What truly frustrated her was her own lack of indifference. The more she had learned of him and observed him, the more she had come to realize that Rory MacLeod was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She was attracted to him, she admired him, and it pained her to realize she’d made no impression on him at all.
Not only did he avoid her at night, he avoided her the rest of the time as well. If she did happen to see him during the day, after a few polite inquiries, he removed himself.
Being left on her own most of the day wasn’t aiding her in her quest at all. What had become painfully clear was that she could not succeed on her own. She needed him to confide in her. Earning his trust, to allay that suspicion, was what she must concentrate on. But how could she when he seemed determined to keep distance between them?
Indeed, Isabel felt less like a wife and more like a temporary guest. If she was to have any hope of success, she would need to change that. She must take the reins of the household by securing the keys that he’d neglected to give her after their handfast. She sat on the edge of the bed to think, twirling a long strand of silky hair through her fingers. She had to insert herself in his life whether he liked it or not.
She looked around at the stark masculine chamber.
What better place to start than with his room?
She would ask Rory for leave to add some womanly touches to his room, and then perhaps she would bring up the matter of the chatelaine’s keys.
Isabel stood up with a new sense of resolve and headed to the door. She had every right to make her request. Shewasthe new mistress, after all, even if no one was treating her as such.
She hadn’t taken two steps down the corridor when she heard a voice behind her.
“Good day, mistress. May I be of some help?”
Since she’d moved to the Fairy Tower, someone always seemed to be watching her the moment she stepped outside the door. Isabel turned to find Deidre right on her heels. Deidre was short and round, with hair so white, it seemed that it must have always been that way. Since that first morning, Deidre was one of the few friendly faces around this dismal place. The others being Colum the cook, Alex, and Bessie.
At first she’d befriended the crusty old cook because she thought it might help explain why she was spending so much time in the kitchens. But that was not why she kept returning. Bessie, Colum, and Deidre were comfortable to be around since she was used to spending her days with servants. Before her time at court, it was all she’d known.
“No, no, I’m just looking for Rory. I need to speak with him about a matter of some import. Do you know where I can find him?”
“By this time he is already outside training with the men.”
“Thank you, Deidre, I will look for him in the courtyard.”
“Very well, if there is nothing else, then.”
Deidre turned and continued about her business—assuming that her business included shadowing Isabel until she left the building.
As Isabel headed down the stairs, she considered her treatment this past month by the MacLeods. By and large, the clan had taken its lead from Rory. They were polite but distant. Considering the history of feuding between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods, it was more than she’d expected. The feud might have nominally ended with their handfast, but only time would heal the damage wrought by years of bloodshed, and Isabel did not have that particular luxury.
Initially, being left to her own devices was fine, as it had provided her an easy opportunity to explore the old keep and search for the flag. But it was also lonely, reminding her distinctly of home. Left with nothing to do, she grew bored, and the days moved slowly.
By now, she’d hoped to be well on the way to having Rory fall in love with her. Men were simple creatures, the ladies at court had assured her. Isabel would compliment him on his prowess as a warrior, admire his superior intellect, and remark upon his handsome countenance. For good measure, she would act her most charming, agreeable, complacent self—giving him nothing to object to. Simple. But all the planning in the world was useless if they never spent any time together.
That was about to change.
Isabel stepped into the courtyard from the darkness of the great hall, squinting from the sharp contrast of bright sunlight. The unusually dreary weather that had descended over Dunvegan since her arrival was readily forgotten with the promise of a beautiful summer day. The full bloom of August was evidenced all around by the lush green of the grasses and the vivid saturated color of the wildflowers that peppered the coastal hilltops. A sprinkling of woolly clouds enhanced the crystal perfection of the crisp blue sky.
She sighed, letting the fresh air flow over her body. The salt from the sea spray tickled her nose as she inhaled deeply.
Already her heart felt lighter.
Surprisingly, there were few people about. Two women were hauling water to the keep from the main well near the sea-gate, but otherwise the courtyard appeared deserted.
She looked around for Rory. A great cloud of dust rising near the south side of the courtyard looked promising. As she drew closer, she could hear the sounds of raucous laughter interspersed with the clatter of steel crashing against steel.
As was true of all Highland clans, the MacLeods were clearly divided into two groups: those who fought and those who tilled the land or tended the livestock. Feuding and foraying were a way of life for the warriors of the clan. When idle, they practiced their fighting skills or devised organized trials of strength and skill. As a girl, Isabel had loved to watch the MacDonald warriors go through their exercises. There was nothing quite like watching Highlanders demonstrate their impressive strength and prowess with a claymore.
Isabel turned the corner and stuttered in midstep. The warm salty air heavy with the toil and pungent scent of well-worked bodies enveloped her senses, but it was her eyes that were fixed on the display before her. A group of half-naked men stood in a circle, cheering on a pair of fierce combatants. It wasn’t the lack of clothing that startled her. The MacDonalds also practiced without their saffron shirts on warm days. Rather, it was one broad, tanned, tightly muscled chest in particular.
At the center—figuratively and literally—was Rory MacLeod.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him, mesmerized by the raw masculinity of his bare chest. He could have been cut from stone; there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on him. The sun highlighted the hard, chiseled edges of his muscles. A thin sheen of perspiration made his body glisten like a bronze statue. His shoulders and arms were as thick and hard as granite, tapering to a flat stomach banded in tight layers. Very little hair marred the clean bronzed lines of his broad torso. The tops of his shoulders were burnished red from the sun, and the veins in his thick forearms bulged from the exertion of the sword practice.
