The forlorn hollowness in her heart at the thought of betraying Rory tore bitterly at her sense of duty, her sense of responsibility. Like a coward, she wanted to run from here, return to court as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, either way the result would be the same. She would never see him again.
Isabel doubted she would be able to look at herself in the mirror when this was all over, but the thought of the destruction her failure would bring to her own clan was equally unpleasant. She had to proceed with her plan.
She had to get closer to him, to change his mind. To make him forget she was a MacDonald. Tonight she intended to wait up for him, even if it took all night. He might be bedding another woman, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. He was not completely indifferent to her.
Nor was she to him. Tonight had established that well enough. Her response to his touch earlier had given her more than a twinge of apprehension. Even simply sitting beside him, she flushed with awareness. When he smiled, she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, and when his eyes lingered on her breasts, she remembered the brush of his finger and the intimate longing from within. No, she was hardly indifferent. She just couldn’t let her attraction get in the way of what she had to do.
She must analyze her plan of action methodically. If she was going to truly search for the Fairy Flag, it seemed logical to begin with Rory. A talisman must be accessible to be of use in an emergency. She would have to search the areas that Rory frequented but that were private enough not to be subject to accidental discovery. Somewhere in his rooms seemed the most likely hiding place. It was named the Fairy Tower after all.
Isabel lay in bed gazing at the ceiling, watching the flickering shadows of candlelight, waiting. She rolled from side to side, trying to get comfortable. When that proved futile, she tossed off the coverlet, alighted from bed, and moved to stand before the window. But not even the soft glow of moonlight or the tranquillity of a bright starry night could calm her strange restlessness.
What was keeping him? As if she couldn’t guess. Catriona. A sick, queasy feeling knit low in her belly. Admittedly, she intended much worse, but why did it feel like a betrayal?
Frustrated and angry, Isabel hurriedly donned her slippers and robe. If she sat here all night with nothing to do, she’d go mad just thinking about it. She had to relax. What she needed was a good book. Something to free her mind from Dunvegan, from Rory, and from her wretched plight while she waited. He’d offered her the use of his library; she wished she’d thought to ask him where it was, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
Isabel frowned as she looked down at her wrap. It was another of her uncle’s purchases. The sheer ivory silk did little to hide her near undressed state. Despite the modest night rail that she wore to sleep, the robe clung to her at all her most intimate parts as if she wore nothing underneath. She pulled the sides of the gown tighter across her chest, attempting to further cover herself, but she only exacerbated the problem.
Isabel tiptoed softly across the room and hesitated for a moment, Rory’s warning not to flaunt herself echoing in her ears. If she were caught in her present ensemble, it would be embarrassing. But she couldn’t wait up with nothing to do, and she dearly missed her nightly read that had become an enjoyable ritual in Edinburgh. Besides, she reasoned, the noise had quieted considerably in the last hour. Certainly everyone except for Rory would be in bed by now.
But what if he caught her?
He wouldn’t be happy to see her traipsing around in her nightclothes. A spark of recklessness kindled inside her. She’d pushed him tonight with the dress, but perhaps not hard enough. What would happen if she pushed harder? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For her plan. Memories of hot kisses along her neck and his finger sweeping her nipple assailed her, calling that theory into question. A shiver of fear and anticipation shot through her. It appeared Isabel had a heretofore unknown penchant for courting danger.
She moved purposefully toward the door, then paused to rest her hands on the wooden slats, listening with her ear to the door to make sure no one was about. Hearing nothing, she cautiously opened the door.
She slid from her room and began the quest to find the library. As she had yet to explore the Fairy Tower, she didn’t know where to begin. Rory’s room occupied the third floor, and she knew that both Alex and Margaret had chambers on the second floor, so she decided to start with the bottom and work her way up. Keeping to the shadows, she carefully began her long journey down the steep curved stairs to the lower level.
Despite her fear of being caught, Isabel felt a surge of excitement. Her skin tingled. Her body felt wonderfully alive, wonderfully sensitive. She grinned mischievously. It had been quite some time since she had embarked on a nighttime adventure.
Wandering around in the middle of the night through dark corridors reminded her of sneaking after her brothers when she was a girl. Unbeknownst to both her father and uncle when they had sought her cooperation, she made an excellent spy. She’d had more than enough practice. Even Bessie was not aware of how many times she had escaped her chamber at Strome Castle to follow her brothers on their midnight raids or their illicit trysts with the conquest of the week. Early on, she’d been caught following them once or twice, earning her a sore backside for a few days, but she soon grew far more adept at her game.
As she grew older and realized the danger, she carried along her bow for protection. On her last raid before leaving for Edinburgh, she’d followed her brothers, who had been “borrowing” some cattle from the Mackenzie of Kintail but had been surprised in the act by a handful of Mackenzie clansmen. Her youngest brother, Ian, had been forced from the protective core of fighting MacDonald clansmen, and Isabel watched in horror as a Mackenzie warrior lifted his arrow and aimed it straight at Ian’s heart. Without thinking, she released her own arrow from her hiding place in the trees. As always, her aim was true, and the arrow struck the Mackenzie warrior right between the eyes. She’d been sick on the spot. The sound of the arrow sinking into flesh and bone was one she would never forget.
