Highlander Untamed (10 page)

Hell.

He quickly unfolded himself from her silken web before he did something he would regret.

Chapter 6

Lips pursed with frustration, Isabel stormed around the spacious bedchamber.

Moving to his chamber in the Fairy Tower was supposed to have solved her problems. But what was the use of sharing his room if he was hardly ever there? He spent just as little time with her as he had before. She’d begun to suspect that he’d moved her only to keep an eye on her.

Over a week in his bed and a month at Dunvegan, and she was no closer to her goal than when she’d first arrived. The MacLeod’s secrets were well hidden. Since her move, she’d conducted a few basic searches of the chamber for the Fairy Flag but didn’t dare attempt more. The MacLeod was suspicious of her enough already.

But the failure to advance her plan was not the only cause of her frustration. Her nervous excitement at the prospect of what
might
happen once her things were moved to his chamber had been completely unwarranted. It seemed he had no intention of bedding her.

For the first few nights she’d tried to wait up, but sleep appeared before he did. When he did come in, it was in the dead of the night, and by time she woke, he was gone. Until last night, she hadn’t even been certain he slept there. But this morning, she’d woken with a start. Chilled. And with a strange sense of emptiness, as if she missed the comforting shield of his presence. Somehow she’d known he slept beside her. The large indentation in the feather bed next to her confirmed it.

Isabel didn’t know whether to be angry or disappointed by his lack of attention. Probably a little of both. The worst part was that she had nothing to truly be angry for. He treated her with perfect civility. Given the history of their clans and her relationship to Sleat, it could have been much worse. Then why was she so disappointed? Because he’d not taken one look at her and fallen to his knees in besotted supplication as her uncle hoped? After meeting him, she had to laugh at the image, it was so ridiculous. Though the failure to advance her plan
should
be the reason, it was not.

What truly frustrated her was her own lack of indifference. The more she had learned of him and observed him, the more she had come to realize that Rory MacLeod was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She was attracted to him, she admired him, and it pained her to realize she’d made no impression on him at all.

Not only did he avoid her at night, he avoided her the rest of the time as well. If she did happen to see him during the day, after a few polite inquiries, he removed himself.

Being left on her own most of the day wasn’t aiding her in her quest at all. What had become painfully clear was that she could not succeed on her own. She needed him to confide in her. Earning his trust, to allay that suspicion, was what she must concentrate on. But how could she when he seemed determined to keep distance between them?

Indeed, Isabel felt less like a wife and more like a temporary guest. If she was to have any hope of success, she would need to change that. She must take the reins of the household by securing the keys that he’d neglected to give her after their handfast. She sat on the edge of the bed to think, twirling a long strand of silky hair through her fingers. She had to insert herself in his life whether he liked it or not.

She looked around at the stark masculine chamber.

What better place to start than with his room?

She would ask Rory for leave to add some womanly touches to his room, and then perhaps she would bring up the matter of the chatelaine’s keys.

Isabel stood up with a new sense of resolve and headed to the door. She had every right to make her request. She
was
the new mistress, after all, even if no one was treating her as such.

She hadn’t taken two steps down the corridor when she heard a voice behind her.

“Good day, mistress. May I be of some help?”

Since she’d moved to the Fairy Tower, someone always seemed to be watching her the moment she stepped outside the door. Isabel turned to find Deidre right on her heels. Deidre was short and round, with hair so white, it seemed that it must have always been that way. Since that first morning, Deidre was one of the few friendly faces around this dismal place. The others being Colum the cook, Alex, and Bessie.

At first she’d befriended the crusty old cook because she thought it might help explain why she was spending so much time in the kitchens. But that was not why she kept returning. Bessie, Colum, and Deidre were comfortable to be around since she was used to spending her days with servants. Before her time at court, it was all she’d known.

“No, no, I’m just looking for Rory. I need to speak with him about a matter of some import. Do you know where I can find him?”

“By this time he is already outside training with the men.”

“Thank you, Deidre, I will look for him in the courtyard.”

“Very well, if there is nothing else, then.”

Deidre turned and continued about her business—assuming that her business included shadowing Isabel until she left the building.

As Isabel headed down the stairs, she considered her treatment this past month by the MacLeods. By and large, the clan had taken its lead from Rory. They were polite but distant. Considering the history of feuding between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods, it was more than she’d expected. The feud might have nominally ended with their handfast, but only time would heal the damage wrought by years of bloodshed, and Isabel did not have that particular luxury.

Initially, being left to her own devices was fine, as it had provided her an easy opportunity to explore the old keep and search for the flag. But it was also lonely, reminding her distinctly of home. Left with nothing to do, she grew bored, and the days moved slowly.

By now, she’d hoped to be well on the way to having Rory fall in love with her. Men were simple creatures, the ladies at court had assured her. Isabel would compliment him on his prowess as a warrior, admire his superior intellect, and remark upon his handsome countenance. For good measure, she would act her most charming, agreeable, complacent self—giving him nothing to object to. Simple. But all the planning in the world was useless if they never spent any time together.

That was about to change.

Isabel stepped into the courtyard from the darkness of the great hall, squinting from the sharp contrast of bright sunlight. The unusually dreary weather that had descended over Dunvegan since her arrival was readily forgotten with the promise of a beautiful summer day. The full bloom of August was evidenced all around by the lush green of the grasses and the vivid saturated color of the wildflowers that peppered the coastal hilltops. A sprinkling of woolly clouds enhanced the crystal perfection of the crisp blue sky.

