“What are you two hoydens laughing about?”
Isabel turned in surprise as Rory entered the library. His visits to the library were more infrequent now that she and Margaret had largely taken over the room. Even more unusual was that it was still the middle of the day, a time usually devoted to waging war with his warriors in the courtyard. Apparently, he’d just come from the lists, as he’d yet to wash the toil of his practice from his well-worked body.
Her heart skipped a beat as it always did when she recalled his prowess on the lists. And something warm and tingly curled inside her stomach when she thought of this fierce warrior cradling her gently in his arms.
Isabel’s strong physical reaction to him did not lessen with familiarity. She still had to pull her eyes away from staring at his ruggedly handsome face—still deeply tanned despite the lack of sun these past few months. Nor would she ever get used to the way his very presence filled a room—not just the result of his broad shoulders and powerfully muscled body, but also from the raw heat that seemed to radiate from him.
Since Margaret appeared conveniently mute, reluctant to admit they’d been laughing at Alex, Isabel decided to let him in on the joke. “It seems Margaret has defeated Alex in an impromptu archery contest.”
He turned and looked pointedly at Margaret. Uncertain of his reaction—he was a man, after all—they waited patiently for some sign. Slowly, his lips curved into a devilish grin, his dimples piercing deep craters in his cheeks.
“So Margaret has managed to trap that taunting scoundrel with his own words. I’ve heard his incessant boasting that no matter how diligent the practice schedule, he would never be beaten by a mere lass. Perhaps he’ll learn a valuable lesson: to expect the unexpected. It’s an arrogant mistake to underestimate your opponent—one that can lead to death.” He gazed over Margaret’s head and fixed his gorgeous eyes on Isabel. “I never underestimate my opponent.”
She flushed guiltily. Now why had he said that?
He appeared not to notice her reaction. “Well done, Margaret, you have made me proud. Our braggart brother could stand to be knocked down a peg or two.” Laughing, Rory lifted his sister into a warm, brotherly embrace.
Margaret’s smile seemed to fill her face. “Maybe I’ll be ready to challenge you, Rory, by the time we host the gathering this spring,” she teased.
He released Margaret from his embrace, and the smile that transcended his face matched hers in its infinite joy. “I would be honored to accept your challenge, Margaret. Alex is a very good bowman, little one, so I know you must have become quite accomplished in a very short time. But I have not been beaten in a contest with the bow since I was a lad, so you would be wise to increase your practice schedule.” He turned his smile to Isabel.
She felt as if she were melting under its warmth.
“I hope your instructor can find the time in her schedule?” he queried.
Isabel grinned and nodded.
He turned back to Margaret and said, sounding almost apologetic, “But it may not be at the gathering. You know very well that a lass may not participate in the Highland gathering—by long tradition, it is a contest reserved for warriors to test their skills, strength, and agility.” Isabel knew the gatherings were begun over five hundred years ago by Malcolm Canmore to identify the best warriors among his men. Rory’s eyes twinkled under the black wings of his raised brow. “Besides, what if you were to win? The fierce pride of the Scots would be irreparably damaged by a mere slip of a lass. It would be a blow that we men would likely never recover from.”
Isabel was mesmerized by the playful teasing of the siblings. It was a side of Rory that was so rarely exposed; she knew she would never tire of listening to their loving banter. He could be so devilishly charming—acting like this, he was irresistible. Her chest squeezed with longing.
Margaret nearly jumped up and down with exuberance. She began her preparations for extra practice immediately—talking to herself excitedly. They both listened, amused, as she ran from the room. “I will have to find someone to oversee the kitchens in the morning and take over the meal planning…”
Still grinning, Rory said, “Margaret seems to have found her calling.” The full force of his attractiveness hit her with his next words. “I thank you, Isabel. You have accomplished what I thought was impossible. You have given me back my sister.” The warmth and sincerity in his voice were like an enchanted spell binding her to him.
Isabel warmed under his praise. Rory constantly surprised her. She could not recall ever being honestly thanked for anything by a man in his position. Most men would never consider being beholden to a woman for anything. But such graciousness only increased his estimation in her eyes; the power to recognize another’s worth in no way diminished his own, it only made him appear stronger.
She stood up and stepped toward him, struggling to find her voice. “I’ve done nothing but be a friend, and that was simple enough with Margaret. I feel like I’ve known her my whole life. It’s difficult to believe it’s only been a few months.”
Isabel paused, debating whether to say something further. She might never have a better opportunity, and she wanted him to understand about Margaret. “I think the end to the feud has helped her enormously,” she added hesitantly.
Rory tensed as he did at any mention of the feud. “What do you mean?”
Isabel took a deep breath, deciding it was worth the risk to state her opinion, even if it ruined his good mood. She looked down at her feet, not wanting his reaction to stop what she had to say. “I think the feud and the quest for revenge has made it impossible for Margaret to put the past behind her. I know she feels responsible for the death and destruction done in her name.” Isabel’s clenched hands betrayed her anxiety at mentioning the forbidden subject of her uncle.
