The Chieftain

by Margaret Mallory

  Connor followed his sister’s gaze, but instead of finding Ilysa, he saw a lass surrounded by a group of men. Her back was to him so all he could see of her was a slim outline and lovely reddish-blond hair that fell in a thick braid to her waist and was ornamented with tiny blue flowers.

  “I don’t see Ilysa,” Connor said, though in truth he had stopped looking for her.

  He could not seem to drag his gaze away from the lass with hair the color of summer sunlight. When she spoke to the man next to her, he caught a bit of her profile. Then she tilted her head back and laughed, exposing the graceful line of her throat, and his pulse skipped.

  “Ilysa is right in front of your eyes,” his sister said with a smile in her voice. “Perhaps you’re having trouble because of all the men blocking your view.”

  Men blocking his view? They were talking about Ilysa.

  CHAPTER 18

  The lass with the red-gold braid turned around. As their gazes met, Connor had the oddest sensation that he was seeing her through a swirling fog. The hall and all the sounds and people in it faded into the mist, and he saw only her.

  The lass’s eyes widened and her lips parted as if she recognized him before she turned away. Connor’s heart lurched, and a terrible longing filled him, just as it had that night in the faery glen. An instant later, disappointment hit him like a fist to his chest because he knew this could not be his faery lass. He had long since realized that the loss of blood from his wounds that night had caused him to imagine her.

  How strange that someone in the midst of this noisy, crowded hall had made him think of the faery glen and the ethereal lass who danced with such abandon in his imagination. He was never given to flights of fancy or romantic notions. Yet the fragility of her slender frame engendered an unexpected and powerful urge to protect her.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  “Come, let’s find out,” Moira said and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

  As they approached, the men surrounding the lass made room for Connor next to her. There were some advantages to being a chieftain.

  “Take a stroll with me tomorrow and show me where ye found those wee blue flowers in your hair,” one of the men said, which caused her cheeks to blush a pretty pink. “Say ye will, Ilysa.”

  “Ilysa?” Connor did not realize he had spoken the question aloud until the lass spun toward him.

  Connor’s mouth fell open. This close, he could see that this was indeed Ilysa, but she was so changed—wonderfully so—that his mind was slow to grasp it.

  How had he failed to notice how truly lovely her brown eyes were? A man could get lost in them. His gaze dropped to her gown, and his throat tightened. All this time, she had hidden a lithe body beneath oversize gowns.

  “I don’t recall seeing your hair before,” he said and reached out to touch a shining, red-gold strand that had come loose.

  She stepped back from him. “Good evening to ye, Connor.”

  Connor started at the sound of her familiar, calm voice and dropped his hand. What was he thinking, touching her hair in front of a room full of people, as if he were a lover who could not keep his hands off her. How could Ilysa sound so serene when his pulse was pounding at his temples?

  “What happened to ye?” he blurted out.

  “Your sister and Sìleas have been dressing me.” She plucked the skirt of her gown between delicate fingers. “Do ye think the gown suits me? I’m not accustomed to it.”

  She should not have drawn his attention to it again. The gown was of the French style worn at court, with a tight-fitting, square-cut bodice that revealed the tops of her high, creamy breasts. From there, it fit snugly to her tiny waist, which he could span with his hands, and then flowed gracefully over her hips and down to the floor.

  “No, it doesn’t look right at all,” he murmured to himself. This was not how Ilysa was supposed to look. The sight of her should make him feel comfortable and easy, like a pair of old boots, not send his pulse racing and muddle his thoughts.

  Connor was vaguely aware that he had stared at her beguiling shape for far too long and dragged his attention upward, helplessly pausing at each appealing curve. Her shining braid had fallen forward over her breast. He followed it upward over flawless skin until he reached her face, which somehow was both familiar and unexpected.

  Her lips looked soft. Her slightly upturned nose was fetching. But her best feature was her dark and luminous eyes, which were set off by her red-gold hair and matching threads of her headdress.

