Chapter 1 #2
Under any other circumstances, the pleasing tones would have banished his anger, igniting fires of an entirely different sort of heat. But he was in no mood to be swayed by the sweet lilt of a few saucily spoken words.
Especially when the seductive voice surely belonged to Isolde MacInnes.
“Distasteful as your presence is to me, to my people…” she said, her words confirming her identity. “You are under my roof and I will do with you as I please.”
“We shall see.” Donall shifted on his pallet of straw and wished more covered his vitals than a thin piece of cloth. If Lady Isolde stepped out of the shadows and her appearance proved halfway as provocative her honeyed voice, he would have preferred a more substantial means to shield his dignity.
Fettered or nae, red blood coursed through his veins.
Nor had her henchmen put out his eyes.
Hoping she’d be an ogre, he slid a careful glance toward the door.
She’d edged closer, now standing just inside the threshold. She held a rushlight and the graybeards hurried to cluster around her, as if to protect her from him.
He understood why.
Her uncle hadn’t lied. She was indeed a beauty.
“Lady Isolde.” He inclined his head. Blessedly, his voice remained free of any indication he found her alluring. “I demand you release me.”
“You, sir, are in no position to demand anything.” She stepped deeper into the cell, her rushlight held aloft. Its flame illuminated the finely formed contours of her face, emphasizing the smoothness of her skin and casting a sheen on her braids.
Bards would say she had hair the color of a thousand setting suns. The rich bronze tones were shot through with lighter strands that shone like molten gold. Unbound, such tresses would swirl around her, bewitching the sense out of any man fool enough to resist his attraction to her.
She shifted and he caught her scent. A light, clean fragrance, enhanced with a trace of wildflowers and summer days. Yet there was also an earthy note. Something warm and tantalizing that promised darker pleasures.
“Did I no’ tell you she was a prize? What a pity you can no longer indulge in such sweet pursuits.
” Struan laid his arm around his niece’s shoulders and drew her to where Donall sat pressed against the wall.
With his foot, he lifted the rag covering Donall’s loins.
“You appear fit and hale. Does it pain you to know your few remaining days will be abstemious?”
The white-haired ancient hovering to Donall’s left, chortled. Isolde gasped and turned away, a hand clasped to her fine, round breasts.
“Bluidy bastards – have none of you any shame?” Donall gave the graybeards a fierce glare. “If your chieftain is a maid, what madness possesses-”
“My virtue is none of your concern. It is you who bears the weight of shame. You, and every other MacLean male ever born.” She stood with her back to him, her stance rigid and proud, her shoulders squared.
A Celtic goddess carved of stone.
She turned back, and the torch shone full on her face. Her eyes, though beautiful and large, appeared dull. The sparkle that should have lit eyes of such a rich amber color was extinguished, snuffed out by sadness. Agitation tightened her mouth, spoiling the allure of lips that begged to be kissed.
Not that he was the man to do the kissing.
Delectable as she was.
Donall twisted on the pallet, an attempt to shield his male parts.
More than that, he needed to rid himself of the witchery she’d cast over him.
Straw jabbed at the backs of his legs and briny air swept into the cell, bringing the tang of the sea and stirring up the stale smell of the tiny, stone-walled chamber.
Dank and sour, full of shadows, darkness, and unnamed scurrying creatures, the pathetic confines flooded him with renewed fury.
Not for the lady, but for her aged advisors and their plans to wreak revenge on him for a deed he hadn’t committed.
A terrible act he hoped hadn’t been born of his brother’s temper.
Digging his nails into his palms, he banished the doubts that threatened to eat away his very soul.
Iain could not be the murderer.
The MacLeans, including his brother, condemned the foul deed. His entire clan found it appalling, were stricken by it. To a man, they burned to avenge the gentle-hearted Lileas’ death.
Turning back to Lady Isolde, he caught her gaze. “My brother had nothing to do with his wife’s death,” he said, trying to ignore his lamentable state.
He also didn’t like speaking of Lileas. Just thinking of her end caused his chest to tighten. He could see her still, her red-gold hair tangled with seaweed, her slim body cold and unbreathing.
The sight was a horror he’d never forget.
“Iain loved his wife. Ne’er would he have laid a hand on her,” he said, thinking of all the times he’d seen Iain rain affection on his quiet wife. Iain had shielded her from his black moods. “I’d swear his innocence to my last breath.”
Iain’s haunted eyes rose in his mind. “He mourns her truly. His grief consumes him.”
“You lie.” Lady Isolde’s words fell upon his naked skin, cold as chips of ice.