Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  All of a sudden he felt his body go rigid. His eyes locked on a superfluity of pale ivory skin. What in the bloody hell was she wearing?

  Unlike her previous gowns, this gown no longer teetered on the edge of indecent, it was indecent, and left very little to the imagination. The bodice dipped low, exceedingly low, and the thin silken fabric clung to every delectable inch of her womanly charms. His reaction was visceral. Every muscle in his body clenched with awareness and restraint, as he fought to control both the anger and the desire that her appearance wrought within him.

  A multitude of conflicting emotions raged through him: He wanted to leap up and cover her, he wanted to pull her into his arms, he wanted to order her to never wear that dress in public again, and he wanted to worship her like the goddess she evoked. Mired in a tempest of bodily conflict, Rory was certain of one thing: If she ever donned that gown again, he would rip it from her body. To hell with the consequences.

  He wanted her. He could not deny it. Nor apparently was he alone in his desire. Rory tore his eyes from Isabel and glanced about the room at the gawking stares of his clansmen. Even Alex could not look away. A violent surge of possession took hold of him. He felt a strange primal craving to exert complete dominion, a feeling so alien that it shook him. She did not, and could not, belong to him.

  God’s wounds, was it her intent to drive him mad with longing?

  His eyes narrowed. Yes. After what he’d told her today, she was trying either to not so subtly change his mind or to rub his nose in his losses. Neither sat well with him.

  What was her game?

  Rory’s fingers clenched the stem of his goblet. He held his face impassive as she moved to stand before him; he felt the pulse tick in his neck as he fought to douse the fiery blast of anger. He thought a bit of her bravado slipped as his eyes scanned the length of her body, lingering on her breasts. Good, she should be nervous. If he were any other man, he’d take what she offered.

  But he would not fall prey to such tactics.

  “Good evening,” she said, bowing slightly, her breasts nearly spilling forth from their delicate confinement.

  His breath seized, emitting a harsh sound reminiscent of a hiss. He could see the damn pink edges of her nipples, perched invitingly only inches from his mouth. His cock rose in appreciation as he imagined running his tongue along the delicate ridge before slipping the hardened tip in his mouth and sucking until she writhed in fervent entreaty. Isabel had a body built for sexual fantasies. And the knowledge that he was not the only one engaging in those fantasies right now enraged him beyond all endurance. By all that was holy, this woman had pushed him too far.

  Her cheeks turned pink as she tried circumspectly to adjust her gown.

  When the bolt of lust dissipated, Rory saw red. He’d had enough. No wife of his would flaunt herself in such a manner. The ripe fullness of her breasts, the narrow circle of her waist, the slim curve of her hips, and the soft pink of her nipples were not for public display. She belonged to him—for now, at least. And he would not share.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she offered. “It took me some time to get dressed.”

  Without a word, he stood up, took her arm, and unceremoniously led her from the room. Only when they were out of earshot of the clan did he respond. “I don’t think you’ve finished.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He did not bother to hide his fury. His voice was every bit as dark and dangerous as the strange emotions she evoked in him. “Do not test my patience, Isabel.”

  From her silence, he knew she’d heeded his warning. He sensed her nervousness as he steered her outside toward the Fairy Tower, through the entry, and up the stairs. He pulled open the door to his solar, pushed her inside, and slammed the door behind them with a resounding thud.

  She stood in the middle of the room, her hands fumbling in her skirt. Venturing a cautious peek from under her lashes, she asked, “What do you mean to do?”

  “Not what I should do,” he snapped. His gaze burned down the length of her body. She shivered in its wake. “That gown is indecent. What could you be thinking wearing something so inappropriate?”

  “It’s a bit revealing, perhaps—”

  “A bit revealing?” he exploded. “I can see the damn edge of your nipples!”

  Her cheeks blazed. “Don’t yell at me.”

  Rory forced himself to calm. “I’m not yelling,” he said in a lower voice. I’m so aroused, I can barely think.

