He was every inch the warrior. Every inch the chief. It was impossible to imagine him dressed in anything else, certainly not the elaborate costume of court that she was used to with its lace ruff, puffed slops, loose canions, and fancy embroidered doublet with peascod. The traditional dress of the Highlands suited him to perfection. Realizing that her mouth was open, Isabel slammed her lips closed.
Attraction was something she hadn’t considered.
The MacLeod seemed oblivious to her interest, as his narrow gaze was still fixated on her uncle. He took an intimidating step closer.
“James did not mention that your presence would be required,” he said in hard, clipped, emotionless tones. “But it makes no difference. You will enjoy our hospitality until the handfast ceremony is complete.”
Her uncle well understood the custom and obligation of hospitality among the Highland and Island clans—or he wouldn’t be here. By tradition, he would be safe while under the roof of the MacLeod. MacLeod’s honor demanded it, and a clan chief lived by his honor.
Isabel could see her uncle’s anger build at the MacLeod’s quick dismissal. “Of course, we will leave at the conclusion of the celebration.” Sleat gave the MacLeod a knowing, lecherous look. “You will no doubt want to have some time alone with your new handfast bride. Speaking of which, where is your sister Margaret? I’m surprised not to see her here to welcome us.”
Isabel sucked in her breath as a deadly silence settled over the room. She stared at her uncle in disbelief. How could he be so cruel as to mention the MacLeod’s sister? But if her uncle thought to provoke the MacLeod, he was to be disappointed. The MacLeod chief didn’t move a muscle. The man at his side, however, was not so restrained.
“You bastard.” He lunged forward but was prevented from moving farther by the steel restraint of the MacLeod’s arm.
She hadn’t noticed the man before, but he could have been the MacLeod’s twin. She squinted into the soft light. Perhaps he was a wee bit fairer of coloring. He was also not quite as large of build, albeit still impressive. Though handsome, his face lacked the imposing authority of the MacLeod’s. Must be a brother, Isabel thought.
Confirmation came quickly.
“I’ll see to our guest, brother.” Rory MacLeod smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. The cold intensity of his gaze was enough to freeze Loch Carron in midsummer.
By now, the undercurrent of hate flowing between the two men was palpable, the MacLeod’s cold and controlled, Sleat’s smug and cruel. Thankfully, Isabel’s father intervened, preventing further offense from her uncle. Her brothers moved forward to be introduced. Isabel waited, both impatient and anxious. Her first impressions of the MacLeod had done little to ease her dread. Though his handsome face might make her task decidedly more palatable, her attraction to him was an unexpected complication. She could not delude herself: This was not a man to be ruled by lust. Still, she was anxious to gauge his reaction to her. Could she find a chink in his steely armor?
She took a deep breath. It was time to find out.
Rory clenched his fists at his side in a fury born of pure hatred. Sleat’s predictability didn’t make it any easier to welcome his enemy into his keep. If it weren’t for the sacred obligation of Highland hospitality, Sleat would be a dead man. He would deal with the blackhearted whoreson later, when he could calm the fire raging in his blood.
“These are my sons, Angus, Alisdair, and Ian,” Glengarry said.
The lads came forward in birth order, shaking Rory’s hand one by one. Rory appraised Glengarry’s sons with calculated interest. In a few years, these young men would be powerful Highland warriors—a force to be reckoned with. To a man they were tall, well built, and, he supposed, uncommonly fair of face.
In other circumstances, he might well be proud to have these men as brothers. But with what he planned to do to their sister, Rory knew he would be creating powerful enemies. Unfortunately, their anger could not be avoided. He had a responsibility as chief. His path was chosen, and it didn’t involve marriage to a MacDonald.
The time had come. He could ignore her no longer. Glengarry grasped her hand and pulled her out from behind her brothers. “And my daughter, Isabel MacDonald. Your betrothed.”
For one shocking moment, the steady hand of time stilled. He felt as if he’d been slammed across the chest with the heavy steel of a claymore. All he could do was stare at the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld. The Greeks had gifted him not with a horse, but with Helen.
