Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  Isabel heard the note of pride in his voice. The Isles were the last bastion of the Gaelic culture that had flourished under the Lords of the Isles. Pipers and bards were deeply important to the preservation of that tradition.

  He started to turn back to the conversation with her father on his right. Not wanting the conversation to end so soon, Isabel asked, “Who is that charming child over there?”

  Rory turned in the direction she indicated, and a broad smile spread across his face. Her heart stopped. If she had thought him handsome in his severity…the transformation was dazzling. The small lines around his eyes deepened. Entrancing dimples appeared at each side of his mouth. Bessie would say the fairies had kissed him. Perhaps the stories of his fairy blood were not that far off. His attractiveness certainly had a magical quality.

  But it was the softness in his eyes when he looked at the little girl that struck her. He had a genuine fondness for the child. Isabel realized it was the first time she’d seen honest emotion behind that stoic reserve.

  Unaware of his effect on her, he continued. “Ah, wee Mary MacLeod is already something of a legend around these parts. She has a talent that is quite rare for one so young. You will enjoy her stories.”

  “The child is a bard?” Isabel asked with genuine surprise.

  “Mary is but five, but already she shows great promise. The clan is enchanted by her youth, and she often entertains us with her poems.”

  “I can see it is not only the clan who is enchanted,” Isabel teased, and was rewarded with a boyish grin that caused her heart to beat erratically. “You like children?”

  He seemed puzzled by her question. “Of course,” he replied, as if there could be no other answer.

  But Isabel knew there was. Not all men were comfortable around children, and few showed such obvious delight. She knew that only too well.

  He never looked up when she entered.

  “Father?”

  “Not now, child. I’m busy.”

  “Then when?”

  “Later.”

  But, of course, later never came. The memory dimmed and a very different thought struck her. She bit her lip, trying not to betray her sudden unease. “You will be wanting bairns, then?”

  The softness around his eyes hardened, and the charming grin was gone. “Not for some time.”

  Furious to have angered him, Isabel turned back to their original conversation. “I thought the Irish O’Muireaghsain were the seannachie of the MacLeods.”

  Rory raised one eyebrow. “You have learned something of our family. Yes, the hereditary bards are the O’Muireaghsain. But they have been so long from Erin, I doubt they consider themselves anything but true Islanders.”

  “My knowledge of your family is quite limited. Nonetheless, you can’t be a MacDonald and not learn something of the MacLeods.” She met his gaze and added boldly, “Our clans share quite a history.” No need to hide from the obvious.

  He kicked his legs back under the table and took a long drink of cuirm, peering at her from over his glass. “I know you’ve had naught to do with the feud between our clans. I harbor no ill feelings toward you for what your uncle did to Margaret two years ago. But others may not be as accepting, Isabel.”

  Isabel nodded. Overcoming the prejudice of being a MacDonald would not be easy, but it was to be expected. “Well, at least everyone seems to be enjoying themselves right now,” she said, indicating the mix of clansmen gathered for the feast. MacLeods, MacCrimmons, and MacAskills occupied one side of the hall, and her party of MacDonalds occupied the other. The former enemies kept to themselves, except for her three brothers. She shook her head with amusement as she watched them flirting shamelessly with the MacLeod serving girls. Those three never missed an opportunity to dally, even in the midst of a pack of wolves. She sighed.

  He was watching her. “You must be exhausted.”

  She smiled and admitted, “Perhaps a bit.”

  “You may retire to your room at any time.”

  Isabel tried to control the fierce pounding of her heart. The night loomed before her. “Will my things be moved to another room this night, my lord?” she asked softly.

  As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. His momentary good humor vanished. “I thought we might take some time to get to know each other. You will stay where you are for now.” He spoke the last with cool finality.

  Her eyes widened with shock, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. His reticence to consummate the handfast was unexpected, and unusual. She had been counting on the private time spent in their chamber to help him fall in love with her. She had even been preparing herself mentally for the possible bedding tonight.

  She should be relieved. After that kiss, she’d been a mass of knots. If she reacted like that to a simple kiss, what would happen when he bedded her?

