Chapter 13
“So, sweeting, here we are again in your bedchamber,” Donall said a short while later, his annoyance lost on the fair Lady Isolde. “I am honored.”
“No, you are not.” She glanced at him from across the room where she sat on the floor near the hearth, her wee dog in her lap. “You are mocking me.”
“And you, lass, are ignoring me.”
“For the moment, perhaps.” She returned her attention to her pet, stroking him as if Donall wasn’t there, but still dangled from a chain in her sea dungeon.
“And later?” He narrowed his eyes at her, furious that he was again fastened to her bedpost. “What happens then?”
“Did you not enjoy your bath?” She poised a question of her own, her gaze still on her dog.
Donall’s brows swooped low. “Lady, nothing has pleased me since arriving here.” Only your scent, which I dinnae care to admit. The sway of your hips, the bounce of your breasts, and the fetching sheen of your hair when it catches the firelight.
“Your hospitality is shameful,” he said aloud, lifting his foot to jangle the chain.
“You shall be allowed a bath every night before you are brought here,” she returned, not addressing his sarcasm.
“I’ll no’ be having the skin scrubbed off me.”
“You will if I order it so.”
“You think much of yourself, minx.”
“I am not a minx.” She shot a look at him. “And I have much to think of. That is the problem.”
Donall set his jaw, felt his hands clenching. The truth was, he appreciated cleanliness more than most, but he knew why she wanted him bathed.
Not that the rickety hand pail and icy water he’d used should be called a bath.
Unlike the night before when he’d soaked in a tub of heated water, this time he’d been forced to wash at a frigid underground spring.
He’d half expected his danglers to freeze and snap off.
But he’d suffered the indignity and was then given another borrowed plaid to wear, cleaner than the last.
Even so, he seethed.
If she wanted him so tidy and smelling like her clan’s piney soap, he should throw off the plaid and dare her to inspect him. Just to see if he met her satisfaction.
A shame the idea made his loins tighten.
“If you think to seduce me, lass, I’m no’ interested.” He put back his shoulders, willed an end to certain stirrings. “A toothless hag would have better chances.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.” He folded his arms.
She tilted her head to gaze up at him. “You are a plain-spoken man.”
“I am-”
“I know what you are.” A haunted look entered her eyes and its appearance sent red-hot needles jabbing into a vulnerable area near his heart. A weak spot he hadn’t been at all aware of until a moment ago.
He didn’t like it either.
“I have heard all about you.” She resumed rubbing her dog’s ears. “The things folk say…”
“Such as?”
“That you bed ten or more women a night and another score at sunrise.”
Donall laughed. He couldn’t help it.
“Three of a night, two by dawn,” he lied, just to annoy her. “More on holy days,” he finished, leaning toward her. “To irritate the gods, of course.”
Then, weary of her game, he sank onto the edge of her bed. “My patience has flown, lass. I am no’ a man to be pushed about, used or ignored at will.”
She gave an exasperated little sigh—he heard it—then she scooted around on the floor rushes so she faced the hearth, turning her back to the bed.
Donall frowned. At least, she wouldn’t see how much he appreciated her beauty.
The gods knew he didn’t want to notice, yet how could he not – unless her minions put out his eyes? Prickly or nae, she was lovely. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Just now, firelight cast a coppery sheen on her braids.
She’d wound them into coils over her ears, and his fingers itched to undo them, let the glossy strands spill across his hands.
Unable to banish the thought, he watched her, intrigued by the way the front of her glowed with rosy-gold angel fire, while her back was kissed by starlight, gilded a fine silvery-blue by the broad moonbeam that streamed through an opened window.
Any way he looked at her, she bewitched him.
She appeared half fiery goddess, shining with passion and spirit. But also half ice maiden, cool and aloof. A potent combination, and heady enough to rouse any man’s lust and fuddle his wits.
As if to prove it, she peered over her shoulder and gave him a tight little smile.
“You don’t like being a pawn?” Her eyes narrowed at him. “I am not surprised. I doubt my sister cared for the role either.”
Donall’s admiring thoughts evaporated. “She was no’ used in any way, sweeting. For sure, the marriage was an attempt to forge peace, but it became so much more. Lady Lileas was greatly loved. My brother was devoted to her. Our clan cherished her.”
“So you say.” She regarded him coolly. “Shall we see how you fare as a game piece, my lord?”