Tiny perfect features were arranged flawlessly on a canvas of soft white skin. Her nose was small and dainty, her eyes large and tilted seductively. He’d never seen eyes that color before; they were the most unusual blue. Wait—he squinted harder in the dim light. They weren’t blue; they were violet. Like Skye heather. Dense black velvet lashes swept upward and grazed fine arched brows. Sensing his stare, she nervously flicked her tongue out to moisten full, sensuous red lips surrounding tiny perfect white teeth. Those lush lips could drive a man wild with prurient imaginings.
Her face was framed by shimmering dark copper gold tresses that looked unbelievably soft and lush. A vivid image of those locks fanned out across a pillow behind her head sprang to mind before he could prevent it.
An unexpected surge of lust hit him straight in the groin.
The swift strength of the reaction knocked him from his stupor. Rory tore his eyes from her face.
He reached out to take her hand and felt a shock run through his body as their skin touched. Her fingers were like ice, and he was more than tempted to warm them with his own.
“My lord, I am most pleased to meet you,” she said with a sultry voice, drawing his eyes to her once again. It was a mistake. Isabel pushed back her cloak and curtsied, bowing slightly forward.
Rory thought he might choke. Alex coughed uncontrollably at his side. As she leaned forward, Rory was served the most delicious view of bosom that he had ever been fortunate enough to behold. Her firm, round breasts were near bursting from the tight, low-cut bodice of her gown. The creamy white skin, softly pink from the cold weather, begged to be touched…or kissed. The surge of lust he’d experienced before was nothing compared with the bolt that struck him now.
Her dress was on the edge of indecent, by no means as modest as the traditional loose-fitting Scottish arisaidh, yet he was glad she did not seem to favor the ridiculously elaborate stiff gowns with their wide skirts and large ruffs about the neck so favored by the court of Elizabeth and its northern neighbor in Edinburgh. This dress exhibited her gorgeous body to perfection, the thin satin fabric clinging to her curves, dangerously hinting at the glory to be discovered beneath.
God had certainly outdone Himself when He created Isabel. Although He’s had a laugh at our expense, Rory thought. It was such delicious irony. The face of an angel barely saved from holiness by a sensuous mouth paired with a figure that did not evoke any thoughts of religion. Rather, she was the embodiment of temptation.
His body responded to her beauty the way his mind would not. The traitorous heat of desire burned in his loins, but Rory realized he would get no relief in that area. Yet although the attraction angered him, it did not worry him. Lust was an annoyance he could control. His duty lay elsewhere.
Bedding Isabel MacDonald, tempting as it may be, was not an option. Though it was expected under the terms of the handfast, Rory would not take her to bed knowing that he intended to forsake her in the end. He would not risk getting her with his child. A child who would soon be left without a father was a complication he simply could not allow.
Noticing the wide-eyed stares of the men next to him, Rory felt a fierce urge to pull her into his arms and cover her up. To a one, he trusted his men with his life and knew none would dare offense. But he could hardly blame them for appreciating what was so freely offered.
The awkward silence continued. He realized that she was waiting for him to speak. Rory looked down and noticed that he was still holding her hand. It was as soft as r
ose petals and looked so small and white next to his large, tanned, battle-scarred fingers.
He dropped it as if scalded.
Annoyed by his reaction, Rory forced his voice back to its cold, emotionless timbre. “Mistress MacDonald. You must be tired from your journey and wish to retire to your room. Tomorrow there will be a feast after the contract has been signed and the ceremony completed.”
“Thank you, my lord, I am tired, and rest would be most welcome.”
“Is this your maidservant?” he asked brusquely, indicating the woman next to her.
“This is my nursemaid, Bessie MacDonald. She will be helping me get settled. I hope that is not a problem?”
“No. There is a pallet in your chamber. She may sleep there if she prefers.”
Before she could reply, he turned away dismissively. But not before he noticed the way her hands twisted in her skirts with the curtness of his response.
