Chapter 8
“Release me a fine, fur-lined mantle shall be yours,” Donall the Bold tossed out another bribe. One of many he’d proposed ever since Niels had delivered their evening meal.
“Please stop.” Isolde sat up straighter, knew her face was flaming.
How could she have thought it wise to dine with him at the chamber’s only table? And why had she told Niels to drag the sturdy oaken table across the room to the bed? So she could sit with the arrogant beast of a man without needing to remove the iron shackle around his ankle?
She didn’t know, but she regretted it.
He sat on her bed and she had a chair, but the width of the table wasn’t broad enough. He was far too close, near enough that the air between them crackled with tension – or something. Whatever it was, her pulse quickened and she found herself almost having to remember to breathe.
“Not interested in furs?” He rubbed his chin, eyeing her with feigned astonishment. “Nae bother,” he said, humor in his tone. “What say you to some lustrous silk?”
“I do not need lustrous anything.”
He angled his head and the candlelight caught his eye, showing his amusement. “Then you are unlike any woman I have ever met.”
“I am myself.” She tore off a piece of brown bread. “I prefer wool and linen to fur. And I do not have much use for silk.”
“Then a circlet for your hair, a silver one set with agates and sapphires?”
She set down her honey knife. “Such frippery does not interest me.”
He leaned forward on one elbow and peered intently at her. “A coffer of gold?”
“Your wealth cannot sway me, Sir Donall.” She stared right back at him. “What I want from you cannot be bought with coin.”
“Ah…” A corner of his mouth hitched up. “We near the truth.”
“Call it what you will.” She struggled not to squirm beneath his steady gaze.
“I will no’ relinquish Baldoon nor even a rock of MacLean land.”
“You needn’t.” She frowned a little, not surprised he’d mentioned his wealth. “My conditions, what I desire from you, will not lessen your riches.”
“What about my honor…my manly pride?”
“You are making this difficult.”
He narrowed his eyes and she saw his jaw tighten beneath his beard. “Then have done. Let me go now – this night.”
“I cannot do that.”
“A shame…” He inclined his dark head. “You’d be glad to see the last of me.”
I will, but not yet.
Keeping the sentiment to herself, she gestured to the food on the table. “You have touched nothing,” she said, glancing at the platter of roasted seabird, the round of green cheese, a small dish of sugared almonds.
There were other victuals, even a jug of excellent mead, but he seemed determined to stare holes in her rather than fill his belly or quench his thirst.
Flustered, she pushed the cheese toward him. “See here, sir. This is finer fare than you have received-”
“The finest fare I have e’er seen.” His voice was low, provocative, and held an undertone hinting he didn’t mean food. Keeping his gaze on her, he settled back against the bedpost and crossed his arms. ‘Even so, I refuse the delicacies on offer.”
Isolde took a sip of mead, wishing her mouth wasn’t so dry. Uncomfortable, she turned aside to glance at Bodo. The little dog still dozed upon his bed by the hearth.
“He has a soft bed and a crackling fire to warm him.” The smoothly spoken words broke into Isolde’s moment of peace. She drew a long breath, now certain the MacLean laird had a gift for making even the most innocent observation sound mocking.
“So, lady, you have rejected my every attempt to purchase my freedom,” he continued even though she’d turned her back to him. “Can it be that you only care about simple comforts such as a roof to keep out rain, clothes on your back, food in your belly, and peats to fuel your hearth fires?”
“That is indeed so.”
He made a noise that sounded as if he’d slapped the flats of his palms on the table. “I cannae sway you with baubles or coin?”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” She twisted back around to face him. “Or are you as thick-headed as you are arrogant?”
“What I am, Isolde of Dunmuir, is a man provoked.” He leaned toward her, his hands gripping the table edge. “Tell me what you want. My patience thins.”
“I have told you.” Isolde stifled a sigh. “All that concerns me is the good of my people.”
“Och, that I know.” He straightened and then glanced down at the well-worn plaid Rory had given him. “I would hear the rest.” He looked up swiftly. “The truth this time.”
Isolde started to answer, but she stammered, agitation tying her tongue in a knot.
He lifted a brow. “Is it so hard to speak plain?”
“Everything is hard,” she snapped, her own temper fraying.
To her horror, he chuckled. “Aye, well, at the moment it isn’t.”
His meaning slammed into her like a upturned bucket of iced water. “You, sir, are no gallant.”
He had the nerve to look amused. “Be glad I pose no threat to you.”
