The Chieftain (12 page)

As for his dreams, well, a man was allowed those.

A
ch, you’re as adorable as a puppy,” Moira said, stepping back to take a look at her handiwork.

Adorable? Ilysa stifled a sigh of disappointment. First a doe, now a puppy. After all Moira had done to her, she had hoped,
if not for pretty, then at least for attractive or appealing.

They were in a chamber in the West Tower of Mingary Castle that had been set aside for the few highborn women who had come
to the gathering with their men. For what seemed like hours, Moira wove tiny flowers into a loose braid down her back. Then
she fixed a headdress to the crown of Ilysa’s head that was so delicate, it was more ornamentation than head covering. Finally,
Moira laced her into this immodest gown that made Ilysa fear that if she breathed too deeply, her breasts would pop out.

“Ready?” Moira asked, and opened the door without waiting for an answer. As they went down the stairs, Moira took her arm.
“Now ye will enjoy yourself, or you’ll answer to me.”

Duncan and Niall were waiting in the courtyard just outside the tower door.

“Ach, ye look lovely,” Niall said, sounding breathless, after gaping at Ilysa openmouthed for a long moment.

The look her brother gave her, a mix of alarm and disapproval, was even more reassuring. All the same, Ilysa’s stomach tightened
as she took Niall’s arm and they started across the courtyard to the keep.

“Has Connor arrived?” she asked him in a low voice.

“I haven’t seen him yet.”

As they passed through the arched entrance that led into the Great Hall of Mingary Castle, the noise of a hundred conversations
filled Ilysa’s ears. There were so many people! In her low-cut gown and with her hair hanging down her back, she felt exposed,
as if she had walked into this huge room full of strangers in her nightshift.

She instinctively touched her mother’s jeweled brooch, which hung on a silver chain at her throat. Ilysa had no idea how her
mother came to own such an extravagant piece of jewelry, but she was glad to have something of her mother’s to wear.

“Is this young warrior the lucky man who is your husband?”

Ilysa turned to find a handsome man with graying temples standing next to her.

“Who, Niall?” she asked and laughed. “Poor Niall has been forced to serve as my protector at this gathering, but he’s been
spared the task of being my husband.”

“A task any man with an eye for beauty would gladly take,” the man said.

Good heavens. If she was not mistaken, he was flirting with her. To Ilysa’s surprise, she found it pleasing.

“I am Alan, cousin to the Campbell chieftain,” he said, then took her hand and kissed it just the way she had heard courtiers
did.

As Ilysa introduced herself, she glanced sideways at Niall and found him glaring at Alan as if he would prefer to see him
at the end of his sword.

“It takes a brave man to approach Duncan MacDonald’s sister, which can be the only explanation for why such a gem is yet unclaimed.”
Alan Campbell’s eyes twinkled as he added, “I am a brave man.”

Niall coughed. When she glanced at him again, he gave his head a slight shake. Clearly, this Campbell man did not have Niall’s
approval.

“Excuse us,” Niall said and steered her into the crowd.

“Why did ye do that?” she asked. “I was enjoying myself.”

“Ye know what they say,
As long as there are trees in the woods, there will be treachery in the Campbells
,” Niall said. “And that particular Campbell is no looking for a wife.”

“He seemed interested in me,” she said.

“He is interested,” Niall hissed in her ear, “in getting ye under the blankets.”

“Truly?” Ilysa said, pressing her hand to her chest. Other lasses were always talking about men attempting to do this, but
they never tried with her. “That’s exciting. Do ye suppose other men here will try as well?”

“Ilysa!” Niall looked so shocked that she burst out laughing.

“Will ye share the jest with me, lass?” This time, the man who spoke was tall, fair-haired, and wore the most elegant tunic
Ilysa had ever seen.

Judging by Niall’s frown, he did not think well of this one, either. Ilysa, however, found the man’s crooked smile quite charming.

Mingary Castle came into view not long after Connor’s galley rounded the tip of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, the westernmost
point of the mainland. The castle was large, consisting of several buildings surrounded by an irregular, six-sided wall, and
strategically located to guard the sea routes into the Sound of Mull and Loch Sunart. As they sailed closer, Connor noted
the burned tree stumps, remnants of the rebels’ latest attack.

