Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  A wave of emotion swept over Isabel. Hot tears gathered at the back of her throat. Bessie’s joy only made Isabel feel worse for deceiving her—and the mention of her mother nearly undid her completely. She took a deep breath.

  “Then we best not keep them waiting any longer.” Alighting into the corridor, Isabel took her first step down a path that could only lead to betrayal.

  Rory faced the day with a much clearer head, once again in control of his errant—and lustful—thoughts. Visions of his bride had haunted his dreams—erotic fantasies of a wedding night that was not to be. Vivid images of candlelight and silk. He pictured her standing before him, looking up at him with those seductive eyes full of invitation. He’d taken his time in undressing her, running his hands over the soft velvet of her skin, slipping the wispy night rail down her shoulders, revealing her tantalizing nakedness one lush inch at a time. The dream had been so vivid, so real, he’d awakened hard and throbbing, needing release. He attributed his unusual reaction to the MacDonald lass to the disquiet brought on by Sleat’s presence in his keep and the girl’s undeniably rare beauty.

  Today, Rory was prepared to be awed by her beauty. He would admire her as one would admire a beautiful piece of art—an object to put on display. But that was all. Admiration need not breed intimacy. It was enough that she was a MacDonald and not a suitable alliance for his clan. He need know nothing else.

  As was custom, the handfast ceremony would take place outside. Given the circumstances, Rory had decided on a small, private ceremony to be followed by a larger celebratory feast. Notwithstanding the enmity between the clans and the unwanted alliance, the clan would be disappointed with anything else. Feasting was an integral part of Highland life, and Highlanders welcomed any excuse to celebrate.

  Thus, as the morning sun gathered intensity on the eastern horizon, Rory, Alex, Sleat, Glengarry, and Isabel’s brothers gathered around the barmkin awaiting his bride.

  His very late bride, the ten o’clock hour having come and gone some time ago. Perhaps she was having second thoughts? Oddly, the notion didn’t relieve him as much as it should have.

  Glengarry had glanced up at her chamber enough times for Rory to know that he was growing impatient and annoyed. Finally, Glengarry smiled with relief. “Ah, here she is now.”

  Rory turned, and all of his newfound clarity vanished.

  He felt that same forceful blow to the chest, the same physical intensity of attraction. He was as overwhelmed as when he’d first beheld her last night, perhaps more so. In the clear light of day, Isabel MacDonald was breathtaking.

  Her thick copper gold tresses blazed a fiery red in the bright sunlight. The long wavy strands were swept from the sides of her face and held in place with a silver-wired wreath heavily decorated with diamonds and tiny pearls. Her features were at once both delicate and vivid. The snowy whiteness of her skin contrasted with the dark brows and lashes that framed her lovely violet eyes and the bloodred pout of her sensual lips.

  His gaze traveled down her face and halted at her breasts. He sucked in his breath and tried not to stare, feeling the hot blood flow to his loins as his cock thickened in appreciation.

  Once again her dress bordered on indecent, something more suitable for one of King James’s masques than a wedding. Most Scotswomen would choose to wear a brightly colored gown or arisaidh to their handfasting. But not Isabel. She had chosen an unadorned ivory damask gown that in its simplicity was anything but simple. The shimmering fabric draped provocatively across her shapely figure, tantalizing the senses with the glory of her lush body as the gown clung to her narrow hips and gently rounded bottom. The bodice was daringly low, cut in a deep square down the front of her chest. Her firm round breasts were barely covered, threatening to spill out at the slightest provocation. Rory thought, or just imagined, he could discern pale pink tips below the lacy edge of her bodice. Even as his body hardened with desire from all that bare skin, he had to acknowledge that there was something innocent and virginal about her dress. The unconventional bridal color suited her perfectly.

  The realization hit him: Without a doubt, the next year was going to be the longest of his seven and twenty years.

  Suddenly aware that her family was watching his reaction with unconcealed interest, he plastered a blank expression on his face. “Mistress MacDonald, I hope you have found your room to your liking.”

