Highlander Untamed (25 page)

Isabel threw up her hands and gave her a tight hug. “How wonderful! I told you your skills have improved.” Her lips lifted mischievously. “I’m sure Alex had something to say about your victory. He has been relentless in his horrible teasing about your diligent practice schedule. Serves him right.” She could clearly visualize his bewildered shock. “I remember my brothers’ reactions when I bested them. Their pride always bristled at being set down by a
mere lass.
” She emphasized the last words with mock haughty condescension. “And you being such a spry wee thing—hardly a likely challenger to a fierce, proud MacLeod warrior.”

Margaret’s face flushed crimson with delight, and her uncovered sapphire blue eye sparkled. “Oh, Isabel, you should have seen Alex. The look on his face was worth a king’s ransom. When I hit the target dead center, I thought his eyes might pop from his head. And you should have heard the men who were standing around watching. I’m sure he will not hear the end of this for days.”

“Well done, Margaret. You have earned your victory. Mayhap this will teach Alex to curb his teasing tongue.” They looked at each other, paused for a moment, and broke out in fresh laughter. Alex was a born instigator, a born tease; it was part of his charm, and they relished the lighthearted moments that seemed to come so infrequently. Isabel also suspected that although he might feign indignation, Alex was extremely proud of his sister’s burgeoning accomplishment with a bow. She had progressed at an amazing pace. The change in her was so striking, the new pride and self-confidence she exhibited was incredible to behold. Alex would not begrudge her a win, even at the expense of some relentless ribbing by the clansmen for his foreseeable future.

Rory stood at the doorway watching the two women bursting in great peals of laughter. His chest tightened to see the joy on his sister’s face, joy he had never thought to see again. And he knew Isabel was responsible for the happy return of his lost sister. How could it have happened in such a short time? It seemed that almost overnight, Margaret had discarded the cloak of shame and timorousness that she had worn for the last two years, to revel like a pagan at Beltane in her newfound confidence. Even in the midst of the bleak, frozen darkness of winter, Dunvegan seemed to burst with the warm spring light of their laughter and smiles. He had not realized how much he’d missed the laughter of happy women until it returned so unexpectedly.

His gaze fell on Isabel. She’d also changed, perhaps not as dramatically as Margaret, but just as importantly. The loneliness and vulnerability that hovered around her on her arrival seemed to have faded as she’d carved out a growing place in his family. Knowing that her time at Dunvegan was only brief, it troubled him. In truth, the plan to repudiate the handfast weighed on him heavily.

He would never tire of looking at her. She was exquisite—the way she moved, the way she laughed. Each time he looked at her, her beauty seemed to change. It’s not that she became less beautiful with acquaintance the way some women did. No, he thought, rather the opposite occurred—she grew even more beautiful. With each meeting she became more real, as if aspects of her unique character broke through the mask of perfect features.

He was not the only one to notice her. Rory had caught most of his men casting her admiring glances when they thought he was not watching. It riled him, but he did not attribute it to a lack of loyalty. They were not bloody eunuchs. He could hardly blame them for something that he found impossible to avoid doing himself. Even sitting behind a table stacked with parchment, she was stunning, her shining copper gold hair floating around her shoulders, her ivory skin smudged with black ink, her full lips twitching mischievously, the defiant lift of her chin. Her beauty was magnetic—a rare gift meant to be admired.

His thoughts strayed to this morning, when he’d woken to find her nestled in his arms. His body warmed at the memory. The last month had been exquisite torture. He’d hoped that it would grow easier, that he would get used to sharing a bed, but each day he wanted her more than the day before. Their bodies had found each other and wouldn’t let go. Abstinence was doing crazy things to him; Rory didn’t know how much more he could take.

She was still a maid, but if she pushed him again, he would not be held accountable.

His distrust had eased over the last month, though he still couldn’t forget that she was a MacDonald and the niece of his enemy. He’d watched her closely these past few weeks and was relieved not to find her searching through any more dark corridors. Nor had she made a further attempt to press him. Though sleeping beside her every night was temptation enough.

