Chapter 14
Isolde stared across her bedchamber at the MacLean. How pitiful that doing so made her feel as if a great void opened up inside her, leaving her hollowed. An emptiness her heart knew he could fill so easily if only he weren’t her clan’s greatest foe.
But he was.
And if she had any doubt, the thunderous look on his face reminded her.
He was again leaning against her bedpost, arms and ankles crossed as he pinned her with his all-seeing gaze. A telling one, too, for it said more than any spoken words…
He knew Bodo didn’t need help for fleas.
Isolde’s stomach quivered. “Must you stare?”
The MacLean lifted a brow. “What am I supposed to do? Count the flowers painted on the beams of your ceiling?”
“You should mind your own matters.” She returned his stare, agitation roiling inside her.
“I am.”
“Pah!” She brushed at her skirts, and then smoothed a wrinkle on one of her sleeves. “I will not be perused so arrogantly.”
“And I, lady, will no’ be taken for a fool.” He narrowed his eyes, his expression still fierce. “Nor am I a man to look on as a foolish woman does potential damage to herself.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You know fine you will no’ be giving thon tincture to your pet.”
“Is there anything you do not know?”
He smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “Aye, who murdered your sister and how I am going to get out of here.”
“I can answer both.” She stood taller, glad she wasn’t a tiny lass. “Your brother drowned Lileas and you will be gone from here when I am done with you.”
“Dead or alive, my lady?”
Isolde stiffened. “Are you always so rude?”
“I ken no man who would say I am.” Pushing away from the bedpost, he braced his legs apart and looked down at the iron around his ankle. When he raised his head, his face was stonier than ever. “Since arriving here, I have seen nae reason to be otherwise.”
“You surely know why.” Isolde could feel her temper rising.
“So I do.” He flashed another glance at Devorgilla’s flagon. “You and your whole clan are addled.”
She inhaled deeply, trying to keep as much dignity as she could. Then, when the heat began to ebb from her cheeks, she crossed the room and took her seat at the table.
“Will you join me?” She spoke as pleasantly as she could, the effort making agitation quiver in her chest. Holding his gaze, she placed her hand on Devorgilla’s flask and slid it to the edge of the table. “I know you are hungry.”
To her surprise, he settled onto the edge of her bed.
Unfortunately, in the soft glow of the table candles, his dark good looks were even more apparent.
Isolde shifted on her chair, wishing she hadn’t noticed.
She didn’t want to be so aware of him. Mercy, she almost felt his gaze as a physical touch.
Was he doing that on purpose? Had he studied magic?
Half afraid he had, she sipped her ale, watching him from beneath her lashes. Are you a wizard? Is that why you can fluster me with a mere look?
“How long will you keep riling Neils and Rory?” She set down her cup. “You cannot fight your way out of here.”
“So you say.”
“I do.” She smoothed her napkin across her lap. “May you have the wits to see that.”
He leaned forward, looking at her with unsettling intensity. “I see more than you would care to know.”
“Such as?”
“I have told you everything that needs to be said between us, lady.” He gave her a slow smile and this time the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, making him entirely too attractive. “Why should I share more?”
“Why, indeed.” She took another sip of ale, studying him over her cup’s edge. She didn’t like the way his eyes glinted in the candlelight. Worse than that, the slight smile still playing across his lips hinted that whatever ‘secrets’ he might be keeping from her were of a roguish nature.
Proving her suspicions, he reached across the table and closed his hand over hers. “There is much I could share with you,” he said, and began making slow circles over the top of her hand with the pad of his thumb.
Isolde drew a quick breath.
“Aye, a wealth of sharing.” He slipped his thumb beneath her hand and used it to rub the hollow of her palm. “I suspect you would be most receptive.”
“You, sir, are a wicked man.” Isolde snatched away her hand, furious when his smile deepened.
“You did offer me a feast, did you not?” He gestured at the table, crowded with platters of smoked herring, roasted frog legs, fresh-baked bread, and cheese. “Surely you know I’ve had little but barley gruel and stale water in your dungeon?
“Why should I not be ravenous for more sumptuous fare?” He met her gaze, a devilish look on his face.
Mercy. He was not referring to the food.
“Are you a bard or a laird?” She fought the urge to glare at him. “You seem a master at word play.”
“Lady Isolde,” he said, making her name sound deeply intimate. “I am but a man, as I have told you.”
You are more than that. You are the devil. You would charm the heather off the moors, the foam from the sea.