  “I didn’t think you’d notice what I wear,” she said defiantly.

  “Oh, I noticed all right. As did every man in the hall with a pulse. My wife, the lady of this keep, will not flaunt herself like a wanton before my men.”

  He saw a spark of defiance flare in her eyes. “Temporary wife,” she corrected.

  “Is that what this is about?” His gaze sharpened. “You’ll learn that I cannot be manipulated, Isabel. Not by you and certainly not by a scrap of fabric. No matter how revealing.”

  “You’re wrong.” She stuck up that adorable chin. “I like this dress, that is all.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and looked right in her eyes so there would be no mistaking his meaning. “You’ll never wear that dress again, or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  “What consequences?” she asked with a rebellious toss of her flaming hair.

  The lass didn’t know how precariously close she was to finding out. Every nerve ending in his body was set on edge, primed for release. He wanted to rip the dress from her body and cover every inch of that velvety skin with his. He wanted her hot and aching, throbbing with need, just like him. Instead, he ignored her reckless challenge and moved to the adjoining chamber where their clothes were stored, threw open the door, and yanked out a gown. A sufficiently modest gown of green velvet.

  “Change,” he ordered. “Now.”

  “But Bessie—”

  A slow smile curved his lips as he met her anxious gaze. “You won’t be needing a serving woman.”

  Isabel withered under the heat of his predatory stare. She realized belatedly that she’d pushed him too far. The look of raw possession in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. The primal intensity she read there made her think he’d like to do nothing more than toss her on the bed and ravish her like a hell-bent marauding Viking. For the first time since she’d come to Dunvegan, Isabel sensed danger. This man she could not control.

  She bit her lip and took a step back. Perhaps she’d miscalculated slightly. The wisdom of wearing this dress suddenly escaped her.

  “Take it off,” he ordered.

  “I c-c-can’t.”

  She heard him curse as he grabbed her by the waist, turned her around, and began unlacing her gown with undeniable skill. Rory MacLeod had had plenty of practice unlacing ladies’ gowns. She felt a pang suspiciously like jealousy.

  Still, there was something incredibly intimate about his fingers working the laces of her dress. He stood so close, she could smell the distinctive scent of his soap. She felt every touch, every gentle press of his fingers, as he slowly made a path down the length of her spine. His hands came to rest around her waist and she was deeply aware of how close his fingers were to her breasts. How easy it would be for him to stroke her. He moved closer and her breath caught. He, too, was not unaffected. His breath, suddenly uneven, warmed the bare skin of her neck and shoulders, making her skin prickle.

  His touch was driving her mad with longing. She felt so strange, boneless, as if she had melted into a deep, warm puddle. Her body flooded with sensations that she didn’t understand.

  His lips hovered achingly close to her neck as his fingers slid along her back. She sank against him, closing her eyes, silently begging for more. He slid the sleeves past her shoulders, his fingers singeing a path along her sensitive skin. She moaned when his lips finally touched her neck in a soft caress. The scrape of his chin sent a rush of heat through her veins. Her nipples hardened. And God, he knew. With one swipe of his thumb acros
s the throbbing peak, she dissolved against him, taking refuge in the solid strength of his chest and arms.

  She sensed his urgency as he kissed her harder, his hot mouth climbing the length of her neck, savaging the tender skin with the force of his desire. His hunger for her had broken free, unleashing a fierce passion that she never would have imagined. Perversely, this dangerous, unpredictable side of him excited her. Her body drenched with heat, savoring the press of his muscled body behind her. The thick column of his arousal against her bottom gave hard proof to his desire.