  “Yes, thank you. It was delightful. We were very comfortable.”

  Pleasantries dispensed with, he cast a glance around to make sure the others were ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Deidre standing next to Isabel’s tiring woman.

  Isabel caught his glance. “I hope you don’t mind…” She hesitated. “But I invited her.”

  “So I see.”

  His tone must have alarmed her, because she began to fidget. “Well, when I sent for her this morning to thank her for arranging the bath at such a late hour, she mentioned that she’d served your family since your older brother was a bairn. I just thought she might want to be here.”

  Disconcerted by her kindness, Rory didn’t speak. He looked into her eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity.

  “Are you angry?” she asked in a small voice.

  “No. Merely chastened not to have thought of it myself.”

  A wide smile lit her face, and Rory froze. Her eyes twinkled with a joyous effervescence that transformed her face from regally beautiful to playful and enchanting. A tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth lent a mischievous twist to her lips that made him think of naughtiness in other places. Like the bedchamber.

  He shifted his gaze to Glengarry and spoke. “Let us begin.”

  Glengarry looked to his daughter. “Isabel?”

  Rory’s eyes narrowed. It seemed as if Glengarry were giving her an option. Seeming surprised but enormously pleased by the deferral, Isabel simply nodded.

  With Glengarry officiating, Rory turned to face his bride, standing close enough to smell the sweet lavender of her hair and discern the previously unnoticed spattering of freckles across her nose. The freckles charmed him; the slight imperfection suggested a surprising lack of vanity in one so beautiful. This was a woman who enjoyed the outdoors, who valued the sun shining on her face more than the veneration of a flawless complexion. He scowled at the direction of his thoughts, realizing that he’d done just what he’d vowed not to do.

  A beautiful object, he reminded himself.

  Still, as they stood in the courtyard before the witnesses to their handfast, he was uncomfortably aware of how small and delicate she looked. And nervous. His hand moved about five inches before he pulled it back to his side.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He cleared his throat, telling himself to stop acting like a fool.

  Clasping right hand to right and left to left, Glengarry took a piece of plaid and tied it around their hands, binding them together. Rory stared at her tiny hand in his, so soft and tender in his rough battle-scarred hands. Her fingers were like ice and he realized she was nervous—maybe even scared. He felt a strong swell of protectiveness, and couldn’t remain unaffected by the symbolic allusion to the bond they were about to make. Though there would be no marriage, the handfast would be real enough.

  He spoke the vows that would bind them together for a year. “I, Roderick MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, do pledge my troth to Isabel MacDonald and with this handfast do hereby covenant to take her to wife for the period of no less than one year.”

  Isabel repeated the vows, and it was done. Except for one part.

  “What are you waiting for, MacLeod?” Sleat taunted. “Aren’t you going to kiss the bride?”

  Rory tensed, knowing that it was necessary. He was reluctant. Not because he didn’t want to kiss her, but because of how much he ached to do so. To taste her. To sample the forbidden fruit of her delectable mouth.

  Cheeks flaming, Isabel stared at her toes, the tips of her silver slippers just peeking out from below the embroidered edge of her gow
n.

  “Aye,” he said, slipping a finger under her chin. “A kiss to seal our vows.”

  Slowly he lowered his mouth, pausing for an instant to inhale her flowery scent before his lips touched hers. He almost moaned as the rush of desire flooded his body with heat. Dear God, she tasted sweet.

  And she was unbearably soft. Her skin was pure velvet under his fingertips.

  He lingered, the urge to deepen the kiss primal. He wanted to draw her into his arms and crush her full breasts against his hard chest. To feel the shape of her hips as she pressed against his heavy groin. To plunge his tongue into the sweet cavern of her mouth and drink.

  Yet somehow he held back.

  Slowly, he lifted his mouth. Gazing at her face tilted to his, the rosy flush of passion spread across her cheeks, her lips still gently parted, Rory knew a dark moment of almost uncontrollable desire. Desire that gnawed at every inch of his body with a crushing, overpowering intensity.