  Isabel had hoped that he might give her some time to get used to the idea. Now that he had, she didn’t know what to think. Either he was very thoughtful or he was not attracted to her. She hoped it was the former—for the sake of the plan, of course. Still, she felt unaccountably disappointed.

  A high-pitched tinkle of laughter mixed with Rory’s husky voice drew her immediate attention. When she spied a beautiful dark-haired woman next to her father, another explanation crept forward. Her heart twisted in her chest. Isabel hoped he was not finding his pleasure elsewhere.

  Rory hadn’t missed the twinge of hurt in her eyes when he informed her they wouldn’t be sharing a room. But he hadn’t been prepared for the heat that surged through his body when she mentioned removing to his chamber. Extending his legs under the dais, he took another swig of cuirm, trying to repress the lust betraying his body. He could only imagine what it would be like to bed her when a chaste kiss set him on fire. Never had a kiss affected him so, setting off primal urges that had only worsened over the long meal. The sensual curve of her mouth taunted him. He wanted to taste her again. To feel her soft lips moving under his. She’d tasted so sweet and desire had hit him full force. His body hardened just looking at her. Damn. He shifted in his seat with renewed discomfort.

  He was aware of the direction of her thoughts. He’d done his best to ignore her throughout the feast and had flirted shamelessly with the witless but beautiful Catriona MacCrimmon. He knew he was wrong to encourage Catriona, a past relationship that had outlived its initial excitement, but he had to find some way to distract himself.

  He’d had to fight the urge to stare at his new bride all day. He told himself it was only because he had a duty to observe those around him—especially those whose very presence demanded a certain level of suspicion. Still, he wasn’t nearly as indifferent as he pretended. He wished it was simply her beauty, but damned if he didn’t find her intriguing for other reasons.

  Rory found himself noticing little things, like the way she twisted her hair when she was nervous or bit her lip when she was thinking. But it wasn’t just little things that intrigued him. He’d also witnessed her kindness and consideration in her dealings with strangers, like inviting Deidre to the handfast.

  And after the ceremony, he’d noticed how she’d immediately sought approval from her father. There was such eagerness in her expression, it was almost hard to watch. But he had. So he hadn’t missed her acute disappointment when none was forthcoming. Her relationship with her father and brothers seemed very awkward, almost stiff. As if she were a fragile piece of porcelain, and they didn’t know quite what to do with her. Rory could commiserate.

  Still, he felt sorry for her; he was close with all of his brothers and sisters. He stopped himself and frowned. Except the youngest. Flora had left with her mother as a child after the death of their father and rarely returned. It was a situation he intended to rectify to ensure that the girl didn’t grow up without knowing her kin.

  Isabel was endearingly vulnerable, but not timid. The strength with which she bore his uncharacteristic display of temper had proven that. Initially, he’d been relieved when she’d
finally given up and turned to Alex. Let her be a burr under his saddle for a while. Yet Alex seemed genuinely to enjoy her company, looking more relaxed than he had in some time. This should have made Rory happy, but instead he’d lashed out. Leaving him to wonder why.

  He was loath to admit it, but the girl’s bravery impressed him. The black look he threw her had felled many men much stronger and more experienced. Beneath that beautiful polished exterior there lurked an undeniable strength. Most lasses would have taken to the hills by now, but she somehow managed to make him feel to blame for intimidating her.

  Such vulnerability mixed with spirit and courage was an unusual combination. He shook his head. Damned if she didn’t remind him of his sister Margaret…before.

  In truth, he didn’t know what to make of her. She had far more substance than he’d expected and none of the haughty confidence of a beautiful woman. She surprised him, and Rory didn’t like surprises. Isabel MacDonald was almost too good to be true, especially coming from Sleat. So far the lass had done nothing to deserve his mistrust, but it was early yet. She bore greater study; he would have to keep his eye on her. From a distance.

  Sitting so close to her all afternoon and trying to ignore her had been a lesson in perseverance.

  She looked enchantingly dainty next to him, and so damnably lovely. They were squeezed close together on the bench, and each time she moved she brushed against him, sending bolts of awareness shooting through him.

