Lord of the Isles

by Debbie Mazzuca

  The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold. Ali couldn't abide violence of any kind. She turned away from the tapestry, afraid she'd have nightmares if she didn't. Running her fingers through her hair and finding it dry, Ali walked to the bed and crawled beneath the crisp, cool sheets. She sighed--heavenly. Ali snuggled into the warmth that enveloped her and drifted off to sleep.

  "Uhmm," she murmured when a heavy hand caressed her thigh. Sliding the stretchy fabric over her hips, the man kneaded her bottom, pressing her to his long, powerful body. Ali groaned. This was one dream she didn't want to wake up from. Al she wanted to do was get rid of the material that bunched between her and the man in her dreams, Rory MacLeod. It seemed he had the same idea. He tugged the T-shirt over her head, and she lifted her arms to help him. Free from the confines of her nightshirt, she wrapped a leg over his, stroking the taut muscles beneath her hand. A deep, husky voice whispered in her ear words she didn't understand, but she didn't care, not with his big hand cupping her breast. Ali arched her back, her body begging for more. She heard a low chuckle, and gasped when he squeezed her breast, tweaking the puckered nipple between strong, cal oused fingers. She nuzzled his chest, inhaling his heady, masculine scent before she lifted her face for a kiss. His mouth closed over hers--hot, so very hot--and he swal lowed her moan of pleasure. His tongue dueled with hers, exploring with a tenacity that left her weak with desire. She quivered with anticipation when he trailed his fingers over the heated flesh between her thighs, inching his way to her moist core. Ali shuddered. She'd never had an erotic dream before and was afraid to open her eyes, not wanting him or his fingers to disappear. She didn't want to wake up, not when it felt so good. She'd rather sleep forever. He raised his mouth from hers. "Ah, Bree, my love, I've missed you."

  Ali stiffened. What the hell did he just say? It was bad enough the men in her life wanted someone else--what was wrong with her that she couldn't even sat isfy them in her dreams? Before she had a chance to mul over her ineptitude with men, he took her nipple deep into the heat of his mouth and suckled. Ali shifted, pressing her breast to his lips, rocking her hips against the hard, banded muscles of his thigh. She was close, so close. Rubbing harder, faster, she anchored herself with a hand to his side. Her dream lover cursed, loudly, and shoved her aside. Ali blinked, and slowly turned her head. In the dim light of the flickering candle she saw him: big, powerful, and grimacing in pain. She scrunched her eyes shut and took a steadying breath.

  He wasn't real.

  He couldn't be.

  It's just a dream, Ali. You were thinking about the manbefore you went to sleep, that's all it is--an illusion. Ali opened her eyes one at a time. Biting the inside of her lower lip, she pinched the big arm that lay on top of the covers, jumping when a guttural curse exploded from his lips. He was real, and he was in her bed. Ali screamed and tried to scramble from the bed, tug ging her entangled foot from the sheets. Thud.

  She fel onto the cold, hard floor. Chapter 2

  Ali didn't have time to contemplate the damage to her lower anatomy, not with the pounding of running feet coming closer. The last thing she wanted was to be caught bare assed on the floor by Duncan Macintosh. She scanned the room for somewhere to hide. Seeing no other choice, she scurried beneath the bed in time to hear the door crash open. Beneath the heavy canopy of timber, she saw two men rush into the room. Duncan Macintosh was not one of them. Afraid if she could see them they'd see her, Ali shuffled farther into the shadows. The men spoke in hushed tones at the entrance of the room. Certain she was soon to be discovered, Ali felt around for her T-shirt. Relieved when her fingers came in contact with the stretchy fabric, she careful y pul ed it toward her. Her muscles tightened as cold from the floor seeped into her skin.

  Ali blinked, touching the hard surface beneath her, positive when Duncan had shown her into the room earlier the floor had been hardwood. She ducked her head to get a better look at the rest of the interior. Nothing looked the same, right down to the chocolate-brown comforter that had been scarlet.

  How the hell had that happened? "I'm no' dead yet, so you can stop with yer whisperin',"

  the man in the bed above her rasped.

