Highlander Untamed (5 page)

She bit her lip. Though she sensed no animosity, his conversation had been a disappointment of brusque, cool politeness. Clearly, her uncle had misled her. Rory MacLeod was not eager for this match.

At least her fears of brutish barbarity did not seem warranted. She sensed an inherent civility in him. Although not as polished as a Lowlander, he would stand out at court not for his rough manners, but for his impressive size and the raw dignity of his bearing.

Although the MacLeod demonstrated many qualities that she admired, they were nonetheless obstacles to her goal. Earning his trust was going to be that much more difficult.

Gazing in the looking glass, she carefully pinned her hair at the crown and adjusted the diamond-encrusted wreath atop her head. She could not shake the unease, the feeling that she was doing something wrong. But what choice did she have? Without her help, her clan was doomed.

But Isabel knew it wasn’t just the fate of her clan that had brought her here.

For as long as she could remember, she’d shadowed her older brothers, traipsing after them as they hunted, gamed, and practiced their sword skills. Jumping at the opportunity to participate whenever they tolerated her, hiding and spying on them whenever they excluded her.

More often than not, they had ignored her.

Desperate to be included, she’d tried anything to get them to notice her. But no matter how accomplished she became, neither her challenges nor her feats of bravery brought her any closer to her brothers or father. Instead, she was treated as an afterthought. An outsider. Irrelevant and unimportant. Her chest tightened as the familiar emptiness settled in her stomach.

That unhappy realization had come years ago, but it still pained her. Her childhood tears had long since dried. She rarely allowed herself to wallow in such self-pity. But somehow she realized that these painful memories weren’t really memories at all, they were the fractured remains of her childhood dreams. She
still
craved their love and respect. That craving had brought her to Dunvegan.

For the first time in her life, they needed her.

Without this handfast, her uncle refused to support her father in his feud with the Mackenzies over Castle Strome, her childhood home. Her clan needed the strength of her uncle to survive. And Sleat needed a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman to entice the MacLeod into sharing the clan secrets. Secrets that would enable her uncle to destroy the MacLeods for good and further his quest to reclaim the ancient fiefdom of the Lordship of the Isles.

Sleat had charged her with two tasks: to find a secret entrance into the impregnable castle and to steal their precious magical talisman—the Fairy Flag. If the legends were to be believed, it was the mystical source of their strength and had twice previously saved the MacLeods from destruction.

Even now her stomach churned uncomfortably when she thought of what had been left unsaid, but what had definitely been implied. She must use
all
her charms to get what they wanted, even seduction. How could she, who had never allowed any man close enough to steal a simple kiss, seduce a fierce and ruthless Highland chief?

Now, after having met the man, Isabel was even more certain that it would never work. Rory MacLeod was as rock hard as a stone parapet, seemingly impervious to a weakness like emotion.

Bessie bustled into the room. “They’re waiting, poppet.” She stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her heart with a dramatic exclamation. “Ah, Isabel, you are a vision. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a square of linen. “Oh, how your mother would have loved to see you on your wedding day.”

A wave of emotion swept over Isabel. Hot tears gathered at the back of her throat. Bessie’s joy only made Isabel feel worse for deceiving her—and the mention of her mother nearly undid her completely. She took a deep breath.

“Then we best not keep them waiting any longer.” Alighting into the corridor, Isabel took her first step down a path that could only lead to betrayal.

Rory faced the day with a much clearer head, once again in control of his errant—and lustful—thoughts. Visions of his bride had haunted his dreams—erotic fantasies of a wedding night that was not to be. Vivid images of candlelight and silk. He pictured her standing before him, looking up at him with those seductive eyes full of invitation. He’d taken his time in undressing her, running his hands over the soft velvet of her skin, slipping the wispy
night rail
down her shoulders, revealing her tantalizing nakedness one lush inch at a time. The dream had been so vivid, so real, he’d awakened hard and throbbing, needing release. He attributed his unusual reaction to the MacDonald lass to the disquiet brought on by Sleat’s presence in his keep and the girl’s undeniably rare beauty.