  She felt his tongue, his lips, and every scratch of his stubbled jaw with a startling intensity. Her skin seemed so incredibly sensitive—so alive. He drew her earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently as his tongue circled her ear, his ragged breath making her tremble and shiver.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  She wanted his mouth on hers, his arms around her, his hands covering her body. She wanted relief for the clawing need rising inside her. His mouth slid to her jaw, close to her mouth, while he eased the gown past her hips. Her heart raced and nervous excitement bundled low in her stomach. Every nerve ending was set on edge in anticipation as she stretched against him in silent surrender. Before she could think to tell him that the gown must be removed by lifting it over her head, she heard the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

  The ruined dress fell to her feet, and Rory promptly released her. For a moment, he seemed almost as shocked as she. He stared at her until her breathing returned to normal and glanced meaningfully at the ball of fabric on the floor. He’d nearly ripped it in two.

  “A dress like that is an invitation,” he said flatly. “Have care what you offer, Isabel. You just might get it.”

  Isabel swallowed hard and nodded.

  Without another word, he tossed her the dress he’d chosen for her, thankfully one that laced in the front, and watched—from a distance—her struggle to clothe herself. The heat in his penetrating gaze was contained, but no less volatile.

  When she’d finished he led her from the room as if nothing had happened, which, given her confused state of mind, was just as well. Had he just intended to teach her a lesson, or had she finally managed a chink in his impenetrable armor?

  Chapter 8

  The crowd gathered in the great hall was conspicuously quiet as Rory led Isabel back to the dais, though no one stared too openly. Everyone in the room was keenly aware of what had happened, but none would dare shame his lady by making it known. Returning to the table, Rory offered Isabel a seat beside him, sat down, and resumed his meal as if he hadn’t just ripped her gown from her body and ravished her honey-sweet skin with his mouth. And as if she hadn’t just combusted like wildfire in his hands.

  He’d made his point. She’d overstepped the bounds with that dress and pushed him too hard. Isabel had learned her lesson, but, he realized, so had he.

  Not wanting to think any further about what had happened, Rory turned back to his conversation with Alex, engaging him in a heated debate about the fastest roads to Edinburgh. A good argument was exactly what he needed to release some of his pent-up tension.

  Isabel must have been listening, because when he’d finished she asked, “Have you visited court recently, my lord?”

  Rory relaxed. It seemed she, too, was anxious to put what had just happened behind them. It was a warning, nothing more. “No,” he said. “Though I must return soon.” He masked his annoyance at having to present himself to the king.

  Her face lit up. “Oh, how I envy you.”

  Rory ignored the strange pull in his chest at the burst of pleasure on her face. But he’d also heard the longing in her voice. “You were fond of court?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Very much so.”

  “You were a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne, I believe?”

  “Yes, for almost a year.” She sighed. “It was a difficult adjustment at first, but I grew to love my time there.”

  Rory realized it had probably been hard for her to leave her family. “You did not find it tiresome, all that pomp and formality?”

  “It wasn’t like that at all,” she said. “The queen and king are very different when they are with their family.”

  Her choice of words was telling. Rory was beginning to understand what she’d found at Holyrood. “And you were part of the family?” he asked gently.

  He noticed the flash of loneliness cross her eyes, before she covered it with a wobbly smile. “Of course not,” she chided as if he’d only been jesting. “Though I was made to feel as if I were.”

  And Rory realized how much she’d savored the experience. At court, she’d found what she’d been missing with her own family. She’d found happiness, but he also sensed a sadness—a certain vulnerability—in her, as if she were used to being on the outside and wanted desperately to be included but didn’t know whether she deserved to be. He guessed that although she approached things openly and enthusiastically, she pushed herself recklessly at times in response to those feelings of insignificance.

  “And I learned so much,” she continued. “The king considers himself quite a devotee of literature and learning. He openly encourages the queen to pursue her scholarly endeavors. I was fortunate enough to join along.”

  Rory lifted his brow. “You read?” When she nodded, he asked, “What are your favorites?”

