Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  He yelped in pain. “Damn bitch!”

  Her head flipped to the side with the first blow. His fist slammed into her face again. And again. The pain was unbearable.

  She was powerless.

  Oh God, no, she prayed. Please, no.

  “No!” She heard her muffled scream from the distance of her descent into hell. A hell that smelled like a sweaty swine.

  Time stood still as she waited for the release of death.

  But nothing happened.

  Suddenly, amid the terror, she recognized the distant whiz of an arrow in flight, and the ruffian collapsed hard on her chest, nearly smothering her with the dead weight of his body. His herring eyes fixed in eternity with a startled stare. Confused and in terrible pain from the blows to her face, she barely registered the sound of steel clashing against steel. She looked away from the eyes of the dead man. A lightning flash of steel formed before her eyes like a silver cross. Was she in heaven, then? No, the crosses were swords. A battle, she realized slowly. Perhaps it was hell. The sound of the slash of a blade as it slid through a man mingled with the gurgling cries of death.

  Moments later, the Mackenzie’s body was pulled from her. Her first thought was that she could breathe. She was alive. Cool air accosted her bare legs.

  Still stunned by what had nearly happened and that it was apparently over, Isabel was unable to focus on her rescuer. For a moment she was confused, until strong arms pulled her into a fierce embrace.

  Rory.

  His mouth was against her head, buried in her hair. She could feel the furious hammering of his heart against her cheek. She could smell the distinctive scent of heather and sun. Her eyes locked with his, holding his gaze. He looked at her as if he wanted to memorize her features. And she recognized an emotion she had never thought to see on his face. He looked scared. For her.

  Rory knew a long moment of gut-checking fear. Fear that he’d arrived too late. The race of his heart had not yet begun to slow. He stroked the side of her ravaged face with his thumb. “Thank God. When I realized who it was beneath that devil’s spawn…” He tipped her chin and looked deep into her eyes. “Isabel, are you all right?”

  His eyes practically gorged on the face that had haunted his dreams over the last two months, taking in the cuts and bruises and trying to convince himself that she would not die. Blood streaked her face. Dark shadows surrounded her sunken eyes. An unhealthy gray pallor marred the creamy ivory perfection of her soft skin. There was an angry bruise along her jaw, flecked with spots of black and red, and the area had already swelled. Her glorious hair was tangled and matted, and her riding habit was in shreds. Rory thought she had never looked more beautiful. She was safe.

  Tumultuous violet eyes flickered across his face. Disbelief clouded her vision. She reached up to touch the side of his unshaven cheek as if willing him to be real.

  “Rory, is it really you? But how?” She clutched at him as if terrified that he might disappear.

  “Later. I’ll explain everything later. First we must get you back to the castle.”

  She seemed to calm as he carried her to his horse, but in the next instant, the horror returned. “Oh God, Rory. Alex. We must help Alex.” She let go of her death grip on his arms and looked about, searching frantically for Alex.

  Rory buried her face in his shoulder, trying to prevent her from seeing the bloody carnage that surrounded them. The proof of his rage. Dead Mackenzies littered the forest floor, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions, riddled with arrows and sword gashes. Blood had turned the orange brown autumn leaves scattering the forest floor a deep burnished red.

  “It’s all right, Isabel, Alex will be fine.” He’d suffered a severe knock on the head and some other cuts and bruises from the beating, but he would recover. “Douglas is already carrying him back to the landing.” The very landing where Rory had been surprised to come across a group of his warriors waiting for the return of a small hunting party.

  Blood surged through his body at the memory of Colin and Margaret bursting through the trees, telling him of the attack. Praying he would arrive in time, the fury and helplessness he’d felt when he’d seen his brother lying lifeless on the forest floor and Isabel wedged under the vile Mackenzie. Rory’s mind had gone black. The primal thirst for blood penetrated every fiber of his being. Half-crazed, he’d attacked like the Berserker warriors from whom he was descended.

  “Rory, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, please…I never meant…” She wept softly on his shoulder, small tremors wracking her body.

