She was a MacDonald, and no one could stop her.
Certainly not her clan’s most reviled enemy, Rory MacLeod. Her soon-to-be handfast husband. Her tem
porary handfast husband.
Determined, Isabel turned and met Sleat’s fierce stare.
“I’m ready, Uncle.”
Alone in the mist-shrouded moonlight, Rory MacLeod strode vigorously back and forth across the deserted barmkin, his muscles taut with anticipation. His MacDonald bride approached somewhere in the darkness below. He paused long enough to peer over the battlements, searching for a glimpse of the birlinn in the murky black haze. But there was still no sign of the accursed MacDonalds and his unwanted handfast bride.
It still seemed impossible. For every day of the past two years, Rory had kept his vow of vengeance to destroy Sleat for the dishonor he’d done to Rory’s sister Margaret and the MacLeods. But today the feuding would come to an end.
Temporarily, at least.
One year. That’s all he owed the king. And when the year was done, Rory would resume his plan. He wouldn’t rest until Sleat was destroyed and the MacLeods once again held the Trotternish peninsula, land seized by the MacDonalds that rightly belonged to the MacLeods.
Rory drove blunt, battle-scarred fingers harshly through his shoulder-length hair. He’d been damn close to bringing down his enemy—until Sleat had run to the king, and James had decided to interfere.
But if King James thought to end the feud with marriage, he was sorely mistaken. Not after what Sleat had done to Margaret. The hatred between the clans ran too deep.
Rory’s eyes traveled up to the tower where Margaret slept. Could it be only three years ago that his beautiful, bright-eyed young sister had ridden away from Dunvegan, bound for Dunscaith Castle, the happy young handfast bride of the MacDonald of Sleat? It seemed impossible that so much could change in such a short time. Margaret had returned to Dunvegan a sad shell of the sweet, naïve, yet spirited little sister he remembered.
Not long after Margaret’s return, the MacLeods had attacked the MacDonalds at Trotternish with fire and sword. And so it began, two long, bloody years of feuding. The MacDonalds called it Cogadh na Cailliche Caime, “the War of the One-Eyed Woman.” Even the ridiculous epithet riled his anger.
Rory resumed his pacing. Although every fiber of his being rebelled against this alliance, he had no choice. The unrest in the Highlands made it look as if King James could not control his own kingdom. When the subject of marriage had first been broached by the king, Rory had refused to consider the proposition. The years of constant fighting had taken a toll on his clan, but he resisted being tied to a MacDonald—even to end the bloodshed. But James would not be gainsaid. So Rory had come up with a solution, one that would not see him tied forever to his enemies. He rejected marriage to the chit but negotiated a handfast. Unlike a wedding, the temporary bonds of a handfast were easily undone.
Rory rubbed his stubbled chin. That the MacDonalds had not demanded marriage was strange, especially after the devastation brought about by his sister’s handfast. Perhaps Sleat was not as interested in ending the feud as he pretended. Did he, too, seek a way out of the alliance? If Sleat was up to something, it likely involved his new bride.
Rory would be wary of this Trojan horse.
A voice floated out of the darkness, interrupting his private rampage. “You have the look of a caged lion, Chief. I assume your bride has not yet arrived?”
Rory stopped pacing and turned to see his younger brother Alex striding toward him across the barmkin from the old keep. Rory cursed the MacDonalds again, this time for what they had done to Alex. Rory noticed the same roguish grin, but the thin veneer of lightheartedness could not hide the dark shadows under Alex’s eyes and the hard lines around his mouth forged in a MacDonald dungeon.
“No,” Rory said. “There is no sign of them yet, but I’m sure ’twill be soon enough.”
Alex grunted. “MacDonalds at Dunvegan. It defies belief.”
“Aye, but not for long,” Rory promised.
Alex turned to meet his gaze. “Do you really think Sleat will dare show his face?”
Rory’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Count on it. He’ll not miss the opportunity to taunt us with his presence by taking refuge in the protection of Highland hospitality. He knows we are honor bound to do him no harm while he is at Dunvegan.”
