Chapter 9 #2
Exiting the stairwell, she wandered through the half-lit corridors of the lower level, cautiously opening doors, finding nothing, making her way to the familiar entry hall of the tower.
It was a charming space, as beautiful as any of the private chambers of the queen.
Torches in iron sconces lined the walls, having not yet been extinguished for the night.
Intricately designed tapestries, likely Flemish in origin from their great beauty, hung on thick plastered walls painted a rich gold.
She recognized many of the scenes as depictions of famous chansons.
Scenes of great battles. Scenes of great love.
Fresh rushes woven into mats on the floor were topped with fine colorful carpets, no doubt brought back from the Holy Land hundreds of years ago by a crusading ancestor.
Delicately carved wooden chairs, upholstered with cushions of rich emerald velvet, formed a small seating area before the fire.
Isabel moved to the fire, thinking to warm herself before resuming her search on the upper levels.
It took her a moment to realize that she was no longer alone.
“What are you doing here?”
Rory’s voice snapped like a whip across the silent night.
Despite the fire, the hair on the backs of her arms stood up.
From his tone, Isabel knew something was wrong.
Very wrong. She turned, cautious, her gaze flickering over his rigid stance and fierce, unyielding jaw.
The flames from the torches cast shadows across his ruggedly handsome face.
Her chest clenched. He looked like a stranger.
Like the ruthless warrior she’d once feared. Internal warning bells clanged.
She looked to him for reassurance. Her tentative smile, an attempted greeting, wobbled and then fell.
His eyes were as hard as sapphires, and her blood ran cold.
The aura of safety and security she’d unknowingly grown accustomed to fled.
The solid, steady veneer was gone, replaced by a penetrating fury that cut her to the bone.
Fury that, unlike earlier, had nothing to do with lust. He wasn’t even looking at her ensemble—or lack thereof.
Her heart dropped to her feet. Dear God, had he discovered her subterfuge?
Suspicion coiled in him like a poisonous snake, ready to strike at the faintest spark.
Too many things didn’t add up. And finding her sneaking around the tower in the middle of the night had sent him over the edge.
Rory had returned to his chamber, deeply troubled by the inconsistencies he perceived in his observations of Isabel.
On the one hand, she seemed a kind, innocent, and vulnerable young woman eager to find a place in her new clan.
But at other times, her actions were decidedly suspicious, made more so by her connection to Sleat.
Despite what he’d told her about returning her to her kin at the end of the handfast period, she’d set out to entice him with her revealing dress.
Could her attempt to tempt him with the dress have something to do with her uncle and her reasons for being here?
Sleat had another purpose with this handfast, of that Rory was sure; what he didn’t know was whether Isabel was part of it.
He’d also noticed her face pale when the tale of the Fairy Flag began—indeed, her discomfort throughout the rest of the evening was obvious.
But it wasn’t until he’d entered his solar and found her gone that his already simmering doubts flared.
He had not forgotten her strange behavior in the kitchens.
And when he went searching for her, only to find her wandering the corridors of the keep, opening doors as if she were looking for something, his suspicions intensified.
Now he was furious—not just with her, but also with himself for how much he didn’t want to believe she was anything other than what she seemed.
She stood unsteadily before him, the fire behind her forming a halo around her flaming hair. She gazed at him warily, like a fawn sensing danger. He took a step closer.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated. She flinched at the sound of his voice.
But fear would not distract him. She’d do well to witness his wrath.
To know the consequences of betrayal. This time, Rory would not be put off by suggestive comments; he would have answers.
This was not the first time she’d acted strangely or been looking in places she shouldn’t.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained nervously. “I was looking for the library you mentioned; I thought I might find a book to read.”
“You should have asked Deidre to bring you one. Or waited for me to return.”
“It was late, I didn’t want to wake her.” She met his gaze with a defiant thrust of her chin. “And I wasn’t sure that you would return.”
A plausible excuse, but could he believe her?
His penetrating gaze raked her face for signs of deceit.
But when his eyes lowered, his body leapt to attention.
His muscles tensed, and a small pulse beat at his throat.
Rory had been so focused on his finding her sneaking around his corridors that he hadn’t noticed how she was dressed.
Or rather undressed. Dear God, he could see everything.
With the backlight of the fire lighting his way, he could see the curves and contours of her form so clearly, she could have been standing before him naked.
He saw the high firmness of her breasts.
The creamy perfection of her velvety soft skin.
The small, tight nipples the size of tiny pearls that stood out from the cold.
Her waist was small and her hips gently curved.
His eyes stopped their hungry descent. He dared not lower his gaze any farther or he wouldn’t be able to resist taking her right there.
He couldn’t look at that delicate apex where her legs joined.
He stepped back, his body so tense with lust that he thought he might explode.
Fine beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
His physical reaction to her was so strong, for a moment he forgot his anger.
But it soon came back to him full force. By God, I warned her. “Why are you out of your room dressed like that?” He made a harsh gesture with his hand. “Did you hear nothing of what I said earlier?” Didn’t she realize what she did to him?
Perhaps she did.
Instinctively, she pulled her robe closer. He nearly groaned. The fabric stretched taut over her full, succulent breasts. The sweet buds of her nipples teased him. The force of his desire rose hard beneath his plaid.
“I heard, but I d-d-didn’t expect to see anyone,” she stuttered. “If you would show me the library, I will return to my room.”
“Didn’t expect to see anyone? Don’t you understand”—his voice shook—“I could have been anyone.” Any one of his men could have seen her nakedness just as clearly as he could. The thought made him half-crazed.
Had she set out to entice him again? To drive him mad with longing? Rory struggled with the conflicting emotions battling inside him. Frustration and lingering doubt gave his voice the sharp edge of a blade. “Why do I find you searching the dark corridors of my keep? What are you looking for?”
Her eyes widened with alarm. She tried to explain. “You misunderstand me, Rory. I was only looking for a book. I didn’t know where to find the library. It’s late, and the noise had died down. I thought all were abed.”
He whipped around to grasp her arms. His hold tightened with the roughness of his voice. “What game are you playing, Isabel? Was the damn dress not enough?”
“You have the wrong of it. I certainly didn’t seek you out.” Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. “You have made it very clear that you do not want me.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He was only a man, and she’d prodded him one too many times.
Teasing him with her beauty, her provocative clothing, her naughty innuendo, her seductive smiles.
The press of her soft buttocks against his rock-hard cock.
Her soulful eyes, eyes that tore through his indifference.
She was his handfast bride. Who would blame him if he took her?
No one. It was expected. She belonged to him—for a year.
Restraint exploded inside him. He did want her. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman before. He felt none of the careful reserve that he usually felt with the lasses. None of the distance. None of the control. Right now, his body raged with a fire that could not be contained.
He pulled her into his embrace, holding her firmly against his chest and groin, skimming his hands down her hips.
Savoring the soft sensation of her body molded against his, he gripped the tight curves of her buttocks in his hands as he lifted her against him.
He pulsed with need. “You are wrong, Isabel. I do want you.” His voice grew thick. “Can’t you feel how much I want you?”
Her eyes widened.
“Is this what you wanted, Isabel? Did you want me to touch you?” He moved one hand around to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb across the hard tip, smiling when she gasped with shocked pleasure.
He lowered his head to the curve of her neck, burying his nose in the warm lavender essence of her silky curls.
His mouth brushed along her neck and throat, trailing kisses until he reached her ear.
Pulling the tender lobe between his teeth, he felt her shiver.
“I don’t just want to touch you, I want to taste every inch of you.
” The soft burr of his speech became more pronounced with the sensual promise of his words, rolling off his tongue in a caressing whisper.