“Of another alliance.”
Isabel’s heart dropped. She waited for Bessie to explain.
“The MacLeod was rumored to have been negotiating an alliance with the Campbells.”
Her heart was pounding fast, but she forced herself to sound nonchalant as she dismissed Bessie’s concerns. “Oh, I’m sure that is all in the past.”
But what if it wasn’t?
A sick feeling settled in her stomach. Had she upset his plans for another alliance?
It was all she could think of as she approached the hall. Did that explain his reticence? Was he enamored of someone else? The thought disturbed her more than she wanted to acknowledge.
Isabel paused as yet unnoticed at the entrance. A sea of swarming faces assaulted her resolve, causing her a long moment of trepidation. Suddenly, she felt naked and exposed. Wearing this dress no longer seemed like such a good idea. Her confidence faltered.
Gathering the slippery reins of her courage, she took in the achingly familiar scene. The great hall overflowed with boisterous men and women enjoying the easy camaraderie of friends and family. Everywhere she looked, people were laughing, drinking, feasting, and swapping stories. The scene that unfurled before her presented a poignant picture of ordinary Highland life.
A sharp stab of pain in her chest recalled her lifetime longing to be a part of such ordinariness. But it was the same at Dunvegan as it was at Strome. She was alone, an outsider. She would never be a part of this particular happy scene of domestic tranquillity, and she’d do better to remember that. But perhaps if she succeeded, she could find such happiness at Strome.
With renewed determination, she lifted her chin and started toward the dais.
For the first time in over a month, Rory was enjoying himself. Now that Isabel understood what he intended to do, he could relax. He would treat her with the respect that was due his wife, but there need be no pretense of anything more between them. In fact, he was fairly sure she’d do her best to steer clear of him. Of course, he would keep her close until he could assuage his suspicions, but perhaps now he could even sleep in his bed again.
Well satisfied, he took a long drink ofcuirm,sat back in his chair and smiled, relieved to have taken control of the situation and put the matter decisively behind him.
His contentment, however, did not last long. Rory noticed the disturbance in the hall immediately. He glanced up just as Isabel began her regal procession toward him. It was impossible not to admire the pride and strength in her carriage. She moved with such grace, she practically floated across the floor.
All of a sudden he felt his body go rigid. His eyes locked on a superfluity of pale ivory skin.What in the bloody hell was she wearing?
Unlike her previous gowns, this gown no longer teetered on the edge of indecent, itwasindecent, and left very little to the imagination. The bodice dipped low, exceedingly low, and the thin silken fabric clung to every delectable inch of her womanly charms. His reaction was visceral. Every muscle in his body clenched with awareness and restraint, as he fought to control both the anger and the desire that her appearance wrought within him.
A multitude of conflicting emotions raged through him: He wanted to leap up and cover her, he wanted to pull her into his arms, he wanted to order her to never wear that dress in public again, and he wanted to worship her like the goddess she evoked. Mired in a tempest of bodily conflict, Rory was certain of one thing: If she ever donned that gown again, he would rip it from her body. To hell with the consequences.
He wanted her. He could not deny it. Nor apparently was he alone in his desire. Rory tore his eyes from Isabel and glanced about the room at the gawking stares of his clansmen. Even Alex could not look away. A violent surge of possession took hold of him. He felt a strange primal craving to exert complete dominion, a feeling so alien that it shook him. She did not, and could not, belong to him.
God’s wounds,was it her intent to drive him mad with longing?
His eyes narrowed.Yes.After what he’d told her today, she was trying either to not so subtly change his mind or to rub his nose in his losses. Neither sat well with him.
What was her game?
Rory’s fingers clenched the stem of his goblet. He held his face impassive as she moved to stand before him; he felt the pulse tick in his neck as he fought to douse the fiery blast of anger. He thought a bit of her bravado slipped as his eyes scanned the length of her body, lingering on her breasts. Good, she should be nervous. If he were any other man, he’d take what she offered.
But he would not fall prey to such tactics.
“Good evening,” she said, bowing slightly, her breasts nearly spilling forth from their delicate confinement.
His breath seized, emitting a harsh sound reminiscent of a hiss. He could see the damn pink edges of her nipples, perched invitingly only inches from his mouth. His cock rose in appreciation as he imagined running his tongue along the delicate ridge before slipping the hardened tip in his mouth and sucking until she writhed in fervent entreaty. Isabel had a body built for sexual fantasies. And the knowledge that he was not the only one engaging in those fantasies right now enraged him beyond all endurance. By all that was holy, this woman had pushed him too far.
Her cheeks turned pink as she tried circumspectly to adjust her gown.
When the bolt of lust dissipated, Rory saw red. He’d had enough. No wife of his would flaunt herself in such a manner. The ripe fullness of her breasts, the narrow circle of her waist, the slim curve of her hips, and the soft pink of her nipples were not for public display. She belonged to him—for now, at least. And he would not share.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she offered. “It took me some time to get dressed.”
Without a word, he stood up, took her arm, and unceremoniously led her from the room. Only when they were out of earshot of the clan did he respond. “I don’t think you’ve finished.”
“What do you mean?”