Alex sighed and shook his head. “Poor Margaret.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen to Margaret. She’ll be kept far from Sleat.”
“Damn King James for his interference,” Alex swore.
Rory smiled dryly, having had the very same thought only moments ago. Even in the darkness, he could see the frustration etched on Alex’s face. Like him, Alex detested the untenable position James had put them in. “’Tis only for a year,” Rory offered, “and then we will resume our negotiations with Argyll for a more powerful alliance.”
“Suggesting a handfast was a stroke of brilliance,” Alex agreed. “But repudiating the lass will not sit well with the king. I hear she is a great favorite of both James and Anne.”
Rory understood Alex’s concern, but it could not be avoided. “’Tis a risk. But one that I’m willing to take. James demands an end to the feud, but the clan still thirsts for revenge against Sleat. And although I may be outlawed and our lands declared forfeit, the king has not sought to enforce his power against me. When the time comes, I will think of a way to mollify him.”
“You always do,” Alex said ruefully. “For some odd reason, the king seems to show you favor—despite your being put to the horn.”
Rory shrugged. “The lass will not be harmed. At worst, I will have to go to Edinburgh to explain.”
“And if you are imprisoned?”
“It won’t come to prison.” He caught Alex’s skeptical look. “This time. James is only flexing his muscles, and I’m fulfilling my duty. I agreed only to a handfast.”
Alex thought for a moment. “I wonder why the king agreed?”
Initially, Rory had wondered the same thing. “He seemed confident that a marriage would eventually take place. I did not dissuade him of his err.”
“I don’t envy you your position,” Alex said. But his grave expression was broken by the grin that spread across his face. For a moment, Rory thought he was looking at the brother of his past. “Though perhaps I should,” Alex continued. “I hear she is a great beauty, charming, and witty. When our cousin Douglas was at court, he said that he had never seen her like. The courtiers even had a name for her, the Virgin Siren—luring men to death with her innocence and beauty. Our Scot improvement over England’s aging Virgin Queen. I for one am anxious to behold such a paragon of virtuous innocence and irresistible beauty. What will you do if you are attracted to her?”
Rory quirked a brow. His brother should know better. “A beautiful face will not turn me from my duty.”
“It would turn me.”
Rory laughed. Alex had a well-known weakness for a pretty lass, but he knew his brother too well to believe that. Honor and duty were just as important to Alex as they were to him. “There is no requirement that I spend any time with her. I’m sure I’ll barely notice her,” he said dismissively. “Besides, no one could be as beautiful as the rumors suggest. Or as innocent. She’s spent the last year at court, after all. But it makes no difference to me what she looks like or how witty and charming she may be. When I marry, it will be for the clan.”
As if on cue, a guardsman shouted, “A birlinn is approaching, Chief.”
Striding purposefully with long, muscular legs toward the sea-gate entrance, Rory glanced back over his shoulder at Alex and brought an end to their discussion. “We shall see for ourselves if the rumors are true. My temporary bride has arrived.”
Chapter 2
First thou wilt reach the Sirens, who bewitch
All human beings who approach their shore…
—The Odyssey, 12:42
The soft orange glow of
the torches formed a long bright snake illuminating the dark night as the parade of MacDonald clansmen wound up the steep stone stairs of the sea-gate. Already aching from the uncomfortable boat ride, Isabel was well past exhaustion as she stumbled up the path behind a young clansman.
“This way, my lady. Careful where you step. These rocks are sure to be slippery in this weather.” Willie of Dunscaith smiled at her, his blue eyes wide with admiration.
Isabel shook her head with chagrin at Willie’s besotted expression. She could only hope the MacLeod was as easy to impress.
She would never understand the ridiculous effect she seemed to have on men. It was always like this, she thought with considerable frustration. Silly gaping grins, shy fumblings, or sly, lecherous stares. Her brothers were the only young men she knew who didn’t act witless around her. She was tired of being seen only on the outside. Just once she would like to meet someone willing to look beneath the pretty shell and see inside—virtues as well as faults.
