Chapter 3 #2
“Yes, thank you. It was delightful. We were very comfortable.”
Pleasantries dispensed with, he cast a glance around to make sure the others were ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Deidre standing next to Isabel’s tiring woman.
Isabel caught his glance. “I hope you don’t mind …” She hesitated. “But I invited her.”
“So I see.”
His tone must have alarmed her, because she began to fidget. “Well, when I sent for her this morning to thank her for arranging the bath at such a late hour, she mentioned that she’d served your family since your older brother was a bairn. I just thought she might want to be here.”
Disconcerted by her kindness, Rory didn’t speak. He looked into her eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity.
“Are you angry?” she asked in a small voice.
“No. Merely chastened not to have thought of it myself.”
A wide smile lit her face, and Rory froze.
Her eyes twinkled with a joyous effervescence that transformed her face from regally beautiful to playful and enchanting.
A tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth lent a mischievous twist to her lips that made him think of naughtiness in other places. Like the bedchamber.
He shifted his gaze to Glengarry and spoke. “Let us begin.”
Glengarry looked to his daughter. “Isabel?”
Rory’s eyes narrowed. It seemed as if Glengarry were giving her an option. Seeming surprised but enormously pleased by the deferral, Isabel simply nodded.
With Glengarry officiating, Rory turned to face his bride, standing close enough to smell the sweet lavender of her hair and discern the previously unnoticed spattering of freckles across her nose.
The freckles charmed him; the slight imperfection suggested a surprising lack of vanity in one so beautiful.
This was a woman who enjoyed the outdoors, who valued the sun shining on her face more than the veneration of a flawless complexion.
He scowled at the direction of his thoughts, realizing that he’d done just what he’d vowed not to do.
A beautiful object, he reminded himself.
Still, as they stood in the courtyard before the witnesses to their handfast, he was uncomfortably aware of how small and delicate she looked. And nervous. His hand moved about five inches before he pulled it back to his side.
What the hell was he doing?
He cleared his throat, telling himself to stop acting like a fool.
Clasping right hand to right and left to left, Glengarry took a piece of plaid and tied it around their hands, binding them together.
Rory stared at her tiny hand in his, so soft and tender in his rough battle-scarred hands.
Her fingers were like ice and he realized she was nervous—maybe even scared.
He felt a strong swell of protectiveness, and couldn’t remain unaffected by the symbolic allusion to the bond they were about to make.
Though there would be no marriage, the handfast would be real enough.
He spoke the vows that would bind them together for a year. “I, Roderick MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, do pledge my troth to Isabel MacDonald and with this handfast do hereby covenant to take her to wife for the period of no less than one year.”
Isabel repeated the vows, and it was done. Except for one part.
He dropped his hand from her chin and took a step back. That wouldn’t happen again.
Isabel had never been kissed before, and she was completely unprepared for the all-consuming intensity of the experience.
His rough fingers cradled her face with such tenderness, a sharp pang of longing tugged deep in her chest. And when his lips brushed hers, she knew a moment of pure heaven.
A moment of connection so powerful, it frightened her—making her body feel almost not her own.
She’d never imagined how a kiss could possess.
With one gentle touch he branded her.
His lips were so much softer than she’d imagined, completely incongruous with the hard, implacable chief. He tasted … delicious. His warm, spicy breath engulfed her senses as he pressed his mouth more firmly against hers.
Her heart fluttered high in her chest and her body seemed to soften as sensation washed over her.
She felt weak. Boneless. And wonderfully warm with the swell of burgeoning desire.
For a moment she forgot the lie that had brought them together.
She forgot the presence of her family and surrendered to the force of a more powerful calling.
She wanted more.
She sank against him, leaning her body closer to his. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him and sense the strength barely harnessed under the powerful facade. He was big and hard, making her deeply aware of her own femininity.
For one precious instant it seemed as if he was going to wrap her in his muscular arms and deepen the kiss.
His mouth moved over hers and the rough stubble of his jaw scraped over her skin, sending ripples of anticipation shuddering through her.