  “Shhhh, shush. We’ll not speak of it now. Later, Isabel,” Rory crooned, stroking her silky hair. His first instinct was to put his mouth on hers and kiss away her memories. Selfishly, he wanted to stamp the proof of his possession all over her, wiping away the taint of another. But after what she’d just been through, he knew it was too soon. She was too fragile.

  But once again, Isabel surprised him.

  Her hands clasped his shoulders. She lifted her mouth to his. “Please.” She shivered. “That man.” Rory could see the horror in her eyes. “Please, Rory, kiss me?”

  His heart lurched. ’Twas an offer he was only too willing to accept. “Aye, lass, with pleasure.”

  He knew what she needed. Gently, he covered her lips with his.

  Isabel couldn’t believe her boldness. But she needed to know that she was alive and safe. To erase the horror with pleasure.

  The first brush of his lips was like a feather. The second was achingly tender. Never had she imagined this fierce warrior could be capable of such heart-stopping gentleness. His lips were so soft and yet so strong. And healing. The taste of him was every bit as warm as she remembered. He cradled her in his arms and kissed her with a raw emotion that took her breath away.

  And when it was done, Isabel did not trust herself to speak. For fear that the emotion squeezing her chest would break free.

  He lifted her onto his horse. Scant seconds later, Isabel felt his strong arms encircling her waist and his hard body behind her. He wrapped his plaid around her torn bodice as lovingly as if she were a newborn bairn. Isabel was too overcome with emotion to feel any modesty for her disheveled appearance. Dear God, she had nearly been raped. If Rory had not arrived when he had…

  His destrier pounded through the forest, heedless of the added weight of its extra rider. The wind ripped through her hair as it had only hours before—a lifetime ago. Isabel felt herself relax against his habergeon-clad chest, felt her body slipping deeper into the lulling sway of the horse and the warm, protective enclosure of her handfast husband’s strength.

  Almost asleep and somewhat disoriented, she inexplicably remembered what she wanted to tell him when she saw him next. “Thank you for the book, it was wonderful.” Her voice sounded soft and drowsy.

  She felt the warmth of his breath by her ear. “You’re welcome.”

  Safe at last, she collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 13

  Five days later, he found her at Alex’s bedside. The same spot she’d been stationed at day and night since he’d rescued her from rape at the hands of Murdock Mackenzie. Despite the pandemonium surrounding the attack, Rory had recognized the Mackenzie’s youngest son immediately—and had not hesitated to put an end to his foul life. The man was the worst sort, the type who took immense pleasure in the pain of another; but even so, Rory knew there would be a reckoning with the Mackenzie chief over the life of his son. But it did not matter. Standing in the doorway watching Isabel as she bent over the unmoving figure of his brother, wiping his brow repeatedly with a damp, cool cloth, Rory knew he would happily kill the fiend again and again for what he had nearly done.

  The knock on Alex’s head had been more severe than they’d initially realized. He had a knot on his head the size of an egg and had remained unconscious for almost two days. Even now, when he woke, it was not for long and was usually accompanied by dizziness and strong bouts of nausea.

  Isabel turned, somehow s
ensing his presence, although he’d made no sound as he entered. A weak smile of greeting lit her weary face.

  “The swelling has gone down considerably.” Relief was evident within the exhaustion clouding her voice. Her finely defined brows drew tight over her nose. “But he still does not wake for long.”

  Rory approached the bed and gazed fondly at his peacefully sleeping brother. “He looks much better. ’Tis best to let him sleep. When he wakes he’ll have one roaring headache. Besides,” he said with a grin, “Alex has much too hard a head to let a knock on the pate get him down for long.”

  Her smile grew stronger. “Aye, he’s not the only hardheaded, stubborn man in this keep.” At his exaggerated look of affront, she laughed, her eyes sparkling, looking more like herself for a moment.

  Rory moved closer to her, his hand reaching down to rest tentatively on her shoulder. Ever since that day in the forest, he could not resist any excuse to touch her. He could feel the tension from her tireless vigil under his fingertips. Despite her obvious weariness, desire hit him hard. He longed to knead the tightness from her body, to run his fingers in a gentle caress over her soft skin, to erase the fatigue of the last few days with his hands—and then his mouth.

