But when he’d enfolded her in his arms, crushed his lips to hers, run his fingers through the silky thick veil of her unbound hair, and found himself overcome with the heady sweet scent of her, he’d done just that.
At that moment, lost in the fever of their embrace, he had wanted her more than he wanted revenge. And he might have thrown it all away, tossed away his heritage as fast as he could unbelt his plaid, for the moment of sweet pleasure waiting between her slender thighs. The proud heritage that had passed from his father, Tormod, to his elder brother, William. A heritage that had never been meant for Rory, but one he had fully embraced upon the untimely tragic deaths of his brother and his young nephew John.
The welfare of the clan depended on the strength of its chief. In return for their absolute loyalty, the clan expected the chief to protect and to provide. The chief was the leader in war, the holder of land, the judge and jury—with absolute authority over the clan. A chief without honor, a man who was not true to his word, failed his clan.
Rory’s heritage as Chief of the MacLeod was of duty to the clan above all else. Duty above personal desire. The MacLeods had been shamed by the MacDonalds, and he must restore the honor of the clan. He shook his head with disgust. He had nearly forgotten this, until her unconscious plea had broken the spell and brought his responsibilities back to him in full force.
But she played with fire. He’d warned her not to tempt him again. He’d been furious with her, and with himself, for falling into her trap so damn easily, causing him to strike out in a blind rage. And if the look on her face was any indication, his words had found their mark.
His rejection had hurt her. She’d stared at him as if he were a hunter who had just released an arrow straight to her heart. Her anguish had been real.
He pressed his hands against the cold, unbending rock of the stone windowsill. Usually the sea gave him a modicum of peace, but today it deserted him.
As a child, full of the fanciful tales of the bards, he’d imagined that he glimpsed the shimmering scales of mermaid’s tails, theMaighdean na Tuinne,beckoning him from the sun-splayed iridescent sea. Of course, now he realized he had seen only gray seals—not mermaids. How long ago that seemed; he barely remembered the carefree child he’d been before he’d been consumed by responsibility.
A heron dipped in a perfect arch down and up again, clutching a fish in its mouth. Rory savored the sights of nature displayed before him, as he knew that soon the days would shorten and the majestic colors before him would be hidden behind a curtain of gray mist and heavy rain. Summer’s reluctant parting beckoned, its chilling wind breathing down the neck of a still sunny day.
Yet even as he beheld the tranquil roll of the waves climbing and cresting in a perfect, almost musical tempo, he could not rid himself of those luminous violet eyes so filled with pain.
Had she really only been looking for a book?It surprised him to realize how much he wanted to believe her. Perhaps Isabel deserved the benefit of the doubt.
He rubbed his unshaven chin thoughtfully. He’d never considered a learned wife but found that he liked the idea. It bespoke a certain fortitude. He was the first of his clan to have had the benefit of a university education. Reading was a passion and his one escape—other than the passion of a good woman. Rory was quite proud of the depth of his library and made new acquisitions whenever and wherever he traveled. There was more depth to Isabel than he’d expected.
He moved away from the window and strode purposefully toward the basin on the other side of the room. The cold water splashed unmercifully against his skin, shocking the weariness from his face. He dressed quickly and unthinkingly, the complicated wrap of the plaid now routine after years of practice.
Perhaps he’d bring her a book, then. On his last trip to London a few years back, he had purchased the recently published epic poem by Edmund Spenser,The Faerie Queene.A romance of King Arthur and his glorious faerie queen, an open allusion to Queen Elizabeth, told in the tradition of Virgil. It was one of his favorites, and somehow he knew instinctively that Isabel would love it. It reminded him of her:
Her angel face,
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place;
Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace.
Having completed his morning dress with a quick tieback of his hair, Rory headed to the library. The sooner he took care of this the better. Last night was best put to rest.
Ironically, in her search for Rory, Isabel discovered the very library that she’d set out for last night, on the second floor of the Fairy Tower. The room was small but charming. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the tapestry-covered walls, large windows provided abundant natural light, and comfortable chairs surrounded a large, highly polished wooden table.
Margaret, looking no bigger than a child, was seated at the large table and obviously engrossed in a matter of some import, for she did not notice Isabel standing at the door. Isabel watched with amusement as Margaret repeatedly tapped the feather of the quill against her temple, immersed in thought. Her nose wrinkled and her lips quirked perplexingly as she studied the rolls.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Isabel said.
Margaret lifted her shiny blond head, the flowing curls neatly tied back in a long braid. The black patch hid most of her features, but not the shaky smile of greeting. “Good morning, Isabel. What a wonderful surprise. And in truth I’d welcome anything to get me away from these accounts.” She pushed back from the table with obvious delight. “My head hurts from the strain of trying to keep all these numbers straight. I must admit, I find this the most tiresome and difficult part of my duties since Geoffrey, the old seneschal, passed on. We have not been able to find a replacement as yet, and I have been forced to keep the accounts. And with Michaelmas approaching, the accounts for this year must be finished before I can begin the accounts for next year.”
Isabel moved around the table to look at the ledgers. She turned to Margaret with an embarrassed but understanding smile. “I hope you do not consider this too forward, but I could help you with the accounts.” Somewhat abashed, she elucidated, “At court, I discovered that I have a rather peculiar skill for such work. I see sums clearly in my head without much thought. Queen Anne often had me look over her own household accounts. Truth be told, you’d be doing me a favor. It would bring me pleasure to have something to occupy my time.”
Margaret looked at her as though she had suddenly grown wings and a halo. She grinned, and deep dimples like Rory’s appeared in her face. “You are not serious. You wish to do this drudgery? You would be the first in this keep for as long as I can remember. We have always struggled to find someone to manage the accounts. James, the bailiff, can help you with the rents from the lands and livestock, and Deidre can help you with the expenditures for food, supplies, and visitors this year. Are you sure you would not mind?”
“Consider it done.” Isabel smiled broadly.
Margaret was so excited, she jumped out and gave Isabel a quick hug before seeming to realize what she had done. “Forgive me.” She blushed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Isabel dismissed her embarrassment with a smile. “Nonsense. I told you I’ve always wanted a sister.” She took Margaret’s hands in hers. “And now I have one.”
Margaret beamed.
Alex stuck his head in the door. “What are you two conspiring about?” he asked, his voice laden with exaggerated concern.
