Isabel still held out hope that circumstances might have changed or that her father would have devised another way to repulse the Mackenzies’ attacks on Strome. She frowned. Her father’s failure to respond to her letters, another one written after her attack, concerned her, although the delay of his response helped her justify her reluctance to search the castle further and her failure to seduce Rory as she’d planned.
Isabel glanced down at the piles of parchments before her and returned to her work. She’d spent most of the morning conferring with James, the bailiff, about the rents for the month. She was in the process of making the appropriate notations in the ledgers reflecting the new information when Margaret bounded into the library, laughing excitedly. She had obviously come from outside; her golden curls were hopelessly mussed from the wind, a slight glow of perspiration shone on her brow, and her cheeks bloomed bright pink from exertion. Looking down, Isabel could see the telltale mud splattered on the edge of her gown and slippers. As doggedly determined as the most ambitious mercenary, Isabel knew Margaret had been at it again.
“What are you laughing about on this cold and dreary day?” Peering out the window, Isabel could barely see the loch, as the mist cloaked the castle in a thick, dense fog. Despite the warm fire in the room, she wore an extra plaid about her shoulders.
“You will never guess.” Margaret giggled, pulling up a chair next to Isabel at the table.
Isabel looked at her pointedly, pretending to consider her answer. “Let’s see…you have decided to put that devilish pirate-looking suitor of yours out of his misery and marry him.”
Margaret blushed. “No. Isabel, your teasing is just as bad as Alex’s. You know Colin is only being considerate. He could not be interested in me the way you suggest. Guess again.”
Isabel lifted an eyebrow skeptically. Margaret was quite deluded where Colin’s interests lay. “Hmmm. Let me think. I know, Catriona has decided to defy the kirk and become a nun.” Isabel could joke about Catriona now, since Margaret had assured her that Rory’s involvement with the woman had ended long ago.
Margaret gave a loud guffaw that was decidedly incongruous with her size. “Isabel, you are a wicked one! Imagine that shameless woman forsaking the more earthly pleasures in which she so continuously delights. I know many a wife who would be overjoyed to have that husband-tempting harlot out of the way. All right, I suppose I shall have to tell you, since I can hardly wait for you to guess. I challenged Alex to a contest with the bow and won!”
Isabel threw up her hands and gave her a tight hug. “How wonderful! I told you your skills have improved.” Her lips lifted mischievously. “I’m sure Alex had something to say about your victory. He has been relentless in his horrible teasing about your diligent practice schedule. Serves him right.” She could clearly visualize his bewildered shock. “I remember my brothers’ reactions when I bested them. Their pride always bristled at being set down by amere lass.” She emphasized the last words with mock haughty condescension. “And you being such a spry wee thing—hardly a likely challenger to a fierce, proud MacLeod warrior.”
Margaret’s face flushed crimson with delight, and her uncovered sapphire blue eye sparkled. “Oh, Isabel, you should have seen Alex. The look on his face was worth a king’s ransom. When I hit the target dead center, I thought his eyes might pop from his head. And you should have heard the men who were standing around watching. I’m sure he will not hear the end of this for days.”
“Well done, Margaret. You have earned your victory. Mayhap this will teach Alex to curb his teasing tongue.” They looked at each other, paused for a moment, and broke out in fresh laughter. Alex was a born instigator, a born tease; it was part of his charm, and they relished the lighthearted moments that seemed to come so infrequently. Isabel also suspected that although he might feign indignation, Alex was extremely proud of his sister’s burgeoning accomplishment with a bow. She had progressed at an amazing pace. The change in her was so striking, the new pride and self-confidence she exhibited was incredible to behold. Alex would not begrudge her a win, even at the expense of some relentless ribbing by the clansmen for his foreseeable future.
Rory stood at the doorway watching the two women bursting in great peals of laughter. His chest tightened to see the joy on his sister’s face, joy he had never thought to see again. And he knew Isabel was responsible for the happy return of his lost sister. How could it have happened in such a short time? It seemed that almost overnight, Margaret had discarded the cloak of shame and timorousness that she had worn for the last two years, to revel like a pagan at Beltane in her newfound confidence. Even in the midst of the bleak, frozen darkness of winter, Dunvegan seemed to burst with the warm spring light of their laughter and smiles. He had not realized how much he’d missed the laughter of happy women until it returned so unexpectedly.