“You are surely an annoyance to everyone who crosses your path.” Isolde glared at him. Gads, but she hated him. She also wished she hadn’t ordered Rory to find him something to wear. He’d looked less fierce, even a bit foolish, wrapped in a bedsheet.
Now…
He was a threat, his stunning good looks drawing her even as his rudeness infuriated her.
The sad truth was, the fall of the old plaid’s soft folds emphasized his broad, well-muscled shoulders and chest, while the wool’s faded colors drew attention to the glow of his sun-burnished skin.
The bone clasp at his shoulder also worked in his favor, its simplicity underscoring her clan’s lesser status.
When he'd been taken, his own plaid had been fastened with a fine silver brooch, a large one studded with glittering gemstones. She’d placed it in her strongbox for safekeeping until he’d met her terms.
If ever he would.
Sharply aware of the way he perched on the edge of her bed, studying her, she helped herself to a too-large piece of green cheese. Catching her mistake too late and not wanting him to laugh because she’d taken more than she should’ve, she stuffed the entire chunk into her mouth.
“Let us be on with this, lady.” His voice was cold, his gaze even chillier. “We both know that you and your clan could make good use of the riches you’ve scorned. Therefore, if it is no’ my wealth, it must be me you desire.”
Isolde almost choked on the cheese. Eyes tearing, she grabbed her mead cup and took a healthy gulp.
“I desire nothing about you.” She plunked down the cup. “I want peace.”
“Of what, my lady?” A devilish glint lit his eyes.
Isolde’s own eyes rounded. “Can you not-”
“Leave be?” He shook his head, the look on his face making her entire body flush. “Nae, I cannae.”
Blessedly, a familiar whimper spared her a response. Bodo stood on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of her chair. He bounced as he peered up at her, begging a treat.
“One so eager shouldn’t have to wait.” The MacLean selected a morsel of roasted seabird and offered the scrap to the little dog.
“Do you no’ agree?” He glanced at her as Bodo snatched the treat from his fingers.
Isolde frowned and drew herself up in the hard-backed chair. She would not follow Bodo’s example and capitulate just because the lout waved a treat beneath her nose. Yet, by turn, she would have to lavish sensual attention on him if her plan was to succeed.
Chills sped through her and her stomach tightened. Dear gods, what had she started here?
As if he agreed, his brows drew together. “Have you lost your tongue?”
“What I have lost is my sister,” she snapped, driven to shrewishness by the sight of Bodo leaning into the blackguard's leg.
His gaze locked on hers, he reached down and rubbed the dog's shoulders. “I share your loss.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“All in my household mourn Lileas,” he said, smoothing his fingers along Bodo's back. “Most especially my brother.”
Isolde bristled. “You are bold to mention him here.”
“He is my brother, why shouldn’t I?”
Because he is Iain MacLean. Isolde let her eyes speak the truth as she saw it. My sister’s murderer.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, his face hardened. “My brother did not kill his wife,” he said, his tone not quite convincing.
Isolde frowned. “How do you know?”
“I know Iain.”
“That isn’t enough.” She reached for the mead jug and refilled her cup. She knew better than to top his cup – the mead would spill over as he hadn’t taken the first sip.
“Have you any proof that your brother is innocent?” She returned the jug to the table. “Can you say he was with you every hour in the days and nights leading to her murder?”
“Nae.” He glanced at the hearth fire, then back to her. “My word is all I can give you.”
“There must be something.” Isolde curled her fingers around her mead cup. “My sister did not swim out to the Lady Rock and tie her own hair to its ledges.”
“You have doubts? Then release me so I can catch the craven.” Quick as lightning, he lunged across the table and snatched the cup from her hand. “Keeping me here is madness!”
“Agggh!” Isolde shrank back against her chair as he leapt up and hurled the cup across the room. Even Bodo ran, dashing for his padded bed by the fire. Isolde stared after him, wishing she could flee the MacLean’s wrath as easily.
“This ends now,” he snarled, fixing his dark gaze on her. “Why am I chained to your bed?”
Isolde met his furious stare. “So you cannot escape.”
“Speak true.” He flattened his hands on the table and leaned toward her. “Why am I bound to your bed? Am I to sleep there?”
Heat surged up Isolde’s neck. “You were brought her to dine with me.”
He strained even closer, his warm breath touching her brow. “Lady, I am no fool.”
She struggled against the urge to pull back. “I did not say that.”
“You say nothing.” He straightened, brushed at his borrowed plaid. “That is the problem. I know fine why I am here. You wish me to lie with you.”
His words, so harsh and cold, flung the matter onto the table before them. The embarrassing truth set free to rise up and crackle in the air between them.