  Isabel MacDonald was a woman who seduced by mere proximity. The subtle fragrance of lavender that wafted from her hair, the delicate way her fingers picked at the food on their trencher, the half-lidded expression of pleasure in her eyes as she savored a delicious morsel, the enticing way her tongue darted out to catch a stray grain of sugar on her lip. He couldn’t watch her without imagining the same look on her face as he pleasured her or her tongue flicking out to taste other things with equal relish. The blatant sensuality of her movements was made all the more powerful by the simmering passion he’d detected in her kiss.

  Everything about her screamed soft, sweet femininity and hot, passionate sex just waiting to be released. And Rory, or at least his body, was listening.

  He couldn’t look at her without getting hard. Her breasts were incredible, lush and round, displayed to mouth-watering perfection in her gown. He ached to feel them in his hands, in his mouth, and pressed against his naked chest. The temptation to take what was rightfully his proved more difficult than he’d imagined. He couldn’t wait for the meal to end.

  His lustful thoughts were turned by a loud crash from across the room, shattering the peace of the celebration. He heard a table turning over and the unmistakable thump of fists and the sounds of a skirmish. A quick glance told him all he needed to know—two men, MacDonald versus MacLeod.

  Rory stood up, rigid with fury. “Enough.” The boom of his voice snapped like a whip across the hall. The room fell to a deadly hush. The men stopped fighting as all eyes turned to him.

  He heard Isabel gasp beside him. “Ian,” she cried softly.

  Rory recognized Isabel’s youngest brother, still huffing from the exertion of the brawl, blood streaming down the side of his face from a cut at his temple. Opposite him stood Fergus MacLeod, one of his own men. A fierce warrior, but also a quick-tempered one. Rory took in the situation, noting the horrified serving girl standing just to the side. Fergus’s wife.

  “Here.” Rory pointed to the foot of the dais. “Both of you.” When they stood before him, he ordered, “Explain.”

  Both men started at once.

  “One at a time.” When they’d finished, it was as Rory thought. Ian had flirted with the pretty serving girl a little too vehemently for the likes of her husband. Fergus had reacted by slamming his fist into Ian’s face, breaking the peace.

  Rory clenched his jaw and stared at his man, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

  “I hope you intend to do something about this, MacLeod,” Sleat said, obviously relishing the situation.

  Rory ignored him. He did not need to be reminded of his duty.

  The heat of the battle had worn off enough for Fergus to realize what he’d done.

  “What have you to say for yourself?” Rory demanded. “You’ve broken the sacred obligation of Highland hospitality and disturbed the peace of this hall.” He gestured to Ian. “This man is our guest.”

  Fergus bowed his head, knowing his actions had shamed the clan. “I acted without thought.”

  Before he could hand down the punishment, Isabel put a tiny hand on his arm. “Please—”

  Rory stiffened. He knew what she was going to say. He was also aware of the eyes still upon them. “Don’t interfere, Isabel.”

  “Please,” she whispered in a soft voice. “It wasn’t all his fault.”

  Gazing down at her hand on his arm, Rory felt something strange twist in his chest. He should be furious that she dared question his authority before his clan, but instead he admired her sense of justice. Even if it was misplaced. “Do I need to instruct you on the obligation of Highland hospitality?”

  “No, it’s only that—”

  “Enough,” he said, this time harsh enough for her to stop. He turned back to Fergus and made his ruling. “For your actions, you shall pay the fine of three spring calves. Two for the MacDonalds and one to me.”

  A collective gasp followed his ruling, but the angry glares were directed at the MacDonalds and not at Rory. He heard the serving girl begin to sob. It was a harsh punishment, but a fair one. He sat down to resume his meal, though in truth he’d lost his appetite.

  Rory sat quietly for a long time, furious at having his decision questioned but struck by her compassion all the same. Especially since the man involved was her brother.

  “My decision displeased you,” he said. “You think it too harsh?”

  She picked at the bits of food on their trencher before answering. “His family will suffer a substantial loss of income.”

