But it was not the Mackenzies who concerned Rory right now. It was the reaction of his men, as he’d just laid out his plan.
“It is a good plan,” Alex said. “But do you think the king will agree?”
“James has been reluctant to interfere in land disputes between the clans,” Rory said. “But my proposal ceding Trotternish to the MacLeods as part of Isabel’s tocher gives James the opportunity to resolve the matter without actually having to decide the merits of the dispute.”
Alex nodded. “Something the king would rather not do, reluctant as he is to choose between you and Sleat. James will jump at the easy way out. A dowry is perfect.”
“But Sleat will never agree,” Colin pointed out.
Rory shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. By then the idea will already be in James’s head. Also, it was Sleat who proposed Isabel as my bride in the first place. Her tocher was not discussed when we agreed upon a handfast. But a dowry would be expected with marriage.”
“Argyll will be furious if you break the alliance. Can you afford to anger him? You might not find him as ready to intercede on our behalf in the future,” Colin said.
“I will find a way to mollify him. And any loss of Argyll’s support at court will be made up with the support we are gaining,” Rory replied. “Isabel’s friendship with the king and queen is surely as beneficial as Argyll’s influence.” Watching her act as hostess at the Highland gathering had made him realize that having Isabel as a wife would be an asset at court. Rory was only sorry he hadn’t realized it earlier.
Douglas nodded his agreement. “You forget, Colin, I’ve seen her at court. I can assure you that Isabel is well connected in the royal household. She was the favorite of the queen amongst her ladies and a favorite of the king as well.”
“It’s done,” Rory said. “I’ve already written the king.” He paused. “And Argyll.”
He looked around the table, but if his men questioned his actions, they did not say so. His gaze fell on his brother. “If you have something to say, Alex, do so.”
Alex shook his head, but Rory knew what he was thinking. An alliance with Argyll would have all but guaranteed a return of their land. If Rory’s plan didn’t work, the MacLeods would lose Trotternish. In deciding to break the agreement with Argyll before he was sure of the outcome with the king, Rory had put his love for Isabel above the good of the clan.
He would just have to make sure his plan didn’t fail. But right now, if he did not want to collapse before his men, he would return to bed. This short sojourn had sapped his strength. Isabel had been right, though he would never admit it. She already hovered over him as if he could disappear at any time. But Rory understood her fear. And that was what had prompted this council.
He knew Isabel was deeply troubled by his failure to assure her of their future, but as soon as he resolved the situation with Argyll and heard from the king, he would be able to ease the lines of worry marring the smooth skin on her forehead. Soon.
It was a beautiful June morning, the clear, cloudless type of day you dream about in the dark, depressing days of winter. Rory stood near the window in his solar, finishing his morning preparations. Though he’d been out of bed for a few weeks, today he would return to sword training for the first time since his injury, and Isabel was nervous. A roar from the courtyard below drew her attention. Isabel smiled, welcoming the clamorous sounds of life that had been conspicuously absent while Rory recovered.
“Are you sure you are ready to resume training, Rory? It has not even been two months since you were injured,” Isabel asked, unable to conceal the worry in her voice.
Rory laughed and replied teasingly, “You know, I have a healthy new respect for Alex, enduring as he did the constant attentions of three of you. I consider myself extremely fortunate that Bessie has been kept busy with Robert’s bairns or I am sure she would have joined you and Margaret in your endless cosseting. If I stay chained to this keep much longer, I may find myself unable to belt my own plaid.”
“Ungrateful wretch!” Her hands landed at her waist. “Margaret and I have allowed you far more latitude than we thought appropriate because we knew you would resist what was good for you at every step. You are a decidedly horrible patient, Rory MacLeod. Need I remind you of the second fever you suffered after getting out of bed too soon last month? And Margaret and I should be the ones complaining for having to look at that black scowl all day long.”
Rory grinned broadly at the mock affront in her posture.
Her heart caught as it always did at the sight of the dimpled grin that now lifted so easily. It was hard to believe that not too long ago he used to be as dour as Margaret’s Viking. Isabel frowned. Something had been bothering Margaret of late. She’d assumed it was the near death of her brother, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Rory almost looked himself, but was he really ready to resume his duties? She admitted that he did look better than he had in weeks, but the signs of his lengthy illness still lingered. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight. Height alone would always make him an imposing man, but the loss of weight created a feral, hungry leanness in him that she could not say was unpleasant or unimpressive. Still powerfully muscled, he seemed more tightly wound. He’d allowed them to trim his hair and shave his beard, and though he’d lost most of the perpetual tan he seemed to have, he would get that back soon enough with the resumption of his normal activities.
The wound in his stomach had healed nicely, thanks to the salves applied by Deidre, but he would bear a large scar where the arrow had torn a gaping hole through his skin. What worried her was that with the resumption of fighting, the wound might reopen.
Cognizant of her concern, Rory turned serious. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I know just how close to death I came. I’ll not chance another fever. But if you’ll recall, you did not question my full recovery last night.”