  For the first time in his life, Rory MacLeod—a man who’d faced scores of fearsome warriors on the battlefield and driven his enemies to their knees with terror—knew alarm.

  He dropped his hand from her chin and took a step back. That wouldn’t happen again.

  Isabel had never been kissed before, and she was completely unprepared for the all-consuming intensity of the experience. His rough fingers cradled her face with such tenderness, a sharp pang of longing tugged deep in her chest. And when his lips brushed hers, she knew a moment of pure heaven. A moment of connection so powerful, it frightened her—making her body feel almost not her own. She’d never imagined how a kiss could possess.

  With one gentle touch he branded her.

  His lips were so much softer than she’d imagined, completely incongruous with the hard, implacable chief. He tasted…delicious. His warm, spicy breath engulfed her senses as he pressed his mouth more firmly against hers.

  Her heart fluttered high in her chest and her body seemed to soften as sensation washed over her. She felt weak. Boneless. And wonderfully warm with the swell of burgeoning desire. For a moment she forgot the lie that had brought them together. She forgot the presence of her family and surrendered to the force of a more powerful calling.

  She wanted more.

  She sank against him, leaning her body closer to his. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him and sense the strength barely harnessed under the powerful façade. He was big and hard, making her deeply aware of her own femininity.

  For one precious instant it seemed as if he was going to wrap her in his muscular arms and deepen the kiss. His mouth moved over hers and the rough stubble of his jaw scraped over her skin, sending ripples of anticipation shuddering through her. His fingers tightened on her jaw as he pulled her closer. Unconsciously her lips parted, knowing there was something more.

  Perhaps he noticed her reaction, for he stiffened and abruptly pulled his mouth from hers. Just before he released her, his dazzling sapphire eyes had briefly studied her upturned face. Her chin barely came to the middle of his chest. Isabel thought she glimpsed a smoldering fire in his gaze, but the aloof blank shutter dropped back into place, shielding any emotion.

  He dropped his hand from her face, and the spell was broken.

  He’d barely looked at her since. In fact, he seemed enthralled by the conversation of her father on his right and the lovely dark-haired woman seated next to Glengarry.

  Unfortunately, Isabel was not nearly so indifferent.

  Peering from under her thick eyelashes at the man seated next to her, she felt strangely aware of her new handfast husband. Indeed, she’d been aware of him since the moment she’d stepped out of the keep this morning, his tawny hair shimmering in the sunlight. He drew the eye like a fiery beacon on a moonless night, the magnificence of his presence not merely a result of his stature, but flowing from the aura of authority that surrounded him. He held himself like a king. A man born to rule.

  Of all the men gathered in the barmkin for the ceremony, he was the only one who hadn’t seemed bothered by her late arrival. Apparently, his confidence extended to her.

  Hers, however, had been shattered. After that heart-stopping kiss, Isabel drifted through the rest of the day in a bewildered haze. Vaguely, she recalled sharing the ceremonial glass of wine and returning to the keep for the signing of the contract between her father and the MacLeod, making it official. She was his for a year.

  But only a year. She’d do best to remember it, no matter how thrilling his kiss.

  Although she knew that their handfast was but a temporary bond, sitting at the dais in the great hall observing the jubilant celebration feast around her, she felt oddly unsettled. She could almost believe it was a marriage in truth, blessed for eternity. Isabel forced herself to remember that it was all a sham, no matter how official it seemed. The contract, the ceremony, even the dress, were all part of her uncle’s plan. The handfast was only a way out when her job was done.

  This day was a farce. She had dreamed of the happiness of her wedding day since she was a little girl. Yet even with all the suitors she was presented with at court, she despaired of ever finding the right man. In many ways, Rory MacLeod epitomized the proud, handsome man she had imagined herself someday falling in love with and marrying. Just her luck. The first man to ever really intrigue her was the one she absolutely could not have. Of course, she reminded herself, he was not the man of her dreams.

