Isabel had brought laughter back to Dunvegan.
She’d given him so much, but still he could not give her what he knew she wanted. He’d purposefully kept a tight rein on his growing affection over the past few months, not wanting to give her false hope. He knew how much his reluctance to talk about the future pained her. He wanted to reassure her, but how could he when he couldn’t reassure himself?
Thus far, his attempts to find alternative means to sway the king had proved fruitless. He was no closer today than he was that first night to finding a way to avoid the alliance with Argyll. But how could he send her away? With each day that passed, their attachment deepened.
If there was a way to hold on to her, he would find it.
He reached for Isabel and pulled her against him without care for such a public display. His fingers found her chin and tilted up her face so that she could look straight into his eyes. “Isabel, I don’t know what to say.” He paused, at a loss how to put to words what he felt. “You have given me the greatest gift. You have returned my sister. Completely. You have my eternal gratitude and devotion.”
He dropped his head, his lips finding hers in a gentle caress. Oblivious to the crowd surrounding them, Rory tightened his hold, pressing his body close to her curves, seeking that perfect fit he knew would mold them together. It was so much better naked, skin to skin, but this would have to do—for now.
His chest swelled to bursting even as he touched the softness of her lips beneath his. How he loved to taste her. His mouth moved over hers in a seductive dance. Her lips parted, and he slid his tongue deep in her mouth, savoring her sweetness. His fingers stroked the ivory smoothness of her cheek.She is so soft and desirable,he thought. He felt the instinctive press of her hips against his heavy loins and knew he had to stop.
Regretfully, he lifted his head and said hoarsely, “We will finish this later.” He fought to control his immediate response to her, yet still he stiffened like a lad with the merest touch. As much as he’d like to toss her over his shoulder and take her upstairs like one of his pillaging ancestors, it would have to wait. There was a wedding feast to be had.
And later, they would share their own private celebration.
Chapter 18
A short two weeks later, Isabel stood beside Rory at the top of the sea-gate stairs, welcoming the clans gathering at Dunvegan for the noontide feast to launch the Highland gathering. Gowned in a simple but elegant yellow silk day dress, Isabel felt every inch the proud lady of the castle. Only the anxious twisting of her hands betrayed her nervousness at confronting her family for the first time in over nine months.
The castle itself was bustling with energy and excitement. The lilting notes of the pipes beckoned the ear while the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat beguiled the nose. The Highlanders swarming the castle reacted with the expected exuberance: When not feuding, feasting and gaming were undoubtedly what a Highland warrior loved best. Most of the clans had arrived earlier and were already enthusiastically partaking of the renowned MacLeod hospitality in the great hall. If she listened closely, Isabel would undoubtedly hear the clanking sound of flagons slamming on the tables, demanding replenishment.
Amid the celebrating, her heart beat nervously as she watched her family slowly make their way up the sea-gate stairs.
They had arrived.
She fought to control the steady stream of high notes in her voice betraying her nervousness. “Welcome to Dunvegan, Father, Uncle. I trust your journey was uneventful.”
“Quite uneventful, Isabel. It is an uncommonly pleasant spring. You look well. Your time at Dunvegan has agreed with you?” Her father kissed her cheek politely, his gaze flickering pointedly over Rory’s hand resting possessively at her waist.
“Very well, Father,” she murmured, stifling the joy that rose unbidden to her face by looking down at the tips of her yellow slipper-clad feet, lest her emotions be displayed for all to see. She hoped she was imagining her uncle’s glare fixed on her pink cheeks.
No such luck.
“You lookverywell, niece—such a becoming rosiness to your cheeks. I feared, from the one short note that I received from you, to find you exhausted from the many tasks that keep you so well occupied. Glengarry and I have been quite concerned about you, yet here you are obviously thriving in your new home. And from the satisfied look of MacLeod here, it appears that your handfast agrees with you both. Such an inspired custom is handfasting, having a year and a day to decide whether a permanent arrangement is desirable. Never know what can happen in a year.” He paused dramatically.
Isabel fought to control her temper at the slight to Margaret. Rory dropped his hand from her waist. With a surreptitious peep from beneath her lashes, she detected the inflexibility in his square jaw and the slight muscle twitch on his lower cheek, nearly imperceptible signs of anger that she would not have noticed nine months ago. Isabel knew him well enough now to realize that he itched to attack Sleat for his crass reminder, but Rory would never snap at bait dangled by her uncle.
Instead of the anger Sleat sought, Rory smiled. “I believe my sister made a similar observation just the other day. Though she did remark how long a year could drag on.”
Sleat’s face turned red as he took Rory’s meaning. Isabel fought the urge to giggle. Sleat turned to her with a sharp look. “I trust you havefoundeverything you were searching for here at Dunvegan, Isabel?”
His emphasis was not lost on her. So much for biding his time and waiting until they were alone. Obviously, Sleat was not fooled by the short note she sent him with the invitation, pretending not to understand his request for a detailed report. “I findeverythingmuch to my liking, Uncle.” She glanced meaningfully to Rory. “I’m sorry to have worried you, but I have been quite busy the last few months with my duties at the castle and organizing the gathering. I’m sure over the next few days I will have plenty of time to allay your concerns.”
“I’m most anxious to hear all that you have to say. Let us not delay our little reunion for too long.”
Thankfully, further conversation between Rory and Sleat was prevented by the boisterous arrival of her brothers.
“Good to see you, Bel, I’ve missed you.” Ian smiled warmly and swallowed her in a firm brotherly hug.
At only three and twenty, Ian already possessed the formidable height—without the awesome bulk—of their uncle. Each of her brothers was exceptionally handsome, but there was something special about Ian. Of the three, Isabel supposed he most resembled her, albeit a large emerald-eyed version of herself. Their hair was a similar shade, though his was streaked with a wee bit more golden blond than red from the extended periods of time he spent in the sun. His features, although masculine, were classic in their perfection. Fortunately, he was saved from true beauty by a square-clefted chin and a thin puckered scar that ran down the side of his slightly crooked nose. A warrior’s mark that if anything only added to his rugged appeal.
Isabel was taken aback by the genuine emotion she detected behind the undeniable roguish charm. Had he really missed her? Was Rory correct? Had she misread her family’s inattention? Hope soared unfettered in her heart. She’d found the respect and sense of belonging she’d dreamed of her whole life with the MacLeods; perhaps she could find some semblance of closeness with her father and brothers.
“I’ve missed you as well, Ian, missed all of you. We’ve much to discuss, but that will have to wait until after the feast. Come, let’s join the celebration in the great hall.” Noticing the eager faces of her carousing brothers, she chided teasingly, “But have care with the MacLeodcuirm—if you wish to compete at your best tomorrow.”
Laughing at the mock affront in her brothers’ expressions at the slur on their ability to hold their drink, she turned and started toward the great hall, Ian on one side of her and Rory on the other.