Donall tamped down his irritation. “Do you have a poor memory, lass? I already told you I’ll no’ be seduced.”
“I have not forgotten.” She gave him a look as if preparing for battle.
Then she carefully she set her dog on his cushioned bed and pushed to her feet.
“It could be that I have overestimated myself,” she said, and lifted her hands to the bodice of her gown.
Her gaze steady on his, she began unfastening its ties. “Regardless, I mean to test my skill.”
“Have done.” Donall frowned at the clumsiness of her fingers and the crimson stain blooming on her cheeks. “This is foolery and I’ll no’ be a part of it.”
“Some would say you already are.” She lifted her chin, her hair ruffled by a night breeze through the window. “You have been ever since my sister drowned.”
Donall tried to tear his gaze from her and couldn’t. “You dinnae ken what you’re starting, lass.”
“I do indeed.” Her fingers kept working, the bodice ties loosening.
“Mother of Odin…” Donall twisted round to her small bedside table, snatched the ale cup she’d offered him earlier, and took a healthy swig.
And another.
Sakes, but he suddenly felt like a stripling about to catch his first glimpse beneath the skirt of a bonnie and willing lass. Heated blood surged into his groin. The image of Isolde MacInnes lifting her skirts – and for his perusal – caused a stirring beneath his borrowed plaid.
Fury at his body’s reaction rose as well.
With great effort, he tried again to look away.
He didn’t want to see the creamy skin she’d bared.
But watch her he did, staring at her like a starving man offered his first sustenance in days.
So far, she’d only revealed the base of her throat and the delicate line of her collarbone, but what an alluring feast even such a wee peek presented.
More troubling still, he could already see the top edge of her chemise.
Then, as her fingers worked faster and the bodice began gaping even more, the chemise’s thin cloth revealed the twin shadows of her nipples, and they were chill-tightened, thrusting against the linen.
The empty ale cup slipped from Donall’s fingers and landed on the rushes with a dull thunk.
A welcome distraction, as was the sharp rap on the door.
Donall waited.
His would-be temptress blanched. “Oh, dear...” she gasped, the lone freckle on her cheek standing out against her sudden pallor. She threw a glance at the door, her attempts to now refasten the lacings of her gown even more inept than her efforts to undo them.
Donall bit back a smile. “Do you require assistance, my lady?”
“No. Not with my gown.” She glared at him as she started across the room. “Otherwise, I am in need of much.”
“I have much to give.” He smiled. “Perhaps more than you can take.”
Halfway to the door, she froze to stare at him, incomprehension clouding her amber-flecked eyes. Then she must’ve grasped his meaning for eyes widened. “Have you no manners?”
Donall shrugged. “If I did, they were lost out on the moor when your graybeards ambushed me.”
Her brows swept down and she started to argue, but the door was now shaking beneath a hail of fist poundings and loud callings of her name.
Rory.
Donall leapt off the bed, his hands curling to fists as Lady Isolde rushed across the room.
She’d hardly pulled back the drawbar before Rory opened the door.
He loomed on the threshold with the giant, Niels, who carried a large dinner tray.
They frowned into the room, their hulking frames edged by the glow of a wall torch opposite the door.
“Niels, Rory…” Isolde stood tall, looking at them with surprising calm. “I didn’t expect you yet.”
“That we see.” Niels the giant frowned, his gaze flicking over her disheveled gown. “What are you about here?”
“Making peace is what she said earlier.” Rory narrowed his eyes at Donall. “If thon bastard is after-”
“Nae worries.” Donall leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms. “Her virtue is safe with me. I am no’ despoiler of maidens. Nor shall I allow her to fall upon me. Despite her misplaced wish to do so.”
Isolde gasped, her eyes widening. She also said something, but her words were lost in the outraged snarls of her henchmen. Rory’s face contorted with rage, while the giant’s turned almost purple.
“I’ll see you in hell before you insult her again, you arse!” Niels reached for his sword. The large platter he’d been holding tilted sideways, the dinner offerings almost sliding to the floor. “Damnation!” he cursed, righting the tray.
Still on the threshold, Rory started laughing.
“Hush, both of you!” Isolde leaned around him and peered into the corridor. “We’ll have nothing but trouble if anyone hears you.”
