In her dreams, her husband did not ignore her.
It was an unusual experience for her. Isabel was not used to complete indifference from men. He was unfailingly polite but distant. And annoyingly inscrutable. It was difficult to believe that this was the man who’d kissed her with such tenderness.
If only she could break through the icy shield he donned when around her and force him to take some notice of her. Not in the reckless way she drove herself to get attention from her family. No, for the first time in her life Isabel wanted a man to notice her as a woman.
That was going to be a challenge, if today was any indication.
In between the steady stream of well-wishers and the MacLeod’s odd question—“More beef, Isabel?” or “Would you care for some wine, Isabel?”—she’d managed to count every window in the great hall. Twelve. Though it was a stretch to consider the narrow slits in the ten-foot-thick wall windows. It took a determined beam of sunlight to penetrate such a formidable impediment. Instead, the large room was lit by candles and the smoky glow of peat from the fireplace.
The walls were sparsely decorated with only the occasional threadbare tapestry of no great artistry, but hung prominently on the wall behind the dais was an ominous-looking three-foot-longclaidheamhmór.The enormous two-handed cross-hilted sword looked far too unwieldy to be of use, but it still gave her pause.
Did it belong to him?
If anyone could lift that thing, he could. Isabel stole a glance at the man sitting beside her. She noticed the way his shoulders and arms strained against the fine linen of his shirt. The knowledge settled low in her belly. Rory MacLeod was the most physically imposing man she’d ever met. Never had she been so aware of a man’s size and strength. Though it would be impossible not to be. He dominated the space beside her.
His heavily muscled shoulders were so wide, they brushed against hers each time he reached to take a piece of beef or a bit of bread smeared with butter from their shared trencher, sending a thrill shooting through her. Even the air seemed filled with his distinctive masculine scent of sea and heather, an alluring mix that seemed to permeate her skin and sink deep into her consciousness. She found herself responding to his raw masculinity, not with fear, but with something akin to excited curiosity. She thought of touching him. To see whether he was as hard and strong as he looked. She shook off the strange yearning. What was the matter with her?
While they dined, she’d also had the opportunity to observe him with his clan. It was clear from the countless men who’d approached the dais to offer their congratulations with honest admiration and pride that he was both revered and loved. With his men, he had an easygoing banter that was friendly and relaxed.
The complete antithesis of how he was with her.
Stymied by his monosyllabic replies, she had finally given up and turned to Alex for relief from her boredom. At least Alex was welcoming. But for some reason, his handsome face did not stir her senses in the same way as his brother’s. Nonetheless, Isabel relaxed a bit and found herself responding to his charming compliments with a smile.
After a few minutes, she turned to glance at Rory, expecting him to be ignoring her. Instead, she was surprised to find him watching her.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Isabel?”
She was taken aback by the chill in his voice. If she didn’t know better, she could almost think he sounded jealous.
His blue eyes had turned black. The man could melt rock, Isabel thought as she squirmed under his intense glare. She would give her eyeteeth to know what he was thinking. Determined not to be intimidated by his forbidding demeanor, she ignored the sudden nervousness twisting in her stomach.I have done nothing wrong,she reminded herself.
Not yet, at least.
She lifted her chin, her gaze leveled unflinchingly to his. She spoke lightheartedly, as if she had noticed nothing amiss. “Yes, your brother is most kind. We have been discussing your talented pipers. They are wonderful.”
He waited a long time to respond. When he did, she wondered if she’d only imagined his anger. “The MacCrimmons have played for the MacLeods for many years,” he said. His expression was perfectly bland as he toyed with the heavily encrusted stem of his silver goblet, the pads of his fingers gently grazing over the smooth ridges of decorative relief. There was something deeply sensual about his movements, and she couldn’t look away, imagining his fingers on her. Would he touch her with such care? A shiver of awareness slithered down her spine. The sound of his voice shook her from her musings. “They are the best pipers in Scotland,” he finished.
Isabel heard the note of pride in his voice. The Isles were the last bastion of the Gaelic culture that had flourished under the Lords of the Isles. Pipers and bards were deeply important to the preservation of that tradition.
He started to turn back to the conversation with her father on his right. Not wanting the conversation to end so soon, Isabel asked, “Who is that charming child over there?”
Rory turned in the direction she indicated, and a broad smile spread across his face. Her heart stopped. If she had thought him handsome in his severity…the transformation was dazzling. The small lines around his eyes deepened. Entrancing dimples appeared at each side of his mouth. Bessie would say the fairies had kissed him. Perhaps the stories of his fairy blood were not that far off. His attractiveness certainly had a magical quality.
But it was the softness in his eyes when he looked at the little girl that struck her. He had a genuine fondness for the child. Isabel realized it was the first time she’d seen honest emotion behind that stoic reserve.
Unaware of his effect on her, he continued. “Ah, wee Mary MacLeod is already something of a legend around these parts. She has a talent that is quite rare for one so young. You will enjoy her stories.”
“The child is a bard?” Isabel asked with genuine surprise.
“Mary is but five, but already she shows great promise. The clan is enchanted by her youth, and she often entertains us with her poems.”
“I can see it is not only the clan who is enchanted,” Isabel teased, and was rewarded with a boyish grin that caused her heart to beat erratically. “You like children?”
He seemed puzzled by her question. “Of course,” he replied, as if there could be no other answer.
But Isabel knew there was. Not all men were comfortable around children, and few showed such obvious delight. She knew that only too well.
He never looked up when she entered.
