Read Online The Highlander's Heart by Amanda Forester - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Forester
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another step back and wished she had simply gone to bed. More angry men who resembled Harry’s unfortunate visage joined him.
“What’s an English doing here?”
“What does she want from Campbell?”
“There’s a price on his head, the wench must be a spy.”
“Whatever ye want o’ Campbell I can give ye, English.”
Isabelle stepped back until she was out of the room. The red-faced men followed her. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I am with Campbell and I will not be spoken to such.”
Harry’s uglier mate sneered. “Ye lie, English. Campbell would ne’er be caught wi’ a Sassenach. He hates them bastards more than we do.”
“Leave me be.”
“She looks like a lightskirt, and an ill-used one at that. How much for a roll?”
“I’ll be damned if I pay a Sassenach!” The man grabbed Isabelle by the arm and pushed her hard against the wall. He wrapped a huge hand around her throat and crushed her mouth with his. Isabelle clutched at his hand, trying to free herself.
“Gentlemen, please. Join me back in the hall. I have some ballads I know you will enjoy.” Somehow the minstrel pushed his way between Isabelle and the man. Isabelle gasped for air when her neck was released, and leaned against the wall for support.
“Stand aside, lad. Ye’ve got no business here.”
“We’ll let ye have a poke when we’re done wi’ her, but fer now get back to the hall.”
“Come now, my fine lads.” The minstrel’s voice was calm and cheery. “Let us speak to Campbell before we molest his prize.”
That gave the Harrys pause, allowing the minstrel to back up a bit. He kept her behind him but turned so that she now had access to the front door.
“She’s naught but lying English,” one man shouted to the affirmative growls of the men. The minstrel held his ground, but with a lyre as his only weapon he would be short work for the Harrys.
“Run!” the minstrel hissed to her.
Isabelle spun and ran for the door, hitting Campbell smack in the chest.
Eight
Isabelle gasped, her hands flying up to the solid wall of Campbell’s chest. David Campbell did not spare her a glance, but glared past her, past the minstrel, straight at the group of men who had gathered in the small hall. Campbell was by no means the largest brute in the hall, but the air around him was charged.
Campbell’s face was chiseled stone, his expression murderous. He said nothing, but rage crackled the air around him. Isabelle backed to the wall, pressing herself into it. She noted the minstrel had likewise moved out of Campbell’s way. She had not known how dangerous he was. It would not be forgotten.
“She’s mine.” Campbell’s voice was low and threaded with warning. Isabelle felt a quiver of excitement at having been so claimed and waited for the bloodbath to begin.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but showed a remarkable instinct for self-preservation, and stomped back to the common room without a word. His compatriots likewise had the insight to avoid certain annihilation and slinked after him.
Campbell motioned for the minstrel to go upstairs and the lad complied with alacrity. Indeed, it would be a very brave or utterly foolish man who would cross Sir David Campbell when death was in his eye. Campbell placed a hand on her shoulder, not hard, not grasping, but firm, and in control. He led her up the stairs to the room he had given her and entered with the minstrel, closing the door behind him.
“What happened here?” His eyes were hard on Isabelle.
Isabelle tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “I went down to the common room to find you and I was accosted by those brutes you saw.”
“What did ye do to arouse their anger?”
“Nothing. I asked for you and they called me English and things turned ugly.”
Campbell nodded. “Ye’re English. ’Tis enough.” He turned his attention to the minstrel who was casually leaning against the wall. The minstrel had long limbs that seemed
“What’s an English doing here?”
“What does she want from Campbell?”
“There’s a price on his head, the wench must be a spy.”
“Whatever ye want o’ Campbell I can give ye, English.”
Isabelle stepped back until she was out of the room. The red-faced men followed her. Her heart pounded in her ears. “I am with Campbell and I will not be spoken to such.”
Harry’s uglier mate sneered. “Ye lie, English. Campbell would ne’er be caught wi’ a Sassenach. He hates them bastards more than we do.”
“Leave me be.”
“She looks like a lightskirt, and an ill-used one at that. How much for a roll?”
“I’ll be damned if I pay a Sassenach!” The man grabbed Isabelle by the arm and pushed her hard against the wall. He wrapped a huge hand around her throat and crushed her mouth with his. Isabelle clutched at his hand, trying to free herself.
“Gentlemen, please. Join me back in the hall. I have some ballads I know you will enjoy.” Somehow the minstrel pushed his way between Isabelle and the man. Isabelle gasped for air when her neck was released, and leaned against the wall for support.
“Stand aside, lad. Ye’ve got no business here.”
“We’ll let ye have a poke when we’re done wi’ her, but fer now get back to the hall.”
“Come now, my fine lads.” The minstrel’s voice was calm and cheery. “Let us speak to Campbell before we molest his prize.”
That gave the Harrys pause, allowing the minstrel to back up a bit. He kept her behind him but turned so that she now had access to the front door.
“She’s naught but lying English,” one man shouted to the affirmative growls of the men. The minstrel held his ground, but with a lyre as his only weapon he would be short work for the Harrys.
“Run!” the minstrel hissed to her.
Isabelle spun and ran for the door, hitting Campbell smack in the chest.
Eight
Isabelle gasped, her hands flying up to the solid wall of Campbell’s chest. David Campbell did not spare her a glance, but glared past her, past the minstrel, straight at the group of men who had gathered in the small hall. Campbell was by no means the largest brute in the hall, but the air around him was charged.
Campbell’s face was chiseled stone, his expression murderous. He said nothing, but rage crackled the air around him. Isabelle backed to the wall, pressing herself into it. She noted the minstrel had likewise moved out of Campbell’s way. She had not known how dangerous he was. It would not be forgotten.
“She’s mine.” Campbell’s voice was low and threaded with warning. Isabelle felt a quiver of excitement at having been so claimed and waited for the bloodbath to begin.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but showed a remarkable instinct for self-preservation, and stomped back to the common room without a word. His compatriots likewise had the insight to avoid certain annihilation and slinked after him.
Campbell motioned for the minstrel to go upstairs and the lad complied with alacrity. Indeed, it would be a very brave or utterly foolish man who would cross Sir David Campbell when death was in his eye. Campbell placed a hand on her shoulder, not hard, not grasping, but firm, and in control. He led her up the stairs to the room he had given her and entered with the minstrel, closing the door behind him.
“What happened here?” His eyes were hard on Isabelle.
Isabelle tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “I went down to the common room to find you and I was accosted by those brutes you saw.”
“What did ye do to arouse their anger?”
“Nothing. I asked for you and they called me English and things turned ugly.”
Campbell nodded. “Ye’re English. ’Tis enough.” He turned his attention to the minstrel who was casually leaning against the wall. The minstrel had long limbs that seemed
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