But honor, it seemed, had won.
He couldn’t do this. Not when she was still vulnerable from her attack. Not when there were so many questions between them.
She deserved more than he could give her.
He stood up, his gaze held captive by what he’d forsaken for duty. She was temptation personified—her eyes half-closed with passion, her sensuous lips bruised by his kisses, her breathing ragged and shallow. He raked his gaze down to the soft ivory skin of her partially exposed breasts, the nipples dark and tight from his kisses.
He must be insane.
Isabel opened her eyes wide with surprise at his abrupt curtailment of the pleasure he was giving only moments before. “Why are you looking at me like that? Did I do something wrong?” She sat up, fumbling self-consciously with the laces on her bodice.
Wrong? She was so damn innocent.
Rory turned, gazing out the window into the darkness, allowing his breathing to slow. Finally, he looked back to her. “I’ve told you how it must be.”
She stood up, sliding her hands around his neck. “It doesn’t need to be.”
It was almost too much. Perhaps he should just take what she offered, to hell with the consequences. But Rory would not act rashly when it came to the clan, not even with a woman he wanted above all others.
Carefully he unfolded her arms from around his neck. He couldn’t think with her so near. “Why did you kiss me?”
Her mouth dropped open. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t trust me,” she said flatly.
“Should I? You are a MacDonald.”
Their eyes met, and he could see that his frank words had hurt her, but her answer was important to him. More important than he wanted to acknowledge.
She lifted her chin, but the tremble of her bottom lip betrayed her distress. “Have I given you reason not to?”
Rory stroked his jaw but didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure. “You’ve pushed me before,” he said, referring to the dress and flimsy night rail. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
Isabel flushed, but whether from anger or guilt he did not know. “I kissed you because I wanted to. That is the only reason. If you will remember, we were discussing the attack at your request. Your suggestion.” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. “And if I choose to seduce you, you will know.” The sensuous, womanly confidence in her eyes took him aback.
Rory almost smiled at her bravado, even as her threat sent a shiver of trepidation winding through him. He suspected that she was right. This woman was lethal.
She let her threat hang for a moment before continuing. “Maybe I should question your motives. Why did you bring me here tonight?”
“I asked you here to discuss the attack. Perhaps we should return to that and talk about the ramifications of your actions.” He paused, deliberating what those consequences might be.
Isabel stood before him proudly, her hair disheveled and her cheeks flushed, but otherwise little evidence remained of her near undressed state of a few minutes ago.
“I admit responsibility. Do what you will.”
Rory shook his head. “I do not like your part in this, but it was Alex who was responsible. He was left in charge while I was away, and he will answer for his actions when he wakes. You have already suffered punishment enough at the hands of the Mackenzies. However, if you ever choose to disobey me again, mark me, Isabel, there will be severe consequences. I trust you will not do anything so reckless again.”
It was not a question.
“You may return to your chamber,” he said more gently. It wasn’t only Alex and Isabel to blame. Rory felt some responsibility for what had almost happened to her. He had not spread the news of their handfast, and this had contributed to Murdock Mackenzie’s suspicions that Isabel was not who she’d claimed to be. He’d also left her alone too long. The memory of her bitter accusation had not faded—his long silence had hurt her.
Isabel ventured one last glance, pleading for understanding. He held her gaze but kept his expression inscrutable. The memory of what they’d shared stretched uncomfortably between them. Chastened, she turned and started to leave.
He watched her go, his body still smoldering with unspent desire. The memory of her face as she’d shattered in his arms would haunt him for every day that remained of this damned handfast.
He stopped her before she reached the door. “Why are you really here, Isabel? Why did you agree to the handfast?”
She seemed surprised by his question. “’Twas my father’s wish.”
“But what about you, what do you want?”
“My clan to prosper, the love of my family.”
“Is that all? Do you not want a man to love? Bairns to care for?”
“Of course, but you’ve made it very clear that is not your intention.” Their eyes met and held. “Why did you agree to this handfast?”
“I had no choice, the king demanded it,” he answered automatically. He saw the flicker of something in her eyes. Pain?
“By handfasting with me, you did your duty to your king, but there is nothing to say that you may not enjoy it.” Her voice was very quiet. “I did.”
He was silent for a moment, remembering the intensity of what they’d shared. “It doesn’t change anything.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken his words aloud until he noticed her expression. She looked as though he’d struck her.
After a moment, she smiled sadly. “You’re wrong. It changes everything.”
Chapter 14
Isabel awoke as she’d done every day for the past month—cradled in Rory’s arms. She feigned sleep for a few minutes longer, relishing the sensation of those strong steel bands encircling her, the heat of his hard chest against her back, the spicy masculine scent of him, and the deep soothing sound of his even breathing. Safe. Warm. Content. She could stay like this forever.
And today, like every day, she experienced the same sharp pang of disappointment and loss when he slid out of bed the instant he hardened against her, dressed quickly, and left. Some days it seemed he hesitated, but his honor was strong, and inevitably, she heard the door close with a definitive click behind him.
