Chapter 24
He wasn’t coming.
Isolde stood in the middle of her bedchamber.
She felt damned by its emptiness. Had her daring put off the MacLean?
Was their kiss not as pleasurable for him?
She’d almost lost herself in its wonder.
Or was she simply not as appealing as the legions of tavern maids and laundresses he’d surely bedded?
Did she have a chance at seducing him? What would he have done if she’d disrobed? Stood before him naked, as he’d said Highlanders want their women. At the moment, she didn’t think even her bared flesh would’ve enticed him.
He despised her and the truth was, she couldn’t blame him.
She did try not to think about the lateness. It was already deep into the small hours. Even the storm had passed, its fury gone, blown away to rage across another corner of the night.
But while Devorgilla’s predicted gale had lessened, leaving only a damp chill and the patter of a lingering drizzle, the turmoil inside her increased.
With each beat of her heart, the madness intensified as she waited for Rory and Niels to bring the MacLean to her bedchamber for the night.
For lessons in enlightenment, and more knightly kisses.
Now the night was almost spent.
And he hadn’t come.
She heard her skirts brush against the table, only now realizing she’d started pacing. Was she losing her wits? It wouldn’t surprise her. A man like the MacLean could chase the reason from any woman.
He was just too appealing, and infuriating.
Much too stubborn and arrogant.
I don’t care. Do and say what you will, Laird MacLean.
You will not bring me to my knees.
The silent words circled in her mind, giving her strength as she touched the fine silver candelabrum on her table. A treasure she’d resurrected from her parents’ old bedchamber, a room void of life since her beloved da’s passing. A dark place filled with cobwebs and memories.
And a few fine things like the candelabrum.
Her heart squeezing at the thought of better times, she smoothed her fingers over the candle stand’s gleaming silver base. Earlier in the day, she’d spent an hour polishing it to its former glory. She’d even sought out sweet, heathery-scented beeswax tapers.
All measures she’d taken to impress the MacLean.
But her efforts had been in vain.
And like the candles, no longer elegant and glowing, but ugly clumps of wax guttering in their sockets, her hopes for the night had met a humbling end.
At least she’d dined well.
As had Bodo.
Little remained of the fine meal she’d arranged for this special night of seduction.
There’d been hot, fresh-baked bread and newly-churned butter, a round of Dunmuir’s best cheese, a huge platter heaped with sliced, fire-roasted venison, and Cook’s best mushroom sauce to go with the meat.
Also on the table was a whole salmon, cold and finely seasoned, a bowl of stewed and herbed onions, then a large custard pastie, its crust golden-brown, and dish of honey-covered nuts.
She’d also set out rare Rhenish wine and instead of ale, she’d arranged for a generous jug of warmed mead. She’d added two jewel-rimmed Viking horns for enjoying the Nordic drink in style – as their ancestors had done, for both clans claimed a Viking or two in their long and impressive lineage.
As a precaution, she asked Cook to deliver the feast. She didn’t trust Rory should Devorgilla pop out at him along the way, outsmarting him with more of her meddlesome trickery.
Finally, she’d told Cook she meant to dine with a few of the elders and desired a particularly fine meal as thanks for their service.
She hoped she could be forgiven the lie.
She did have the clan’s greater good in her heart. The MacLean was there as well. How surprising that now, in the stillness of the night, that truth had found her. She suspected her womanly needs had thrust him there, her desire for him in that way taking control of her.
Yet…
If she peered beyond her heart and into her soul, she knew she’d see other reasons. Something more than his dark good looks and his kiss drew her. Even the way he made her most intimate places heat and tingle couldn’t answer for her feelings.
Not entirely, anyway.
He saw her as cold and calculating.
She pressed a hand to her breast, guilt piercing her.
He had been treated abominably.
Keenly feeling his absence, she trailed her fingers along the cold and smooth edge of the table, her gaze lighting over the remains of her feast.
She’d supped well, eating way too much.
Again guilt pinched her. This time because she hadn’t restrained her appetite. Food was a weakness – she had a slight belly roll to prove it. Her hips were definitely more rounded than she would have liked. Her bottom…
She cut the air with her hand, chasing her recriminations.
They served nothing.
Besides, the custard pastie alone had been exceptional. She wouldn’t regret such a treat.
She was sorry that she hadn’t been kissed by a knight.