Alex shot him a puzzled glance as he stepped forward with a conciliatory smile. “I’m Alex MacLeod, Rory’s brother. Welcome, and if I can do anything to help get you settled…” His eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Thank you, Alex, your welcome is most appreciated,” Isabel said pointedly, offering him her hand.
Aware of her none-too-subtle set-down, Rory couldn’t help admiring her fortitude. At court, his forbidding size and stern expression seemed to terrify the lasses, yet she didn’t seem intimidated at all. The lass had some spirit.
“Of course, you’ll be wanting some refreshment, and a bath can be arranged if you desire. Deidre,” Alex motioned to their old nursemaid who’d just joined them, “can bring you anything else you need, you have but to ask.” He finished with a courtly bow and a broad grin.
“That sounds divine,” Isabel said warmly.
Rory’s eyes narrowed, watching the easy interchange between the two of them. He didn’t miss the grateful look she’d directed at Alex.
A look that should be directed toward him. Admittedly, it wasn’t like Rory to be so abrupt, but the lass unnerved him. He was sure it was only temporary. Most men would be knocked senseless when faced with such beauty, he rationalized.
But still he frowned. He was not most men. He was immune to such nonsense, unlike his brother. Alex might be blown over by a pretty face, but Rory wasn’t. Nonetheless, he felt what could only be described as a twinge of jealousy at the sight of her giving his affable brother a grateful smile. The ridiculous sentiment was both unwelcome and annoying.
With a look to show his displeasure, Rory took control of the situation. He would have to remind Alex that the lass was a MacDonald. And for better or worse, his handfast bride for a year. “Deidre will show you to your room now. Until the morning, Mistress MacDonald.”
Turning to his men, he directed Colin and Douglas to show the rest of the party to their sleeping quarters—where they would be well watched. But then he found his attention returned to Isabel, his gaze following her as she was led away.
Isabel MacDonald had been a surprise. He refused to consider the unexpected surge of lust he’d felt at meeting his new “bride.” He’d never thought to find himself in the position of being attracted to the woman. Still, it did not bother him overmuch. Rory had survived the vicious attacks of Sleat for the last two years, as well as the scheming of a hostile king. He could easily manage the wiles of one small lass.
But something else gnawed at him. He was uncomfortably surprised by his initial impression of his bride; she seemed so young and innocent—almost vulnerable. Hardly the type of woman to be doing Sleat’s bidding. If she was innocent of Sleat’s intrigue, Rory would do his best to see that she was not harmed and was treated fairly. Beautiful or not, he would keep his distance. And in a year, when the handfast period was over, he would return her to her kin with no harm done.
When his “guests” had cleared the entry, Rory headed back outside on his way to the Fairy Tower, followed closely by his brother.
“Well, I’ll be damned, you’re a lucky bastard, Rory. I hope those noble intentions of yours not to bed the chit are ready to be put to the test,” Alex said, his voice rough with envy. “Those ‘exaggerated rumors’ did not do her justice.”
Rory tried to ignore him, but Alex’s obvious admiration pricked at him uncomfortably. Actually, it annoyed the hell out of him. He did not doubt his brother’s loyalty, but it surprised him to realize how much he did not want to discuss the attributes of this particular woman with anyone…including his brother.
“I suppose she’s attractive enough,” he replied, knowing he sounded ridiculous.
Alex snorted his disbelief. “Well, at least we know why the king agreed to the handfast,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Rory lifted a brow in question.
“No man in his right mind would repudiate such a beauty.”
“A man of sound mind must act where his duty lies,” Rory reminded him.
Alex shook his head with regret. A sentiment that Rory could well understand.
“How important is this alliance with the Campbell lass?” Alex asked.
Rory sighed. “Very.” Only an alliance with Argyll would provide the sway they needed with the king. But Alex had a point. Keeping his distance was going to be a wee bit more difficult than he’d anticipated. But he could handle it. There was nothing Rory MacLeod couldn’t handle.