  Far from it, Ali thought, remembering the heat of his kiss, how his hands had caressed her bottom, bringing her . . . She shook the thought from her head before embarrassment consumed her, leaving a pile of ashes in her place. How could she have done that with a stranger? The men moved closer, their brown leather boots inches from her face.

  Who are these people, and where's Duncan? "You'd be al right then, Rory? We heard a scream and a loud crash. We thought you'd fal en from yer bed."

  Rory? Oh, come on, this had to be some kind of a joke. Lying flat on her back, Ali wriggled into her T-shirt, smooth ing it over her thighs.

  "'Tis no' me you heard, but the lass." The bed creaked, a groan of pain accompanying his statement. Ali stil ed, frozen in place.

  "There'd be no one aboot but you, lad."

  "Rory, 'tis on account of yer wound. You must have imagined it."

  "Nay, she was in my bed, of that I'm certain--wil in'and eager."

  Ali's face flamed. Now, isn't he a gentleman. The big jerk. One of the men cleared his throat. "Mayhap 'twas one of the serving wenches."

  "Nay, I thought 'twas Bree come to take me with her."

  The last was spoken so quietly Ali had to strain to hear what he said.

  Someone cursed before saying, "You'l no' die, Rory. I'l no' al ow it. 'Tis why I . . ." The man grunted as though he'd had the wind knocked out of him.

  "I ken it wasna' Bree. The lass had the look of her, but bigger. Her breasts were ful , and her arse . . ." His voice trailed off.

  Ali groaned inwardly, deciding if this Rory person didn't soon shut up, she'd make sure he felt worse than he obviously did now.

  "Nay, Rory, lie back," one of the men said before gasping, "Yer wound, 'tis reopened."

  "I think she tried to finish me off."

  Both men cursed at the same time Ali did. She'd had enough. It was her bed the man had crawled into--either that or he'd somehow managed to get her into his own, taking advantage of her while she slept. She ignored the little voice inside her head that said it would be a toss-up on who had taken advantage of whom. And now he seemed to be accusing her of trying to kil him. Kill him? For God's sake! It was too much, and Ali didn't plan on listening to any more of it, not without defending herself. With a closed fist, she whacked at the men's feet. "Get out of my way,"

  she said, dragging herself from under the bed. Two men dressed in old-fashioned attire--fitted suede pants tucked into their boots and white linen shirts--backed away from her with their mouths agape. The older one was tal and had a powerful build, his dark red hair threaded with silver, his brown eyes wide as he stared at her. The other man was much younger, his hair a golden brown, almost as handsome as the man from her dreams. He opened and closed his mouth, his gaze swiveling from Ali to his companion.

  Hands on her hips, she turned to confront the man in the bed. "I didn't try to kil you . . . you big jerk, and what the hel were you doing in my bed in the . . ."

  The rest of the question died on her lips. It was him--Rory MacLeod--the man in the portrait. She rubbed her eyes, but nothing changed. He was stil there, in al his glo rious perfection--except he was bleeding. A circle of crimson spread over the thick white linens pressed to his side.

  "You're hurt," she gasped.

  "Aye." Even in the dim light she could see the accusation in his emerald gaze.

  Ali shook her head. "I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't know." She leaned over him to get a better look before being roughly jerked away. Strong hands restrained her, biting into the flesh of her upper arms. She struggled to free herself from the younger man's grasp. "Let go of me. This man needs medical attention. I can help him--I'm a doctor."

  "Let her go, Iain." The older man forcibly removed Iain's hands from her arms before dragging her to the other side of the room. I
ain fol owed in their wake.

  "Who are you?" the red-haired man growled, his expression fierce.

  "Dr. Aileanna Graham, and there's no time for this. I told you, that man needs my help." She'd had to deal with over protective family members before, but this was ridiculous.

  "Where are you from?"

  "New York." She rol ed her eyes at the blank expression on the big man's face. "Look, this wil have to wait or I swear to you he's going to bleed to death."

  "How did you get in his chambers?" His manner had changed, no longer aggressive; there was an odd look in his eyes.