Isabel never let him know that she was awake. As if by acknowledging the unspoken lure of their bodies, she might shatter the growing intimacy between them. The connection forged in the wee hours of the night, when she unconsciously reached for him, seeking the warmth of his body and the heat of his skin, and nothing else mattered but the press of his body against hers. And in those long, slow days spent awaiting the Christmas celebration, Isabel had come to realize how much she treasured his strength beside her.
She’d been correct. That night in the library had changed everything.
His gift to her had opened up an entirely new world. One that she didn’t know how she could possibly leave behind. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d done. How it felt to be in his arms, the closeness, the ecstasy, and the magic. Though rightfully placed, his distrust afterward was the only thing to mar the beauty of her release. She wanted nothing more than to prove to him that he could trust her. But how could she, when he could not?
The unspoken truce had created a pleasant lull, but one she knew could not go on forever.
She dressed quickly, broke her fast with a small tray of food brought up by Deidre, and headed to the library to begin her tasks for the day.
In the month since Rory’s return, Isabel’s daily activities had settled into a comfortable pattern. Alex’s recovery had progressed remarkably fast given the severity of the injury. She and Margaret had taken turns nursing him until one day, fed up with their “incessant hovering,” he threw them out of his room, declaring that he had been subjected to enough humiliation and was more than capable of bathing and feeding himself. His exact phrase actually contained the terms clean and arse, but suffice it to say, he was feeling much better.
When they weren’t busy with their dut
ies attending to the management of the castle, she and Margaret enjoyed reading or playing chess near the hearth of the crackling fire in the library. The disaster of their hunting adventure now behind them, the two had resumed a rigorous practice schedule with the bow—albeit within the safe confines of the castle walls. Margaret’s skills had improved dramatically. She was proving to be quite the apt pupil, and Isabel suspected that Margaret’s ability would soon surpass that of her instructor.
Bessie had become fast friends with Deidre and was largely accepted by the MacLeod household servants. During Alex’s illness she had taken to clucking and fussing over him, and although he pretended to be annoyed at being treated as if he were little older than a “wet-behind-the-ear squire,” Isabel knew that he was growing to love Bessie as much as she and Margaret did. Robert, the porter, still seemed to manage to find tasks that would require his presence in the tower—not coincidentally in close proximity to where Bessie happened to be working.
Rory spent most of his days in the yard, training his warriors for the inevitable retaliation by the Mackenzies for the death of the chief’s son Murdock. It was not a matter of if, but when retribution would come, and Rory would be prepared. He refused any requests that would take her beyond the gates of the castle, and Isabel was still so upset with what had happened last time she’d ventured out, she did not press him.
She dropped her quill carelessly on the table and slumped back in her chair, pondering the situation. She knew she had to do something soon. Her uncle would be expecting a report of her progress. She was amazed Sleat had left her alone this long, with Christmas only one week away. Time was slipping away from her, and the pressure of her precarious predicament was building. She’d expected danger, yes, but she had not anticipated the painful emotional costs that would be involved with her treachery. How could she betray Margaret and Alex, who had welcomed her and treated her as more of a sister than her own family? How could she betray Rory, a man who she admired above all others? A man who’d rescued her from rape and then wiped away the horrible memories by awakening her passion.
She couldn’t. And the realization was like a physical blow.
How would she fulfill her duty to her clan? She’d hoped Rory would make it easy on her by wresting the decision from her hands, but he had a will of steel. He wanted her, but his honor prevented him from acting on his desires. She considered claiming that she was unable to locate the flag or the secret entrance, but there was too much at stake. She could not yet concede to such absolute failure in her family’s eyes or to the inevitable destruction her failure would bring.
Isabel still held out hope that circumstances might have changed or that her father would have devised another way to repulse the Mackenzies’ attacks on Strome. She frowned. Her father’s failure to respond to her letters, another one written after her attack, concerned her, although the delay of his response helped her justify her reluctance to search the castle further and her failure to seduce Rory as she’d planned.
Isabel glanced down at the piles of parchments before her and returned to her work. She’d spent most of the morning conferring with James, the bailiff, about the rents for the month. She was in the process of making the appropriate notations in the ledgers reflecting the new information when Margaret bounded into the library, laughing excitedly. She had obviously come from outside; her golden curls were hopelessly mussed from the wind, a slight glow of perspiration shone on her brow, and her cheeks bloomed bright pink from exertion. Looking down, Isabel could see the telltale mud splattered on the edge of her gown and slippers. As doggedly determined as the most ambitious mercenary, Isabel knew Margaret had been at it again.
“What are you laughing about on this cold and dreary day?” Peering out the window, Isabel could barely see the loch, as the mist cloaked the castle in a thick, dense fog. Despite the warm fire in the room, she wore an extra plaid about her shoulders.
“You will never guess.” Margaret giggled, pulling up a chair next to Isabel at the table.
Isabel looked at her pointedly, pretending to consider her answer. “Let’s see…you have decided to put that devilish pirate-looking suitor of yours out of his misery and marry him.”
Margaret blushed. “No. Isabel, your teasing is just as bad as Alex’s. You know Colin is only being considerate. He could not be interested in me the way you suggest. Guess again.”
