Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  Isabel stiffened from the blunt shock of his words. “What do you mean?”

  He finally turned from the sea to look at her. “This is a political match. Love is not part of the bargain.” He deliberately pulled his arm away from her touch and tried to ignore her quick intake of breath at the insult of his words and brusque movements.

  “But it need not be so,” she argued. “My father was deeply in love with my mother.”

  Her words took him aback. It was difficult to imagine the sober, battle-hardened MacDonald of Glengarry as a besotted husband. “When did she die?” he found himself asking.

  “My birth was a difficult one,” she answered softly. “She never recovered. I barely knew her, though my father says I am much like her.”

  Rory steeled himself against the sadness he heard in her voice. He didn’t know that she’d lost her mother so young. And with what he’d witnessed of her relationship with her father and brothers, he could imagine how difficult—and lonely—that must have been for her. It was also obvious that she blamed herself for her mother’s death. Did Glengarry as well? Was that what explained his reserve around his daughter? Rory didn’t think so. There was something in the older man’s gaze when he looked at his daughter, as if it pained him. Perhaps Isabel was right and Glengarry had loved his wife. If Isabel resembled her, it explained much. Damn, he thought with frustration. This was precisely the sort of information he didn’t want to know. This was what happened from spending time with her.

  “What of your parents?” She persisted. “Were they not in love?”

  “My parents got along well enough,” he answered. “But in love, no. They respected each other, but led relatively separate lives. Over time, I’m sure they developed a certain fondness.”

  “But don’t you want someone to love? To have someone love you? To have someone to trust with your innermost secrets, someone to confide in, someone completely and utterly loyal?”

  “I am chief. I have the love, trust, and loyalty of my clan and family. MacLeods are unfailingly loyal. I neither need nor desire anything more. And a chief doesn’t confide his secrets to anyone. A chief keeps his own counsel. What use does a warrior have for love? Does love win battles? Settle grievances? No, love is a fanciful ideal invented by the troubadours to tell pretty stories. Love has no place in marriage—even the troubadours would tell you that. Nobility marry for land and wealth, or as we have done, to settle a feud. We do our duty to the clan by handfasting, Isabel, nothing more, nothing less.”

  All this talk of love made him uncomfortable. Rory was a warrior, not a courtier. He had a duty to his clan that took precedent over anything else, personal desires included. No, love had no place in his life. He wanted Isabel only as he would desire any beautiful woman. The reason he seemed to be unable to focus on anything else was that this beautiful woman was not for him. A simple case of wanting what he couldn’t have, he reasoned.

  She appeared visibly distressed by his words, as if she had hoped for something more. He considered for the first time that he might have been wrong to suspect her. Of late, she’d done nothing to give him cause for concern. He’d watched her, noting her kindness and sweet attempts to befriend his clan. It had not escaped his notice that Fergus’s wife left the castle daily with extra food in her pack. Maybe Isabel was exactly what she seemed: an innocent, sweet young lass being forced into a situation not of her making.

  It suddenly occurred to him that his indifferent behavior and blunt honesty could be hurting her when all he’d sought to do was protect her from harm. He wouldn’t bed her, not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want to hurt her when he sent her home, as he must.

  “But surely we should try—”

  He stopped her. “This was not an alliance of my making.” He lowered his voice and said more kindly, “I only agreed to a handfast, Isabel. You understand the terms of a handfast. It is for one year.”

  “Of course.” But then it dawned on her, and the color slid from her face. “So you intend to repudiate me,” she whispered, incredulous.

  He didn’t need to answer. She understood.

  “But what about…,” she stammered, color flooding her cheeks.

  He knew what she was thinking. “In all other respects, we will live together as man and wife.”

  She looked down at her toes, clearly discomfited. “But what about passion—what about your needs?” she asked in an embarrassed whisper.

  If only she knew how badly he wanted her. Even now, just standing so near her, smelling her, he felt the heat of desire stir his blood. The memory of waking with her bundled in his arms, her soft bottom pressed hard against him, was still too fresh. One glance at her lush breasts was enough to recall the feel of all that tender flesh filling his hand. His time on the lists had not freed him from his torment. What he needed was to carry her up to his room, toss her on his bed, and take her in a storm of red-hot passion.

  Instead he said, “You need not concern yourself with that. I assure you, my needs are being met. Very well met,” he lied. He hadn’t had a woman since a week before she’d arrived. Each time he thought about sating his lust between a willing pair of thighs, something stopped him. He took the edge off in his hand, since he knew there was only one person who could ease his pain. The realization surprised him. Never before had he focused so intently on one woman.

  Venturing a quick glance, Rory just glimpsed her openmouthed stare of hurt disbelief. He felt a stab in his chest. Damn, he thought, I knew I should not look at her.

  “But I thought…” She hesitated. “I thought you might—” Her voice broke, and she didn’t finish.

  Their eyes met. Tension as mysterious and powerful as lightning crackled in the quiet morning air. Rory warred with every instinct in his body. He’d hurt her. And the realization of how much he hated doing so disconcerted him. He yearned to pull her into his arms and wipe away the sting of his lie even as he felt her slanted eyes locking on his, drawing him into the depths of her soul.