After a moment of unbearable silence, she dared to peek at his face. But instead of the anger she’d expected, Rory appeared thoughtful.
“And the feud was a constant reminder of Sleat’s cruelty,” he finished. “But it was not only Margaret who was shamed, the honor of the clan demanded retribution.”
Isabel nodded. “You were attending to your duty as chief, Margaret knows that”—her voice lowered—“and so does Alex.”
“What does Alex have to do with this?” When she appeared reluctant to say anything further, he added, “Speak freely, Isabel, I would like to hear what you have to say.”
There was no easy way to say this, so she just blurted it out. “Alex needs to feel that he is important to you and the clan.”
“Of course he’s important. He is my tanaiste.” She felt the full measure of his attention on her. “Go on,” he urged.
“I know you think that he is important, but I don’t think Alex does. What duties have you delegated to him?”
Rory was silent for a moment. “Not many,” he admitted. Isabel waited for him to finish the thought. “And by my not doing so, he believes that I do not think he is capable.”
Isabel nodded. “If you do not give him more responsibility, he will never be able to resolve his defeat at the hands of the MacDonalds.”
Rory leaned back, assessing her with an appreciative gaze. “If Alex has discussed his loss at Binquihillin and the death of our cousins, you truly must have earned his confidence. I know he blames himself, but I do not. I would have done the same in his stead.”
“But if you do not allow him the responsibilities worthy of your tanaiste, are you not telling him by your actions that you do not trust him? That you do blame him?” she asked quietly.
Rory drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest. “I am chief, I do not delegate my duties and responsibilities.”
Isabel tried not to be distracted by the impressive display of muscle straining against saffron linen. “I know that you would not be so arrogant as to believe that you must personally attend to all the matters of the clan and that you are the only one qualified to make decisions.”
He quirk
ed his mouth, seemingly amused by her sarcastic set-down. But he appeared to at least consider what she said. “I will think on it.” Apparently, turnabout was fair play. “And what of you, Isabel? What of your family?”
It was Isabel’s turn to bristle defensively. “What of it?”
“Tell me why the mere mention of your family causes pain to flicker in your eyes,” he urged, this time gently.
She looked away, embarrassed that her loneliness was so obvious. “There’s not much to tell,” she said carefully. “You know that my mother died when I was young, my father had his duty to the clan, and my brothers…well, they had their own pursuits. Pursuits that were not appropriate for a young girl.” She saw something resembling sympathy in his eyes, and she quickly tried to explain, lest he get the wrong impression. “My father was not cruel. Just busy. And I always had Bessie looking after me.”
His soft voice drew her eyes back to his. “Your father is not unusual, Isabel. Most men do not concern themselves with the raising of their girl children. ’Tis the way of the world. As chief of a clan facing constant attacks, no doubt your father did not have much time for you or your brothers. He had his duty to the clan.”
“You are not that way,” she pointed out. “I see how you care for your family, including your sisters.”
Rory smiled. “I didn’t say I agreed with it, I said ’twas the way of the world. My father was much as yours.”
“But you had your brothers and sisters.”
“Didn’t you?”
She thought for a second. “For a while, but as I got older they changed. My mother was a lady. My father thought that I should be one, which meant that I was no longer able to spend as much time with three older brothers.”
His fingers reached out to cup her chin, tilting it upward until their eyes met. “Perhaps they did not realize how lonely you were, perhaps they did not know any other way. I watched your family with you. To me it looked more awkwardness than lack of regard.”
His words startled her. Was he right? Was it simply that the men in her family didn’t know how to deal with a young girl? Could she have misinterpreted her family’s feelings so greatly? Memories, snippets of conversations, shuffled through her mind. Reframed with Rory’s perspective, it felt right. Isabel allowed a glimmer of hope to build in her chest.
He looked at her as though he wanted to say more, but instead he chose to let the subject drop. They merely stared at each other, each afraid to move and break the spell of connection that had sprouted between them.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asked breathlessly, more moved by the moment than she thought possible.
“Yes. I would ask a boon of you. As Margaret has been so busy with her duties and her new practice schedule, I was wondering whether you might find the time to help me organize the Highland gathering that will be held at Dunvegan in the spring.”
He was including her. She thought her heart would burst with happiness. “Of course, I would love to help. What can I do?”
Rory returned her smile. “First, we will need to prepare a list of the clans that will be asked to participate and send a messenger with an invitation.”
Isabel was already making a mental list of the surrounding clans: MacCrimmons, Mackinnons, MacLeans, Argyll and the Campbells, Ramsays, MacDonalds. MacDonalds. Her brows shot together with the sudden realization. Her heart sank with dread. If her family were here, she would be forced to provide a report of her progress—or lack thereof.
“Does that mean my family will be invited?”
“Of course, Glengarry and even Sleat must be invited. Our recent handfast has made allies of former enemies. Is that not what the king has ordered?” He looked at her with a challenge in his eye.
Given his good mood, Isabel decided not to point out that Rory had once questioned that very premise.