Ian had been so shocked that he had not turned around right away to see who had rescued him from death. Only later, when he realized that none of his brothers or clansmen had noticed his troubles, had he figured out someone else had been there.
He might have suspected who it was, but he never said a word. After that night, however, Isabel detected a subtle change in Ian’s attitude toward her. From that day forward, he offered her a small token of respect.
Isabel was severely shaken by the incident. When she followed her brothers on their adventures, she’d wanted only to be included; she’d never contemplated having to kill anyone. She matured much in that moment, realizing by experience that her childish games had very adult consequences. She vowed to leave her brothers be, but at the same time she couldn’t resist a wee bit of pride that her arrow had saved Ian, even if he didn’t know it.
Exiting the stairwell, she wandered through the half-lit corridors of the lower level, cautiously opening doors, finding nothing, making her way to the familiar entry hall of the tower.
It was a charming space, as beautiful as any of the private chambers of the queen. Torches in iron sconces lined the walls, having not yet been extinguished for the night. Intricately designed tapestries, likely Flemish in origin from their great beauty, hung on thick plastered walls painted a rich gold. She recognized many of the scenes as depictions of famous chansons. Scenes of great battles. Scenes of great love. Fresh rushes woven into mats on the floor were topped with fine colorful carpets, no doubt brought back from the Holy Land hundreds of years ago by a crusading ancestor. Delicately carved wooden chairs, upholstered with cushions of rich emerald velvet, formed a small seating area before the fire. Isabel moved to the fire, thinking to warm herself before resuming her search on the upper levels.
It took her a moment to realize that she was no longer alone.
“What are you doing here?”
Rory’s voice sn
apped like a whip across the silent night. Despite the fire, the hair on the backs of her arms stood up. From his tone, Isabel knew something was wrong. Very wrong. She turned, cautious, her gaze flickering over his rigid stance and fierce, unyielding jaw. The flames from the torches cast shadows across his ruggedly handsome face. Her chest clenched. He looked like a stranger. Like the ruthless warrior she’d once feared. Internal warning bells clanged.
She looked to him for reassurance. Her tentative smile, an attempted greeting, wobbled and then fell. His eyes were as hard as sapphires, and her blood ran cold. The aura of safety and security she’d unknowingly grown accustomed to fled. The solid, steady veneer was gone, replaced by a penetrating fury that cut her to the bone. Fury that, unlike earlier, had nothing to do with lust. He wasn’t even looking at her ensemble—or lack thereof.
Her heart dropped to her feet. Dear God, had he dis
covered her subterfuge?
Suspicion coiled in him like a poisonous snake, ready to strike at the faintest spark.
Too many things didn’t add up. And finding her sneaking around the tower in the middle of the night had sent him over the edge.
Rory had returned to his chamber, deeply troubled by the inconsistencies he perceived in his observations of Isabel. On the one hand, she seemed a kind, innocent, and vulnerable young woman eager to find a place in her new clan. But at other times, her actions were decidedly suspicious, made more so by her connection to Sleat. Despite what he’d told her about returning her to her kin at the end of the handfast period, she’d set out to entice him with her revealing dress. Could her attempt to tempt him with the dress have something to do with her uncle and her reasons for being here? Sleat had another purpose with this handfast, of that Rory was sure; what he didn’t know was whether Isabel was part of it.
He’d also noticed her face pale when the tale of the Fairy Flag began—indeed, her discomfort throughout the rest of the evening was obvious. But it wasn’t until he’d entered his solar and found her gone that his already simmering doubts flared. He had not forgotten her strange behavior in the kitchens. And when he went searching for her, only to find her wandering the corridors of the keep, opening doors as if she were looking for something, his suspicions intensified. Now he was furious—not just with her, but also with himself for how much he didn’t want to believe she was anything other than what she seemed.
She stood unsteadily before him, the fire behind her forming a halo around her flaming hair. She gazed at him warily, like a fawn sensing danger. He took a step closer.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated. She flinched at the sound of his voice. But fear would not distract him. She’d do well to witness his wrath. To know the consequences of betrayal. This time, Rory would not be put off by suggestive comments; he would have answers. This was not the first time she’d acted strangely or been looking in places she shouldn’t.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained nervously. “I was looking for the library you mentioned; I thought I might find a book to read.”
“You should have asked Deidre to bring you one. Or waited for me to return.”
“It was late, I didn’t want to wake her.” She met his gaze with a defiant thrust of her chin. “And I wasn’t sure that you would return.”
A plausible excuse, but could he believe her? His penetrating gaze raked her face for signs of deceit. But when his eyes lowered, his body leapt to attention. His muscles tensed, and a small pulse beat at his throat. Rory had been so focused on his finding her sneaking around his corridors that he hadn’t noticed how she was dressed. Or rather undressed. Dear God, he could see everything.
With the backlight of the fire lighting his way, he could see the curves and contours of her form so clearly, she could have been standing before him naked. He saw the high firmness of her breasts. The creamy perfection of her velvety soft skin. The small, tight nipples the size of tiny pearls that stood out from the cold. Her waist was small and her hips gently curved.
