Highlander Untamed (36 page)

So nearly a month after the attack, when Rory had recovered enough to attend meetings with his men, Isabel sat down at the desk to compose a carefully worded letter to her uncle and another to the queen. Moving some papers out of the way, she glanced down at a letter Rory had left unfinished only that morning. The name leapt off the page: The Earl of Argyll. She read the words that confirmed her worst fears: “I’m recovered…must see you to discuss the alliance.”

He still intended to go through with the marriage to Elizabeth Campbell. The knowledge stung. But it also made her sure that she was doing the right thing. Repressing the urge to crumple the offending letter into a ball, Isabel carefully put it to the side and began the letters that would garner her precious time.

Though frustratingly weak, after weeks confined to his bed, Rory was anxious to resume at least some of his duties. It was not simply the endless cosseting of women that made him restless, though there was that, but while his wound healed, Rory had begun to implement his plan. It could be a solution to all his problems, one that might enable him to marry Isabel and do his duty to his clan. But even if it failed, Rory knew that he would never be able to let her go. It was time to inform his men of his decision.

Careful not to reopen his wound, Rory slowly made his way down to the library, as Isabel had threatened to do him bodily injury if he attempted to take one step out of the Fairy Tower. But he would not have a council with his men in his bedchamber. Alex, Douglas, and Colin were already waiting for him. Rory was glad to see that Colin had recovered from the injuries he’d suffered at the hands of the Mackenzies. Two of Rory’s other men had not been so lucky, though Rory knew it could have been worse. It was Colin who’d noticed the band of Mackenzies following his chief through the forest. He’d pursued, slowing Rory’s attackers and enabling their escape. Once Rory, Alex, and Isabel had disappeared into the rocks, the Mackenzies had fled, preventing any further injuries.

But it was not the Mackenzies who concerned Rory right now. It was the reaction of his men, as he’d just laid out his plan.

“It is a good plan,” Alex said. “But do you think the king will agree?”

“James has been reluctant to interfere in land disputes between the clans,” Rory said. “But my proposal ceding Trotternish to the MacLeods as part of Isabel’s tocher gives James the opportunity to resolve the matter without actually having to decide the merits of the dispute.”

Alex nodded. “Something the king would rather not do, reluctant as he is to choose between you and Sleat. James will jump at the easy way out. A dowry is perfect.”

“But Sleat will never agree,” Colin pointed out.

Rory shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. By then the idea will already be in James’s head. Also, it was Sleat who proposed Isabel as my bride in the first place. Her tocher was not discussed when we agreed upon a handfast. But a dowry would be expected with marriage.”

“Argyll will be furious if you break the alliance. Can you afford to anger him? You might not find him as ready to intercede on our behalf in the future,” Colin said.

“I will find a way to mollify him. And any loss of Argyll’s support at court will be made up with the support we are gaining,” Rory replied. “Isabel’s friendship with the king and queen is surely as beneficial as Argyll’s influence.” Watching her act as hostess at the Highland gathering had made him realize that having Isabel as a wife would be an asset at court. Rory was only sorry he hadn’t realized it earlier.

Douglas nodded his agreement. “You forget, Colin, I’ve seen her at court. I can assure you that Isabel is well connected in the royal household. She was the favorite of the queen amongst her ladies and a favorite of the king as well.”

“It’s done,” Rory said. “I’ve already written the king.” He paused. “And Argyll.”

He looked around the table, but if his men questioned his actions, they did not say so. His gaze fell on his brother. “If you have something to say, Alex, do so.”

Alex shook his head, but Rory knew what he was thinking. An alliance with Argyll would have all but guaranteed a return of their land. If Rory’s plan didn’t work, the MacLeods would lose Trotternish. In deciding to break the agreement with Argyll before he was sure of the outcome with the king, Rory had put his love for Isabel above the good of the clan.

He would just have to make sure his plan didn’t fail. But right now, if he did not want to collapse before his men, he would return to bed. This short sojourn had sapped his strength. Isabel had been right, though he would never admit it. She already hovered over him as if he could disappear at any time. But Rory understood her fear. And that was what had prompted this council.

He knew Isabel was deeply troubled by his failure to assure her of their future, but as soon as he resolved the situation with Argyll and heard from the king, he would be able to ease the lines of worry marring the smooth skin on her forehead. Soon.

It was a beautiful June morning, the clear, cloudless type of day you dream about in the dark, depressing days of winter. Rory stood near the window in his solar, finishing his morning preparations. Though he’d been out of bed for a few weeks, today he would return to sword training for the first time since his injury, and Isabel was nervous. A roar from the courtyard below drew her attention. Isabel smiled, welcoming the clamorous sounds of life that had been conspicuously absent while Rory recovered.

“Are you sure you are ready to resume training, Rory? It has not even been two months since you were injured,” Isabel asked, unable to conceal the worry in her voice.

Rory laughed and replied teasingly, “You know, I have a healthy new respect for Alex, enduring as he did the constant attentions of
three
of you. I consider myself extremely fortunate that Bessie has been kept busy with Robert’s bairns or I am sure she would have joined you and Margaret in your endless cosseting. If I stay chained to this keep much longer, I may find myself unable to belt my own plaid.”

“Ungrateful wretch!” Her hands landed at her waist. “Margaret and I have allowed you far more latitude than we thought appropriate because we knew you would resist what was good for you at every step. You are a decidedly horrible patient, Rory MacLeod. Need I remind you of the second fever you suffered after getting out of bed too soon last month? And Margaret and I should be the ones complaining for having to look at that black scowl all day long.”

Rory grinned broadly at the mock affront in her posture.

