor. For where does a man find honor in the presence of those he has hurt the most? He could not. In a moment he had changed his destiny, and instead of becoming what he’d dreamed of being, Tristan had become what it was easy to be. A thoughtless, reckless rogue.
    Aye, he understood the fury and the pain, but Archibald Fergusson was dead. Should his children pay for their father’s crime?
    “Ye made them orphans.”
    His father did not look at him as he took his seat. “I didna’ know it at the time.”
    “Would it have made a difference?”
    “Enough, Tristan!” his mother snapped at him. “I understand your ways of thinking, perhaps better than anyone at this table. But even your uncle did not judge your father’s decisions. You will not do so either.”
    “Verra well,” Tristan said quietly as the shimmer of Isobel’s auburn tresses captured and held his attention. “Then neither shall mine be judged.”
    “Whatever has passed between ye,” Callum said, following his son’s gaze, “ ’twould be prudent fer ye to ferget her.”
    Aye, it would be. But Tristan, as anyone who knew him would agree, never did what was prudent.



Chapter Four

    I sobel clenched a fine silver spoon in her fist and stared at her plate. She felt her chest growing tighter, constricting her breath until she began to feel light-headed. Damnation, she hadn’t had a spasm in three years and she wouldn’t have one now! Her hands shook. Her eyes grew misty with tears of humiliation and anger that she absolutely refused to shed. She wanted to scream. She wanted to leave her chair, storm back over to the MacGregor table, and shove her spoon into Tristan MacGregor’s eye. She wished he were dead. No, she wished he were dying so she could watch. Dear God, she had called him gallant! She’d laughed with him, spoken of love with him! She’d shared her fears about Alex. Oh, he was a crafty, cruel snake. He probably knew who she was all along. He’d made a fool of her, letting her go on and on about her family, her life, her father! Bastard! Oh, what a chuckle he must have had hearing her speak of her dead father. How much longer would he have let her ramble on? What else had he been waiting for her to say? Did the Devil MacGregor suspect what she and her brothers knew about the earl’s death?
    “Ye claim that I am the thoughtless one, Isobel”—Alex leaned in to speak quietly against her ear—“yet it was ye who consorted with our enemies. What did ye tell him?”
    “Nothing!” Isobel swore. She coughed and cursed her body as she drew in a tight gasp of air. Closing her eyes, she relaxed before she continued. “I did not know who he was. I thought him a noble gentleman.”
    “Tristan MacGregor, a gentleman?” Her brother laughed. “He’s been here but a few days, and already whispers of his prowess with the ladies can be heard in every hall. Really, sister, ye must keep yer ears alert if ye mean to protect us from every evil.”
    “I could use a bit of aid from ye in that area,” she pointed out, turning to him. “Alex, now more than ever I must insist we leave Whitehall the moment James is made king.”
    “Would ye have us refuse an invitation from the king?”
    “Aye!” she said without haste. “Did ye not see the Devil MacGregor, or the hatred in his eyes when he looked upon ye? He still blames ye fer starting the feud.”
    Alex shrugged his shoulders and brought his spoon to his mouth. “It was not I who killed the earl.”
    Dear God, she was going to pass out.