Large as the castle was, it could not accommodate so many guests, and camps had been set up along the shore on either side
of the castle. Connor smiled to himself when he saw that Duncan, who detested such gatherings, had chosen the spot farthest
from the castle and closest to home. After leaving his galley and men with their clansmen, Connor went up to the castle.

A short time later, he stood inside the Great Hall, scanning the crowd. Before the gathering ended, he would have an agreement
to marry the daughter or sister of one of the Highland chieftains in this room. The only question was which one.

“Ah, the elusive Connor MacDonald has finally made an appearance.”

Connor turned to see an extremely attractive, fair-haired woman wearing a high, elaborate headdress and an equally low bodice.

“Lady Philippa?” he said.

“You remembered,” she said, giving him a dazzling smile.

Connor doubted many men forgot Philippa. When his cousin Ian was young and foolish, he was so enthralled with her that he
planned to ask for her hand. Fortunately, Ian had been forced to wed Sìleas instead. Philippa had her good qualities, but
fidelity was not one of them.

“Why do ye say I’m elusive?” he asked.

“Because you’ve deftly avoided the chieftains with marriageable daughters up until now,” she said, with an amused expression.
“With your appearance today, you may as well sound the trumpets and shout,
The handsome chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat is prepared to take a wife!
”

Connor chuckled despite himself.

“So who is the lucky lass?” Philippa asked taking his arm and leaning close. “I want to be the first to know.”

“I haven’t picked her out yet,” he said. “Who would ye suggest?”

Philippa was a court creature and would know who was out of favor with the Crown and who was on the rise. She would not waste
his time pretending that he could choose a bride based on her beauty and charm.

“The regent is exceedingly grateful to Shaggy Maclean and Alastair MacLeod for capturing the brothers of Donald Gallda,” she
said, referring to the rebel leader.

“Hmmph.”

“Well then, a connection with the Campbells is always worth considering. Or,” Philippa said, turning her gaze meaningfully
to a well-dressed, dark-haired man with a pointed beard, “if you are willing to take a risk, marriage to a Douglas could pay
off very nicely.”

Connor eyed the handsome and overly ambitious Douglas chieftain, the Earl of Angus, who had wed the queen soon after the king’s
death. Everyone, except the queen, realized he had married her in the hope of ruling Scotland in her young son’s name. Their
marriage, however, had given the council the excuse they needed to take the regency—and the royal children—from the queen,
whose brother was Scotland’s greatest enemy, Henry VIII of England.

When the council called John Stewart, the Duke of Albany, home from France to be the new regent, there were rumors that the
queen planned to abscond with the Scottish heir to England. If that was her intent, she did not act quickly enough. Albany
arrived and persuaded her to hand over the royal children by laying siege to Stirling Castle.

“I’m surprised to see the Douglas here,” Connor said. “Last I heard, the queen had fled to England, and her husband was lying
low at his estates, hoping to avoid a charge of treason.”

“The Douglas has made peace with Albany.” Philippa gave Connor a mischievous look over her fan. “I fear he will find it far
more difficult to reconcile with his wife, though I would never count the Douglas out.”

“Why?” Connor asked.

“He’s taken up with a former lover and is living openly with the woman
on the queen’s money
.” Philippa leaned closer, giving Connor a waft of delicate perfume and what he guessed was an intentional look down the front
of her bodice. “I’ve heard a whisper that Albany will return to France soon and that the queen intends to cross into Scotland
the moment he sets foot on the ship. Life at court should be interesting.”

With a young child on the throne, the factional fighting was unending. The queen had made a bad situation worse, however,
by allowing herself to be blinded by passion and marrying foolishly.

“The rest of us can’t change spouses whenever we wish, as you Highlanders do,” Philippa said with a smile. “Whether the queen
likes it or not, the Douglas remains her husband, and he may rule in his stepson’s name yet—which is why I suggest you consider
wedding a Douglas.”

Connor could not make himself consider a match with either the Douglases or the Campbells. They always had their eyes on other
clans’ lands and viewed marriage alliances as one more means to acquire them, even if they had to wait a generation.

