Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  He laughed, and before he realized what he was doing, he covered her hand with his. The stubborn lass did not like to admit she was wrong. “It may have seemed I acted harshly, but it was for your own good. You looked exhausted; I feared you could faint from weariness at any moment. I’d watched you working tirelessly at Alex’s side for five days and nights. You needed rest.”

  “I think you just like giving orders.”

  Rory chuckled. “I’ll not deny it. But it comes with the position.”

  Isabel’s mouth quirked. “I think it came with birth.”

  Isabel could watch Rory forever. The twinkle in his eyes and the deep dimples in his cheeks created by his easy grin were alluring. If he was impossibly handsome when stern, when relaxed and smiling he was absolutely irresistible. She looked at his large, battle-scarred hand covering hers, and her heart rose in her throat. She felt the full force of his reputed charm directed at her. And the feeling of helplessness that the attraction induced in her was terrifying.

  “If you’re finished, we’ll retire to my solar, where we can converse in private.”

  Isabel swallowed and allowed herself to be escorted from the dais. She knew the time had come. She would bear her punishment for disobeying his instructions. His gentle behavior in the forest and the peaceful lull that had existed the past few days were at an end. It was time to pay the piper for her impulsiveness.

  Isabel accepted the blame, but her frustration at being confined to the castle for so long was not without justification. He had left her alone, without communication, for months.

  She accepted Rory’s hand, and he led her out of the hall. She wasn’t unaware of the speculative glances thrown their way; the clan had noticed the blossoming intimacy between their chief and his bride.

  They made their way outside, along the passageway connecting the two towers. She shivered in the cold night air. Instinctively, he pulled her closer to his side. It seemed so natural, as though their bodies slipped into perfect alignment. But even with his warmth to shield her, it was freezing.

  “I’ve often thought to connect the two towers with an indoor corridor. I hope to hire a mason to look at the project within the next few years.”

  Isabel’s teeth rattled. “Sounds like a wonderful idea. Perhaps you might consider finding someone sooner?”

  Rory chuckled. “I’ll consider it.”

  They entered the inviting warmth of the Fairy Tower, and she was glad when he led her up the spiral staircase to the library and not their chamber. Neutral ground. Whenever she stepped into the tower, Isabel experienced a sharp twinge of guilt. While Rory was gone to the fair at Port Righ and on to Edinburgh, she’d hoped to have the opportunity to search this tower as she had the old keep, but an appropriate time never seemed to present itself.

  Or perhaps, she admitted, she had not wanted to find the time.

  Isabel moved across the room and headed directly for the large, inviting window looking out over the loch.

  “It’s lovely.” She realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

  “It is.” But Isabel realized he was not looking at the view. A shiver of awareness slid down her spine, as it always did when he stood so near. He cleared his throat. “On a clear day, you can see north to the Isles of Harris and North Uist. To the west is a beautiful view of the Tables.”

  “The Tables?”

  “MacLeod’s Tables. Two flat-topped hills so named after a trick played by my grandfather, who promised an arrogant English nobleman that there was not a more beautiful table or spectacular candelabrum than the one on Skye. When the nobleman arrived to prove him wrong, my grandfather held a lavish feast on those hills, and the sky was illuminated with hundreds of sparkling stars, forcing the Englishman to agree with him.”

  Isabel clapped her hands and laughed. “Your grandfather sounds like a wily old fox.”

  Rory chuckled. “He was at that.” He motioned toward the window and redirected her attention to the blackness below them. “But the view of the sea is my favorite.”

  Isabel gazed straight down the side of the bluff below them to the swirling blackness of the sea, the sliver of the moon providing little light to pierce the darkness of the misty night. She nodded in agreement. “I think that I must always live by the water. Although the gardens at court were beautiful, I missed Loch Carron. It was strange not looking out my window and finding water.” She sighed dreamily. “There is nothing as magically soothing as the rhythmic crashing of waves against the rocks.”

  Rory looked surprised by her heartfelt words. “I feel much the same. Living on an isle, I feel a part of the sea—it flows through my blood. Whenever I am away from Skye, it calls to me.”

  Isabel realized that Rory had just shown her a little corner of his heart. He felt things more deeply than he wanted others to see. It warmed her, even as she wanted to laugh at the uncomfortable surprised expression on his face.

  Clearly disconcerted, he pulled out a chair from under the table and changed the subject. “Please sit. I’d like to ask you a few questions about what went on in the forest the day Alex was injured and you were nearly—”

  The blood slid from her face.

  “When you were set upon by the Mackenzies,” he amended quickly.

  She accepted the proffered chair and folded her hands demurely in her lap to stop their shaking. He sounded calm, but she was nervous all the same. She took a deep breath. “What is it that you would like to know? I’m sure Colin and Margaret have told you that I asked Alex to take us hunting.”

  “Yes, Colin explained what you were doing in the forest, but not why you put yourself and the others in such danger by leaving the castle in the first place.”