Rory observed the two young women who seemed as comfortable as two cagey old dowagers who had been friends from the nursery. They still had yet to notice him.

He wasn’t surprised to find the accomplices here in his library. From the stack of ledgers piled next to Isabel and the black smears on her fingertips, he deduced that she had been working on the accounts again. First his room, then his sister, now his accounts. Isabel had woven her way into the fabric of his castle—into his life. Pretty soon she’d be sitting in his chair. The image made him smile.

“What are you two hoydens laughing about?”

Isabel turned in surprise as Rory entered the library. His visits to the library were more infrequent now that she and Margaret had largely taken over the room. Even more unusual was that it was still the middle of the day, a time usually devoted to waging war with his warriors in the courtyard. Apparently, he’d just come from the lists, as he’d yet to wash the toil of his practice from his well-worked body.

Her heart skipped a beat as it always did when she recalled his prowess on the lists. And something warm and tingly curled inside her stomach when she thought of this fierce warrior cradling her gently in his arms.

Isabel’s strong physical reaction to him did not lessen with familiarity. She still had to pull her eyes away from staring at his ruggedly handsome face—still deeply tanned despite the lack of sun these past few months. Nor would she ever get used to the way his very presence filled a room—not just the result of his broad shoulders and powerfully muscled body, but also from the raw heat that seemed to radiate from him.

Since Margaret appeared conveniently mute, reluctant to admit they’d been laughing at Alex, Isabel decided to let him in on the joke. “It seems Margaret has defeated Alex in an impromptu archery contest.”

He turned and looked pointedly at Margaret. Uncertain of his reaction—he was a man, after all—they waited patiently for some sign. Slowly, his lips curved into a devilish grin, his dimples piercing deep craters in his cheeks.

“So Margaret has managed to trap that taunting scoundrel with his own words. I’ve heard his incessant boasting that no matter how diligent the practice schedule, he would never be beaten by a mere lass. Perhaps he’ll learn a valuable lesson: to expect the unexpected. It’s an arrogant mistake to underestimate your opponent—one that can lead to death.” He gazed over Margaret’s head and fixed his gorgeous eyes on Isabel. “I never underestimate my opponent.”

She flushed guiltily. Now why had he said that?

He appeared not to notice her reaction. “Well done, Margaret, you have made me proud. Our braggart brother could stand to be knocked down a peg or two.” Laughing, Rory lifted his sister into a warm, brotherly embrace.

Margaret’s smile seemed to fill her face. “Maybe I’ll be ready to challenge you, Rory, by the time we host the gathering this spring,” she teased.

He released Margaret from his embrace, and the smile that transcended his face matched hers in its infinite joy. “I would be honored to accept your challenge, Margaret. Alex is a very good bowman, little one, so I know you must have become quite accomplished in a very short time. But I have not been beaten in a contest with the bow since I was a lad, so you would be wise to increase your practice schedule.” He turned his smile to Isabel.

She felt as if she were melting under its warmth.

“I hope your instructor can find the time in her schedule?” he queried.

Isabel grinned and nodded.

He turned back to Margaret and said, sounding almost apologetic, “But it may not be at the gathering. You know very well that a lass may not participate in the Highland gathering—by long tradition, it is a contest reserved for warriors to test their skills, strength, and agility.” Isabel knew the gatherings were begun over five hundred years ago by Malcolm Canmore to identify the best warriors among his men. Rory’s eyes twinkled under the black wings of his raised brow. “Besides, what if you were to win? The fierce pride of the Scots would be irreparably damaged by a mere slip of a lass. It would be a blow that we men would likely never recover from.”

Isabel was mesmerized by the playful teasing of the siblings. It was a side of Rory that was so rarely exposed; she knew she would never tire of listening to their loving banter. He could be so devilishly charming—acting like this, he was irresistible. Her chest squeezed with longing.