  In her dreams, her husband did not ignore her.

  It was an unusual experience for her. Isabel was not used to complete indifference from men. He was unfailingly polite but distant. And annoyingly inscrutable. It was difficult to believe that this was the man who’d kissed her with such tenderness.

  If only she could break through the icy shield he donned when around her and force him to take some notice of her. Not in the reckless way she drove herself to get attention from her family. No, for the first time in her life Isabel wanted a man to notice her as a woman.

  That was going to be a challenge, if today was any indication.

  In between the steady stream of well-wishers and the MacLeod’s odd question—“More beef, Isabel?” or “Would you care for some wine, Isabel?”—she’d managed to count every window in the great hall. Twelve. Though it was a stretch to consider the narrow slits in the ten-foot-thick wall windows. It took a determined beam of sunlight to penetrate such a formidable impediment. Instead, the large room was lit by candles and the smoky glow of peat from the fireplace.

  The walls were sparsely decorated with only the occasional threadbare tapestry of no great artistry, but hung prominently on the wall behind the dais was an ominous-looking three-foot-long claidheamhmór. The enormous two-handed cross-hilted sword looked far too unwieldy to be of use, but it still gave her pause.

  Did it belong to him?

  If anyone could lift that thing, he could. Isabel stole a glance at the man sitting beside her. She noticed the way his shoulders and arms strained against the fine linen of his shirt. The knowledge settled low in her belly. Rory MacLeod was the most physically imposing man she’d ever met. Never had she been so aware of a man’s size and strength. Though it would be impossible not to be. He dominated the space beside her.

  His heavily muscled shoulders were so wide, they brushed against hers each time he reached to take a piece of beef or a bit of bread smeared with butter from their shared trencher, sending a thrill shooting through her. Even the air seemed filled with his distinctive masculine scent of sea and heather, an alluring mix that seemed to permeate her skin and sink deep into her consciousness. She found herself responding to his raw masculinity, not with fear, but with something akin to excited curiosity. She thought of touching him. To see whether he was as hard and strong as he looked. She shook off the strange yearning. What was the matter with her?

  While they dined, she’d also had the opportunity to observe him with his clan. It was clear from the countless men who’d approached the dais to offer their congratulations with hone
st admiration and pride that he was both revered and loved. With his men, he had an easygoing banter that was friendly and relaxed.

  The complete antithesis of how he was with her.

  Stymied by his monosyllabic replies, she had finally given up and turned to Alex for relief from her boredom. At least Alex was welcoming. But for some reason, his handsome face did not stir her senses in the same way as his brother’s. Nonetheless, Isabel relaxed a bit and found herself responding to his charming compliments with a smile.

  After a few minutes, she turned to glance at Rory, expecting him to be ignoring her. Instead, she was surprised to find him watching her.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Isabel?”

  She was taken aback by the chill in his voice. If she didn’t know better, she could almost think he sounded jealous.

  His blue eyes had turned black. The man could melt rock, Isabel thought as she squirmed under his intense glare. She would give her eyeteeth to know what he was thinking. Determined not to be intimidated by his forbidding demeanor, she ignored the sudden nervousness twisting in her stomach. I have done nothing wrong, she reminded herself.

  Not yet, at least.

  She lifted her chin, her gaze leveled unflinchingly to his. She spoke lightheartedly, as if she had noticed nothing amiss. “Yes, your brother is most kind. We have been discussing your talented pipers. They are wonderful.”

  He waited a long time to respond. When he did, she wondered if she’d only imagined his anger. “The MacCrimmons have played for the MacLeods for many years,” he said. His expression was perfectly bland as he toyed with the heavily encrusted stem of his silver goblet, the pads of his fingers gently grazing over the smooth ridges of decorative relief. There was something deeply sensual about his movements, and she couldn’t look away, imagining his fingers on her. Would he touch her with such care? A shiver of awareness slithered down her spine. The sound of his voice shook her from her musings. “They are the best pipers in Scotland,” he finished.