  She briefly recounted the events of that day. When she had finished and he did not say anything but simply stared at her, she continued nervously, “Alex took proper precautions. I only thought to provide a brief respite from the monotony of weeks spent inside the castle walls. You see, we’d been working so hard getting the accounts in order for Michaelmas.” She knew her explanation sounded ridiculous—which it was. She was ashamed of her part in instigating their adventure.

  “Were you unaware, then, of my orders that you and Margaret remain at Dunvegan while I was gone? Did Alex not explain this to you? Did he not warn you about the danger presented by the Mackenzies?”

  “Of course Alex explained your wishes. It’s just that, well, I assumed you did not realize you would be gone so long…and, uh, that you would not mind under the circumstances. It was such a beautiful day, we were having such fun—and we did not stray too far from the castle. I never dreamed the Mackenzies would be so bold and venture so close. It seemed harmless enough.” She was a bairn again, standing before her father, twisting her hands in frustration while trying to explain yet another questionable decision that she could not rationalize even to herself.

  “What I don’t understand is why Alex agreed to this. Why would he disobey my express orders?”

  She bit her lip. Rory was watching her changing expressions closely and mistook the guilt on her face for an answer.

  His eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

  “No, you misunderstand. It’s difficult to explain. It’s just that, well, I feel guilty. You see…” The twisting of her hands intensified. “Alex may have some tender feelings toward me, and, well, I did beg him, and I know it wasn’t right.” Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment and shame.

  Rory threaded his fingers through his hair and glared at her. “No, it reeks of manipulation. If what you say about Alex’s sentiments are correct, you should not have encouraged him.”

  “I didn’t encourage him. I did not set out to purposefully use his feelings in that way. You make it sound so calculated. It’s just that when you mentioned it now, I felt guilty—that in retrospect I probably should not have gone to Alex, knowing how he feels.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. You will discover that not all men will do your bidding, Isabel. Not all men will be
led about by a pretty smile or a well-placed touch. Indeed, I am surprised my brother fell for such an obvious ploy. But I will not.” His voice was as rigid as steel. “You will find that I am not as easy to persuade.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do not try to deceive me. Ever.”

  A chill slid down her spine. “Are you finished?”

  “No.” The anger Isabel dreaded came full force. His eyes blazed. “Don’t you realize what would have happened had I not arrived when I did? They would have killed Alex, and you would have wished for it. To go hunting? You could have waited for my return.”

  “Your return?” Her hurt at his abandonment finally burst forth. “You stayed so long, I questioned whether you intended to return at all.” Her throat tightened. “You never thought to write me. Not one word.”

  Her eyes were glued to her feet. She dared not meet his gaze for fear that he would see how perilously close to tears she was.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked roughly. “I’ve told you it cannot be.”

  Suddenly, she found herself in his arms, where he clearly intended to vent his frustration on her person. Her head tipped back as she searched his face for some sign of understanding. But there was no evidence of compassion in the harsh, tightly drawn lines of his face: his eyes narrow slits, his mouth clenched firmly in a straight line, his arms rigid and unforgiving.

  He looked as though he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to shake her or kiss her. They stood staring at each other for some time, balancing on the precarious precipice of indecision. Isabel held her breath, aware that he was fighting a fierce internal battle. Not content to wait, she made the decision for him.

  Circling her arms around his neck, she lifted up on her toes and leaned her mouth closer to his. Her curves molded perfectly to his thick, hard muscle.

  “I want this,” she said, and kissed him.

  He swore softly and drew her closer to him, not simply returning her kiss, but taking control. His kiss was full of hunger bordering on starvation.

  Bold and frenzied.

  His mouth moved over hers possessively, searching for relief. There was an urgency to his movements, as if the sands of time were an enemy that could only thwart his intentions. The furious quickening of her heart—beating now with excitement and not fear—matched his.

  Anticipation was a potent aphrodisiac. The touch of his lips on hers instantly rekindled the passion invoked by their last heated kiss. Isabel felt a powerful bolt of desire shoot through her body. She knew that she wanted him, and her wanting had nothing to do with her uncle’s plan. Her need was primitive. She wanted him as a woman wants a man.

  Rory overwhelmed her senses, rendering her limp with desire, unable to form a coherent thought other than hunger for the man holding her. The weighty feel of his demanding mouth, the soft tickle of his golden chestnut hair slipping forward against her cheek, the friction of his day-old beard against her tender skin, the intoxicating scent of salt and sea that seemed to permeate his skin, and the taste of wine lingering on his lips dissolved all thoughts of her plan.

  Slowly, he relaxed his hold. His rough fingers traced a surprisingly feathery, light path up her arm, across her shoulder, and up the side of her neck to finally cup her chin. Her skin tingled where he left his touch as he gently tilted her chin upward, forcing her to deepen the embrace.

  She knew he would not be content with innocent kisses. His passion had broken free of its tight rein and the repressed desire she felt exploding within him would not be quenched by a gentle wooing. She felt the power of his desire as his fingers and mouth worked in tandem to open her lips to the thrusting invasion of his tongue, plundering and pillaging with each swirling stroke. Unable to contain her own passion, she responded instinctively, her tongue joining his, meeting and matching his desire with her innocent but knowing rejoinder.