His eyes stopped their hungry descent. He dared not lower his gaze any farther or he wouldn’t be able to resist taking her right there. He couldn’t look at that delicate apex where her legs joined. He stepped back, his body so tense with lust that he thought he might explode. Fine beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His physical reaction to her was so strong, for a moment he forgot his anger.
But it soon came back to him full force. By God, I warned her. “Why are you out of your room dressed like that?” He made a harsh gesture with his hand. “Did you hear nothing of what I said earlier?” Didn’t she realize what she did to him?
Perhaps she did.
Instinctively, she pulled her robe closer. He nearly groaned. The fabric stretched taut over her full, succulent breasts. The sweet buds of her nipples teased him. The force of his desire rose hard beneath his plaid.
“I heard, but I d-d-didn’t expect to see anyone,” she stuttered. “If you would show me the library, I will return to my room.”
“Didn’t expect to see anyone? Don’t you understand”—his voice shook—“I could have been anyone.” Any one of his men could have seen her nakedness just as clearly as he could. The thought made him half-crazed.
Had she set out to entice him again? To drive him mad with longing? Rory struggled with the conflicting emotions battling inside him. Frustration and lingering doubt gave his voice the sharp edge of a blade. “Why do I find you searching the dark corridors of my keep? What are you looking for?”
Her eyes widened with alarm. She tried to explain. “You misunderstand me, Rory. I was only looking for a book. I didn’t know where to find the library. It’s late, and the noise had died down. I thought all were abed.”
He whipped around to grasp her arms. His hold tightened with the roughness of his voice. “What game are you playing, Isabel? Was the damn dress not enough?”
“You have the wrong of it. I certainly didn’t seek you out.” Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. “You have made it very clear that you do not want me.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He was only a man, and she’d prodded him one too many times. Teasing him with her beauty, her provocative clothing, her naughty innuendo, her seductive smiles. The press of her soft buttocks against his rock-hard cock. Her soulful eyes, eyes that tore through his indifference. She was his handfast bride. Who would blame him if he took her? No one. It was expected. She belonged to him—for a year.
Restraint exploded inside him. He did want her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman before. He felt none of the careful reserve that he usually felt with the lasses. None of the distance. None of the control. Right now, his body raged with a fire that could not be contained.
He pulled her into his embrace, holding her firmly against his chest and groin, skimming his hands down her hips. Savoring the soft sensation of her body molded against his, he gripped the tight curves of her buttocks in his hands as he lifted her against him. He pulsed with need. “You are wrong, Isabel. I do want you.” His voice grew thick. “Can’t you feel how much I want you?”
Her eyes widened.
“Is this what you wanted, Isabel? Did you want me to touch you?” He moved one hand around to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb across the hard tip, smiling when she gasped with shocked pleasure. He lowered his head to the curve of her neck, burying his nose in the warm lavender essence of her silky curls. His mouth brushed along her neck and throat, trailing kisses until he reached her ear. Pulling the tender lobe between his teeth, he felt her shiver. “I don’t just want to touch you, I want to taste every inch of you.” The soft burr of his speech became more pronounced with the sensual promise of his words, rolling off his tongue in a caressing whisper.
He felt the wild flutter of her heart against his chest. Finally, unable to resist any longer, he lowered his head, covering her trembling lips with his. This time, he kissed her with all the passion he’d held inside since he’d first seen her. For every time she’d tempted him to kiss her,
to touch her, to make her his. His mouth moved against hers, demanding. Tasting. Devouring.
The innocence of her response nearly brought him to his knees.
His heart raced, and blood pounded in his ears. Rory couldn’t get enough. He kissed her with an urgency that could not be denied. Deftly easing her lips apart, he slid in his tongue. The honey taste of her only made him want more. God, she was sweet. The kiss went deeper, hotter, more desperate. He delved in the sweet caverns of her mouth and stroked her tongue until it entwined with his.
Rory groaned, surprised by the intensity of her sensual response. He pulled her even closer. Her breasts pushed hard up against his chest, the heat between their bodies nearly dissolving the thin layers of cloth that stood between them. He was burning up. He ached to feel the rake of her tight nipples on his bare skin as he slid against her.
Soon, kissing wasn’t enough. He needed to see her, to touch her, to drive her mad with desire as she’d done to him. He slid his hands over the soft silk of her wrap and pulled it aside. After working the silk ties at her neck, he opened her chemise.
He sucked in his breath. His imagination had not done her justice. Her breasts were perfect—high, round, and sinfully generous. Reverently he cupped her, testing their weight in his callused palms. Her skin was the finest alabaster, tipped with delicate pink. Their eyes met. He held her stunned gaze as his fingers caressed the velvety skin, watching as her eyes filled with passion when he rolled the hard peak between his fingers and squeezed ever so gently, the nipple puckering and turning a deep, mouthwatering red. And God, he was going to taste her.
Her back arched, and she pressed her breast more firmly against his hand.
Her response turned his mind to black. The swift kick of pure lust hit him hard, and desire gripped him like an iron claw as he descended into the realm of no return.