Ian snorted at her understatement. “Well, Isabel, I do not envy your decision. Either way, you will anger a powerful man. I must admit that I have found much to admire in your handfast husband over these last few days. He is a strong chief, and he has the love and respect of his clan. But mark this: Whatever you decide, be very cautious with our uncle. I think he has something else planned that he has not told us about. Our father suspects Sleat may actually be in league with the Mackenzies. Although our uncle has promised to take our side in the dispute with the Mackenzies over Strome Castle if you are successful, Father doubts that Sleat will keep his word.”
Isabel was taken aback. “Why? What reason does he have to suspect treachery from Sleat?”
Ian sobered. “Father was furious when he found out about the Mackenzies’ attack on you. He blames himself.”
“Why should he do that?”
“He told Sleat of your letter, where you mentioned the MacLeod’s delay in Edinburgh. He believes that Sleat told the Mackenzie.”
Was that why Rory had questioned her? It took Isabel a moment to digest the fact that a seemingly innocuous comment in her letter could have led to the attack. “I don’t believe it,” she said dumbly.
“The Mackenzie’s rage at our family and the MacLeods is so strong after the death of his son, Father believes that even if Sleat were inclined to do so, our uncle could no longer rein in the vengeful Mackenzie.”
At the mention of the Mackenzie, Isabel shuddered. The old chief had watched her closely over the last few days, and she did not trust him. No matter what Rory claimed about the sanctuary of the gathering, she suspected that Mackenzie was planning something. But so far, he’d done nothing more than stare at her with the same flat eyes of his son. Except that his eyes were glazed with something more—the promise of vengeance.
Ian continued, “Even now, Father seeks an alternative alliance to wage our defenses against the Mackenzies.”
Isabel couldn’t believe her ears. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. She tried to contain her excitement, asking cautiously, “Do you think Father would accept the MacLeod’s help?”
“I’m almost certain of it. Could you convince him to do so?”
Isabel grinned. “I think so.”
Ian met her smile with his own. “It would be a solution to our problems.”
Almost all her problems. She still needed to find a way to return Trotternish to the MacLeods and forestall her uncle’s plan to tell all. “Don’t say anything to Father yet. I will write as soon as I know something definitive.”
“Good luck, Bel. For your sake as well as ours, I hope this works.”
The opportunity for further conversation was lost by the excitement surrounding the start of the caber toss.
But Isabel didn’t mind. Her conversation with Ian had lifted a huge burden off her. Everything, it seemed, was falling into place.
It was well past midnight by the time Rory made his way up the long, winding staircase to their bedchamber. The celebration that followed the MacLeod victory was still going strong, but he had other spoils to reap. Entering the room, he closed the door firmly behind him. Feet spread, folding his arms forbiddingly across his chest, he grinned. “I’m ready to collect my reward.”
Isabel, who’d retired a short time ago, turned from her seat at the table where she’d been brushing her hair to study him blocking the door. He loved the way the candlelight caught the flecks of gold in the flaming locks, tumbling around her bare shoulders in a glossy cape. His body heated as his eyes traveled over her naked arms, shoulders, and décolletage. She’d removed the gown she wore for the celebration, leaving only a thin sark between him and naked perfection. He felt a surge of masculine pride as her eyes flowed across his body—not bothering to hide her appreciation—and lingered on his crossed arms.
“I believe you’ve already had your reward,” she said primly, but Rory caught the gleam of naughtiness in her gaze.
“One wee kiss is not the reward I had in mind,” he said, making a move toward her. Laughing, she slipped past his reach, darting to the other side of the bed. He caught a lust-inducing glimpse of a slim bare leg. “Don’t play games with me, Isabel,” he warned.
“I thought you were good at games,” she taunted, leaning across the bed. “Did you not win nearly every contest you entered?”
His gaze fastened on her lush breasts slung forward, swaying enticingly. Blood surged to his already hard cock when he thought of the way they’d bounce as she moved on top of him, riding him.
He moved one way, and she moved the other. When he tried to slide around the bed, she dove across, again slipping past his grasp. “You’ll pay for your insolence, wench,” he threatened.
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I’m counting on it.”
She was quick, he’d give her that. But he was done giving chase. He faked to the right, she went left to slide across the bed, and he pounced, pinning her underneath him.
“Captured,” he said with a wicked grin.
She made a halfhearted attempt to push him off. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and her breathing quick from her exertions. Would he ever tire of looking at her? “Mercy?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Never.”
He tsked. “Oh, lass, you try my patience.” He clasped her hands above her head, giving him full access to the length of her body. She wiggled, but he had no intention of letting her go. He lowered his head, covering her mouth with his in a long, hot kiss as his hands began to caress the delectable curves of her body. Slowly, he lifted the hem of her sark, sliding his hand up her velvety thigh. He could feel her heart race as he brushed his finger over her heat. Her response to him never ceased to amaze him; he felt how she quivered, waiting for his touch. He knew how she would explode almost the moment that he stroked her.