Today, Rory was prepared to be awed by her beauty. He would admire her as one would admire a beautiful piece of art—an object to put on display. But that was all. Admiration need not breed intimacy. It was enough that she was a MacDonald and not a suitable alliance for his clan. He need know nothing else.

As was custom, the handfast ceremony would take place outside. Given the circumstances, Rory had decided on a small, private ceremony to be followed by a larger celebratory feast. Notwithstanding the enmity between the clans and the unwanted alliance, the clan would be disappointed with anything else. Feasting was an integral part of Highland life, and Highlanders welcomed any excuse to celebrate.

Thus, as the morning sun gathered intensity on the eastern horizon, Rory, Alex, Sleat, Glengarry, and Isabel’s brothers gathered around the
barmkin
awaiting his bride.

His very late bride, the ten o’clock hour having come and gone some time ago. Perhaps she was having second thoughts? Oddly, the notion didn’t relieve him as much as it should have.

Glengarry had glanced up at her chamber enough times for Rory to know that he was growing impatient and annoyed. Finally, Glengarry smiled with relief. “Ah, here she is now.”

Rory turned, and all of his newfound clarity vanished.

He felt that same forceful blow to the chest, the same physical intensity of attraction. He was as overwhelmed as when he’d first beheld her last night, perhaps more so. In the clear light of day, Isabel MacDonald was breathtaking.

Her thick copper gold tresses blazed a fiery red in the bright sunlight. The long wavy strands were swept from the sides of her face and held in place with a silver-wired wreath heavily decorated with diamonds and tiny pearls. Her features were at once both delicate and vivid. The snowy whiteness of her skin contrasted with the dark brows and lashes that framed her lovely violet eyes and the bloodred pout of her sensual lips.

His gaze traveled down her face and halted at her breasts. He sucked in his breath and tried not to stare, feeling the hot blood flow to his loins as his cock thickened in appreciation.

Once again her dress bordered on indecent, something more suitable for one of King James’s masques than a wedding. Most Scotswomen would choose to wear a brightly colored gown or
arisaidh
to their handfasting. But not Isabel. She had chosen an unadorned ivory damask gown that in its simplicity was anything but simple. The shimmering fabric draped provocatively across her shapely figure, tantalizing the senses with the glory of her lush body as the gown clung to her narrow hips and gently rounded bottom. The bodice was daringly low, cut in a deep square down the front of her chest. Her firm round breasts were barely covered, threatening to spill out at the slightest provocation. Rory thought, or just imagined, he could discern pale pink tips below the lacy edge of her bodice. Even as his body hardened with desire from all that bare skin, he had to acknowledge that there was something innocent and virginal about her dress. The unconventional bridal color suited her perfectly.

The realization hit him: Without a doubt, the next year was going to be the longest of his seven and twenty years.

Suddenly aware that her family was watching his reaction with unconcealed interest, he plastered a blank expression on his face. “Mistress MacDonald, I hope you have found your room to your liking.”

“Yes, thank you. It was delightful. We were very comfortable.”

Pleasantries dispensed with, he cast a glance around to make sure the others were ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Deidre standing next to Isabel’s tiring woman.

Isabel caught his glance. “I hope you don’t mind…” She hesitated. “But I invited her.”

“So I see.”

His tone must have alarmed her, because she began to fidget. “Well, when I sent for her this morning to thank her for arranging the bath at such a late hour, she mentioned that she’d served your family since your older brother was a bairn. I just thought she might want to be here.”

Disconcerted by her kindness, Rory didn’t speak. He looked into her eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity.

“Are you angry?” she asked in a small voice.

“No. Merely chastened not to have thought of it myself.”

A wide smile lit her face, and Rory froze. Her eyes twinkled with a joyous effervescence that transformed her face from regally beautiful to playful and enchanting. A tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth lent a mischievous twist to her lips that made him think of naughtiness in other places. Like the bedchamber.

He shifted his gaze to Glengarry and spoke. “Let us begin.”

Glengarry looked to his daughter. “Isabel?”

Rory’s eyes narrowed. It seemed as if Glengarry were giving her an option. Seeming surprised but enormously pleased by the deferral, Isabel simply nodded.