Yet Isabel was keenly aware that the very thing that annoyed her was the only reason she’d been chosen to help her family. She’d fought for her family’s attention for so long, it hurt to have them finally value her for the thing she valued least.
She snuffed the pang of disappointment and turned back to Willie, smiling. “Thank you, Willie, I’ll be sure to tread carefully.”
She continued her climb up the steep stairway leading from the loch to the sea-gate. From a purely defensive position, it made sense that the only entry to the castle was from the sea, where the MacLeod could easily observe friend or foe; but it certainly did not make for easy travel. The landward side of the keep was completely inaccessible, perched high above a steep gully. Thus, for the final portion of their journey from Dunscaith, they were forced to journey by boat.
The days of travel had definitely taken their toll. Isabel’s body ached in places that she had never before noticed. Her feet were nearly frozen, the ridiculously thin slippers her uncle ordered her to wear providing neither protection from the dampness nor traction on the slick stairs. Sleat had attended to every detail of her appearance, every article chosen not to illustrate court fashion or for practicality, but to entice.
At last she reached the top of the sea-gate stairs. Looking up, she frowned. She would never be able to escape without being seen. There had to be another way out. And if she wanted to leave here in one piece, she’d better find it.
The feeling of foreboding only increased when she glimpsed the armed MacLeod clansmen lining the wall, still as the carved pieces of a chessboard, guarding patiently as her party approached. Isabel eyed them warily. Even from a distance she could see that their bodies were poised like lions ready to pounce—almost as if they were hoping for an attack.
Her nerves were already on edge, but Willie’s next words shook her to her core. “Come, my lady, your betrothed waits to greet you.”
A massive shadow moved to block the doorway ahead. The blood drained from her face.
Good God, he was huge.
She couldn’t see his face, but his herculean shape and proud stance left no doubt that he was a powerful warrior to be feared.
Warily, Isabel followed her father and uncle through the arched entry and up yet more stairs to where the MacLeod waited. She wanted desperately to fall back in cowardly retreat but willed her feet to keep moving forward. With each footfall, he appeared taller and more broad shouldered. He even towered over her uncle, who was one of the largest men she had ever seen. Never before had she beheld such raw strength. No one at court could compare. His well-muscled physique was beyond intimidating. She was not surprised that her uncle had found it so difficult to vanquish the MacLeod chief.
Dread consumed her. How could she defend against this? Her skills would be practically useless against such a man.
But he was only a man, she reminded herself. Just like any other. With the same needs, the same desires, and the same weaknesses. Isabel swallowed hard, thinking about what she might have to do to ply those weaknesses.
Passing through the sea-gate, they followed the MacLeod through the dark courtyard and into the stone entry of the square keep. Relieved to be out of the icy, all-pervading mist, Isabel took a moment to warm herself, rubbing her hands together until her fingers tingled with sensation.
She stood half-hidden behind her uncle, father, brothers, Bessie, and the rest of her MacDonald clansmen. Her position afforded her a good vantage point from which to observe the MacLeod, although his face was still obscured in the shadows of the flickering candlelight. When he turned toward her uncle, she could just make out the strong angle of his cheekbone and squared jaw.
As if meeting in battle, the two clans had unconsciously formed two groups, facing each other from opposite sides. The MacLeod stood at the pinnacle of his men, with a pack of fierce-looking warriors at his flank. An aura of absolute authority emanated from him as he confronted her uncle chief to chief.
Isabel heard the grumbling from behind him as the MacLeods recognized her uncle. She could well understand their anger. Privately, she thought it warranted. After the abominable way her uncle had repudiated the handfast to Margaret MacLeod, she wondered that the MacLeod had not taken a dirk to him the moment he entered the castle. She glanced at the MacLeod chief again. No, he looked far too controlled for that. But some of his men didn’t. A few of the MacLeod warriors looked as if they were itching to put a blade through her uncle’s heart. She took note of the way they looked to him immediately for direction. In some silent form of communication, with one small movement of his hand, he quieted the men behind him.
