Isabel felt as though her body were not her own. He held complete dominion over her. She was powerless. Consumed. Wave after wave of unfamiliar sensations crashed over her. From the first taste of his mouth to the demanding sweep of his tongue, her body awakened under his masterful touch.
Her initial shock at the scalding heat of his hand cupping her breast had turned to wonder. She fought to catch her breath as his fingers lightly rubbed her new hardness and his hand kneaded the fullness of her breast.
But when his mouth slid over her sensitive tip, she was lost. A sharp, wondrous pang surged straight to her heart. She was afraid to move, not wanting to shatter the beauty of this spectacular moment of awakening. An awakening that burned a trail of fire from her chest to the juncture at her legs, making her aware that the area between her legs was alive—its innocent slumber shattered by a frantic, quivering pulse. Alive and tingling with anticipation for she knew not what. He sucked, circling the hardened peak with his tongue, nipping her with his teeth until a dam exploded inside her. Heat spread across her skin and rushed between her legs. Never had she imagined how something could feel so perfect. So right.
Her legs shook. She clutched his broad shoulders to brace herself. He sucked her harder, and she arched her back, her hips shifting closer to his heat. His demands grew more frenzied.
The initial shock she’d first felt when he’d held her so intimately and pressed the proof of his desire against her had turned to unconscious need. She wanted him firm and hard between her thighs, wanted to feel the power of his arousal. To know that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her hips swayed against him. When he groaned, pleasure spread inside her like molten lava.
He was supporting her now. Her hands splayed across the granite muscle of his arms and shoulders. She wanted to feel him, to take strength from his powerful body. His muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, and with a masculine growl he tightened his hold. God, he was amazing. She didn’t know what was happening to her. This strange feeling of powerlessness. All she could think of was him. Hot and hard, surrounding her.
She felt his hand on her leg, under her chemise, sliding up her thigh. Isabel froze. Growing hotter, wetter, as desire flooded between her legs. Her mind raced in a thousand directions. A twinge of uncertainty tugged in the recesses of her consciousness.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
With one last tug on her breast, he lifted his head to watch her face as his finger swept over her. A small sound escaped from deep in her throat. Her eyes flew open, stunned by the intimate contact. She felt confused as the desire of her body quickly outpaced the knowledge of her mind. It was too much, too quick. Despite her mission, she was, after all, an innocent. A woman who not so long ago had never been kissed. For a moment, innocence intervened. She grabbed his wrist. Her body squirmed in confused anguish. Please, she thought. Please stop, or please more? She didn’t know. This was what she’d wanted, tempting fate by wearing her nightclothes, but why did she feel so unsure?
She must have spoken her thoughts aloud, shattering their all too brief moment of connection, for as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Rory raised his head, his brilliant blue eyes heavy with passion, and roughly released her.
Please more, she realized. But it was too late.
She stumbled backward. Her legs were as weak as a newborn foal’s. She brought her hand to her mouth, sure that it must be dark red and bruised from the pressure of his lips. She felt a vicious yearning for something that she didn’t understand and wanted nothing more than to be swept up once again in the sweetness of his powerful embrace.
“That should never have happened.” His breathing was ragged and his voice rough.
He was not unaffected. She took a cautious step toward him, placing her hands on his chest, offering herself to him once again. “But it did.”
“An unfortunate occurrence that will not be repeated.” This time, she heard the iron determination in his voice as he deliberately removed her hands.
He doesn’t want me. Rejection throbbed like an open wound. “Did I do something wrong? Do I not please you?”
He took a long look at her disheveled nightclothes. Self-conscious, she quickly tied the strings of her sark. And when his steely eyes turned to her again, she felt something else. Shame. Shame for her response and the shocking intimacies she’d allowed him, for how quickly and thoroughly she’d succumbed to his touch, for the eager sounds of pleasure that had escaped her lips. What must he think of her? She’d moaned and clutched at him like a harlot. Even knowing that he intended to send her back.
Her eyes fell to the floor. She was humiliated by the betrayal of her body. She didn’t think she could ever look at his face again and not be thinking of what he’d done to her. The way his mouth had pleasured her breast, how his finger had swept her very core.
He studied her face. “You please me well enough. As you would any man. You’re a beautiful woman with a body made for pleasure.” The whiplash of pain knocked her back. His words flayed her, reopening wounds that had never healed. He saw only her face. She thought what they’d just shared was special. “Every man has his breaking point. If you want to be a maid when you leave here, you’ll stop your dangerous game.”
Isabel swallowed, tentatively lifting her eyes in question.
He pinned her with a look that seemed to see right through her. Her heart skipped a beat. “I’m not a man to toy with, Isabel. You’d do best to remember it.” He paused, flicking one last glance over her nightclothes. “For your sake, I hope you were only looking for a book.”
He spun on his heel and left her alone with the crackle of the fire. She shivered, with need or fear she did not know.
Chapter 10
Rory did not return to their room that night, and for once his absence did not bother her. Isabel didn’t know if she could face him. Her emotions were still too raw.