With Glengarry officiating, Rory turned to face his bride, standing close enough to smell the sweet lavender of her hair and discern the previously unnoticed spattering of freckles across her nose. The freckles charmed him; the slight imperfection suggested a surprising lack of vanity in one so beautiful. This was a woman who enjoyed the outdoors, who valued the sun shining on her face more than the veneration of a flawless complexion. He scowled at the direction of his thoughts, realizing that he’d done just what he’d vowed not to do.

A beautiful object,
he reminded himself.

Still, as they stood in the courtyard before the witnesses to their handfast, he was uncomfortably aware of how small and delicate she looked. And nervous. His hand moved about five inches before he pulled it back to his side.

What the hell was he doing?

He cleared his throat, telling himself to stop acting like a fool.

Clasping right hand to right and left to left, Glengarry took a piece of plaid and tied it around their hands, binding them together. Rory stared at her tiny hand in his, so soft and tender in his rough battle-scarred hands. Her fingers were like ice and he realized she was nervous—maybe even scared. He felt a strong swell of protectiveness, and couldn’t remain unaffected by the symbolic allusion to the bond they were about to make. Though there would be no marriage, the handfast would be real enough.

He spoke the vows that would bind them together for a year. “I, Roderick MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, do pledge my troth to Isabel MacDonald and with this handfast do hereby covenant to take her to wife for the period of no less than one year.”

Isabel repeated the vows, and it was done. Except for one part.

“What are you waiting for, MacLeod?” Sleat taunted. “Aren’t you going to kiss the bride?”

Rory tensed, knowing that it was necessary. He was reluctant. Not because he didn’t want to kiss her, but because of how much he ached to do so. To taste her. To sample the forbidden fruit of her delectable mouth.

Cheeks flaming, Isabel stared at her toes, the tips of her silver slippers just peeking out from below the embroidered edge of her gown.

“Aye,” he said, slipping a finger under her chin. “A kiss to seal our vows.”

Slowly he lowered his mouth, pausing for an instant to inhale her flowery scent before his lips touched hers. He almost moaned as the rush of desire flooded his body with heat.
Dear God,
she tasted sweet.

And she was unbearably soft. Her skin was pure velvet under his fingertips.

He lingered, the urge to deepen the kiss primal. He wanted to draw her into his arms and crush her full breasts against his hard chest. To feel the shape of her hips as she pressed against his heavy groin. To plunge his tongue into the sweet cavern of her mouth and drink.

Yet somehow he held back.

Slowly, he lifted his mouth. Gazing at her face tilted to his, the rosy flush of passion spread across her cheeks, her lips still gently parted, Rory knew a dark moment of almost uncontrollable desire. Desire that gnawed at every inch of his body with a crushing, overpowering intensity.

For the first time in his life, Rory MacLeod—a man who’d faced scores of fearsome warriors on the battlefield and driven his enemies to their knees with terror—knew alarm.

He dropped his hand from her chin and took a step back.
That
wouldn’t happen again.

Isabel had never been kissed before, and she was completely unprepared for the all-consuming intensity of the experience. His rough fingers cradled her face with such tenderness, a sharp pang of longing tugged deep in her chest. And when his lips brushed hers, she knew a moment of pure heaven. A moment of connection so powerful, it frightened her—making her body feel almost not her own. She’d never imagined how a kiss could possess.

With one gentle touch he branded her.

His lips were so much softer than she’d imagined, completely incongruous with the hard, implacable chief. He tasted…delicious. His warm, spicy breath engulfed her senses as he pressed his mouth more firmly against hers.

Her heart fluttered high in her chest and her body seemed to soften as sensation washed over her. She felt weak. Boneless. And wonderfully warm with the swell of burgeoning desire. For a moment she forgot the lie that had brought them together. She forgot the presence of her family and surrendered to the force of a more powerful calling.

She wanted more.

She sank against him, leaning her body closer to his. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him and sense the strength barely harnessed under the powerful façade. He was big and hard, making her deeply aware of her own femininity.