  Ali let out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know. I fel asleep in another room, and then I found myself in bed with him."

  She jerked her chin toward the man named Rory, and heat suffused her cheeks. "So maybe the question isn't how I got in here, but who the hel put me in his bed, and why?"

  It was something she wanted to know, along with why they were dressed the way they were, and what this Rory person was doing here instead of at a hospital. But now was not the time for discussion.

  Iain looked at the older man, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Fergus, they sent her."

  "Quiet, lad," the other man snapped.

  Ali crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't know what the two of you are talking about, or what's going on here, but I'm warning you, you'd better send for an ambulance. Your friend needs to be in a hospital, so I'd suggest you cal immediately."

  Again with the blank stares.

  Okay, so maybe it wasn't in Scotland. "I don't care what number you cal , but we have to get him to a hospital."

  The man named Fergus shook his head slowly from side to side. "'Tis up to you, lass. There'd be no one else."

  "I don't understand."

  "There'd be no time to explain. See to our laird, if you please."

  "Laird?"

  "Aye. Laird MacLeod."

  Lord Rory MacLeod, the clothes, the . . . no, she wouldn't go there. Not now. Whoever he was, he needed her help. With one last look at the men who watched her, their expressions bemused, she returned to her patient's bedside. Rory MacLeod's look-alike reached out his big hand. Clamping it around her wrist, he jerked her toward him.

  "Who . . . who are you?" he rasped, the effort obviously costing him.

  "Doctor Aileanna Graham." She pried his fingers from her wrist.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but Ali silenced him with a firm, "Be quiet." She placed a finger to his lips when he tried to protest. "Shh," Ali said, trying not to think about how that particular set of lips had felt, pressed to hers. She pushed aside her wayward thoughts and her professional persona slid into place. "Your questions can wait."

  She laid her palm against the side of his face, then his forehead, relieved to find he didn't have a fever.

  "Could you get Duncan for me?" she asked Iain, who was closest to the bed.

  "Duncan?" the younger man asked, his brow furrowed.

  "There'd be no Duncan here."

  Ali took in a deep, calming breath. Don't think about it. Do. Not. Think. About. It. "I need something to stop the bleeding. Can you bring me some fresh linen? And I'l need some more candles, or whatever it is you use for lighting."

  "Aye." Iain shot a quick glance over his shoulder before heading for the door.

  "And clean water and soap while you're at it," Ali cal ed after him.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brought Rory's arm across her lap and wrapped her fingers around his thick wrist to check his pulse. She tried to ignore his intense gaze, fighting the urge to smooth the heavy lock of raven black hair from his forehead. Ali shook her head when Fergus tried to speak to her; without a watch she needed to concentrate. The older man didn't argue. Placing his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels. Waiting patiently, his fierce expression softened when every so often he glanced at her patient.

  Ali rose to her feet and lowered the comforter. Removing the makeshift bandage, she tried to mask her reaction to the deep, jagged gash in his side and the fresh gush of blood. She swal owed. The muscle in his jaw pulsated, sweat beaded on his brow, and his complexion turned chalky.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I have to examine the wound. I'l be as gentle as I can."

  He gave a jerky nod.

  "How did it happen?"

  "In battle," he said between clenched teeth. Battle? Ali assumed she must have misunderstood him.

  Unless he meant they did reenactments of battles here. She had gone to one in Virginia, and even though she knew it wasn't real, she'd had to leave. "No, I mean, what did this to you?"

  "A sword, lass," he explained, as though he spoke to a child.

  A sword . . . in battle. "For God's sake, did you have to use the real thing? Honestly, that's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard of. A real sword." She shook her head while she palpitated his abdomen. Moving lower, Ali folded back the comforter to just below the top of his hipbone.