  The urge to wipe away the hurt was too powerful. As if in slow motion, he reached out to cup her face, stroking the curve of her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was unreal. Baby soft and so smooth to the touch. She leaned toward him, and the press of her breasts against his bare arm sent a shock of wanting so acute, it hurt physically not to take her in his arms. Every instinct clamored to hold her. He hesitated for an instant before he lowered his hand to his side.

  His duty was clear. He knew what he had to do. Isabel MacDonald would go back to her family at the end of the year, and Rory would form a more advantageous alliance with the Campbells and continue his plans to destroy Sleat. As much as he wanted her, she was not for him.

  He didn’t want to risk an emotional entanglement, so he’d best make sure there was no confusion about his intentions. “You are an exceptionally beautiful woman, Isabel. But that does not change anything. When the year is over, my duty is done.”

  Chapter 7

  If, as her uncle believed, beauty was the way to a man’s heart, then she would use everything at her disposal to entice Rory MacLeod.

  Even if the hypocrisy of it killed her.

  Isabel dressed with the utmost care for her appearance as she prepared for the evening meal. Since he declined to spend any other time with her, meals were her chance to change his mind about their relationship. He thought her beautiful, but not enough to tempt him from the bed of his leman. She hoped this dress would change his mind.

  Isabel still couldn’t believe what he’d told her. Or how much it hurt. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind or shake the sense of emptiness that had gripped her when he’d confessed to finding his pleasure elsewhere. She knew he must be referring to the dark-haired beauty she had seen him with earlier. To have her suspicions confirmed felt as though someone had clamped an icy claw around her heart and squeezed.

  Moreover, she’d practically offered herself to him, and he’d rejected her. He didn’t want her. The realization stu
ng far more than she wanted to acknowledge.

  Isabel drew up her shoulders protectively and shook off the hurt. It was ironic. The only man she had ever set out deliberately to entice was impervious to her charms. Hadn’t she wished to meet a man who did not want her simply for the pretty package? Be careful what you wish for, Isabel, she thought dryly.

  She should be more concerned with what else he’d revealed.

  He intended to send her back in a year, untouched. She’d laugh if it wasn’t so painful. Her own handfast husband didn’t want her. What bitter irony: They’d both entered the handfast with every intention of repudiating it in the end. Rory simply thought to do his duty to his king, while she intended treachery and betrayal. His honesty shamed her, though with what she’d learned of his character this past month, it could not surprise her.

  There was only one thing she could do: She had to convince him to change his mind. At least now she knew what she was up against. He’d admitted he thought her beautiful, so she would start with that. She would find a way to make him fall in love with her despite his avowed sentiments on the subject.

  Isabel had gathered the tatters of her resolve all afternoon, after he left her standing there by herself, holding her cheek and trying not to burst into tears. Her skin felt scorched where the same strong, callused fingers that wielded a claymore with such deadly skill had gently swept the side of her cheek. She’d just barely glimpsed the tinge of regret that crossed his features even as that austere, emotionless façade dropped back into place.

  But she’d seen it, and it gave her reason to hope.

  As Bessie finished lacing her gown, Isabel reached for her silver hand mirror. She held her arm out straight and took a step backward to get a broader view.

  “’Tis not at all proper, poppet.”

  Isabel gazed into the mirror. “Nonsense, Bessie. There’s nothing wrong with this dress, it’s beautiful.” But the flush heating her cheeks belied her words.

  Bessie tsked and shook her head. “It’s indecent, is what it is. I can’t imagine what compelled your uncle to provide such a gown for an innocent young lass.”

  Isabel could. And if her reflection was any indication, he’d succeeded. The woman who looked back at her definitely did not look innocent. Her auburn hair was coiled high on her head, framed by the pearl-encrusted headpiece that she’d worn to the handfast. The soft gold silk gown emphasized the creamy ivory of her skin and the redness of her full lips. The subtle tilt of her violet eyes gave her the look of a seductress.

  But it was the style of the dress that made the greatest impact. She looked like a debauched wanton. The gown provided by her uncle was not the least bit fashionable. In many respects, it was like the gown she’d worn when she arrived at Dunvegan. She wore no bolster, no stomacher, and no ruff. Only a thin sark separated her skin from the smooth silk of the dress. The soft gold fabric clung to her body, emphasizing every curve, leaving very little to the imagination.

  But that was not what caused her to blush. Rather, it was the way that the tight bodice emphasized and exposed her breasts. There was so little fabric covering her bodice that if she took a deep breath, she would likely fall out of the dress completely.

  Isabel rarely wore jewelry, but tonight she made an exception. She donned an exquisite set of emeralds in a delicate gold setting left to her by her mother: teardrop earrings, a bracelet, and a pendant. The jewels were all she had of her mother, and she treasured them not for their value, but for their connection with a past she would never know.

  A bit shocked by her reflection, Isabel tried to control the tremor in her voice. She knew that she needed to jolt Rory from his indifference and attract his attention, but she realized just what sort of attention this dress might bring. That thought made her tingle with apprehension and something else. Anticipation.

  “Well, I think this dress is beautiful, Bessie.”

