“Damn you, love. We’ll see how much you enjoy such torture.”
Rory yanked her hand from him and roughly pinned both her hands above her head with one hand. She knew his strength; she would never be able to break free. Even if she wanted to. His golden hair spilled forward across his eyes, but she caught the wicked grin he gave her, and it sent another shiver up her spine.
His tongue traced a path down her chest, flicking to nudge her nipples erect. Blowing, raking his teeth lightly across the tips. She writhed beneath him with pleasure, her hips rising to search for his length. He moved back, refusing her request. His mouth enveloped the tip of her breast, and he sucked gently. Isabel felt the sharp sensation of pleasure at the squeeze of his mouth, but she wanted more. Much more.
Rory increased her agony as his mouth slowly, exquisitely, trailed down her belly. Licking and flicking her blazing, sensitive skin with his tongue.
His hand reached down between her legs. Her anticipation caused her breath to catch. She couldn’t think about anything other than his hand, his mouth. Anything but how much she wanted him to touch her.
He teased and taunted. Brushing, but not stroking the pulse that was clenching with desire. His mouth left feather kisses along the teasing path of his fingers. She lifted her hips to his mouth in silent entreaty.
“How does that feel, love?”
“Please, Rory.”
He chuckled. “Tell me how much you want me.”
“Please, I want to feel you touch me. I want you inside me.”
He groaned. “I think you have learned your lesson in torture, my love.”
His finger slid inside her as he began to bring her to heaven. She closed her thighs against his hand, increasing the pressure, the sweet friction that would make her shatter. She knew she was close, and her mind went black as the rush of heat and sharp spasms signaled her release. Quickly he moved over her, releasing her hands and driving into her in one all-consuming thrust. Isabel gasped to feel the strength of him inside her. The heavy, thick way he filled her. The sensation intensified the power of her climax as the spasms came harder and faster.
He grasped her hips, lifting her to meet his long thrusts. Isabel arched her back, urging him to take her harder, deeper. She needed to feel the force of his passion, to feel how much he needed her.
Rory sensed her urgency, and his hips pounded against her, wild with unbridled desire. He’d never been so rough with her before. She tightened against him again as wave after wave of sensation exploded inside her.
He threw back his head and sank deep into her, pulsing as the force of his release gripped him in its shuddering hold. He held her deep, allowing the waves of her own passion to ebb gently around him, until, strength depleted, he collapsed on top of her.
Naked flesh to naked flesh. Chest to chest, two hearts beating frantically together. He rolled to the side and gently moved a strand of damp hair from her eyes.
The tenderness in his gaze took her breath away. When she thought of what she’d nearly lost, Isabel could not prevent the tears that spilled down her cheeks. She might not know what their future held, but he’d forgiven her. It was enough.
He looked confused. “What’s wrong? Was I too rough with you?”
She shook her head and smiled. “I’m just so happy.”
He took her chin in his hand and dropped a light kiss on her nose. “You’re exhausted.” He tucked her under his arm and started issuing orders. “First food and a bath, then we sleep.”
For once, Isabel was only too happy to follow his command.
Chapter 27
A chill at the back of Rory’s neck stirred him from the viselike arms of slumber, but the warning had come too late. Falling asleep with Isabel after nearly two weeks of sleepless nights had dulled his senses, severely limiting his instincts. He woke to the cold press of steel against his neck and the malevolent, glassy-eyed Mackenzie hovering over them.
Rory stilled. The invigorating blood rush of battle swept all vestiges of sleep from his body. Every nerve ending flared, primed to attack.
Seeing that Rory was awake, the Mackenzie chief jostled Isabel. “Get up, whore.”
He wanted to reach out to protect her, but he dared not move. Not yet. Not with the blade so close. It took a moment for the haze of slumber to clear enough for Isabel to realize what was happening. Rory watched her eyes widen with fear.
“Move slowly, love,” Rory soothed. “Stay calm.”