And no matter how she turned it, succulent roasted meat, flaky-crusted custard pasties, nor even warmed mead sipped from bejeweled Viking drinking horns, compared with the MacLean’s kiss.
His knightly kisses.
With a deep sigh, she continued her pacing. But she only made it to the now-cold hearth before she crossed the bedchamber, opened the door, and peered down the long, shadow-filled passage. She took care to look in both directions, but it didn’t matter.
The corridor was deserted.
Nothing stirred except the rain on the ledges of the arrow slits cut at intervals along the corridor’s outer wall. Even so, she peered deep into the shadows, annoyed that she felt the need.
She shouldn’t care that she hadn’t seen the enemy laird this cold, raw night.
Still…
She’d have words with Niels and Rory at first light. Neither of them had bothered to tell her why the MacLean hadn’t been brought to her.
Both annoyed and disappointed, she closed the door and leaned her back against its solidness. Hard, unbending oak that reminded her of the MacLean’s strong, well-muscled chest.
“Bats’ breath and frogs’ toenails!” She borrowed one of Devorgilla’s favorite curses, and pushed away from the door.
The crone’s oath made her feel good.
Save her, she’d even painted the tips of her breasts for the arrogant Lord Good-Kisser.
Warmth flooded her cheeks and other unnamed places as she snatched up the little pot of blush of rose. Had she truly thought to stand before her enemy wearing the see-through chemise Evelina had given her, her bosom red-tipped and thrusting against the garment’s shimmering bodice?
Aye, she had.
And the admission sent her sailing around the bedchamber, following the circular track her pacing had worn in the freshly-strewn floor rushes. A fragrant covering she’d enhanced with handfuls of dried rose petals and crushed lavender.
“You are hopeless,” she grumbled aloud, wondering why she didn’t have enough wit to resist the MacLean’s charm.
Her father had insisted on educating her. She’d learned from the best tutors he could entice to Doon to instruct her. Enough had come, all lured by the weight of coin and the chance to spend time on one of the Hebrides’ fairest isles.
These learned and adventurous men had taught her reading, writing, languages, the keeping of the castle’s ledgers, how to run a large household, healing, and more.
Secretly, she prided herself on her intelligence. Yet now she knew it was all for naught. When the sun sank and the day ended, the truth remained…
She was a fool, and a dangerously besotted one.
Pausing at a window arch, she stared down at the glint of the moon on the tossing sea. She flattened her hands on the grainy iciness of the rain-wet ledge, her gaze on the water as she willed her eyes not to leak.
She abhorred tears. Yet at the moment, she suspected she could shed enough to raise the tides.
Hoping not, she turned and walked away from the window, going instead to the hearth. The air there smelled of cold peat ash. Worse, the fire’s sooty remains warned that she’d end as useless if she didn’t stop thinking about the MacLean.
She needed him for one thing only.
Her heart had no business softening toward him.
Even so, she glanced over to her bed, almost expecting to see him there. She did see Bodo. He’d stretched out near the foot of the bed and was watching her, his head on his forepaws, his eyes puzzled.
Sympathetic.
Only she didn’t want sympathy. Not even from her wee, sweet Bodo.
She wanted…
Not quite sure what, or better said, not wanting to admit what she craved, she resumed her pacing. How sad that, as she marched around her room, her lips ached to be kissed.
A need that worsened when she neared her bed and its now infamous bedpost, the one showing scars from the MacLean’s chain.
She shivered, her pulse quickening as she paused to trail her fingers down the post’s intricately carved length. Made of smooth, hard, and night-chilled oak, the bedpost was pure perfection.
Like him.
“Oh, Bodo…” She glanced at her dog, her heart breaking. “What have I done? What am I to do?”
Bodo cocked his head, offering no advice.
But Evelina’s blush of rose winked at her from the covers.
Reaching for it, she curled her fingers around the little clay pot of vermilion.
Its earthen coolness against her palm restored her wits.
It was the MacLean’s coolness, too, upon which she must dwell.
Not his bonnie smiles and the occasional warmth in his deep brown eyes.
Not his tall and beautiful body, so well-hewn and admirably muscled, or even his sleek, raven hair.
For sure, not the mastery of his touch. His intoxicating kisses.
She was the one who needed to seduce.
And she would.
She need only cling to his one imperfection. The dark stain of Lileas’ blood. A great, wracking shudder washed over her. Yet even that damning thought couldn’t squelch her desire. The womanly yearning he’d awakened in her.