Which other treacherous chieftains should he consider? As if in answer to his question, he saw his host, the MacIain, coming
toward him through the crowd.

“I hear John MacIain has a granddaughter of an age to wed,” Philippa whispered, touching his arm again. “I’ll leave you to
your business.”

“Ye should have a wife by now,” John MacIain said after they had exchanged the usual greetings and traded opinions on how
much longer the rebellion would last.

When the MacIain put a hand on Connor’s shoulder, Connor forced himself not to remove it by thinking of MacIain’s hundreds
of well-trained warriors.

Connor needed those warriors.

“At eight and twenty,” MacIain continued, “I had two strong sons and three daughters.”

“You were fortunate in your choice of wife,” Connor said, more because MacIain’s wife was a Campbell than because of the number
of children she gave him.

An additional benefit of wedding MacIain’s granddaughter was that it would give Connor a connection to the Campbells without
actually having to marry one.

Moira cut their conversation short when she appeared through the crowd, leaving every man she passed staring after her.

“How is my favorite sister?” Connor said and kissed her cheek.

“Is that smoke I smell?” Moira gave a delicate sniff.

Connor closed his eyes at her reference to the recent burning of MacIain’s castle.

“I’ll leave ye to your
charming
sister,” MacIain said. “We’ll speak again later.”

“Moira!” Connor chastised her after MacIain stalked off. Though Connor was chieftain, he did not fool himself that he could
control his sister. He wished Duncan good luck with that.

“I had to do something to get rid of him,” Moira said, giving MacIain’s back a sour look. “What were ye discussing with that
devil before I rescued you?”

“Clan business,” he said. “Where’s Duncan?”

“Ye know how he hates crowds,” she said. “He’s gone back to the camp.”

“Tell me the news from Dunscaith.” Connor hoped she would mention Ilysa without his having to ask. When she failed to, he
had a sneaking suspicion it was intentional. Finally, he gave up. “How is Ilysa?”

“Why, do ye have an apology to make?” Moira asked, narrowing her violet eyes at him.

“Did Ilysa say something to make ye believe I do?” Connor asked.

“I couldn’t pry it out of her—Ilysa is far too loyal to say a word against ye,” Moira said. “But ye must have done something
truly dreadful for her to leave.”

“I’ve done nothing to apologize for.” In fact, he had punished Ilysa far less than she deserved. Now he was prepared to forgive
all and allow her to return. “How is Ilysa?”

“Have ye not seen her yet?” Moira asked.

“Ilysa is
here
?” Connor asked, turning to look for her in the crowded hall.
Why in the hell would she be here?
Regardless, it should not be difficult to spot her drab gown in this room full of lasses dressed like brightly colored birds.

“I’m fortunate to have a sister-in-law I’m so fond of,” Moira said as she gazed across the room with a soft smile. “I see
I’m not the only one to appreciate what a delight she is.”

Connor followed his sister’s gaze, but instead of finding Ilysa, he saw a lass surrounded by a group of men. Her back was
to him so all he could see of her was a slim outline and lovely reddish-blond hair that fell in a thick braid to her waist
and was ornamented with tiny blue flowers.

“I don’t see Ilysa,” Connor said, though in truth he had stopped looking for her.

He could not seem to drag his gaze away from the lass with hair the color of summer sunlight. When she spoke to the man next
to her, he caught a bit of her profile. Then she tilted her head back and laughed, exposing the graceful line of her throat,
and his pulse skipped.

“Ilysa is right in front of your eyes,” his sister said with a smile in her voice. “Perhaps you’re having trouble because
of all the men blocking your view.”

Men blocking his view? They were talking about
Ilysa
.

T
he lass with the red-gold braid turned around. As their gazes met, Connor had the oddest sensation that he was seeing her
through a swirling fog. The hall and all the sounds and people in it faded into the mist, and he saw only her.

The lass’s eyes widened and her lips parted as if she recognized him before she turned away. Connor’s heart lurched, and a
terrible longing filled him, just as it had that night in the faery glen. An instant later, disappointment hit him like a
fist to his chest because he knew this could not be his faery lass. He had long since realized that the loss of blood from
his wounds that night had caused him to imagine her.