His fingers tightened on her jaw as he pulled her closer.
Unconsciously her lips parted, knowing there was something more.
Perhaps he noticed her reaction, for he stiffened and abruptly pulled his mouth from hers.
Just before he released her, his dazzling sapphire eyes had briefly studied her upturned face.
Her chin barely came to the middle of his chest. Isabel thought she glimpsed a smoldering fire in his gaze, but the aloof blank shutter dropped back into place, shielding any emotion.
He dropped his hand from her face, and the spell was broken.
He’d barely looked at her since. In fact, he seemed enthralled by the conversation of her father on his right and the lovely dark-haired woman seated next to Glengarry.
Unfortunately, Isabel was not nearly so indifferent.
Peering from under her thick eyelashes at the man seated next to her, she felt strangely aware of her new handfast husband.
Indeed, she’d been aware of him since the moment she’d stepped out of the keep this morning, his tawny hair shimmering in the sunlight.
He drew the eye like a fiery beacon on a moonless night, the magnificence of his presence not merely a result of his stature, but flowing from the aura of authority that surrounded him.
He held himself like a king. A man born to rule.
Of all the men gathered in the barmkin for the ceremony, he was the only one who hadn’t seemed bothered by her late arrival. Apparently, his confidence extended to her.
Hers, however, had been shattered. After that heart-stopping kiss, Isabel drifted through the rest of the day in a bewildered haze.
Vaguely, she recalled sharing the ceremonial glass of wine and returning to the keep for the signing of the contract between her father and the MacLeod, making it official. She was his for a year.
But only a year. She’d do best to remember it, no matter how thrilling his kiss.
Although she knew that their handfast was but a temporary bond, sitting at the dais in the great hall observing the jubilant celebration feast around her, she felt oddly unsettled.
She could almost believe it was a marriage in truth, blessed for eternity.
Isabel forced herself to remember that it was all a sham, no matter how official it seemed.
The contract, the ceremony, even the dress, were all part of her uncle’s plan.
The handfast was only a way out when her job was done.
This day was a farce. She had dreamed of the happiness of her wedding day since she was a little girl.
Yet even with all the suitors she was presented with at court, she despaired of ever finding the right man.
In many ways, Rory MacLeod epitomized the proud, handsome man she had imagined herself someday falling in love with and marrying.
Just her luck. The first man to ever really intrigue her was the one she absolutely could not have.
Of course, she reminded herself, he was not the man of her dreams.
In her dreams, her husband did not ignore her.
It was an unusual experience for her. Isabel was not used to complete indifference from men. He was unfailingly polite but distant. And annoyingly inscrutable. It was difficult to believe that this was the man who’d kissed her with such tenderness.
If only she could break through the icy shield he donned when around her and force him to take some notice of her. Not in the reckless way she drove herself to get attention from her family. No, for the first time in her life Isabel wanted a man to notice her as a woman.
That was going to be a challenge, if today was any indication.
In between the steady stream of well-wishers and the MacLeod’s odd question—“More beef, Isabel?” or “Would you care for some wine, Isabel?”—she’d managed to count every window in the great hall.
Twelve. Though it was a stretch to consider the narrow slits in the ten-foot-thick wall windows.
It took a determined beam of sunlight to penetrate such a formidable impediment.
Instead, the large room was lit by candles and the smoky glow of peat from the fireplace.
The walls were sparsely decorated with only the occasional threadbare tapestry of no great artistry, but hung prominently on the wall behind the dais was an ominous-looking three-foot-long claidheamhmór.
The enormous two-handed cross-hilted sword looked far too unwieldy to be of use, but it still gave her pause.
Did it belong to him?
If anyone could lift that thing, he could.
Isabel stole a glance at the man sitting beside her.
She noticed the way his shoulders and arms strained against the fine linen of his shirt.
The knowledge settled low in her belly. Rory MacLeod was the most physically imposing man she’d ever met.
Never had she been so aware of a man’s size and strength.
Though it would be impossible not to be. He dominated the space beside her.