His gaze fell on Isabel. She’d also changed, perhaps not as dramatically as Margaret, but just as importantly. The loneliness and vulnerability that hovered around her on her arrival seemed to have faded as she’d carved out a growing place in his family. Knowing that her time at Dunvegan was only brief, it troubled him. In truth, the plan to repudiate the handfast weighed on him heavily.
He would never tire of looking at her. She was exquisite—the way she moved, the way she laughed. Each time he looked at her, her beauty seemed to change. It’s not that she became less beautiful with acquaintance the way some women did. No, he thought, rather the opposite occurred—she grew even more beautiful. With each meeting she became more real, as if aspects of her unique character broke through the mask of perfect features.
He was not the only one to notice her. Rory had caught most of his men casting her admiring glances when they thought he was not watching. It riled him, but he did not attribute it to a lack of loyalty. They were not bloody eunuchs. He could hardly blame them for something that he found impossible to avoid doing himself. Even sitting behind a table stacked with parchment, she was stunning, her shining copper gold hair floating around her shoulders, her ivory skin smudged with black ink, her full lips twitching mischievously, the defiant lift of her chin. Her beauty was magnetic—a rare gift meant to be admired.
His thoughts strayed to this morning, when he’d woken to find her nestled in his arms. His body warmed at the memory. The last month had been exquisite torture. He’d hoped that it would grow easier, that he would get used to sharing a bed, but each day he wanted her more than the day before. Their bodies had found each other and wouldn’t let go. Abstinence was doing crazy things to him; Rory didn’t know how much more he could take.
She was still a maid, but if she pushed him again, he would not be held accountable.
His distrust had eased over the last month, though he still couldn’t forget that she was a MacDonald and the niece of his enemy. He’d watched her closely these past few weeks and was relieved not to find her searching through any more dark corridors. Nor had she made a further attempt to press him. Though sleeping beside her every night was temptation enough.
Rory observed the two young women who seemed as comfortable as two cagey old dowagers who had been friends from the nursery. They still had yet to notice him.
He wasn’t surprised to find the accomplices here in his library. From the stack of ledgers piled next to Isabel and the black smears on her fingertips, he deduced that she had been working on the accounts again. First his room, then his sister, now his accounts. Isabel had woven her way into the fabric of his castle—into his life. Pretty soon she’d be sitting in his chair. The image made him smile.
“What are you two hoydens laughing about?”
Isabel turned in surprise as Rory entered the library. His visits to the library were more infrequent now that she and Margaret had largely taken over the room. Even more unusual was that it was still the middle of the day, a time usually devoted to waging war with his warriors in the courtyard. Apparently, he’d just come from the lists, as he’d yet to wash the toil of his practice from his well-worked body.
Her heart skipped a beat as it always did when she recalled his prowess on the lists. And something warm and tingly curled inside her stomach when she thought of this fierce warrior cradling her gently in his arms.
Isabel’s strong physical reaction to him did not lessen with familiarity. She still had to pull her eyes away from staring at his ruggedly handsome face—still deeply tanned despite the lack of sun these past few months. Nor would she ever get used to the way his very presence filled a room—not just the result of his broad shoulders and powerfully muscled body, but also from the raw heat that seemed to radiate from him.
Since Margaret appeared conveniently mute, reluctant to admit they’d been laughing at Alex, Isabel decided to let him in on the joke. “It seems Margaret has defeated Alex in an impromptu archery contest.”
He turned and looked pointedly at Margaret. Uncertain of his reaction—he was a man, after all—they waited patiently for some sign. Slowly, his lips curved into a devilish grin, his dimples piercing deep craters in his cheeks.
“So Margaret has managed to trap that taunting scoundrel with his own words. I’ve heard his incessant boasting that no matter how diligent the practice schedule, he would never be beaten by a mere lass. Perhaps he’ll learn a valuable lesson: to expect the unexpected. It’s an arrogant mistake to underestimate your opponent—one that can lead to death.” He gazed over Margaret’s head and fixed his gorgeous eyes on Isabel. “I never underestimate my opponent.”
She flushed guiltily. Now why had he said that?
He appeared not to notice her reaction. “Well done, Margaret, you have made me proud. Our braggart brother could stand to be knocked down a peg or two.” Laughing, Rory lifted his sister into a warm, brotherly embrace.
Margaret’s smile seemed to fill her face. “Maybe I’ll be ready to challenge you, Rory, by the time we host the gathering this spring,” she teased.
