Other than an occasional banality about her meal or other meaningless pleasantry, Rory paid her no attention and spoke mostly with his men at mealtimes. Occasionally, she would spy Alex sitting with the other warriors, watching her. As if understanding her loneliness, he would give her an encouraging lopsided grin. But even Alex assiduously avoided long conversations. Today was no different.
Rory’s courteous indifference frustrated her. Especially tonight, when every nerve ending in her body seemed set on edge. Still, sitting so close to him, her body tingling with awareness, Isabel kept thinking of the night to come. She peeked up at him from under her lashes. What would it be like? Would he have care for her innocence? Her thoughts stole to his impressive physique. His size intimidated her; she hoped he would not crush her with all that muscle. Yet as her questions multiplied, Rory seemed entirely unaffected. There was no indication that he anticipated tonight more than any other.
He must have felt the weight of her eyes on him, as finally he turned and addressed her. “Are you finding everything to your liking?” He paused significantly. Isabel blushed to have been caught so obviously staring. “In the new tower?” He finished with a smile, clearly amused by her discomfort.
“Yes, the bed is—” She stopped, mortified. Her cheeks burned. “I mean, the room is delightful.”
Something flickered in his gaze. “I’m glad you are pleased,” he said. Before she could respond, he turned back to Alex.
Somehow, she made it through the evening meal. For once, she was grateful that he ignored her. Her mind was racing in every direction, and she feared a repeat of her earlier blunder.
With Bessie’s help, Isabel donned a beautifulnight railof ivory silk, chosen by her uncle for this very occasion. Not surprisingly, there wasn’t much to it. The thin swath of cloth clung to all her womanly parts in a manner that left little to the imagination. Isabel felt a bit like a trussed-up goose, but she set aside her qualms and allowed Bessie to fuss over her.
After some uncomfortable last-minute explanations from Bessie that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time, Isabel was alone. She slid under the covers and waited.
And waited.
For hours, Isabel lay in bed clutching the coverlet to her chin, her nerves as sharp as the edge of a blade. Her heart pounded frantically. Her ears strained to hear the sound of booted footsteps from the corridor. But it was a sound that never came.
Eventually, it became painfully obvious that he did not intend to join her.
More disappointed than she wanted to acknowledge, Isabel blew out the single taper next to the big bed and slept. Restlessly.
Seven long nights later, Rory stared at the woman sleeping not five feet away and told himself he was being ridiculous. One wee lass should not keep him from his bed.
He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since he’d ordered her to his room. Isabel had invaded his room, his bed, and his thoughts. The room even smelled of her, enticing him with the sweet, seductive scent of lavender. Night after night, he found himself sitting by the fire, drinking whisky by the bottle to dull the edge of desire, gazing at the comfortable bed, and devising reasons why he should not sleep there.
Last night had nearly proved too much. She’d kicked off the covers in her sleep and lay on her side with her arm stretched above her head, her full breasts high and beckoning. Rory could see every curve of her lush figure, clad only in a wispynight rail.He ached to test the soft roundness of her breast in his palm, to run his hands along the curve of her hips and bottom, and to wrap those long slim legs around his waist as he plunged inside her. The images haunted him all night—it had proved to be a very long night.
But not tonight. Tonight he was sleeping in his own bed.
Rory removed his shirt and plaid, placed them over the chair, and, careful not to disturb her, slid under the coverlet. He held perfectly still. When nothing happened, he relaxed. Grinning, he called himself a fool. What had he thought? That lying beside her would be a temptation too impossible to resist? Ridiculous. He closed his eyes and slept.
The soft rays of morning teased his eyelids. But Rory didn’t want to wake up; he was too damn comfortable. He snuggled closer to the smooth silk coverlet. He buried his nose deeper into the soft spray of lavender that filled his pillow and inhaled deeply.
His eyes popped open. He didn’t have lavender in his pillows. Nor did he have a silk coverlet. The soft bundle in his arms was not a coverlet, but a scantily clad Isabel. And the lavender wafted from her hair and not from his pillow. It took him a moment to realize that his arm was tucked under her plump breasts, that she had her bottom pressed firmly against his groin, and that he had an erection the size of Mt. Olympus.
The weight of her breasts on his arm was too much. One hand slid up to cup her. He muffled a groan as all that soft, deliciously heavy flesh filled his hand. It felt too damn good. Her nipple hardened in his palm, and Rory ached to rub it between his fingers, to stroke her until she arched against him. She was so warm and soft, so sweetly feminine. And he’d been waiting too long. His hips moved closer, increasing the pressure of her tight bottom pressed against his now throbbing erection.
His little bundle sighed and wiggled mercilessly against him. His body clenched with agony as he thought how easy it would be to grab her hips and ease himself in from behind. He squeezed her a little harder, lifting her breasts together in his palms. The urge for relief roared through him.
Hell.
He quickly unfolded himself from her silken web before he did something he would regret.
Chapter 6
Lips pursed with frustration, Isabel stormed around the spacious bedchamber.
Moving to his chamber in the Fairy Tower was supposed to have solved her problems. But what was the use of sharing his room if he was hardly ever there? He spent just as little time with her as he had before. She’d begun to suspect that he’d moved her only to keep an eye on her.
Over a week in his bed and a month at Dunvegan, and she was no closer to her goal than when she’d first arrived. The MacLeod’s secrets were well hidden. Since her move, she’d conducted a few basic searches of the chamber for the Fairy Flag but didn’t dare attempt more. The MacLeod was suspicious of her enough already.
But the failure to advance her plan was not the only cause of her frustration. Her nervous excitement at the prospect of whatmighthappen once her things were moved to his chamber had been completely unwarranted. It seemed he had no intention of bedding her.
For the first few nights she’d tried to wait up, but sleep appeared before he did. When he did come in, it was in the dead of the night, and by time she woke, he was gone. Until last night, she hadn’t even been certain he slept there. But this morning, she’d woken with a start. Chilled. And with a strange sense of emptiness, as if she missed the comforting shield of his presence. Somehow she’d known he slept beside her. The large indentation in the feather bed next to her confirmed it.
Isabel didn’t know whether to be angry or disappointed by his lack of attention. Probably a little of both. The worst part was that she had nothing to truly be angry for. He treated her with perfect civility. Given the history of their clans and her relationship to Sleat, it could have been much worse. Then why was she so disappointed? Because he’d not taken one look at her and fallen to his knees in besotted supplication as her uncle hoped? After meeting him, she had to laugh at the image, it was so ridiculous. Though the failure to advance her planshouldbe the reason, it was not.