The Mackenzie sneered, his expression teeming with the promise of vengeance. “I said get up, whore.”
Rory swore. “Do as he says, love.”
Isabel clutched a sheet to her nakedness and rose from the bed. The moon lit the sensuous curves of her figure to perfection.
The Mackenzie did not move the sword from Rory’s neck, but his eyes devoured her near nakedness. His grayish tongue darted out to wet his lips. Lust transformed his features into a mask of depraved cruelty. Rory felt every muscle in his body clench. Rage surged through him. Killing the man who dared threaten his woman would be a pleasure. But first he needed to create a diversion.
Unfortunately, Isabel seemed to have the same idea. Rory could see how terrified she was, but heedless of the risk, she drew the Mackenzie’s gaze to her, innocently allowing the sheet to fall low on her breasts. Damn. A hot burst of anger erupted inside him. She’d sworn not to endanger herself. He was going to throttle her when this was done. The only thing that kept him from doing it right now was that he knew she was trying to sacrifice herself for him, and her distraction was working. Too well.
“How did you get here?” Rory asked, though he’d already figured it out.
The Mackenzie’s eyes still gorged on Isabel’s body, but at least he did not move to touch her. “Why, I followed the gel, of course.”
“That’s impossible!” Isabel exclaimed. “I made sure I was not followed.”
“You were careful to make sure no one was behind you. But I had an advantage. I knew where you were headed—where you had disappeared last time. So I waited for you to come to me.”
Isabel cursed softly and turned to Rory. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault.”
Instinctively, Rory moved to reassure her, only to stop at the pressure of the blade against his neck. He sat back. “You couldn’t have known, love.” He turned back to the Mackenzie.
The castle was silent. It was a good sign. “Where are the others? Did you come alone?”
The Mackenzie shrugged. “Patience, MacLeod. All things in good time.” He threw a lascivious glance at Isabel. “Some things can’t wait.”
The Mackenzie was too eager to kill them. Rory’s mind worked quickly. It might work to their advantage if the Mackenzie had followed Isabel inside by himself or with only a few men. But Rory knew they must work fast. Sleat would not be far behind. He drew the Mackenzie’s attention back to him. “What do you want?”
“Why, the Fairy Flag, of course. To start with.” The Mackenzie leered again at Isabel. Rory fought the urge to rip the lewd smile from his face.
“Never,” Rory said evenly. Cool authority rang clear in his voice, despite the presence of the claymore pressed to his neck.
“We shall see.” The Mackenzie turned to Isabel. “You, whore, bring me the flag. And no tricks, I know what it looks like.”
“Never.” Isabel met Rory’s eyes, her voice imitating the calm authority she had heard in his.
“You dare defy me? You, the strumpet that lured my son to his death? I will enjoy watching you beg. How much do you care for your former handfast husband?”
The Mackenzie flicked his claymore, and the razor-sharp sword sliced a deep gash across the top of Rory’s bare shoulder. Rory didn’t flinch, but Isabel cried out with horror as blood gushed from the wound.
“We’ll see how determined you are to defy me as I cut him apart limb by limb. How long do you think you’ll be able to stomach his pain? By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me to cut his throat.”
/> Pleasure transformed the Mackenzie’s face as he spoke. The quest for revenge had deadened the man; there was nothing left in his soul but evil. Rory knew that the Mackenzie would kill them, with or without the flag. He did not doubt his ability to take the man one-on-one, but if the Mackenzie turned on Isabel…He needed a distraction—and not the one Isabel proposed—so that he could get his weapon.
His gaze moved around the room from the fireplace to the chair to Isabel’s trunk that she’d never sent for—
His gaze jerked back. The fireplace. Isabel’s trunks. A slow smile slid over his face. He would give the Mackenzie what he wanted.
Rory turned to Isabel. “Isabel, love, we have no choice. Give him the flag.” He pointed to her trunk. “It’s in my trunk over there.”