  "Lass, I doona' think I can manage that. " A weak smile tugged at the corner of his ful , sensuous mouth. Ali raised a brow. She couldn't believe the man had the strength to tease. The amount of blood he appeared to have lost should have rendered him unconscious. He cursed, glaring at her when she pressed her fingers inches from the wound. Ali staunched the flow with the clean side of the old bandage, and held the fabric to the candle on the bed side table. Examining it for signs of infection, she was re lieved when she didn't see any. She sniffed at the cloth just to be sure. A commotion at the bedroom door drew her attention. A gray-haired woman in a long puce gown fol owed Iain--who carried the buckets of water--into the room with an armful of white sheets, and a lantern dangling from her hand. When Ali came around the bed to retrieve the linens, the older woman drew in a shocked breath.

  "Lass, yer naked," she exclaimed.

  "Nay, Mrs. Mac, her dress may be odd, but she is no'naked. I would've noticed," her patient assured the older woman.

  Ali looked down at her T-shirt. She didn't know what was so odd about it. But if she could have found her damn suitcase she would've changed. She might not be naked, but knowing she had nothing on underneath, that's pretty much how she felt. She turned on him. "Shh, rest."

  He rol ed his eyes.

  "Here, lass, put this around you. 'Tis no' decent what you have on." The woman retrieved a long length of red and black tartan and a thick black belt from the end of the bed. Wrapping the fabric around Ali, she fastened it at her waist with the belt. It fel wel past her calves with one end draped over her shoulder. Mrs. Mac stepped back to view her handiwork. "'Twil have to do."

  Ali clamped her mouth shut, knowing to protest would do her no good. A trace of humor glinted in her patient's eyes and she scowled at him. "Not a word out of you."

  "I was only goin' to say my plaid is verra becomin' on you, lass."

  She snorted. "I'm sure. Mrs. Mac, I need some alcohol to disinfect his wound. Unless you have some antiseptic on hand, it's the only thing I can think of."

  "I doona' ken what ant . . . antiseptic is, lass, but I think I ken what you mean by alcohol." With that said, the woman set off.

  Ali pressed her fingers to her temples, rubbing in a slow, circular motion. Don't think, don't think. She repeated the mantra in her head. She took a cloth and dipped it into one of the buckets, groaning when she saw the color. "I can't use this water. It's dirty."

  "Nay, lass, 'tis fine." Fergus's brow furrowed.

  "No, it's not fine," she snapped. "If any of this gets into his wound he risks infection. The water has to be boiled first."

  She glanced over at Rory, expecting him to say something, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing seemed shal ow. Ali cursed, ignoring the men's startled expressions.

  "What's wrong? Is my brother gettin' worse?" Iain asked. A tremor threaded through the deep timbre of his voice.

  Ali placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Look, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure he comes through this. We have a couple of things in our f
avor. First, as far as I can tel there's been no damage to any vital organs, and that's a very good thing. Second, I don't see any signs of infection and that's a big plus."

  Iain smiled weakly. "Now I ken why the--"

  The older man cleared his throat, interrupting the younger MacLeod. He shot him a silencing look. Ali raised a brow, but before she could ask Iain what he meant to say, Mrs. Mac returned. Ali thanked her, sniffing the contents of the earthenware pitcher. She choked on the fumes, her eyes watering. "That should work," she commented dryly. The woman looked relieved. "And here'd be the soap you asked for."

  Ali scrubbed her hands up to her elbows in the water from one of the buckets. "If any of you want to touch Rory you must wash your hands like I am, al right? We'l set this bucket aside for washing, but the water has to be changed often."

  They stared at her like she was from another planet, which was exactly how she was beginning to feel. Ali sighed.

  "You have to do as I say. We can't let his wound become infected."

  "Mrs. Mac, the lass says the water has to be boiled before she'l use it," Fergus informed her.

  "Och, wel , she seems to ken what she's aboot. Come, Iain, help me with these. Fergus, you stay with the lass." The woman gave him a meaningful look, and Ali had the distinct impression they didn't trust her.

  "What can I do, lass?" Fergus asked.

  "At the moment the only thing we can do is try to control the bleeding. I'l wait until Iain returns and then I'l pour the alcohol into his wound to ward off infection. Hopeful y the bleeding lessens. If it doesn't, wel , we'l deal with that when the time comes." Rory sucked in a ragged breath and Ali stroked the thick waves of hair back from his face.