11
Earlier
Isabel McIves closed the chamber door softly behind her, turning the key in the lock.
“Well?” her husband stated as he lounged on the bed, his bare chest visible.
Her body heated at the sight, and she tugged on her cloak, letting it fall to the floor. “It worked well.”
He grinned, and she returned it, nearly giddy with excitement. They both had thought that this was nothing more than another dreary visit with a clan that wanted their alliance. The McIves were a strong clan, one that was on the verge of being one of the great ones in all of Scotland.
But there were a few that stood in their way, one being the McGregors.
Why were they in the McPherson keep then? Because her husband knew that McGregor had been the laird up until a month past and now that the woman was Lady of the Keep, it would be easy to turn her against McGregor and convince her to fight with them.
What Isabel hadn’t realized was that Erik would be roaming the halls of the keep. Her former love, the boy that grew into a man.
Her husband, Robert, patted the bed next to him. “Come here, Wife.”
Isabel shed her nightgown before climbing in next to him, letting him put his arm around her. “He doesnae seem tae have forgotten me,” she replied, her fingers sifting through the hair on her husband’s chest.
He chuckled, his hand pressing into the skin on her hip. “I doubt anyone could forget ye, lass.”
She smirked. The bruises had been her idea, a way to soften Erik’s heart to her plight so that they could use him as a pawn in their plan.
“I have tae try harder,” she mused.
He bit her shoulder, sending the delicious shiver of want through Isabel’s body. Her tastes had changed since she had last seen Erik, and with Robert’s teaching, she had learned more about using pain with pleasure. The bruises on her arms were a result of their lovemaking, not of him injuring her, but they had proved their worth.
Now she had to make certain that he moved to believe her so that they could set him up for the fall that they had planned to do with their own warriors. Isabel sighed as Robert’s hand slid lower, stroking her skin as only he knew how to do. Erik had been her lifeline for her younger years, protecting her from her father, and she protecting him from his. They had shared her first kiss, and he had been the first one to tell her that he loved her.
He thought he was the first for other things, but she had learned from the tavern women how to ensure that no man knew she had lost her maidenhead. Isabel had played that to her advantage more than once, and not just with Erik.
Had she loved him? Yes, she had loved Erik. He had been a strong man, a good lover, and someone that had been there in the earlier years.
But he was not her future. She wanted more. She didn’t want to be stuck in the village that she had grown up in, to be content with being a warrior’s wife and giving him a passel of bairns while she lived in a hut.
No, Isabel had wanted more, and luck had been on her side the day she had crossed paths with the McIves laird in more ways than one. He fed her bloodthirsty nature. They both had designs on becoming something great, to be etched in the names of the greats of Scotland.
This was their start.
Isabel rolled over and straddled her husband, feeling his need pressed against her arse. “Do ye still want him tae take the fall?” he said softly, his hands running up and down her sides.
“Aye,” she said, her eyes flashing with excitement. While she would feel a twinge of sadness for what she was going to do to Erik, it was needed if they were going to gain the loyalty of the McPherson laird. “Tonight, at the feast. I will work on him some more.”
Robert’s smile was slow. “And I will set the plans in motion.”
Isabel leaned down, biting Robert’s lower lip lightly. “Tell me ye love me.”
He gripped her hips tightly, guiding her over his swollen member and impaling her with one swift motion. “Nay,” he growled, his eyes darkening with intensity.
She gasped at the sensation of his fingers digging into her skin, how he filled her completely and like no man ever had before.
“Tell me,” she said softly, raking her nails down his chest.
“Nay,” he repeated, arching his hips.
Isabel started to move against him, arching her back and meeting him thrust for thrust. “Ye will tell me.”