  “Ye look exquisite,” he said on an exhale, but she was already gone.

  * * *

  Ilysa ran down the steps and along the side of the keep. When she reached the corner, she ducked into a narrow gap between the buildings. She did not stop until she reached the castle wall at the very end, where she was certain she would be out of sight.

  With her chest heaving, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The cold from the stone seeped through her back, but it did nothing to cool her burning cheeks.

  She was mortified. At first, when Connor stared at her, she thought he was admiring how she looked, as the other men had. How wrong she was.

  What happened to ye? No, it doesn’t look right at all.

  Taking slow, deep breaths, she attempted to calm herself. She had survived worse humiliation with her husband, and she would survive this as well. The disappointment was harder to bear. Ilysa squeezed her eyes shut tighter to force back the tears that threatened.

  She had deceived herself. Only now could she admit why she had let Moira and Sìleas persuade her to change her appearance and come to the gathering. She had not done it to gain a marriage offer from a stranger. No, in her secret heart of hearts, she had hoped to make Connor look at her and for once see a desirable woman. Was that too much to ask?

  Her pleasure in the attention from the other men evaporated like the mist on a hot day. They had only flocked around her because there were so few women here. Besides, what did it matter if they all thought she was pretty, when the one man she cared about did not find her so?

  Ilysa felt someone’s presence and snapped her eyes open. O shluagh! None other than Alastair MacLeod stood not two feet away, staring down at her. He was huge.

  Though she had never seen the famed chieftain of her enemy clan before, she had heard stories about him all her life. She recognized him by his maimed shoulder, which was caused by a MacDonald axe and figured in the tales as often as the slaughters of her clan.

  Sweat broke out on her palms. The MacLeod chieftain towered over her, and she could not get by him in the narrow gap between buildings. She was trapped.

  “I am Alastair MacLeod,” he said in a voice so deep she could feel it through her feet. “No matter what you’ve heard, I don’t eat captured MacDonald children for breakfast.”

  Ilysa was caught off guard by his jest and assumed, or at least hoped, it meant he did not intend to harm her. Despite his age and disfigured shoulder, he was unexpectedly handsome. None of the stories had mentioned that.

  “I’m honored to meet ye,” she said to be courteous, though she could not quite believe she was conversing with the MacLeod chieftain. “How do ye know I’m a MacDonald?”

  “I saw ye come into the hall with your clansmen,” he said. “What’s your name, lass?”

  “Ilysa,” she said, her voice unnaturally high.

  “A lovely name,” he said. “It suits ye.”

  She did not know what to say to that. She was still reeling from his admission that he had watched her enter the hall.

  “Did you follow me out?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I was out here enjoying the quiet when I saw ye burst out of the keep like a lamb chased by a wolf.”

  Ilysa wondered if he was speaking the truth. Remarkably, she was no longer afraid of him. At least not much.

  “’Tis growing dark, and there are a great many men here,” he continued. “Ye should know better than to wander outside the hal
l without one of your clansmen to protect you.”

  “My brother would not be pleased if he knew,” she said and gave a humorless laugh. It did not bear thinking about what Duncan would do if he learned she was alone in a secluded corner of the castle with the man her clan called the Scourge of Skye. And that was the nicest name they called him.

  “That’s an unusual brooch you’re wearing,” he said.

  “It was my mother’s,” Ilysa said, looking down at it. The brooch was distinctive with its unusual pattern of interlocking leaves surrounding a deep red stone.

  “I’m sorry, has your mother passed?” he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.

  Ilysa felt a sting at the back of her eyes and nodded. Ridiculous as it seemed, Ilysa felt as though the MacLeod chieftain understood her sadness.

  “She died three years ago, when I was sixteen.” Ilysa ran her fingertip over the slippery surface of the brooch’s red stone. “She dressed plainly and always wore it under her gown where no one could see it.”