  But first they needed to talk.

  Anticipating his thoughts, she clutched Alex’s hand protectively like a mother protecting her child, a defiant gleam in her haggard eyes, her stance evidence of her obstinate refusal to relinquish her position as head nurse.

  Rory knew she blamed herself and had taken Alex’s injury extremely hard. But he refused to allow her to wallow in her guilt any longer. “Isabel, we must talk. Margaret will take over nursing Alex for a bit. His body needs rest to recover. You can do nothing for him right now. Come.”

  “But I can’t leave him yet. I must be sure that I’m here if he wakes and needs anything. Please, just a wee bit longer.”

  “Isabel, you can’t avoid this. We will talk. Tonight, no later. I’ve already sent for Margaret. She is most anxious to help nurse Alex. She’s taken much of the blame for what happened upon herself and longs to atone for her part. We’ll talk, but first you will bathe, rest, and have something to eat or you’ll make yourself ill. Go to our chamber. Now.” His clipped voice left little room for argument.

  Her beautiful copper gold hair fell limp around her face, covering her features from his view as she made a great show of pondering his request. A request that they both knew was a command. She fumbled distractedly with Alex’s blankets, but it did not take long for a sigh of resignation to escape the contrary set of her lips.

  She flipped her hair behind her shoulders, lifted her chin resolutely, and replied, “As you wish, Chief. We will speak this evening. I will return to our chambers now to do as you have ordered.” Emphasizing the last word, she rose from her post beside Alex, placed the cool cloth on his brow once more, turned her back to him, and glided regally out of the room.

  Rory’s mouth quirked. Her reprimand amused him. But he was chief, and used to giving orders. Truth be told, he did not have much experience with gentle requests to ladies. And he had waited too long to find out what had occurred in the forests about Dunvegan.

  The shock of the attack had faded, to be replaced by thinly constrained anger. But he would hear her out. One thing was obvious: His orders not to leave the castle had been blatantly ignored.

  He sat in the small wooden chair positioned next to the bed, its soft velvet cushion still warm, and gazed thoughtfully at his sleeping brother. At the haggard face that was so familiar. A small frown betrayed his thoughts. He had been more shaken by Alex’s injuries than he had let on. In addition to the knock on the head, he’d suffered a severe beating at the hands of the Mackenzies. That Isabel blamed herself for Alex’s injury was evident. He ran his fingers abstractedly through his hair, pushing it back from his face and shaking his head as if he were trying to sort out the mixed thoughts in his mind. Rory did not know whom to blame.

  The corners of his lips lifted with a bemused smile. Apparently, many were fighting for that particular honor. In addition to Isabel and Margaret, Colin had also sought to take the blame for Alex’s injury and Isabel’s near rape. And knowing his brother, when he woke long enough for coherent thought, Alex would surely take full responsibility for the happenings on that day as well. That horrible day. He couldn’t think about it without his stomach turning at the involuntary picture that came to mind of Isabel fighting wildly beneath Mackenzie with her skirts around her neck, her face beaten, and her violet eyes murky with terror. Yet he knew it could have been worse, much worse. If he and his men had not arrived when they had, if Margaret and Colin had not escaped to warn them…

  They were lucky.

  Rory wet a cloth with cool water from the basin, squeezed it out, and pressed it lightly to Alex’s forehead as he had observed Isabel do before she involuntarily relinquished her post.

  Colin had provided him with a brief account of what they were doing in the forest but failed to explain adequately how the group had come to be outside the walls of the castle in direct contravention of Rory’s express orders—not to mention how the group had become separated from their escort. Alex had much to account for when he woke. But for now, Rory wanted to hear an explanation from Isabel’s own lips of how she could possibly justify being so foolish.

  Despite his anger, he could not forget the sense of connection he’d felt for her that day amid the carnage. She’d reached for him without thought. It was almost as if there were a fine silken thread holding them together—so fine that it could be easily snapped if pulled too taut or woven with more threads into something much stronger. He shook his head at his romantic musings.