Chapter 3
Here in Heaven’s eye, and all Love’s sacred powers…
I knit this holy hand fast, and with this hand
The Heart that owes this hand, ever binding…
Both heart and hand in love, faith and loyalty.
—FRANCIS BEAUMONT and JOHN FLETCHER,
Wit at Several Weapons, v:i
Isabel knew she was taking too long to get ready. But she was nervous. Needing some time to collect her thoughts, she’d sent Bessie on another frivolous errand as she finished preparing for the ceremony that would bind her to the MacLeod—for a year.
A year to slip under his defenses and discover his secrets. A task made all the more challenging after meeting him.
The MacLeod was a hard man forged of muscled steel. Clearly, he would not easily be duped. Nor did his authoritative and forbidding temperament bode well for leniency if she were caught. He possessed a daunting ability to mask his reactions. Although she’d sensed his attraction to her last night, he covered it up so quickly that she wondered whether she’d only imagined it. Otherwise, his expression was inscrutable.
Never had she met a man who seemed less inclined to “blindly” do anything—especially fall in love. Getting under his armor was going to be a challenge indeed.
She bit her lip. Though she sensed no animosity, his conversation had been a disappointment of brusque, cool politeness. Clearly, her uncle had misled her. Rory MacLeod was not eager for this match.
At least her fears of brutish barbarity did not seem warranted. She sensed an inherent civility in him. Although not as polished as a Lowlander, he would stand out at court not for his rough manners, but for his impressive size and the raw dignity of his bearing.
Although the MacLeod demonstrated many qualities that she admired, they were nonetheless obstacles to her goal. Earning his trust was going to be that much more difficult.
Gazing in the looking glass, she carefully pinned her hair at the crown and adjusted the diamond-encrusted wreath atop her head. She could not shake the unease, the feeling that she was doing something wrong. But what choice did she have? Without her help, her clan was doomed.
But Isabel knew it wasn’t just the fate of her clan that had brought her here.
For as long as she could remember, she’d shadowed her older brothers, traipsing after them as they hunted, gamed, and practiced their sword skills. Jumping at the opportunity to participate whenever they tolerated her, hiding and spying on them whenever they excluded her.
More often than not, they had ignored her.
Desperate to be included, she’d tried anything to get them to notice h
er. But no matter how accomplished she became, neither her challenges nor her feats of bravery brought her any closer to her brothers or father. Instead, she was treated as an afterthought. An outsider. Irrelevant and unimportant. Her chest tightened as the familiar emptiness settled in her stomach.
That unhappy realization had come years ago, but it still pained her. Her childhood tears had long since dried. She rarely allowed herself to wallow in such self-pity. But somehow she realized that these painful memories weren’t really memories at all, they were the fractured remains of her childhood dreams. She still craved their love and respect. That craving had brought her to Dunvegan.
For the first time in her life, they needed her.
Without this handfast, her uncle refused to support her father in his feud with the Mackenzies over Castle Strome, her childhood home. Her clan needed the strength of her uncle to survive. And Sleat needed a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman to entice the MacLeod into sharing the clan secrets. Secrets that would enable her uncle to destroy the MacLeods for good and further his quest to reclaim the ancient fiefdom of the Lordship of the Isles.
Sleat had charged her with two tasks: to find a secret entrance into the impregnable castle and to steal their precious magical talisman—the Fairy Flag. If the legends were to be believed, it was the mystical source of their strength and had twice previously saved the MacLeods from destruction.
Even now her stomach churned uncomfortably when she thought of what had been left unsaid, but what had definitely been implied. She must use all her charms to get what they wanted, even seduction. How could she, who had never allowed any man close enough to steal a simple kiss, seduce a fierce and ruthless Highland chief?
Now, after having met the man, Isabel was even more certain that it would never work. Rory MacLeod was as rock hard as a stone parapet, seemingly impervious to a weakness like emotion.
Bessie bustled into the room. “They’re waiting, poppet.” She stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her heart with a dramatic exclamation. “Ah, Isabel, you are a vision. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a square of linen. “Oh, how your mother would have loved to see you on your wedding day.”