  “Were ye named for her?” he asked.

  “No. Her name was Anna.”

  After a moment, he said, “I hope ye still have your father to look after ye.”

  “Ach, I never had him, whoever he was.” When she looked up, Alastair MacLeod’s eyes had that hollow look of someone for whom pain is a constant companion, and her heart went out to him. “Does your shoulder pain ye a great deal?”

  “What?” he said, his tone sharp as a blade. His earlier kindness had made her forget who he was, but he was all chieftain now, huge and intimidating.

  “I meant no offense,” she said quickly. “I’m a healer, and it troubles me to see that ye suffer because your injury was not looked after properly at the time.”

  “We were a long way from home,” he said, glaring down at her, “and no one was concerned about how the shoulder was set because they didn’t expect me to live.”

  “That’s a poor excuse,” Ilysa said. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do to repair it now, but I can make ye a salve that will soothe it.”

  “I don’t mind the pain,” he said. “It serves to remind me who my enemies are.”

  * * *

  After working his way around the hall, Connor was once again attempting to have a conversation with the MacIain about his granddaughter when Ilysa caught his eye. The arched entrance was just behind her, framing her like a painting. It was a mystery to him how she could look like herself and yet so achingly lovely at the same time.

  His muscles tensed when he noticed that Alastair MacLeod was next to her. It was a testament to how shocked he was by Ilysa’s transformation that he did not see the MacLeod chieftain first. He could not bear for her to be so close to their enemy. When he took a step toward them, MacIain stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “I’ll have no trouble between you and the MacLeod here,” his host warned.

  Connor relaxed as the MacLeod moved away from Ilysa and into the crowded hall. Suddenly, the man turned and met his gaze, as if he had been aware of Connor watching him all along. The animosity that burned between them could have set the hall on fire.

  CHAPTER 19

  Feels like we’ve been here a month,” Duncan said when Connor found him at their camp near evening on the second day. “When can we leave?”

  “As soon as I get this business of a wife settled.”

  All day, Connor had had careful conversations with other chieftains about their marriageable daughters and sisters without committing himself, which had tested his skills and made him sweat. Now it was time to enter into serious negotiations with one of them.

  His near mistake with Deirdre made Connor realize that, if the circumstances allowed, he ought to consider the nature of the lass as well as the strength of her clan. Unfortunately, his own judgment had proved fallible when it came to prospective brides. It was a shame Alex was not here, because Alex knew women. Duncan was useless on the subject, and Moira let her emotions rule her judgment.

  “Who’s that with Ilysa?” Connor asked when he saw her strolling along the shore with a man. “I’m surprised ye let her walk alone with him this far from the castle.”

  “That’s the MacNeil,” Duncan said, which explained why he was not concerned. Alex’s father-in-law could be trusted to keep Ilysa safe.

  “That’s good,” Connor said. “With all the men I’ve seen following her, she needs watching over.”

  He suddenly realized he had failed to tell her he wanted her to return to Trotternish and decided to do it now.

  * * *

  Ilysa was grateful to the MacNeil chieftain for taking her outside the crowded castle to enjoy the spring air. Despite his gruff manner, he was easy to talk to.

  “Connor isn’t the only man who came to the gathering looking for a wife,” he said after a while. “As ye know, mine died giving birth a short time ago.”

  The poor man. “I am sorry,” she said and ventured to touch his arm.

  “I have both the new babe and a second young son,” he said. “Of course, I have a nursemaid for the boys, but they need a mother.”

  “Mmm,” Ilysa murmured to show she was listening. She wondered why he was sharing this with her, but thought perhaps he wanted her advice.

  “And I have three foolish daughters,” he said, “who are badly in need of a sensible woman like you to guide them.”

  “Like me?” Ilysa came to an abrupt halt and turned to face him. Could he mean what she thought he did?