Margaret nearly jumped up and down with exuberance. She began her preparations for extra practice immediately—talking to herself excitedly. They both listened, amused, as she ran from the room. “I will have to find someone to oversee the kitchens in the morning and take over the meal planning…”

Still grinning, Rory said, “Margaret seems to have found her calling.” The full force of his attractiveness hit her with his next words. “I thank you, Isabel. You have accomplished what I thought was impossible. You have given me back my sister.” The warmth and sincerity in his voice were like an enchanted spell binding her to him.

Isabel warmed under his praise. Rory constantly surprised her. She could not recall ever being honestly thanked for anything by a man in his position. Most men would never consider being beholden to a woman for anything. But such graciousness only increased his estimation in her eyes; the power to recognize another’s worth in no way diminished his own, it only made him appear stronger.

She stood up and stepped toward him, struggling to find her voice. “I’ve done nothing but be a friend, and that was simple enough with Margaret. I feel like I’ve known her my whole life. It’s difficult to believe it’s only been a few months.”

Isabel paused, debating whether to say something further. She might never have a better opportunity, and she wanted him to understand about Margaret. “I think the end to the feud has helped her enormously,” she added hesitantly.

Rory tensed as he did at any mention of the feud. “What do you mean?”

Isabel took a deep breath, deciding it was worth the risk to state her opinion, even if it ruined his good mood. She looked down at her feet, not wanting his reaction to stop what she had to say. “I think the feud and the quest for revenge has made it impossible for Margaret to put the past behind her. I know she feels responsible for the death and destruction done in her name.” Isabel’s clenched hands betrayed her anxiety at mentioning the forbidden subject of her uncle.

After a moment of unbearable silence, she dared to peek at his face. But instead of the anger she’d expected, Rory appeared thoughtful.

“And the feud was a constant reminder of Sleat’s cruelty,” he finished. “But it was not only Margaret who was shamed, the honor of the clan demanded retribution.”

Isabel nodded. “You were attending to your duty as chief, Margaret knows that”—her voice lowered—“and so does Alex.”

“What does Alex have to do with this?” When she appeared reluctant to say anything further, he added, “Speak freely, Isabel, I would like to hear what you have to say.”

There was no easy way to say this, so she just blurted it out. “Alex needs to feel that he is important to you and the clan.”

“Of course he’s important. He is my
tanaiste.
” She felt the full measure of his attention on her. “Go on,” he urged.

“I know you think that he is important, but I don’t think Alex does. What duties have you delegated to him?”

Rory was silent for a moment. “Not many,” he admitted. Isabel waited for him to finish the thought. “And by my not doing so, he believes that I do not think he is capable.”

Isabel nodded. “If you do not give him more responsibility, he will never be able to resolve his defeat at the hands of the MacDonalds.”

Rory leaned back, assessing her with an appreciative gaze. “If Alex has discussed his loss at Binquihillin and the death of our cousins, you truly must have earned his confidence. I know he blames himself, but I do not. I would have done the same in his stead.”

“But if you do not allow him the responsibilities worthy of your
tanaiste,
are you not telling him by your actions that you do not trust him? That you do blame him?” she asked quietly.

Rory drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest. “I am chief, I do not delegate my duties and responsibilities.”

Isabel tried not to be distracted by the impressive display of muscle straining against saffron linen. “I know that you would not be so arrogant as to believe that you must personally attend to all the matters of the clan and that you are the only one qualified to make decisions.”

He quirked his mouth, seemingly amused by her sarcastic set-down. But he appeared to at least consider what she said. “I will think on it.” Apparently, turnabout was fair play. “And what of you, Isabel? What of your family?”

It was Isabel’s turn to bristle defensively. “What of it?”

“Tell me why the mere mention of your family causes pain to flicker in your eyes,” he urged, this time gently.

She looked away, embarrassed that her loneliness was so obvious. “There’s not much to tell,” she said carefully. “You know that my mother died when I was young, my father had his duty to the clan, and my brothers…well, they had their own pursuits. Pursuits that were not appropriate for a young girl.” She saw something resembling sympathy in his eyes, and she quickly tried to explain, lest he get the wrong impression. “My father was not cruel. Just busy. And I always had Bessie looking after me.”