Her heart caught as it always did at the sight of the dimpled grin that now lifted so easily. It was hard to believe that not too long ago he used to be as dour as Margaret’s Viking. Isabel frowned. Something had been bothering Margaret of late. She’d assumed it was the near death of her brother, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Rory almost looked himself, but was he really ready to resume his duties? She admitted that he did look better than he had in weeks, but the signs of his lengthy illness still lingered. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight. Height alone would always make him an imposing man, but the loss of weight created a feral, hungry leanness in him that she could not say was unpleasant or unimpressive. Still powerfully muscled, he seemed more tightly wound. He’d allowed them to trim his hair and shave his beard, and though he’d lost most of the perpetual tan he seemed to have, he would get that back soon enough with the resumption of his normal activities.

The wound in his stomach had healed nicely, thanks to the salves applied by Deidre, but he would bear a large scar where the arrow had torn a gaping hole through his skin. What worried her was that with the resumption of fighting, the wound might reopen.

Cognizant of her concern, Rory turned serious. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I know just how close to death I came. I’ll not chance another fever. But if you’ll recall, you did not question my full recovery last night.”

She blushed at the memory of their passionate lovemaking the night before—the first time they had shared a bed since the night before the accident. “Wretch. How like a man to measure the state of his health by his prowess between the bedsheets. Very well, then, return to your sword practice, but if you do not return in a few hours, I will send Bessie after you.”

“With a threat like that, how can I refuse?” Still smiling, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers in a demanding kiss. Instantly intoxicated by the heady taste of him, she felt her body flood with desire. How she loved to feel his lips move over hers. One night of lovemaking could not douse the powerful fire that flared between them, forged by weeks of abstinence. She felt her blood rush; the warmth spread across her body as his tongue swept her mouth.

There was nothing seductive about this kiss, nothing teasing. His mouth moved urgently over hers, searing her with its heat. He knew what he wanted, and so did she. Their shared intent was obvious as their bodies moved together with wonderful familiarity. Her body pressed taut against his hardness, her soft curves molding to him instantly. She felt the press of his hip to hers. His tongue delved deeper, and his hand moved purposefully toward her bodice.

“Rory, are you coming or not?” Alex shouted from below.

Rory lifted his mouth from hers, sanity slowly returning from beneath the haze of passion. Their breathing slowed. When they had time to consider Alex’s choice of words, they burst out laughing in tandem. Rory lifted his brow in question.

Isabel shook her head no.

She had something very important to do—the quicker it was behind her, the better.

“Later. Tonight we will finish what we started, Rory. The lions below are hungry. Off with you before they come hunting,” she chided.

Reluctantly, he released her from his hold. “I think I’ll have a word with Alex about interruptions.” He gently kissed her brow in farewell, now anxious to join the other warriors.

Isabel watched him leave, admiring the strength and pride in his carriage. He looked every inch the impressive Highland warrior, astounding for a man so perilously close to death not even two months ago. A sense of inexplicable bliss settled over her. Holding the love of a man like Rory was awe-inspiring. She must do what was necessary to keep it.

She sat on the edge of the bed, putting her hand over her stomach, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. For the past week or two, she’d experienced strange bouts of queasiness, brought on, no doubt, by stress.

This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for to take a closer look at the flag. Sleat had warned her not to try to trick him, and she knew he would be sending instructions soon. She needed to be ready. She had to be sure that Bessie’s shawl could pass muster with someone familiar with the flag.

An excited roar boomed from the courtyard below, the sound of Rory as he joined his men. She took a deep breath. It was time. Isabel shook with nervousness.
Just get it over with.
Cautiously she walked to the door, paused, and listened to make sure no one was coming. Hearing no sound, she opened the door and peeked down the corridor. All clear.

Slowly, she moved to the bed, reaching around to feel for the wooden knob in the carving that Rory had described to Alex. She found it easily, turned it, and slid her hand under the bed to locate the opened drawer. The etched metal box was heavier than she’d anticipated, and it took some time to remove it from the drawer. Using both hands, she raised it to the bed and pushed on the MacLeod badge. The lock released with a small pop, and she opened the lid.

Dust and a musty smell gathered at her nose. She rubbed her nose, trying to prevent a sneeze. The famous Fairy Flag of the MacLeods lay folded neatly in the box. Reverently, she lifted it out, letting the soft folds unfurl on the bed. Well, at least lightning didn’t strike. That was something. She had touched the flag and was still alive.

Now for the shawl. Fortunately, Bessie had given over her old shawl with no more than a raised eyebrow or two. Lifting the shawl from her trunk, she held it up in front of the window close to the flag for comparison. A sudden breeze through the open window caught the thin silk fabric and puffed it out like a sail. Amazing. It was just as she remembered. Bessie’s shawl could have been cut from the same cloth as the flag, except that it looked a wee bit less worn. Slightly darker in hue, the crimson-and-yellow pattern of the shawl was otherwise identical to that of the flag. The shawl would fool even someone who had seen the flag up close. Only a side-by-side inspection would differentiate the two.

This might just work!

Carefully she replaced the flag, returning it to its hiding place. Lifting Bessie’s shawl from the bed she turned and placed it in her trunk. She’d just closed the lid when she heard a voice behind her.

“What are you doing?”

Her heart dropped like a stone at the achingly familiar voice. How long had he been standing there? She glanced over her shoulder.

Long enough.

Chapter 22

Rory stood stone still in the doorway, watching Isabel place the MacLeod’s precious talisman in her trunk. For a moment, he felt oddly disembodied as he tried to make sense of the sight before him.