  “Glynis’s mother is the only woman who had my heart,” he said. “Still, I did my best to be a good husband to my second wife, as I will do with my next one.”

  Was this the best she could hope for? Could no man love her? She told herself not to be foolish. MacNeil was a good man and a far better match than she had reason to expect.

  “I…” Ilysa faltered, unable to make herself say the words.

  “No need to make a hasty decision,” the MacNeil said, putting his hand up. “I can see ye need to think on it.”

  Before Ilysa could get her bearings, she saw Connor striding toward them. He walked with the unconscious grace of a warrior who trained hard every day. And he was so handsome with his steel-blue eyes and his black hair brushing his shoulders that when he fixed his gaze on her face, Ilysa found it difficult to draw air into her lungs.

  “Young men don’t know what to look for in a wife,” the MacNeil said, but she barely heard him. “I know a prize when I see one.”

  With the wind blowing Connor’s hair and the sunset ablaze behind him, he looked like an ancient Celtic god.

  “Connor,” the MacNeil greeted him, reminding her of his presence. “Ilysa, I’ll leave ye with your chieftain.”

  “Come,” Connor said and took her arm as soon as the MacNeil turned around to head back to the castle. “I must speak with ye.”

  Ilysa’s heart beat too fast as he led her down the empty beach. The heat of his muscles beneath her fingers traveled up her arm and through her body to unexpected places. Connor helped her over a rocky stretch of the beach and continued down the shore until they reached a quiet spot shielded by low trees.

  The clouds still held the pink and purples of sunset, but the light was fading rapidly. Ilysa had no idea why Connor had brought her here but suspected it had something to do with her locking him in the dungeon. After all the times he had looked through her and not seen her, now that she had his full attention, she could not force words from her mouth.

  “The wind has come up. Ye must be cold.” He unfastened the brooch at his shoulder and, in one fluid movement, swung his plaid from his shoulders and around hers. A sigh escaped her as she was enfolded in the warmth and smell of him.

  For a long moment, Connor held the plaid together under her chin and stared into her eyes. She was afraid to breathe. Anticipation sang through her. Finally he released the plaid, but he still did not step back.

  “When I said your gown didn’t look right, I only meant I was not accustomed to it.” C
onnor ran his hand down her arm, sending another wave of warmth through her body, then quickly pulled his hand back. “Ye do look lovely, Ilysa. Very lovely.”

  She had gotten her wish. For once, Connor had looked at her and found her attractive. Yet no sooner was her wish granted than she realized it was not enough. She wanted more than a flash of desire in his eyes, more than a longing gaze.

  She wanted him.

  It made no difference that it was hopeless. He was the only one she wanted.

  “I’d like ye to come back to Trotternish Castle,” he said.

  Ilysa closed her eyes for a brief moment and told herself not to cry. Connor wants me back.

  “Does this mean you’re not angry with me anymore?” she asked.

  “I am not as angry as I was,” he said, “but we must have a firm understanding that ye will not interfere in my decisions. Ye must respect me as chieftain.”

  “I do.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “If ye disobey me again, I will punish ye severely.”

  Ilysa kept quiet, rather than tell him she would disobey him only if she truly must.

  “In truth, I haven’t given you the respect ye deserved,” Connor said. “I had no idea all that ye do to keep my household in order. Nothing is as it should be without you.”

  That warmed her heart. She smiled and said, “I’ll be happy to return.”

  “The saints be praised,” he said under his breath, and he took her hand. “I promise I won’t impose on ye for long. It will only be until my bride arrives.”

  Disappointment crashed down on her like a great weight, and she had to swallow twice before she could get the words out. “Your bride?”

  “I don’t have it arranged quite yet,” he said. “But I will wed soon.”

  * * *

  Connor needed to get his marriage arranged quickly, and not just because he needed the alliance. He had been so long without a woman that he was losing his mind. Had he really been about to kiss Ilysa?

  Aye, definitely.