She’d wept silently in the darkness for hours, as she had too often as a child, until exhaustion finally overwhelmed the hurt. She must have slept, but for how long she knew not. When she woke, the sting of his rejection had not lessened. She lay in bed, reluctant to get up. For if she did, she must face the mess of her own making.
Isabel had confused lust with something more. A deeper connection. In the shelter of his embrace, she’d felt a sense of security and belonging she’d never experienced before. Like a fool, she’d allowed herself to believe, if only for a heated moment, that someone like Rory MacLeod might care for her. She’d spent a lifetime trying recklessly to prove herself to her family. If the people closest to her did not care about her, why would he?
The MacLeod desired her, nothing more.
She’d felt his desire. Felt it wedged hard against her body. He’d wanted her.
But clearly, he didn’t trust her. And not without reason, she admitted. Guilt needled her conscience. Though she had not necessarily set out to seduce him last night, seduction was part of her plan. She’d wanted to press him and had known he might come upon her wandering around scantily dressed. She’d flirted with danger and had been burned. He had every right to question her and to hurl his accusations. She deserved all that he thought of her, and worse.
The true horror of the situation had only begun to dawn on her. She’d known what she would have to do, but never had she imagined how cold and calculating it would feel to use her body to prey upon his attraction. To use their passion to manipulate. A wave of self-revulsion washed over her.
His words came back to her. He’d only taken what was offered. She cringed. Had her desire been so obvious? If she had responded to him inappropriately, it was only because she’d acted instinctively. Innocently. Fresh shame burned her cheeks. She wanted to bury her head under her pillow and hide from the vivid memories.
But he was wrong in his suspicion. Last night had not been an act. Her response had been freely given. Never had she thought herself capable of such feelings. And their intensity terrified her, for it indicated jus
t how susceptible she was to him. And just how easy it would be for her to lose her head.
Isabel felt a pang of regret. If circumstances were different…She shook her head. But they weren’t. She had a job to do, though she now realized it would not be done without a price. When the year was over, she would not walk away unscathed.
Something else gnawed at her. Isabel knew it was not only suspicion, or her unconscious plea, that had made him push her away. It was his honor. He would not take her virginity knowing he intended to send her back.
Isabel threw back the covers and pulled herself together. It would do no good to hide from her problems. She needed to clear the air between them. And suddenly it had become important that he not think the worst of her. She wanted him to know that she’d set out to find the library last night and nothing more. It was time for a little honesty on her part. She still had a job to do, but she was no longer certain she could use her body to accomplish it.
There had to be another way.
By the time Rory returned to their chamber to wash the remnants of a sleepless night from his face, Isabel had already left to break her fast. He hadn’t trusted himself to return to their solar last night, not when his body still raged with lust. Instead, he’d spent an uncomfortable night before the fire in the library with a bottle for company. But not even strong drink could dull the honey taste of her that seemed branded on his lips.
He’d allowed his anger at finding her sneaking around the tower to cloud his judgment, and then seeing her in that flimsy night rail had pushed him too far. But he should never have kissed her. Isabel had him so twisted up in knots, he didn’t know what in Hades had come over him. Her response had made him half-crazed. The sweet dart of her tongue. The tentative movement of her hips. The arch of her back as he’d kissed her lush breasts. The dampness between her legs that nearly drove him over the edge.
He had a duty to his clan to repudiate the handfast and forge an alliance that would help in his quest to destroy Sleat. His vow of revenge against Sleat did not include despoiling an innocent lass. Or getting her with child. Although he knew there were other pleasures they could share, last night had proved that one taste of her was not enough. He could not trust himself to show restraint. What would he have done had she not uttered her innocent plea, knocking him back to his senses? He couldn’t be sure.
Standing at the window in his chambers, watching the morning sun climb over the distant horizon, Rory hardly recognized himself. Never had he felt unsure of his ability to control his baser instincts. Of his ability to do his duty for the clan. Never had he questioned his role as chief.
But when he’d enfolded her in his arms, crushed his lips to hers, run his fingers through the silky thick veil of her unbound hair, and found himself overcome with the heady sweet scent of her, he’d done just that.
At that moment, lost in the fever of their embrace, he had wanted her more than he wanted revenge. And he might have thrown it all away, tossed away his heritage as fast as he could unbelt his plaid, for the moment of sweet pleasure waiting between her slender thighs. The proud heritage that had passed from his father, Tormod, to his elder brother, William. A heritage that had never been meant for Rory, but one he had fully embraced upon the untimely tragic deaths of his brother and his young nephew John.
The welfare of the clan depended on the strength of its chief. In return for their absolute loyalty, the clan expected the chief to protect and to provide. The chief was the leader in war, the holder of land, the judge and jury—with absolute authority over the clan. A chief without honor, a man who was not true to his word, failed his clan.
Rory’s heritage as Chief of the MacLeod was of duty to the clan above all else. Duty above personal desire. The MacLeods had been shamed by the MacDonalds, and he must restore the honor of the clan. He shook his head with disgust. He had nearly forgotten this, until her unconscious plea had broken the spell and brought his responsibilities back to him in full force.