She blushed at the memory of their passionate lovemaking the night before—the first time they had shared a bed since the night before the accident. “Wretch. How like a man to measure the state of his health by his prowess between the bedsheets. Very well, then, return to your sword practice, but if you do not return in a few hours, I will send Bessie after you.”
“With a threat like that, how can I refuse?” Still smiling, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers in a demanding kiss. Instantly intoxicated by the heady taste of him, she felt her body flood with desire. How she loved to feel his lips move over hers. One night of lovemaking could not douse the powerful fire that flared between them, forged by weeks of abstinence. She felt her blood rush; the warmth spread across her body as his tongue swept her mouth.
There was nothing seductive about this kiss, nothing teasing. His mouth moved urgently over hers, searing her with its heat. He knew what he wanted, and so did she. Their shared intent was obvious as their bodies moved together with wonderful familiarity. Her body pressed taut against his hardness, her soft curves molding to him instantly. She felt the press of his hip to hers. His tongue delved deeper, and his hand moved purposefully toward her bodice.
“Rory, are you coming or not?” Alex shouted from below.
Rory lifted his mouth from hers, sanity slowly returning from beneath the haze of passion. Their breathing slowed. When they had time to consider Alex’s choice of words, they burst out laughing in tandem. Rory lifted his brow in question.
Isabel shook her head no.
She had something very important to do—the quicker it was behind her, the better.
“Later. Tonight we will finish what we started, Rory. The lions below are hungry. Off with you before they come hunting,” she chided.
Reluctantly, he released her from his hold. “I think I’ll have a word with Alex about interruptions.” He gently kissed her brow in farewell, now anxious to join the other warriors.
Isabel watched him leave, admiring the strength and pride in his carriage. He looked every inch the impressive Highland warrior, astounding fo
r a man so perilously close to death not even two months ago. A sense of inexplicable bliss settled over her. Holding the love of a man like Rory was awe-inspiring. She must do what was necessary to keep it.
She sat on the edge of the bed, putting her hand over her stomach, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. For the past week or two, she’d experienced strange bouts of queasiness, brought on, no doubt, by stress.
This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for to take a closer look at the flag. Sleat had warned her not to try to trick him, and she knew he would be sending instructions soon. She needed to be ready. She had to be sure that Bessie’s shawl could pass muster with someone familiar with the flag.
An excited roar boomed from the courtyard below, the sound of Rory as he joined his men. She took a deep breath. It was time. Isabel shook with nervousness. Just get it over with. Cautiously she walked to the door, paused, and listened to make sure no one was coming. Hearing no sound, she opened the door and peeked down the corridor. All clear.
Slowly, she moved to the bed, reaching around to feel for the wooden knob in the carving that Rory had described to Alex. She found it easily, turned it, and slid her hand under the bed to locate the opened drawer. The etched metal box was heavier than she’d anticipated, and it took some time to remove it from the drawer. Using both hands, she raised it to the bed and pushed on the MacLeod badge. The lock released with a small pop, and she opened the lid.
Dust and a musty smell gathered at her nose. She rubbed her nose, trying to prevent a sneeze. The famous Fairy Flag of the MacLeods lay folded neatly in the box. Reverently, she lifted it out, letting the soft folds unfurl on the bed. Well, at least lightning didn’t strike. That was something. She had touched the flag and was still alive.
Now for the shawl. Fortunately, Bessie had given over her old shawl with no more than a raised eyebrow or two. Lifting the shawl from her trunk, she held it up in front of the window close to the flag for comparison. A sudden breeze through the open window caught the thin silk fabric and puffed it out like a sail. Amazing. It was just as she remembered. Bessie’s shawl could have been cut from the same cloth as the flag, except that it looked a wee bit less worn. Slightly darker in hue, the crimson-and-yellow pattern of the shawl was otherwise identical to that of the flag. The shawl would fool even someone who had seen the flag up close. Only a side-by-side inspection would differentiate the two.
This might just work!
Carefully she replaced the flag, returning it to its hiding place. Lifting Bessie’s shawl from the bed she turned and placed it in her trunk. She’d just closed the lid when she heard a voice behind her.
“What are you doing?”
Her heart dropped like a stone at the achingly familiar voice. How long had he been standing there? She glanced over her shoulder.
Long enough.
Chapter 22
Rory stood stone still in the doorway, watching Isabel place the MacLeod’s precious talisman in her trunk. For a moment, he felt oddly disembodied as he tried to make sense of the sight before him.
“R-rory,” she faltered. “You’re back so soon. I thought you were training.” She ran to him, pressing her soft body against his chest and circling her arms around his neck. But he barely noticed. “Did something happen? Are you feeling well?” she asked, the concern in her voice a bitter mockery.
Shock propelled his inane response. “I thought I saw something in the window.” He spoke tonelessly. I didn’t want to believe it.
The flag. Isabel had the Fairy Flag. But how…?
The truth hit him hard, striking him cold. He looked down at her, not wanting to believe it. Eyes wide, her perfect oval face lifted to his in silent entreaty. That soft mouth he’d kissed so tenderly only moments ago was now trembling. The longing was almost unbearable. He hated his weakness. How could something so innocent and beautiful mask such treachery?