How strange that someone in the midst of this noisy, crowded hall had made him think of the faery glen and the ethereal lass
who danced with such abandon in his imagination. He was never given to flights of fancy or romantic notions. Yet the fragility
of her slender frame engendered an unexpected and powerful urge to protect her.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“Come, let’s find out,” Moira said and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

As they approached, the men surrounding the lass made room for Connor next to her. There were some advantages to being a chieftain.

“Take a stroll with me tomorrow and show me where ye found those wee blue flowers in your hair,” one of the men said, which
caused her cheeks to blush a pretty pink. “Say ye will, Ilysa.”

“
Ilysa?
” Connor did not realize he had spoken the question aloud until the lass spun toward him.

Connor’s mouth fell open. This close, he could see that this was indeed Ilysa, but she was so changed—wonderfully so—that
his mind was slow to grasp it.

How had he failed to notice how truly lovely her brown eyes were? A man could get lost in them. His gaze dropped to her gown,
and his throat tightened. All this time, she had hidden a lithe body beneath oversize gowns.

“I don’t recall seeing your hair before,” he said and reached out to touch a shining, red-gold strand that had come loose.

She stepped back from him. “Good evening to ye, Connor.”

Connor started at the sound of her familiar, calm voice and dropped his hand. What was he thinking, touching her hair in front
of a room full of people, as if he were a lover who could not keep his hands off her. How could Ilysa sound so serene when
his pulse was pounding at his temples?

“What happened to ye?” he blurted out.

“Your sister and Sìleas have been dressing me.” She plucked the skirt of her gown between delicate fingers. “Do ye think the
gown suits me? I’m not accustomed to it.”

She should not have drawn his attention to it again. The gown was of the French style worn at court, with a tight-fitting,
square-cut bodice that revealed the tops of her high, creamy breasts. From there, it fit snugly to her tiny waist, which he
could span with his hands, and then flowed gracefully over her hips and down to the floor.

“No, it doesn’t look right at all,” he murmured to himself. This was not how Ilysa was supposed to look. The sight of her
should make him feel comfortable and easy, like a pair of old boots, not send his pulse racing and muddle his thoughts.

Connor was vaguely aware that he had stared at her beguiling shape for far too long and dragged his attention upward, helplessly
pausing at each appealing curve. Her shining braid had fallen forward over her breast. He followed it upward over flawless
skin until he reached her face, which somehow was both familiar and unexpected.

Her lips looked soft. Her slightly upturned nose was fetching. But her best feature was her dark and luminous eyes, which
were set off by her red-gold hair and matching threads of her headdress.

“Ye look exquisite,” he said on an exhale, but she was already gone.

Ilysa ran down the steps and along the side of the keep. When she reached the corner, she ducked into a narrow gap between
the buildings. She did not stop until she reached the castle wall at the very end, where she was certain she would be out
of sight.

With her chest heaving, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The cold from the stone seeped through her back,
but it did nothing to cool her burning cheeks.

She was mortified. At first, when Connor stared at her, she thought he was admiring how she looked, as the other men had.
How wrong she was.

What happened to ye? No, it doesn’t look right at all.

Taking slow, deep breaths, she attempted to calm herself. She had survived worse humiliation with her husband, and she would
survive this as well. The disappointment was harder to bear. Ilysa squeezed her eyes shut tighter to force back the tears
that threatened.

She had deceived herself. Only now could she admit why she had let Moira and Sìleas persuade her to change her appearance
and come to the gathering. She had not done it to gain a marriage offer from a stranger. No, in her secret heart of hearts,
she had hoped to make Connor look at her and for once see a desirable woman. Was that too much to ask?

Her pleasure in the attention from the other men evaporated like the mist on a hot day. They had only flocked around her because
there were so few women here. Besides, what did it matter if they all thought she was pretty, when the one man she cared about
did not find her so?

Ilysa felt someone’s presence and snapped her eyes open.
O shluagh!
None other than Alastair MacLeod stood not two feet away, staring down at her. He was huge.