But she played with fire. He’d warned her not to tempt him again. He’d been furious with her, and with himself, for falling into her trap so damn easily, causing him to strike out in a blind rage. And if the look on her face was any indication, his words had found their mark.
His rejection had hurt her. She’d stared at him as if he were a hunter who had just released an arrow straight to her heart. Her anguish had been real.
He pressed his hands against the cold, unbending rock of the stone windowsill. Usually the sea gave him a modicum of peace, but today it deserted him.
As a child, full of the fanciful tales of the bards, he’d imagined that he glimpsed the shimmering scales of mermaid’s tails, the Maighdean na Tuinne, beckoning him from the sun-splayed iridescent sea. Of course, now he realized he had seen only gray seals—not mermaids. How long ago that seemed; he barely remembered the carefree child he’d been before he’d been consumed by responsibility.
A heron dipped in a perfect arch down and up again, clutching a fish in its mouth. Rory savored the sights of nature displayed before him, as he knew that soon the days would shorten and the majestic colors before him would be hidden behind a curtain of gray mist and heavy rain. Summer’s reluctant parting beckoned, its chilling wind breathing down the neck of a still sunny day.
Yet even as he beheld the tranquil roll of the waves climbing and cresting in a perfect, almost musical tempo, he could not rid himself of those luminous violet eyes so filled with pain.
Had she really only been looking for a book? It surprised him to realize how much he wanted to believe her. Perhaps Isabel deserved the benefit of the doubt.
He rubbed his unshaven chin thoughtfully. He’d never considered a learned wife but found that he liked the idea. It bespoke a certain fortitude. He was the first of his clan to have had the benefit of a university education. Reading was a passion and his one escape—other than the passion of a good woman. Rory was quite proud of the depth of his library and made new acquisitions whenever and wherever he traveled. There was more depth to Isabel than he’d expected.
He moved away from the window and strode purposefully toward the basin on the other side of the room. The cold water splashed unmercifully against his skin, shocking the weariness from his face. He dressed quickly and unthinkingly, the complicated wrap of the plaid now routine after years of practice.
Perhaps he’d bring her a book, then. On his last trip to London a few years back, he had purchased the recently published epic poem by Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene. A romance of King Arthur and his glorious faerie queen, an open allusion to Queen Elizabeth, told in the tradition of Virgil. It was one of his favorites, and somehow he knew instinctively that Isabel would love it. It reminded him of her:
Her angel face,
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place;
Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace.
Having completed his morning dress with a quick tieback of his hair, Rory headed to the library. The sooner he took care of this the better. Last night was best put to rest.
Ironically, in her search for Rory, Isabel discovered the very library that she’d set out for last night, on the second floor of the Fairy Tower. The room was small but charming. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the tapestry-covered walls, large windows provided abundant natural light, and comfortable chairs surrounded a large, highly polished wooden table.
Margaret, looking no bigger than a child, was seated at the large table and obviously engrossed in a matter of some import, for she did not notice Isabel standing at the door. Isabel watched with amusement as Margaret repeatedly tapped the feather of the quill against her temple, immersed in thought. Her nose wrinkled and her lips quirked perplexingly as she studied the rolls.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Isabel said.
Margaret lifted her shiny blond head, the flowing curls neatly tied back in a long braid. The black patch hid most of her features, but not the
shaky smile of greeting. “Good morning, Isabel. What a wonderful surprise. And in truth I’d welcome anything to get me away from these accounts.” She pushed back from the table with obvious delight. “My head hurts from the strain of trying to keep all these numbers straight. I must admit, I find this the most tiresome and difficult part of my duties since Geoffrey, the old seneschal, passed on. We have not been able to find a replacement as yet, and I have been forced to keep the accounts. And with Michaelmas approaching, the accounts for this year must be finished before I can begin the accounts for next year.”
Isabel moved around the table to look at the ledgers. She turned to Margaret with an embarrassed but understanding smile. “I hope you do not consider this too forward, but I could help you with the accounts.” Somewhat abashed, she elucidated, “At court, I discovered that I have a rather peculiar skill for such work. I see sums clearly in my head without much thought. Queen Anne often had me look over her own household accounts. Truth be told, you’d be doing me a favor. It would bring me pleasure to have something to occupy my time.”
Margaret looked at her as though she had suddenly grown wings and a halo. She grinned, and deep dimples like Rory’s appeared in her face. “You are not serious. You wish to do this drudgery? You would be the first in this keep for as long as I can remember. We have always struggled to find someone to manage the accounts. James, the bailiff, can help you with the rents from the lands and livestock, and Deidre can help you with the expenditures for food, supplies, and visitors this year. Are you sure you would not mind?”
“Consider it done.” Isabel smiled broadly.
Margaret was so excited, she jumped out and gave Isabel a quick hug before seeming to realize what she had done. “Forgive me.” She blushed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Isabel dismissed her embarrassment with a smile. “Nonsense. I told you I’ve always wanted a sister.” She took Margaret’s hands in hers. “And now I have one.”
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