Rory saw relief and understanding flash in her eyes. She moved toward the chest, pulling the sheeting along with her to cover her nakedness. Slowly, she opened the lid and retrieved Bessie’s shawl from the stack of linens. Reverently, she held up the shawl for the Mackenzie to see. When her eyes looked to Rory’s, he flicked his glance over to the fire.
She nodded, and he knew she understood.
Isabel took a seemingly innocent step toward the fireplace. “Here it is.” She held it up for Mackenzie to see, then quickly crumpled the thin silk into a ball.
“Give me the flag, gel, or I will sever his head from his body. Now!”
Rory waited, making sure the Mackenzie’s greedy eyes stayed on the “flag.” A few seconds were all he needed.
“Here, if you want it—catch.” And before the Mackenzie realized what she was about to do, Isabel tossed the shawl into the crackling flames of the fire.
“No!” the Mackenzie yelled.
He lunged for the piece of cloth, using his claymore to lift it from the flames, and Rory rolled off the bed naked and pulled a dirk from beneath the pile of his discarded clothing.
“Get back, Isabel,” he ordered softly.
She ran to the far corner of the room, as far from the Mackenzie’s reach as possible.
But there was no need; the distraction had worked.
With the Mackenzie’s gaze focused on the “flag,” Rory was afforded the precious seconds he needed to attack. The familiar hot rush of blood and clarity of mind descended on him, as it always did in battle. Dirk raised, Rory lunged toward the Mackenzie. He moved with lethal precision, his eyes narrowed in on the kill.
Too late, the Mackenzie realized his error. He turned at the last minute to ward off the blow, but his efforts were futile. Rory would not be denied—he easily blocked the swing of the Mackenzie’s sword. With the steely determination of a man intent on protecting the woman he loved, Rory plunged his dirk deep into the heart of his prey.
The Mackenzie’s eyes rounded, and his mouth opened in surprise. The horrible sounds of a gurgling death echoed in the room as he remained pinned by the dirk against the fireplace. Rory released his hold on the dirk, and the Mackenzie chief slipped to the floor, his face a death mask of shock, his cold, flat eyes fixed on eternal nothingness. Like those of his son months before.
It was over.
Isabel ran into his arms. “I thought he was going to kill us.”
Rory smoothed her hair. “I would never let anyone harm you.” But the fierce pounding of his heart told him danger was much closer than he would have liked. There were still no sounds of an attack, but he would have to be ready. The Mackenzie had not come alone.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Rory, I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t know he was watching me.”
His fingers pressed against her lips. “Shush, love. I trust you.” He held her out to look at her, a black scowl suddenly descending across his handsome face. “But I thought we agreed that you would not do anything reckless ever again. Allowing that sheet to slip was no accident.”
He could see the color spread across her cheeks, knowing very well to what he referred. She tried to look contrite. “I had to get that blade away from your neck. I could think of no other way to distract him.”
“I know what you were trying to do, but next time save your seductions for me. And only me.”
She frowned. “If you’ll recall, I tried, but you were immune. Frustratingly so.”
Rory shook his head. “Nay, lass, never immune.” He pulled her close again and kissed her, telling her with his mouth and the hardness of his body how much she affected him. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. “Later. I have to raise the men and see to the safety of the keep.” His mind was racing. He realized that the Mackenzie must have traveled fast to arrive before Isabel, but he could not be sure how far the rest would be behind.
“The entrance?”
Rory nodded. “Aye, it’s where they will try to enter.” He turned away to gather his clothes when he heard Isabel gasp.
The sheet she held was covered with blood. “Your shoulder, it’s bleeding.”
“’Tis nothing, just a scratch.” One that hurt like hell.
Their eyes met. He knew she wanted to argue, but there was no time. “Just see that you don’t get any more.”
He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “I’ll do my best.”