Clearly his men obeyed him without question, but whether it was from fear, as with those who followed her uncle, or from loyalty and respect, she did not know.
Ignoring her uncle, he dipped his head in a short nod as he addressed her father. “Welcome to Dunvegan, Glengarry. It has been some time since we last met.” He paused, both men no doubt remembering their last meeting over a battlefield. “I trust you had an uneventful journey.”
The MacLeod spoke in Erse, the language of the Highlanders and Islanders. It was a tongue now disfavored at court and the Lowlands in favor of Scots, a dialect of English. His proud, strong voice reverberated powerfully in the small stone entrance hall. He spoke with the assurance of a man who was accustomed to giving orders—and to being obeyed.
Her uncle did not demonstrate such control. Obviously annoyed at being ignored, he cut off her father before he could reply. “MacLeod. Thank you for your most gracious welcome. Our journey was indeed uneventful, if unseasonably cold.”
The MacLeod leveled his gaze at her uncle. “Sleat. I don’t recall sending you an invitation.” It was not a welcome. “Though you were expected.”
The MacLeod stood with his legs spread and his hands clasped behind his back, to all outward appearances completely relaxed. But on closer inspection, Isabel could see the slight bulging of his forearm muscles and a tension in his legs. He was prepared, ready to pounce on her uncle at the slightest provocation, but maintaining complete control.
Sleat frowned. Clearly, he’d hoped to take the MacLeod by surprise. Isabel knew enough of her uncle to understand that he did not like to be thought of as predictable. His mouth curled in an angry sneer, furious to have been deprived of his fun. “I simply could not miss the opportunity to share in this joyous occasion. Surely this joining means that our differences belong in the past. We will look to a brighter future. The king demanded my presence to seal our new alliance. Did he not mention so in his missive?”
Watching the silent battle of wills between these two chiefs from behind her kinsmen, Isabel couldn’t fail to notice that the MacLeod hadn’t bothered to look in her direction. She experienced a twinge of disappointment. Apparently he was not as anxious for this match as she had been led to believe.
A reluctant bridegroom would certainly make her job more difficult. The circumstances were less than ideal, but surely he should show a slight bit of
interest in her. They were to be handfasted, after all—man and wife in everything but name. Isabel herself felt a perverse need to see his face, to look upon the man to whom she would be joined—to the man she must seduce.
At that moment, the MacLeod stepped into the light and his face slipped out of the shadows. Her heart slammed into her chest and seemed to stop beating. Her eyes widened in disbelief. If she dreamed for the rest of her life, she would never have been able to conjure the perfection of his face.
The Norse ancestry of his clan was obvious in the MacLeod’s height and coloring. The Highlands were filled with braw men, but he towered over most, standing a good hand above six feet.
His straight chestnut hair was streaked with heavy chunks of golden blond that shimmered in the candle-light. The thick golden mane was cut bluntly at his shoulders and swept over a strong brow as it fell dramatically across his left eye from a high arched cowlick. Long thick lashes framed eyes the color of dark sapphires. Bronzed skin set off his chiseled features—high cheekbones and a classic aquiline nose above a wide mouth—to perfection. A hint of dark stubble shadowed the square jaw of his otherwise clean-shaven face. When he opened his mouth to speak, white teeth flashed against tanned skin. He was glorious. Incomprehensibly, Isabel felt drawn to this man. And for once, she was the one gaping.
“My, he’s a handsome one, poppet,” Bessie whispered in her ear. “If I were a young lass…”
Isabel dared not respond with anything other than a nod, as she doubted her ability to speak coherently, but oh, what a delicious understatement.
Pulling her eyes from his face, she innocently feasted on the rest of him. He was dressed in traditional clothing: the great plaid, the breacan feile, of soft blues and greens over a midlength shirt of saffron linen, the leine croich. The plaid was belted at the waist by a leather girdle and fell in soft folds to his knees. It was secured at the breast by the silver MacLeod chieftain pin. His powerful, muscular legs were bare except for soft leather boots.