She sighed, letting the fresh air flow over her body. The salt from the sea spray tickled her nose as she inhaled deeply.

Already her heart felt lighter.

Surprisingly, there were few people about. Two women were hauling water to the keep from the main well near the sea-gate, but otherwise the courtyard appeared deserted.

She looked around for Rory. A great cloud of dust rising near the south side of the courtyard looked promising. As she drew closer, she could hear the sounds of raucous laughter interspersed with the clatter of steel crashing against steel.

As was true of all Highland clans, the MacLeods were clearly divided into two groups: those who fought and those who tilled the land or tended the livestock. Feuding and foraying were a way of life for the warriors of the clan. When idle, they practiced their fighting skills or devised organized trials of strength and skill. As a girl, Isabel had loved to watch the MacDonald warriors go through their exercises. There was nothing quite like watching Highlanders demonstrate their impressive strength and prowess with a claymore.

Isabel turned the corner and stuttered in midstep. The warm salty air heavy with the toil and pungent scent of well-worked bodies enveloped her senses, but it was her eyes that were fixed on the display before her. A group of half-naked men stood in a circle, cheering on a pair of fierce combatants. It wasn’t the lack of clothing that startled her. The MacDonalds also practiced without their saffron shirts on warm days. Rather, it was one broad, tanned, tightly muscled chest in particular.

At the center—figuratively and literally—was Rory MacLeod.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him, mesmerized by the raw masculinity of his bare chest. He could have been cut from stone; there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on him. The sun highlighted the hard, chiseled edges of his muscles. A thin sheen of perspiration made his body glisten like a bronze statue. His shoulders and arms were as thick and hard as granite, tapering to a flat stomach banded in tight layers. Very little hair marred the clean bronzed lines of his broad torso. The tops of his shoulders were burnished red from the sun, and the veins in his thick forearms bulged from the exertion of the sword practice.

But it was not merely his powerful form that captured her admiration. His strength and prowess were utterly magnificent to behold as he took command of the warriors around him. One by one, his men entered the circle to take a turn at their champion. Rory thrust and parried, lifting the enormous sword as if it were no heavier than a feather. She recognized the claymore he wielded at once as the one she’d noticed hanging on the wall in the great hall, proving that it wasn’t merely decoration or fodder for boasting of the great strength of some illustrious ancestor. His arms flexed as he fought off the blows, though he made it seem effortless.

He was a pillar of strength, immovable and unbending. Isabel didn’t think she’d ever get used to his size. Yet there was a sensuality to Rory’s movements, a grace that belied his muscular form.

Whether inexperienced or experienced, the MacLeod treated each challenger with respect, relaying instructions as he deftly moved his opponent on the defensive. Not once did he grow impatient. Nor did he merely toy with his opponent as an opportunity to display his skills. He adjusted his approach with each man, finding a particular weakness and training the man first to identify it and second to conquer it. As the game continued, the relative skill of his opponent increased. But rather than tire, the MacLeod only seemed to grow stronger. Finally it was Alex’s turn.

The two men circled each other, as if gladiators in an arena of ancient Rome. Engaged in their deadly dance, they moved with the pride of lions. Alex attacked first, the crash of steel on steel ringing in Isabel’s ears. At first she thought they were evenly matched, but as the game drew on, it looked as if Alex held the edge. Alex had Rory on the defensive, backing him to the wall of the battlements.

She didn’t understand it when Rory smiled. “Very impressive, little brother,” he said, breathing hard. “You’ll force me to use my right.”

Isabel gasped when he switched hands. She hadn’t noticed, but Rory had been using his left hand the whole time—and he was right-handed.

Rory must have heard her because he turned to look at her, suffering a knock of Alex’s claymore on his shoulder for his distraction.

“Damn,” he swore, rubbing his shoulder. He didn’t look pleased to see her. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I wish to discuss something with you, my lord,” she stammered shyly. “In private, if you please.”

As she spoke, Isabel took a tentative step closer. She broke her stare and looked over his shoulder at the men who had gathered around to follow the exchange. Though perhaps only forty men were present today, she knew that his warriors numbered about four hundred—a considerable force, larger than her father’s and not much smaller than Sleat’s. He hadn’t introduced her to any of his men, but she had discovered some of their names. Rory was most often with Alex and two of his
luchd-taighe
guardsmen, Colin and Douglas.

They made an imposing foursome. With his white blond hair and the pointed marquisotte beard, Colin had the look of a Viking. And with the perpetual frown he wore, a very angry Viking. She remembered Douglas from his short visit to court. He’d caused quite a stir with his untamed dark good looks and brusque Highland manners. He was quiet, but not shy. A man of few words. The ladies at court were intrigued by both his savage good looks and the exciting air of wildness that seemed to surround him. She recalled hearing that he was a cousin to Rory and Alex.

“As you can see, I’m busy right now,” he said abruptly.

“Please, it’s important.”

“It will have to wait—”

He seemed poised to deny her request when Alex interrupted.

“Surely you can attend your bride for a few minutes, Rory. We were just about finished here, weren’t we?”

Rory glared at his grinning brother. With obvious unwillingness, he lifted a dark eyebrow to Isabel and reluctantly accepted her invitation. “It seems I may have a few minutes to spare,” he said sarcastically, tossing his claymore to Alex.

Rory pointed in the direction of the battlements. “Would you care to stroll around the courtyard while you talk?”