It was easier than Rory expected. The thirst for revenge had driven the Mackenzie to act precipitously in anticipation of Sleat’s arrival. The guardsmen who had accompanied the Mackenzie were waiting for the return of their chief by the secret entrance, only to be surprised by Rory and his men. When Sleat did arrive, there would be no one left to meet him. No one left to pass on the location of the secret entrance. Within a few hours, Rory had secured the keep and returned to his room. Isabel was waiting with a needle to stitch up his wound.
Later that morning, they sat across a small table that had been set up for Isabel to eat in his chamber. Rory stretched out his long, muscular legs, sat back in his chair with a goblet of cuirm, and watched her, reluctant to take his eyes off her lest she disappear. He still couldn’t believe she was here.
“I don’t think I have ever seen you enjoy a meal more,” he said, amused.
Isabel looked somewhat shamefaced, aware that she had attacked her platter with a rather unladylike gusto. “I’m afraid I’m quite ravenous. I’ve been fighting bouts of nausea for the past couple of weeks.” She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t abide the smells of certain foods, especially herring,” she said with a shudder.
Just like my mother when she was…
Rory froze, forcing himself to stay calm, but his pulse quickened with possibility.
She couldn’t be. But he, more than anyone, knew that she could. The memory of their night of celebration almost two months ago when he’d lost control and spilled his seed deep inside her. His heart dropped. Their child. Could Isabel be carrying their child? Emotion gripped his chest with an intensity that stunned him. He wanted it with every fiber of his being.
He took a long sip of cuirm, his fingers squeezing the goblet so hard that his knuckles turned white. As casually as he could muster, he asked, “Isabel, do you remember the night after the gathering?”
She looked at him questioningly, her brows a perfect V above her tiny nose. “Of course.”
He held her gaze intently. “Have you had your flux since then?”
She tilted her head, considering. “No, I don’t think so. Why—” She broke off with a sharp intake of breath, and her hand flew over her mouth as understanding dawned. She looked at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “A babe?”
“’Tis possible,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Her hand dropped to cover her stomach. “Dear God, how could I not have guessed? I’ve been so worried about everything else, I never even considered…”
Rory could have put his face in his hands and wept. From joy, that something so precious could have been created from their love. And from regret. I sent her away. I could have lost them both. Never again. He stood up and pulled her into his arms, cradling her gently against him, overwhelmed by what he could have lost,
but had now been returned to him.
“Oh, Rory, I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
He tilted her chin to his, peering deep into tumultuous seas of violet. “What foolishness is this? Why would you be sorry?”
“I know you did not want a child to complicate matters.”
Rory smiled. “A bairn will not complicate anything.” In truth, he could think of nothing more perfect.
“But what of the alliance?”
“There is no longer an alliance with Argyll. I’d decided some time ago that I could not let you go.”
She looked as though he’d handed her the moon. She realized what it could have cost him. “But what of Trotternish?”
Quickly, he explained about the letter he’d received from King James. Rory knew that James would be angry about the Mackenzie’s death, but the king would not fault him for killing a man who’d attacked him in his own bedchamber.
A huge smile spread across her face. “So my letter to Queen Anne helped?”
“Coming on the heels of my letter to the king, I’m sure it did not hurt. Although with what you’ve brought from your uncle, I think James would have been persuaded to our way of thinking in any event.” He looked deep into her eyes. “So you see, I knew before you’d arrived that you would not betray me.” He smiled. “Not that I’m not pleased with what you brought me. But I’d already made plans to come after you.”
“You did?”
“I wrote to your father. In fact, I think we can expect him soon.”
“My father, here?”
“I hoped to persuade him that a marriage, a real marriage this time, would be to his benefit. I believe I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
Her eyebrows drew tight together. “What kind of offer?”
“I offered him my support against the Mackenzies in his defense of Castle Strome.”
She threw her arms around his neck. “You agreed to do that for me?”
Rory grinned. “In truth, ’twas not a very difficult decision. The Mackenzies are no friends of ours, especially today. And with your letter, I may have some influence with the king soon.”