  Her back was pressed hard against the wall next to the window as the full length of his body crushed against hers. The force of his powerful build, so muscular and strong, touched a primitive longing for protection that she would have scoffed at only months before. Before she had learned of her own vulnerability at the hands of Murdock Mackenzie. With Rory, she felt completely feminine. Vulnerable, but safe. And most of all, wanted. He ravished as if he could not have enough of her.

  His hands were everywhere, exploring the sleek contours of her body. Like a conqueror—with each touch, he branded her as his. His movements were rougher, harder, and more frenzied than before. As if he feared the intervention of rational thought. He slipped his fingers beneath the bodice of her gown to caress her breast, and her nipple hardened, awaiting the touch of his tongue. He took her in his mouth and sucked, rolling the throbbing peak between his teeth and tongue until she writhed in frustration.

  Cool air chilled her heated skin as he lifted her skirts and exposed one leg. She felt his hand caress her naked bottom and purposefully tilted her hips toward his length. She shivered with the tingling rush of excited anticipation growing where their bodies now touched. The heated pulse between her legs felt so sensitive, tingling with heightened awareness.

  His lips found her mouth again as his hand boldly climbed the inside of her thigh. She tensed, heart pounding. Wanting. Waiting. Aching for his touch. Oh God, how he teased her. His torturous stroking, sweeping, brushing, slowly increased the divine pressure until she shook with need. Until she was damp and hot, weeping for more. His tongue flicked in and out of her mouth, and suddenly she knew—knew what he would do. She pressed her hips against his hand in silent entreaty.

  She moaned, reveling in the sharp surge of relief when his finger plunged swiftly into the dampness between her legs.

  “God, you’re tight.” His voice sounded strained, as if he were in pain.

  The feelings of near ecstasy he was arousing easily outweighed all other thought. Or any qualms. Nothing that felt this wonderful could be wrong. Her breathing quickened in short gasps as he continued his intimate stroking, stirring her body into a wicked frenzy of need. The pressure built and built, until she thought she would burst. She felt strange, impatient for something she didn’t understand.

  “Relax,” he whispered encouragingly. “Don’t fight it, allow your mind to let go. Just concentrate on the feelings of pleasure where I touch you. I’m going to make you come.”

  Isabel gave over to the soothing caress of his voice. It didn’t take long for her to understand what he meant, as the pressure built inside her. His finger plunged inside her, and when his thumb massaged her most sensitive spot, she clenched and, finally, shattered.

  Rory watched the celestial wave of Isabel’s release crash over her, sweeping her up in its powerful wake.

  The wonder and ecstasy that flushed across her face was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. As the sensations began to ebb, the rise and fall of her chest slowed and her color returned to normal.

  “I never imagined…,” she said, her voice soft with awe. “Is it always like that?”

  He wanted to lie but instead spoke the truth that had lodged firmly in his chest. “Not always.” Never. He’d never felt like that as he brought a woman to release.

  She seemed to take his words to heart. Her smile encompassed her entire face.

  Rory hadn’t wanted this to happen.

  He’d wanted only to shake some sense into her, but when she’d pressed her sweet lips to his, he was lost. He knew he could not—and would not—fight the powerful attraction that seemed to pull them together. He could still give her pleasure and not take her innocence.

  Or so he thought. But her next words changed everything.

  “I want to touch you, too. Show me how to give you pleasure.”

  His honorable intentions flew right out the window. He held his breath as her hand moved innocently to his thigh. He should be shocked by her boldness, but he was too damned aroused. He wanted her hand on him. Taking her wrist, he moved her hand over his plaid, stopping at his bulging erection. Her fi
ngers curled instinctively around his length.

  He tensed, waiting for her next move—thankful for the length of cloth separating her hand from his cock. He was so hard, so filled with lust, that even the simple touch of her hand on his hot, sensitive skin might make him lose control. Innocently, she caressed him, tentatively explored his length, and with his help began to stroke him. His buttocks clenched as he fought the urge to explode in her hand. Or lift her skirts and slide into her tight heat. The thought of all that softness surrounding him brought a bead of anticipation to his tip.

  Rory knew he was going too fast, but he felt his experience incinerated by the blazing inferno between them. No woman had ever made him feel like this—made him lose all control. The fever of her response was driving him mad. He had been down this road many times before, but never had he traveled like this—with a woman who met his every stroke with a parry of her own. He was in danger of taking her right here, pressed against the window. Either that or risk shaming himself like an untried lad by the sweet circle of her hand.

  He forced himself to slow the pace. Easing her away from the window, he lowered her to a nearby cushioned bench. Bending over her, he kissed her gently as he began working the laces of her gown. His lips moved across her face, toward the sensitive nape of her neck. She sighed as his tongue tasted the honey-sweet silk of her skin.

  Rory hadn’t intended to take it this far, but his body would not be denied. Desire warred with honor.

  His head jerked up, and he felt as if he’d been dunked in a tub of cold reality. He knew what he had to do, though it was undoubtedly the hardest thing he’d ever done. He was so close to releasing the nearly unbearable pressure.