  The attack had forced Rory to confront his growing feelings for Isabel—feelings he’d hoped to escape on his journey. He hadn’t meant to be gone for so many weeks, but his business in Edinburgh had taken longer than expected. In addition to presenting himself to the king to account for his good behavior in compliance with the General Band, he had resumed negotiations with the Earl of Argyll. After assuring himself that Rory intended to go ahead with the alliance with his cousin Elizabeth Campbell, Argyll had promised to urge the king to decide on the disposition of Trotternish. James’s continued refusal to take sides on the matter—even after what Sleat did to Margaret—infuriated Rory to no end.

  But as the direction of Rory’s duty became more clear, he realized just how much he’d come to care for the lass he still could not trust. The primal intensity of his reaction to her near rape only clarified the depth of those feelings.

  He bowed his head in his hands, but he couldn’t escape the truth. Nothing had changed. He still had his duty to his clan to marry the Campbell lass. Isabel was not for him. But for the first time, he wondered whether there might be another way—to both destroy Sleat and reclaim Trotternish—that didn’t involve Elizabeth Campbell.

  Rory continued to wonder throughout the long evening, an evening made even longer by the punishing pleasure of Isabel’s presence at his side.

  Even now, a sultry smell of lavender filled his nose. He knew that if he leaned down close to her loose damp hair and inhaled, the smell would be even stronger. And stronger still if he leaned down farther and burrowed his face in the graceful, elegant curves of her long, ivory neck. And if he kept lowering his face down her body, smelling all the areas of warmth…He groaned and shifted in his seat, adjusting the sudden discomfort he found hardening in his lap. A perpetual discomfort, it seemed, since the arrival of his bride.

  “Is something wrong, Rory? You sound as if you are in pain.” Isabel placed her fingers on his arm and looked up at him, her eyes wide with sudden concern.

  “No,” he said a shade too roughly. He took her warm fingers, the touch that was only increasing his pain, and gently unfurled them from his arm. “I knocked my knee on the table, that is all.”

  He groaned again. Bloody hell, wrong thing to say. Immediately her attention flew to his supposedly injured leg. He gr
abbed her wrist as her hand landed perilously close to the real “injury,” preventing her fingers from further investigation. “It’s fine. Only a small bump, do not concern yourself.”

  “Are you sure? If you let me lift your plaid a bit, I can see whether there is any swelling. You might need some ointment, and I could rub it in for you.”

  He nearly choked. Curse the woman! Her innocent innuendo was driving him mad with lust. His hand tightened on her wrist, and he moved her hand back into her own lap. His voice sounded forced and ragged even to his own ears. “It’s nothing.” He needed to change the subject. She was getting that determined set to her face that he was beginning to recognize too well. Her stubborn expression made him want to laugh. Her tenacity reminded him of the mothers of his acquaintance with marriageable daughters. “How about you, are you feeling better after a respite from my brother’s side?”

  His eyes trailed slowly down her face. The bath and rest he had forced on her appeared to have provided some measure of rejuvenation. Overall, she looked much better. Her hair shone fiery copper, her mouth was soft and relaxed, the tiny worry lines etched around her eyes had disappeared, and the dark shadows lurking beneath her skin were nearly invisible—unless one looked closely, as he did. He was not surprised to see subtle signs of torment hidden beneath the otherwise composed façade. She had been through a lot these past few days; certainly strain and anxiety were to be expected. He even felt a bit of pride when he looked at her calm demeanor. Most women would still be bedridden after what she had been through. He admired her fortitude. Nonetheless, any sign of distress, no matter how minor, gnawed at him.

  The distraction provided by his question worked. Her embarrassing concern for his leg turned to anger at the reminder of his brusquely imposed exile from Alex’s side. Her gaze sharpened for a moment. She turned an angry frown toward him before apparently reconsidering, and her mouth curled into an adorably shy grin. She tilted her head so that she looked up at him from under her long lashes. “All right, I do feel better. That tub of warm water felt delightful. I fell asleep before I even realized I was lying down. I must have been more exhausted than I realized,” she admitted grudgingly, “and hungry. If the cleaned-off tray of food was any indication.”