Isabel lifted an eyebrow skeptically. Margaret was quite deluded where Colin’s interests lay. “Hmmm. Let me think. I know, Catriona has decided to defy the kirk and become a nun.” Isabel could joke about Catriona now, since Margaret had assured her that Rory’s involvement with the woman had ended long ago.
Margaret gave a loud guffaw that was decidedly incongruous with her size. “Isabel, you are a wicked one! Imagine that shameless woman forsaking the more earthly pleasures in which she so continuously delights. I know many a wife who would be overjoyed to have that husband-tempting harlot out of the way. All right, I suppose I shall have to tell you, since I can hardly wait for you to guess. I challenged Alex to a contest with the bow and won!”
Isabel threw up her hands and gave her a tight hug. “How wonderful! I told you your skills have improved.” Her lips lifted mischievously. “I’m sure Alex had something to say about your victory. He has been relentless in his horrible teasing about your diligent practice schedule. Serves him right.” She could clearly visualize his bewildered shock. “I remember my brothers’ reactions when I bested them. Their pride always bristled at being set down by a mere lass.” She emphasized the last words with mock haughty condescension. “And you being such a spry wee thing—hardly a likely challenger to a fierce, proud MacLeod warrior.”
Margaret’s face flushed crimson with delight, and her uncovered sapphire blue eye sparkled. “Oh, Isabel, you should have seen Alex. The look on his face was worth a king’s ransom. When I hit the target dead center, I thought his eyes might pop from his head. And you should have heard the men who were standing around watching. I’m sure he will not hear the end of this for days.”
“Well done, Margaret. You have earned your victory. Mayhap this will teach Alex to curb his teasing tongue.” They looked at each other, paused for a moment, and broke out in fresh laughter. Alex was a born instigator, a born tease; it was part of his charm, and they relished the lighthearted moments that seemed to come so infrequently. Isabel also suspected that although he might feign indignation, Alex was extremely proud of his sister’s burgeoning accomplishment with a bow. She had progressed at an amazing pace. The change in her was so striking, the new pride and self-confidence she exhibited was incredible to behold. Alex would not begrudge her a win, even at the expense of some relentless ribbing by the clansmen for his foreseeable future.
Rory stood at the doorway watching the two women bursting in great peals of laughter. His chest tightened to see the joy on his sister’s face, joy he had never thought to see again. And he knew Isabel was responsible for the happy return of his lost sister. How could it have happened in such a short time? It seemed that almost overnight, Margaret had discarded the cloak of shame and timorousness that she had worn for the last two years, to revel like a pagan at Beltane in her newfound confidence. Even in the midst of the bleak, frozen darkness of winter, Dunvegan seemed to burst with the warm spring light of their laughter and smiles. He had not realized how much he’d missed the laughter of happy women until it returned so unexpectedly.
His gaze fell on Isabel. She’d also changed, perhaps not as dramatically as Margaret, but just as importantly. The loneliness and vulnerability that hovered around her on her arrival seemed to have faded as she’d carved out a growing place in his family. Knowing that her time at Dunvegan was only brief, it troubled him. In truth, the plan to repudiate the handfast weighed on him heavily.
He would never tire of looking at her. She was exquisite—the way she moved, the way she laughed. Each time he looked at her, her beauty seemed to change. It’s not that she became less beautiful wi
th acquaintance the way some women did. No, he thought, rather the opposite occurred—she grew even more beautiful. With each meeting she became more real, as if aspects of her unique character broke through the mask of perfect features.
He was not the only one to notice her. Rory had caught most of his men casting her admiring glances when they thought he was not watching. It riled him, but he did not attribute it to a lack of loyalty. They were not bloody eunuchs. He could hardly blame them for something that he found impossible to avoid doing himself. Even sitting behind a table stacked with parchment, she was stunning, her shining copper gold hair floating around her shoulders, her ivory skin smudged with black ink, her full lips twitching mischievously, the defiant lift of her chin. Her beauty was magnetic—a rare gift meant to be admired.
His thoughts strayed to this morning, when he’d woken to find her nestled in his arms. His body warmed at the memory. The last month had been exquisite torture. He’d hoped that it would grow easier, that he would get used to sharing a bed, but each day he wanted her more than the day before. Their bodies had found each other and wouldn’t let go. Abstinence was doing crazy things to him; Rory didn’t know how much more he could take.
She was still a maid, but if she pushed him again, he would not be held accountable.
His distrust had eased over the last month, though he still couldn’t forget that she was a MacDonald and the niece of his enemy. He’d watched her closely these past few weeks and was relieved not to find her searching through any more dark corridors. Nor had she made a further attempt to press him. Though sleeping beside her every night was temptation enough.
Rory observed the two young women who seemed as comfortable as two cagey old dowagers who had been friends from the nursery. They still had yet to notice him.
He wasn’t surprised to find the accomplices here in his library. From the stack of ledgers piled next to Isabel and the black smears on her fingertips, he deduced that she had been working on the accounts again. First his room, then his sister, now his accounts. Isabel had woven her way into the fabric of his castle—into his life. Pretty soon she’d be sitting in his chair. The image made him smile.
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