  “I did not say that the dress was not beautiful, poppet. I said ’twas indecent. The two are not the same.” Bessie gave her a long look. “I do not think your handfast husband will approve of that dress.”

  “I doubt he will even notice.”

  “Oh, he’ll notice. Have no fear of that,” Bessie warned.

  Isabel took one last long look and replaced the mirror in her trunk. She supposed this was the best she could do, but displaying her body in a manner calculated to seduce made her uncomfortable. She knew that she had to use what she had at her disposal, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  Isabel was in an untenable position. To achieve her purpose, she must get closer to him, but the more she learned of Rory, the more difficult it was becoming to think of betraying him in the end. She couldn’t ignore what she’d observed of him. Rory MacLeod was the type of leader who inspired devotion, a steadying force in times of trouble. A rock. And the sort of man she had only dreamed of. But if she was going to have any hope of success, it would serve her well to take a lesson from him in indifference. She must harden her heart and not allow herself to be distracted from her goal.

  Isabel had a mission, and it definitely didn’t include her falling in love. This was a one-sided proposition. She must ignore her silly girlish qualms about drawing this sort of attention to herself and use what God had given her for the greater good of her family. The MacLeod wanted to send her back, and she must change his mind. Being charming hadn’t gotten her anywhere—it was time for something more drastic…like this dress.

  She knew something of lust, of seduction. A touch here, a suggestive word there, a sly, knowing smile. Isabel had been at court long enough to learn a few tricks, to learn how some women used their bodies to get what they wanted, to learn to play the game of seduction. It was not in her nature to be so aggressive, but the battleground was clear. He didn’t want her, but he lusted for her. So be it.

  At least now she knew where she stood. Wasn’t that what her uncle had warned she might have to do all along?

  Bessie was still speaking. “Your new husband will not be able to tear his eyes away from you.” She lifted her fingers to her chin, considering. “Perhaps this dress is not such a bad idea after all.”

  Isabel stiffened. She knew what was coming next.

  Bessie continued fussing with her hair and turned to repeat yet again the same statement Isabel had heard at least a dozen times over the past month. “It is not right that he has not made you his bride in truth. You must realize how the servants are whispering.”

  Isabel’s flush deepened. “Bessie dearest, I have explained this to you before. Rory told me he wishes to give me time to adjust to my new home. That is all. I’m sure he is just being considerate of my innocence. He moved me into his room, didn’t he?”

  Bessie raised her thin eyebrows with skepticism. A look that said she could not believe Isabel would be so naïve as to believe Rory’s explanation. “It’s not natural, the man not wanting you in his bed. You are his wife. Well, his handfast wife, at least. Something is not right.” When Bessie got hold of something, she was like a dog with a meaty bone. “I’m worried. What if he does not intend to keep up his end of the bargain?”

  “What do you mean?” Isabel pretended ignorance. She should have known that Bessie would figure it out.

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “What rumors?” Isabel asked, intrigued.

  “Of another alliance.”

  Isabel’s heart dropped. She waited for Bessie to explain.

  “The MacLeod was rumored to have been negotiating an alliance with the Campbells.”

  Her heart was pounding fast, but she forced herself to sound nonchalant as she dismissed Bessie’s concerns. “Oh, I’m sure that is all in the past.”

  But what if it wasn’t?

  A sick feeling settled in her stomach. Had she upset his plans for another alliance?

  It was all she could think of as she approached the hall. Did that explain his reticence? Was he enamored of someone else? The thought disturbed her more than she wanted to acknowle
dge.

  Isabel paused as yet unnoticed at the entrance. A sea of swarming faces assaulted her resolve, causing her a long moment of trepidation. Suddenly, she felt naked and exposed. Wearing this dress no longer seemed like such a good idea. Her confidence faltered.

  Gathering the slippery reins of her courage, she took in the achingly familiar scene. The great hall overflowed with boisterous men and women enjoying the easy camaraderie of friends and family. Everywhere she looked, people were laughing, drinking, feasting, and swapping stories. The scene that unfurled before her presented a poignant picture of ordinary Highland life.

  A sharp stab of pain in her chest recalled her lifetime longing to be a part of such ordinariness. But it was the same at Dunvegan as it was at Strome. She was alone, an outsider. She would never be a part of this particular happy scene of domestic tranquillity, and she’d do better to remember that. But perhaps if she succeeded, she could find such happiness at Strome.

  With renewed determination, she lifted her chin and started toward the dais.

  For the first time in over a month, Rory was enjoying himself. Now that Isabel understood what he intended to do, he could relax. He would treat her with the respect that was due his wife, but there need be no pretense of anything more between them. In fact, he was fairly sure she’d do her best to steer clear of him. Of course, he would keep her close until he could assuage his suspicions, but perhaps now he could even sleep in his bed again.

  Well satisfied, he took a long drink of cuirm, sat back in his chair and smiled, relieved to have taken control of the situation and put the matter decisively behind him.

  His contentment, however, did not last long. Rory noticed the disturbance in the hall immediately. He glanced up just as Isabel began her regal procession toward him. It was impossible not to admire the pride and strength in her carriage. She moved with such grace, she practically floated across the floor.