Another thought occurred to her, this one even more treacherous and unwelcome than the last. “What about the Mackenzies?”
“All the local clans, Isabel.” He placed his hand over hers in a gesture of reassurance. “All feuds will be set aside for the duration of the gathering.”
“But what if they try to retaliate?”
“They would not dare break the sacred obligation of Highland hospitality. They’ll come and seek to best the MacLeods on the field of games. We can expect an attack from the Mackenzie, but not at the gathering.”
His confidence calmed her anxiety. “What types of games should we organize?”
“The usual challenges: the tossing of the caber, throwing the hammer, archery, stone throwing, wrestling, swimming, leaping, and hill running. Most of the games will be held in the village or in the forest. Of course, the swimming will be in the loch. We’ll also need to provide for accommodations both here and in the village, as well as coordinate the food and drink for the feast. Are you sure you’ll have time to help?”
“Very sure. I’ll get started immediately preparing a list of guests for your approval. Then I can begin drafting the invitations. Whom shall I send to deliver them?”
Before he could answer, a knock came upon the door. He bade them entry, and Isabel was surprised to see Colin.
Displeased, Rory frowned at the interruption.
Colin explained, “A missive has arrived for the lady.”
Finally a letter from my father, she thought. But her relief was short-lived.
“From your uncle, my lady,” Colin said, handing her the folded parchment with the waxed seal. A seal that she recognized immediately: Per Mare per Terras, the badge of Sleat.
She turned to Rory in time to notice the almost imperceptible sharpening of his gaze. “How convenient. If you prepare the invitation for your uncle, you can give it to his messenger personally.”
The false sense of tranquillity she had been experiencing for the last few weeks was instantly shattered by one innocuous folded piece of parchment. Isabel knew what she held in her hands.
Her reminder had come.
Chapter 15
Isabel knew it was bound to happen sometime. But why did it have to be just when she and Rory had found a new intimacy and she was starting to feel that she had established a place for herself at Dunvegan? A place that mattered.
The forced reminder of her true purpose in handfasting with Rory MacLeod was a bitter draught to swallow. She had almost succeeded in convincing herself that it might never come. That perhaps they would forget about her. Fool. This was not some silly game; her clan’s fortunes would rise or fall based on her success. Her uncle had not forgotten her or devised another way to claim the Lordship of the Isles for himself.
Thankfully, Rory had left her alone in the library to read the letter. She could tell by the speculative turn of his brow that he was curious—but he did not inquire into the contents of the missive. And she did not volunteer the information.
She settled back in her chair before the fire, cracked the seal carefully, and began to read.
Her uncle sent a thinly veiled reprimand for her failure to report her progress at Dunvegan. Claiming that he was “dismayed” not to have heard from his “dear niece” since the handfast, he hoped that she might find the time to assure her “concerned family” that she was adjusting to her new married life at Dunvegan and that she had “found all that she was looking for” with her new husband. He also mentioned that he had heard “rumors” that the Mackenzies were readying to mobilize an attack on the MacDonald clan and Strome Castle.
So much for subtlety.
The letter fell to her lap as she stared in a daze at the glowing embers of the once blazing fire. Suddenly shivering, she tightened the plaid about her shoulders.
The moment had come. She had to make an impossible choice—one surely fit for the wisdom of King Solomon. Either way, it meant betrayal. Betrayal for the MacLeods or betrayal for the MacDonalds. She must choose between the family she’d grown up with or the family she’d always wanted.
At Dunvegan, she’d found friendship, happiness
, and something else that she dared not contemplate. Of Margaret’s friendship, she was sure. And so too of Alex’s. Rory’s feelings were more complicated. But somehow, in her heart, she knew that he too had softened toward her. Otherwise, he would not have asked her to help organize the games. A task that would bring them into close contact during the day—something he had previously sought to avoid.
But perhaps it was what he had not done that was the most persuasive evidence of his changing affections. He had not moved her from his room, forbade her from taking over the accounts, discouraged her from instructing Margaret with a bow, or prohibited her from nursing Alex. Indeed, in the days following the attack in the forest, he’d treated her gently and with the utmost consideration. She could only conclude that he was beginning to accept her place in his family.
But he still intended to send her away.
And though he wanted her, and the passion between them could not be denied, he’d yet to make her his bride in truth.
Her brow furled with frustration. Each time she felt their connection growing strong, something always seemed to interfere. Like this letter, reminding him of her connection to his enemy. She grabbed a lock of hair, twisting it around her finger as she grappled with her uncomfortable thoughts.
How could she align herself with a man like her uncle against a man like Rory? If it were only a matter of her uncle’s quest for the Lordship of the Isles, her choice would be clear in favor of Rory. But there was her clan to consider. The MacDonalds of Glengarry desperately needed Sleat’s men to withstand a prolonged attack by the Mackenzies. Without her uncle’s help, her clan was doomed to lose its lands. And a clan without land was a broken clan. Their people would be forced to scavenge for food, land, and protection from another clan. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.
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