Though she had never seen the famed chieftain of her enemy clan before, she had heard stories about him all her life. She
recognized him by his maimed shoulder, which was caused by a MacDonald axe and figured in the tales as often as the slaughters
of her clan.

Sweat broke out on her palms. The MacLeod chieftain towered over her, and she could not get by him in the narrow gap between
buildings. She was trapped.

“I am Alastair MacLeod,” he said in a voice so deep she could feel it through her feet. “No matter what you’ve heard, I don’t
eat captured MacDonald children for breakfast.”

Ilysa was caught off guard by his jest and assumed, or at least hoped, it meant he did not intend to harm her. Despite his
age and disfigured shoulder, he was unexpectedly handsome. None of the stories had mentioned that.

“I’m honored to meet ye,” she said to be courteous, though she could not quite believe she was conversing with the MacLeod
chieftain. “How do ye know I’m a MacDonald?”

“I saw ye come into the hall with your clansmen,” he said. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Ilysa,” she said, her voice unnaturally high.

“A lovely name,” he said. “It suits ye.”

She did not know what to say to that. She was still reeling from his admission that he had watched her enter the hall.

“Did you follow me out?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I was out here enjoying the quiet when I saw ye burst out of the keep like a lamb chased by a wolf.”

Ilysa wondered if he was speaking the truth. Remarkably, she was no longer afraid of him. At least not much.

“’Tis growing dark, and there are a great many men here,” he continued. “Ye should know better than to wander outside the
hall without one of your clansmen to protect you.”

“My brother would not be pleased if he knew,” she said and gave a humorless laugh. It did not bear thinking about what Duncan
would do if he learned she was alone in a secluded corner of the castle with the man her clan called the Scourge of Skye.
And that was the nicest name they called him.

“That’s an unusual brooch you’re wearing,” he said.

“It was my mother’s,” Ilysa said, looking down at it. The brooch was distinctive with its unusual pattern of interlocking
leaves surrounding a deep red stone.

“I’m sorry, has your mother passed?” he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.

Ilysa felt a sting at the back of her eyes and nodded. Ridiculous as it seemed, Ilysa felt as though the MacLeod chieftain
understood her sadness.

“She died three years ago, when I was sixteen.” Ilysa ran her fingertip over the slippery surface of the brooch’s red stone.
“She dressed plainly and always wore it under her gown where no one could see it.”

“Were ye named for her?” he asked.

“No. Her name was Anna.”

After a moment, he said, “I hope ye still have your father to look after ye.”

“Ach, I never had him, whoever he was.” When she looked up, Alastair MacLeod’s eyes had that hollow look of someone for whom
pain is a constant companion, and her heart went out to him. “Does your shoulder pain ye a great deal?”

“What?” he said, his tone sharp as a blade. His earlier kindness had made her forget who he was, but he was all chieftain
now, huge and intimidating.

“I meant no offense,” she said quickly. “I’m a healer, and it troubles me to see that ye suffer because your injury was not
looked after properly at the time.”

“We were a long way from home,” he said, glaring down at her, “and no one was concerned about how the shoulder was set because
they didn’t expect me to live.”

“That’s a poor excuse,” Ilysa said. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do to repair it now, but I can make ye a salve that
will soothe it.”

“I don’t mind the pain,” he said. “It serves to remind me who my enemies are.”

After working his way around the hall, Connor was once again attempting to have a conversation with the MacIain about his
granddaughter when Ilysa caught his eye. The arched entrance was just behind her, framing her like a painting. It was a mystery
to him how she could look like herself and yet so achingly lovely at the same time.

His muscles tensed when he noticed that Alastair MacLeod was next to her. It was a testament to how shocked he was by Ilysa’s
transformation that he did not see the MacLeod chieftain first. He could not bear for her to be so close to their enemy. When
he took a step toward them, MacIain stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I’ll have no trouble between you and the MacLeod here,” his host warned.

Connor relaxed as the MacLeod moved away from Ilysa and into the crowded hall. Suddenly, the man turned and met his gaze,
as if he had been aware of Connor watching him all along. The animosity that burned between them could have set the hall on
fire.