Isolde kept her thoughts to herself, but her heart thundered out of control. No man had ever used such a tone with her, nor looked at her as he was now doing. As if he meant to grab her, pull her up onto the table and devour her whole.
Her breath caught at the notion, some wild and wicked part of her quickening in excitement.
As if he knew, a dark smile curved his lips. “If you didn’t know, sweeting, MacLean men of Baldoon are known for their heated blood,” he said, his voice deeper now, even more roughened. “I could eat you for my every meal and lick up each crumb.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Nae, but I could.” He looked at her in a way that made her want to squirm. “That I would do and you would beg me no’ to stop.”
Isolde’s heart knocked against her ribs and somewhere unmentionable, a flurry of tingles sped across sensitive flesh.
Too stunned by her reaction to speak, she looked across the table at him, half convinced its width had somehow lessened, bringing him way too near.
Dangerously so, for his words, spoken in such a soft, husky tone, and the look he was giving her, did more than make her tingle. A powerful rush of sensation swept her. Disturbingly pleasant chills spilling from the tops of her ears to the tips of her toes.
“I am no tavern wench, Laird MacLean.”
“A pity.” He glanced across the room to where a broad band of moonlight slanted in through the window arch. “If you were, I could ravish you there, on a plaid on the floor, by the light of the moon.”
Isolde lifted a hand to her throat. “Can you not speak without seeking to unnerve me? Have you no other words?”
He leaned toward her. “Release me and I will find your sister’s true murderer.”
“You would not have to look far for he sleeps beneath your roof.” She struggled to keep her voice level. “How can I trust you? You defend your brother.”
“As I shall continue to do, my lady.”
“So I suspect.”
“We can talk of other matters,” he said, another slow, wicked smile curving his lips. “Agreed?”
“I cannot see us agreeing on anything.” Isolde heard her voice hitch. And how could it not?
The familiarity of the look on his face was shocking. The man she’d dreamed of on the night of Beltane had worn the same expression, a bold, almost predatory smile. The dream’s haze hadn’t let her see him clearly, but the resemblance was there.
So much so that a great shudder shook her at the implication.
“Ah, well…” His smile deepened. “You might no’ see anything, but I do. You tremble in anticipation. In vain, for I am no’ of a mind to do your will.” He reached for his ale, downing it in one long swallow. “Tempted though I am,” he added as he set down his cup.
Isolde’s chin came up. “You are a true devil.”
“As I am now in hell, why shouldn’t I be?” His face hardened. “You are its gatekeeper, lady.”
Isolde jolted.
For a moment she even heard the blood rushing through her ears. Shock and anger she welcomed as his arrogance doused the flames he’d kindled. She chilled faster than if he’d upturned a barrel of frigid seawater over her head.
“Have a care, Sir Donall.” She frowned, not liking his tone, his words, or his damnably hooded eyes. “I yet intend to spare your life, but I have not forgotten who you are, nor why you are here.”
“Nor have I,” he said, not even blinking.
Isolde tried to rein in her temper, but his air of lordliness pushed her past restraint. “If you remain so obstinate, I may see no course but to do as my elders bid. They speak of walling you alive in the sea tower’s intra-mural gallery.”
“Fair lady,” he said, sounding amused, “your graybearded advisors are full addled if they believe they can confine me within those crumbling walls.”
Gripping the table edge, he leaned forward. “Do they think I am unaware of the passages between the double walls of every such broch to grace these isles?”
He sat back, a smug look on his handsome face. “I would be gone before they could mason me in.”
“Is that so?” Isolde lifted a brow. “I say you err. Not even a laird and knight of your fame could dig through the thick walls of our broch, half-ruined or otherwise.”
Holding his gaze, she ran the tip of her middle finger around the top of her ale cup.
“I said intra-mural gallery, not galleries. Dunmuir’s broch has but a single passage.
A short, thick-walled one that ends at a heavily guarded door to our great hall.
All other galleries caved in on themselves centuries ago and are no longer passable. ”
Lifting her cup, she helped herself to a fortifying sip of ale. “Escape that way is impossible.”
At last his insolence took a blow. Something indefinable flared in his eyes. Disbelief, shock, or fury, it leaped at her with such force she almost felt the impact.
But whatever emotion her words sparked, he quickly recovered.
“Nae bother, lassie,” he said, speaking as calmly as if he sat in his own hall discussing the tides.
Isolde sat back, sensing a trap. “So you accept your confinement?”
She knew he didn’t.