Chapter 28
She’d misplaced the blush of rose.
Isolde made another sweep of her bedchamber, peering into every niche and shadow as she went. She opened the cupboard set deep into the wall, looked everywhere, but the little pot of Evelina’s vermilion seduction paint was nowhere to be found.
She even wrested the bed dressings off her great four-poster and aired each layer: linens, coverlets, pillows, and all. A peek under the bed proved equally fruitless.
The blush of rose was gone.
And that was a shame because she’d started to look forward to dabbing the paint on her nipples, a daring act she’d been prepared to do slowly and precisely, per the joy woman’s instructions.
Evelina swore the blush of rose would make the MacLean wild with lust, especially if she applied the color in his presence. To her surprise, the notion excited her.
Already, a languorous heat spread through her just imagining such a wanton act. Her pulse quickened as exquisite sensations curled low in her belly, a pleasurable warmth that teased her with a slow, insistent pulsing at the heart of her femininity.
And she still couldn’t find the pot of Evelina’s cream.
“By the moon and stars,” she grumbled, snatching one of Devorgilla’s favorite oaths. She blew out a frustrated breath and would have continued her search, did she not catch the sound of approaching feet. She also heard voices.
Notably, the MacLean’s.
Relief and a rush of exhilaration swept her. Rory and Niels were bringing him at last.
Quickly, before they could reach her door, she hurried to the row of windows and struck a casual, unconcerned pose. Bodo dashed to the door, tongue lolling and tail wagging, looking eager to see their visitor. She was, too. But she wouldn’t show her feelings. Doing so would be dangerous.
The MacLean couldn’t be allowed such an advantage.
Even so, she would enjoy the pleasant sensations he stirred.
She was a woman, after all, and a Hebridean.
Islesfolk, she believed, were more earthy than the Scots at court, or elsewhere in large Lowland burghs and cities.
Raised on sea wind, cold air, and among rock and tossing waves, she embraced all of nature, including the wildness of her heart.
She just would not risk its breaking.
But when the door opened, her resolve shattered.
The MacLean wore his own clothes.
Only his mail shirt was missing and she supposed that suited her purposes. If the night progressed as Evelina promised it would, and if she didn’t lose her courage.
Yet how could she?
He was so outrageously handsome that her breath hitched. Just looking at him weakened her knees, lit a fire in her blood. Her cheeks warmed as well, and she willed the blush not to deepen.
Still…
She didn’t shame her passion, nor would she deny her desire. Instead, she’d be daring. She would revel in the carnal fire, let its flames scorch her.
So she let her gaze glide over him, looking him up and down, leaving out not an inch.
He would fill her with potent seed, giving her a beautiful, strong child; a thought that swelled her heart.
A light brown tunic hugged his powerful shoulders and he’d slung a finely tooled leather belt low around his hips.
She also didn’t miss the well-defined bulge of his masculinity.
A most impressive display, and one that sent a thrill whipping through her.
Her pulse racing, she lowered her gaze to his well-formed legs.
He’d donned snug hose of a lighter brown than his tunic.
The fine linen clung to his calves and thighs, emphasizing each hard-muscled contour.
She supposed Niels and Rory had refused him the honor of wearing his plaid, but she was secretly pleased he’d come to her this way.
The close-fitting garments revealed more than if he stood before her in his great plaid.
He truly was a fine-looking man.
And she was stunned by her boldness. Niels and Rory had the rights of it…
She was wicked.
Worse, she didn’t care.
Not just now, anyway. And who could blame her? If the tongue-waggers spoke true, countless women had fallen at his feet, opening their legs to him, enjoying his fullest ravishment. Why shouldn’t she allow herself the same pleasure, especially when her reasons were so noble?
But were they still?
Aye, they were. She could not see her clan destroyed, her people scattered as Dunmuir fell to ruin. She just wanted more now…
The MacLean’s passion.
Almost dizzy with the emotion crashing through her, she let her gaze settle on his feet. They were bare except for the iron cuff around his ankle. Though she imagined Niels and Rory had removed it long enough for him to dress.
Heat sprang onto her cheeks at the thought of him standing naked, easing his legs into the fine linen hose. The image of him rolling the hose down his legs, stepping out rather than into them, turned her blush into a flaming burn.
A great scarlet stain, she was sure. And one he noted, if his slow smile was an indication.
“Are you done examining me, lady?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Isolde met his gaze. “You are my prisoner,” she said, mostly for the benefit of her two guardsmen.
She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten they were still in the room. So she clasped her hands before her, and let her gaze flick once more over the MacLean.
“I only wish to see that you are well,” she said, speaking true, for his treatment did concern her.
She just needed to tamp down her other business with him until Niels and Rory departed.
Then…
Gods willing, she would seduce him.
Bodo, though, had no intention of waiting before he showed his affection.
Barking excitedly since the MacLean’s arrival, he now launched himself at the MacLean with such force, his little body toppled over.
For a beat, Bodo lay on his back, white belly exposed, his short legs plowing the air.
But he bounded up as quickly, leaping at the MacLean before streaking away.
The MacLean grinned, and it warmed Isolde to watch his gaze follow her little dog as he tore around the room. Far from looking annoyed, the MacLean’s eyes lit each time Bodo jumped at him.
When his grin became a laugh, she smiled as well.