“The trouble is o’er by your bed, lassie.” Niels scowled at her. “I dinnae like this. No’ at all.”
“Me neither.” Rory gave Donall another sharp look. “You’re alone here, MacLean,” he warned, hooking his thumbs in his sword belt. “If we set on you, you’d be dead before your friend MacFie even knew it.”
“That I ken.” Donall stared back at him, unblinking.
“No one asked you,” Niels and Rory spoke together.
“Please…” Isolde looked from one of them to another. “I have planned this for long, as you both know. I’ll not have you ruining our last chance at smoothing-”
“Highlanders settle feuds with swords, lass.” Niels face hardened. “Murderers get the rope.”
“I say a quick toss into the sea.” Rory jerked his beard toward the opened window. “Or worse.”
“You are making this worse.” Looking miserable, Lady Isolde spread her hands. “Both of you. Have done.”
Her embarrassment sent an unexpected twinge of sympathy to Donall’s newly discovered soft spot. To his relief, the sensation ebbed at once. Riling her was his purpose, after all. He couldn’t feel anything for her but a burning wish to bid her farewell.
Besides, she was just now setting her hands on her hips, once again all lady chieftain.
“Make haste,” she ordered her guards. “See to your task, and then be gone.”
“As you wish.” Rory pressed his lips into a thin, hard line and stepped forward.
Loud barking, then a streak of brown and white fur halted him.
His short coat bristling, Bodo skid to a halt in front of Rory’s booted feet.
Barring his crooked teeth, the little dog tipped back his head and growled up at the guardsman.
“Wee bugger!” Rory flashed a furious look at Isolde. “Call him off.”
“Bodo, go to bed,” Isolde said, her voice firm. “Now.”
Reluctant to oblige, the dog barked a few more times before he toddled off, snarls still rumbling in his throat. He paused once or twice to cast a sour look over his shoulder.
“Crazed beastie!” Rory swore, then stalked across the room to haul the table before the bed as he’d done the previous night. His duty completed, he retrieved the platter of victuals from the giant.
Stone-faced, he plunked the generously portioned dinner on the table. Niels stayed where he was, blocking the doorway with his bulk, his hand on hilt of his sword.
“Arse,” Rory mumbled as he passed Donall on his way to the door.
“Clumsy oaf.” With lightning speed, Donall thrust a foot in Rory’s path. The bastard stumbled, pitching forward. Seizing him from behind, Donall yanked him up by the back of his tunic.
Holding fast to the lout’s bunched neckline, Donall twisted the linen until the other man choked. “Cannae walk without falling over your own feet, can you?”
Rory spluttered something unintelligible, his eyes bugging.
“Let him go, ye fiend!” Niels whipped out his sword and lunged at Donall.
“Stop!” Isolde flung herself at her cousin and grabbed his arm. “Are you mad?”
Niels gave her a sharp look, but sheathed his blade. “He’s turned your head.”
“I’d like to give his head a few spins.” Donall released Rory, shoving him away. “We’ll tangle again, my friend. When we do, your lady will no’ be there to save you.”
Bent at the waist and coughing, Rory staggered toward the door. Niels caught him by the elbow, yanking him aside when he almost plowed into a hanging cresset lamp.
Niels kept a steadying grip on him, but narrowed his eyes at Isolde. “I dinnae like your plans,” he said, and then stepped into the corridor, pulling Rory with him.
“Wait…” Rory shook free. “Devorgilla was in the kitchens,” he wheezed, leaning against the doorjamb. “The flagon on your tray is for that wretched dog of yours. It’s a tincture against fleas.”
“What?” Isolde stared at him, blinking. “Bodo has never…oh, yes,” she corrected, nodding. “He has been troubled by them in recent days.”
Rory drew a breath. “Devorgilla said she’ll bring more when you need-”
“Send my thanks to her,” Isolde rushed the words as she hurriedly closed and bolted the door.
“The crone is always looking after me.” She turned and met Donall’s gaze. “She knows how much I love Bodo,” she added, glancing across the room to the sleeping dog. “I’d mentioned his discomfort to her.”
“Indeed.” Donall didn’t believe a word. “So now it is a cure for fleas?”
She flicked at her sleeve. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Donall snorted. He couldn’t help it.
He also glanced at the flagon on the dinner tray. “I have to ask, sweet. Who drinks the tincture tonight? You, or your dog?”