  “Aye. It will cost them severely, but they will not starve. Fergus broke a sacred obligation, disparaged the honor of the clan, and must be punished accordingly. That is my duty.” He cursed himself for explaining further. “What kind of chief would I be if I did not uphold our laws?”

  “There is no shame in compassion.”

  “Compassion is for those not charged with responsibility,” he said flatly. He didn’t expect her to understand a chief’s obligation to act decisively and forcefully. Women were softhearted creatures. He would have been within his rights to have Fergus flogged or put in irons. He looked her straight in the eyes. “The obligation of Highland hospitality is absolute. If you break the law, you suffer the consequences.” The warning was unmistakable. “There is no mercy for wrongdoers.”

  Rory didn’t fail to notice when she paled.

  Chapter 4

  Late the next morning, Isabel stood alone on the battlements overlooking the sea loch, watching her family’s departure with a heavy heart. Sheets of gray clouds blanketed the sky, dumping buckets of rain from the heavens, stirring the sea into a torrential frenzy. As the birlinn tossed atop the waves, it was difficult to tell where the rain ended and the loch began.

  A long summer day on the Isle of Skye.

  Wonderful.

  Her hand darted from beneath the warm folds of her cloak, attempting to gather the errant strands of auburn that whipped across her face and tangled in her mouth. Her efforts were in vain. The wind blew mercilessly, tearing her hair from its bindings as soon as she’d finished.

  Icy droplets pelted her raw cheeks, mingling with the tears that slid from the corners of her eyes. She sank deeper into her cloak, shielding herself as best she could from both the weather and the watchful eyes of the MacLeods. Isabel refused to let them witness her despair.

  Her kinsmen’s departure had come without warning. She had thought to have more time to get used to Dunvegan. And to Rory. But they were gone. And she was alone in a den of wolves.

  On
the dock below her, silent cheers of celebration trailed the birlinn of MacDonalds as it disappeared from view. The MacLeods were pleased to be rid of their enemies—storm or no storm. Their sentiments were hardly a surprise. Among the Scots, feuds were not easily forgotten or forgiven.

  She wondered how many wished she were on that boat. Did Rory? Probably. Clearly, he was not eager for this handfast, and meeting her had not changed his opinion. For as impressed as she was by him, he seemed equally unimpressed by her. Precisely the opposite of what she’d hoped.

  She knew her job wasn’t going to be easy, and it wasn’t. He suspected something, of that she was sure. His words of warning last night had been unequivocal. She didn’t think she’d ever forget his face when he told her there was “no mercy for wrongdoers.” She’d had the eerie sensation that he was peering right inside her.

  She shivered, but not from the icy rain and wind. She would just have to find a way to slip under his considerable guard. The incident with her brother Ian and Fergus MacLeod had shaken her. If the MacLeod discovered her ruse, he would deal with her coolly and decisively. And fairly, she admitted. He was a man used to making hard decisions; he would not waver in his duty. Yesterday had shown her that. She would just have to make sure she wasn’t discovered.

  Not a simple proposition with a man who seemed to notice everything—like her earlier conversation with her uncle. Although he could not hear them from across the courtyard, Isabel had felt the heavy weight of the MacLeod’s gaze as her uncle cornered her, bidding her farewell with his usual aplomb. With one arm draped protectively about her shoulders, Sleat drew her aside in the courtyard for last minute instructions before his departure down the steep sea-gate stairs.

  There was nothing subtle about Sleat’s warning. Her uncle’s words still rang in her ears: “Do what you must, but find the entrance and bring me the Fairy Flag within the year. The MacDonalds have been defeated by the flag once before; I want it in my hands. If you are successful, I will support your father against the Mackenzies.” She tried not to stiffen under his heavy arm. In a thick voice dripping with menace, he leaned close to her, his putrid breath singeing her ear. “Do you get my meaning, Isabel? Do what you must. For when the time comes, I want no opposition to my claim for the Lordship. It is the hereditary right of the MacDonalds to rule these lands. With the MacLeods destroyed, there will be no one to interfere. Don’t forget that you willingly agreed to help. It’s too late for second-guessing. The lives of your clansmen are at stake, and it’s up to you to do what it takes to save them. Fail me, and you fail your clan.”