How fascinating that Bodo’s affection so easily won what she, with Devorgilla’s potion and Evelina’s advice, had not yet managed to achieve.
The little dog had a firm hold on the MacLean’s heart. And so did the man win a piece of hers.
He loved dogs.
Something that appealed to her as much as his smiles, and even his kisses. His dark good looks.
“I told you the whole of Dunmuir’s gone mad.” Rory threw a look at Niels. Striding forward, he dropped to one knee to fasten the MacLean’s chain to the bedpost.
Bodo’s barks turned ferocious and he flew across the room, a hurtling ball of brown and white fur as he leapt at the kneeling guardsman.
“Bluidy monster!” Rory jumped up and ran out the door before the dog could bite him.
Niels’ laughter rang as he slammed the door behind them, leaving Isolde alone with the MacLean. And with Bodo, who stood on his hind legs and scratched at the door’s thick oak panels.
“Come, laddie,” Isolde called to him as she took a few twists of dried beef from a jar on her night table.
He bolted over to her and she gave him the treats, so calming him. Only then did she carry him across the room to his bed beside the fire. She knelt and stroked him gently until she was sure he’d settle in for the night.
“Your wee champion would defend you to the death,” the MacLean said, something warm and indefinable in his voice.
“He meant to defend you.” She stood, still stunned by the dog’s attachment to the MacLean.
“I am honored.” His smile flashed. “The little fellow loves you mightily,” he added, his gaze on Bodo. “He could be a MacLean.”
Isolde blinked. Was he implying he loved her?
Impossible.
But if it were true, why did she find the possibility so thrilling? She certainly didn’t love him. She merely found him attractive. There was nothing more to it.
Her heart laughed at the lie.
“What do you mean Bodo ‘could be a MacLean’?”
“You cannae guess?”
“Nae.” She shook her head. “Bodo is all MacInnes. He was born at Dunmuir as was his sire and his sire before him and so on. My sister used to swear he was descended from Viking times. That one of our Norse forebears sailed all the way to France to fetch a litter of the tiny sleeve dogs.”
“A what?”
“Sleeve dog.” Isolde smiled. “They are so named because of their size. They fit easily inside a lady’s sleeve, and so keep their mistresses warm.”
The MacLean chuckled. “I didnae ken Norsemen were so soft-hearted to be fond of such wee beasties.”
“Perhaps they were – or perhaps not.” She shrugged, recalling the tale. “Either way, our family legend claims the Viking went for the puppies so he and his men could give them as gifts to my ancestresses, so winning their love.
“After all…” She glanced at wee Bodo, now asleep and snoring. “What woman can resist a puppy?”
“True enough.” The MacLean folded his arms. “I would no’ need a dog to steal a lassie’s heart.”
That I know. Isolde kept the truth to herself.
“It is only a story.” She flicked at a loose thread on her sleeve, surprised she’d missed it when she’d dressed – choosing her best gown for the night, not black, but a lovely garment of emerald-green.
When she looked up again, she could tell the MacLean noticed. His eyes were darker now and there was a slow, appreciative tilt at one corner of his mouth.
“So your wee laddie is all MacInnes,” he said, his gaze locking on hers. “He has a fine lineage. I still say he loves you as fiercely as a MacLean loves his lady.
“That is what I meant,” he added, his voice roughening.
“Oh.” She glanced aside. “I see.”
“Do you?” His voice had that odd tone again, the one that did funny things to her heart.
Such strange things, she forgot her newfound boldness and sought the safety of the far side of the chamber.
There, she stood before the tall, arch-topped windows and inhaled the cold night air.
She also slid her hand to the small linen pouch at her belt, her fingers closing over the tiny, hard object she’d hidden there.
“Gavin sees,” the MacLean said then, the huskiness in his voice unsettling her anew. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled.
Or, at least, she thought he had.
“Aye, he sees all,” he called to her, his amusement unmistakable now. “The varlet sees by the warts on his grandmother’s nose, or so he claims.”
Isolde started. And not because of his words, but because his voice rang so loud in her ears. She whirled around to find him right behind her.
“Your minions forgot to chain me to your bed.” His dark eyes twinkling, he held up the loose chain.
Isolde gulped.
His smile widened. “Our four-legged champion frightened them off before they thought to do so,” he said, casting a look at the sleeping dog.
Isolde glanced at him, too, her mind racing almost as fast as her pulse. Bodo would never sleep so peaceably were she in danger. Her decision made, she turned back to the MacLean.
He watched her closely, a smile of such devastating appeal on his face, she knew she should be careful. She chose to heed her instincts instead.
Hers and Bodo’s.
Before she could change her mind, she plunged her hand into the folds of her skirts and withdrew the hard object from the hidden pouch. She offered it to him on her outstretched palm.
“Is that what I think it is?” He stared at the iron key, his eyes widening.
Isolde nodded. For some reason, her throat was too thick for words.
“By the powers.” The chain slipped from his hand, dropping to the floor with a rush-muffled thud.
Soft light from a nearby oil lamp illuminated the inscrutable expression he wore, but as she stared at him, his lips curved in another broad smile.
“I knew you were a fine bold lass,” he said, and accepted the key.
“Do not make me regret it,” she said, watching him kneel to unlock his ankle cuff.
He glanced up at her as he slipped the key into the lock. “Never.”
And for some inexplicable reason, she believed him.