Betrayal.
Rory forced himself not to turn away, though it hurt just to look at her. The pain in his chest was like nothing that had come before. It ripped through him, tearing a fiery path along its trail. He’d take a thousand arrows in the gut before he faced the raw, excruciating agony that was Isabel’s treachery.
“You bitch,” he growled. Forcefully, he pushed her aside. “How could you?”
She staggered but did not fall. “Rory, you don’t understand. I can explain. It’s not how it looks.”
“I’m sure it’s exactly how it looks,” he snapped. There was only one explanation. “You spied on me when I told Alex where the flag was hidden.” His penetrating gaze fell on her guilt-stricken face, daring her to deny him. But she could not.
His earlier suspicions rushed to the forefront of his consciousness, no longer blinded by emotion. The pieces fell into place, and it all made horrible sense. Sleat’s ready agreement to a handfast, Isabel’s searching of the kitchens, the tempting, sometimes indecent clothing, and her eagerness to share his bed even when she knew there was no future. All led to one unmistakable conclusion. Isabel was in league with her uncle. She’d come to Dunvegan under false pretenses.
A fresh stab of pain shot through his chest.
She’d never loved him.
She’d lulled him into a besotted trance, bewitching him with her beauty, and led him down a treacherous path he had sworn never to travel. He’d fallen in love with the enemy and allowed his judgment to be clouded by beauty, lust, and love. Worst of all, because of her, he’d broken the alliance with Argyll. He’d chosen a woman over his duty to his clan. And for that failure, he could never forgive her. She’d made a fool out of him.
Blood pounded through his body. The initial tumult of emotions gave way to an all-encompassing rage. His fists clenched at his side as he felt the pressure building from inside, threatening to erupt in a violent maelstrom. The intensity shook him to his core. He held himself rigid, not trusting himself to move. For a moment, he could have killed her for doing this to him. To them.
“God damn you, I trusted you.” His hands gripped her arms as the force of his fury unleashed like a whip.
Her eyes widened. “Rory, please—”
The vein in his neck pulsed as every muscle in his body strained with restraint. “You are in league with your uncle. You came to Dunvegan under false pretenses and planned to steal the flag. The handfast would be your way out.”
“Yes, but—”
Confirmation squeezed him like a vise. Something inside him died. She might as well have slipped a dirk into his back while he was sleeping; the effect was the same. He felt as if someone had splayed open his chest, pried out his heart, and twisted it until there was nothing left. Nothing but the cold, aching void where there used to be something beautiful.
He did not let her finish. “You’ve spied on me and my family, intending to betray us. You’ve whored yourself and manipulated your way into my life. I assure you, further explanation is not necessary.”
She recoiled at his crudely spoken words. But he didn’t care. “No, Rory, you have it all wrong. I may have come here under false pretenses, but once I grew to love you and your family, I knew I would not be able to go through with what my uncle had planned—”
“Enough!” he roared. The mention of Sleat had snapped whatever tenuous control he had over his anger. He thought of how completely he’d fallen for her lies. But he was fooled no longer. “I refuse to listen to any more lies from you. Consider yourself lucky that I do not dress you as the harlot you have acted so convincingly and send you back accordingly. Your uncle might appreciate the irony.” He looked at her with all the contempt that filled his blackened heart. “Pack your things and leave before I decide to put you where you deserve—do you know what we do with spies at Dunvegan, Isabel?”
This couldn’t be happening. Dear God, what had she done?
The panic that rose in her throat seemed so palpable, she could almost taste it. It thickened her tongue and smothered her breath. But it was not the threat of imprisonment in that dank dungeon th
at caused her fear. No, it was Rory who terrified her. The thought that he might not listen to her frightened her more than she had ever dreamed possible.
He couldn’t send her away. She had to make him understand.
Tears streaming down her face, she clutched at his sleeve, trying to force him to listen. “Rory, please, I would never give my uncle the means to destroy you and your family. I intended to trick him. See, look.” She turned around, raced back to her trunk, and pulled out Bessie’s shawl. “See, it’s not the flag. I intended to send him this instead.”
Rory studied the shawl, seeming to recognize that it was not in fact the flag. “It doesn’t matter. You spied on me. How do I know that you did not intend to switch that for the real Fairy Flag?”
“It was an accident. I did not mean to spy on you. I heard noises….” She lifted her chin and met his gaze, ready to weather his scorn. “And as to the other, you’ll have to trust me. I love you, I would never betray you.”
“Trust,” he spat. “Never. You will leave here immediately. I wish to never lay eyes on you again.”
His voice was like a shard of ice cutting through her heart, stopping her cold. This was the man she’d feared if he’d ever discovered the truth, the emotionless stranger who looked at her with wintry eyes. He stood so close, she could see the golden tips of his lashes, the dark shadow of stubble already appearing on his jaw, and the subtle, angry flare of his nostrils as he spoke. An hour ago, she’d had the right to touch him. To place her hand on his face and lift her lips to his. No longer. He was so close, but immanently unreachable.