  “The great romances and the old chansons de geste, especially Le Morte d’Arthur and La Chanson de Roland.” The tempo of her speech increased with her passion on the subject. “I also fell in love with a new playwright from England. Have you heard of William Shakespeare?” He answered yes. “My favorite is Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I’m familiar with the work,” Rory said carefully. He did not miss the irony of her choice. Like King James, Queen Elizabeth detested feuding. It was to please his royal patron that Shakespeare had written the cautionary tale of star-crossed lovers fated to die as a result of their families’ incessant feuding.

  Rory was impressed. Not many women of his acquaintance were proficient readers, and none, with the exception of Margaret, were as voracious. He shared her appetite for literature and added to his extensive library whenever he traveled. He found himself offering, “There is a library in the Fairy Tower. You may borrow whatever you like.”

  When she smiled, his chest constricted until the air left him. Her delight was so poignant, he had to turn away or he’d find himself devising ways of keeping her happy.

  Isabel was disappointed when Rory returned to his conversation with Alex. She thought he’d been enjoying talking to her. But her heart fell when she saw the beautiful dark-haired woman, Catriona—Isabel had learned her name—approach the dais. This was the first time they’d crossed paths since the handfast ceremony. Though they spoke for only a few moments, the reminder of his liaison shattered whatever joy she’d experienced from his kind offer to allow her access to his library.

  He might have kissed Isabel’s shoulder and ripped off her dress, but he was taking his pleasure with someone else.

  There was no denying that Rory seemed extremely comfortable—no, intimate—with the woman. Isabel’s already shaky confidence crumbled. The unexpected burst of passion she’d felt in his arms tonight had confused her. She’d hoped she’d found a crack in his reserve, but now it seemed he’d only been trying to teach her a lesson. She’d embarrassed him before his clan, and that was all.

  Trying to hide her disappointment, she turned away, only to watch as someone slipped from the shadows into the seat next to her. She smothered the gasp that rose involuntarily to her throat as she noticed the large black patch that covered half her face. It could only be Margaret.

  She was grateful that Bessie had forewarned her of the lass’s disturbing appearance. Even so, Isabel was taken aback, but she managed to hide her consternation with a serene smile. The patch was as loud as a blaring trumpet heralding her disfigurement. She wondered whether the damage to the eye was worse to look upon than the menacing mask tha
t was meant to hide it.

  Isabel had been very nervous to meet her new sister, fearing that Margaret would attribute the sins of her uncle to her. But Isabel’s nervousness vanished at the sight of the timid creature next to her. Once she noticed Margaret’s discomfort, her heart immediately went out to her.

  “You must be Margaret,” she said. “I’ve so looked forward to meeting you.”

  Margaret peered shyly at her from beneath her lashes.

  Without thinking, Isabel reached out and covered Margaret’s shaking fingers with her own. “I have never had a sister, but I know I should like one.”

  Margaret stared at her hand in shock, but after a minute she seemed to relax. Her voice quivered when she spoke. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Isabel. I apologize for missing the celebration of your handfast, but my sister Christina had sent for me during her confinement.” She met Isabel’s friendly gaze with a feeble smile.

  Isabel knew that Margaret’s journey to the neighboring Isle of Lewis, home to the Lewis branch of the MacLeods, had probably been conveniently arranged, but she could not blame the poor lass for wanting to avoid such proximity to Sleat. Isabel took a closer look at her new sister. Except for the patch, Rory’s sister was quite lovely. Long golden blond curls cascaded in soft ringlets down her slender back. Dainty fair features were somewhat hidden but still evident. Her one visible eye was the same transfixing deep sapphire hue of Alex’s and Rory’s eyes. Although Isabel was small of frame, Margaret was much smaller. Why, Isabel thought, grinning at the obvious similarity, she was as sprite as a wee fairy—compliments of her supposed ancestors, perhaps?

  Once again, Isabel questioned her uncle’s actions. How could he have treated Margaret so harshly? She couldn’t reconcile her uncle’s handling of Margaret with the deeds of a worthy chief. It was unsettling, especially when compared with the strength and honor of the man beside her.