Chapter 10
Rory did not return to their room that night, and for once his absence did not bother her. Isabel didn’t know if she could face him. Her emotions were still too raw.
She’d wept silently in the darkness for hours, as she had too often as a child, until exhaustion finally overwhelmed the hurt.
She must have slept, but for how long she knew not.
When she woke, the sting of his rejection had not lessened.
She lay in bed, reluctant to get up. For if she did, she must face the mess of her own making.
Isabel had confused lust with something more.
A deeper connection. In the shelter of his embrace, she’d felt a sense of security and belonging she’d never experienced before.
Like a fool, she’d allowed herself to believe, if only for a heated moment, that someone like Rory MacLeod might care for her.
She’d spent a lifetime trying recklessly to prove herself to her family.
If the people closest to her did not care about her, why would he?
The MacLeod desired her, nothing more.
She’d felt his desire. Felt it wedged hard against her body. He’d wanted her.
But clearly, he didn’t trust her. And not without reason, she admitted.
Guilt needled her conscience. Though she had not necessarily set out to seduce him last night, seduction was part of her plan.
She’d wanted to press him and had known he might come upon her wandering around scantily dressed.
She’d flirted with danger and had been burned.
He had every right to question her and to hurl his accusations.
She deserved all that he thought of her, and worse.
The true horror of the situation had only begun to dawn on her. She’d known what she would have to do, but never had she imagined how cold and calculating it would feel to use her body to prey upon his attraction. To use their passion to manipulate. A wave of self-revulsion washed over her.
His words came back to her. He’d only taken what was offered.
She cringed. Had her desire been so obvious?
If she had responded to him inappropriately, it was only because she’d acted instinctively.
Innocently. Fresh shame burned her cheeks.
She wanted to bury her head under her pillow and hide from the vivid memories.
But he was wrong in his suspicion. Last night had not been an act.
Her response had been freely given. Never had she thought herself capable of such feelings.
And their intensity terrified her, for it indicated just how susceptible she was to him.
And just how easy it would be for her to lose her head.
Isabel felt a pang of regret. If circumstances were different … She shook her head. But they weren’t. She had a job to do, though she now realized it would not be done without a price. When the year was over, she would not walk away unscathed.
Something else gnawed at her. Isabel knew it was not only suspicion, or her unconscious plea, that had made him push her away. It was his honor. He would not take her virginity knowing he intended to send her back.
Isabel threw back the covers and pulled herself together.
It would do no good to hide from her problems. She needed to clear the air between them.
And suddenly it had become important that he not think the worst of her.
She wanted him to know that she’d set out to find the library last night and nothing more.
It was time for a little honesty on her part.
She still had a job to do, but she was no longer certain she could use her body to accomplish it.
There had to be another way.
By the time Rory returned to their chamber to wash the remnants of a sleepless night from his face, Isabel had already left to break her fast. He hadn’t trusted himself to return to their solar last night, not when his body still raged with lust. Instead, he’d spent an uncomfortable night before the fire in the library with a bottle for company.
But not even strong drink could dull the honey taste of her that seemed branded on his lips.
He’d allowed his anger at finding her sneaking around the tower to cloud his judgment, and then seeing her in that flimsy night rail had pushed him too far.
But he should never have kissed her. Isabel had him so twisted up in knots, he didn’t know what in Hades had come over him.
Her response had made him half-crazed. The sweet dart of her tongue.
The tentative movement of her hips. The arch of her back as he’d kissed her lush breasts.
The dampness between her legs that nearly drove him over the edge.
He had a duty to his clan to repudiate the handfast and forge an alliance that would help in his quest to destroy Sleat.
His vow of revenge against Sleat did not include despoiling an innocent lass.
Or getting her with child. Although he knew there were other pleasures they could share, last night had proved that one taste of her was not enough.
He could not trust himself to show restraint.
What would he have done had she not uttered her innocent plea, knocking him back to his senses? He couldn’t be sure.
Standing at the window in his chambers, watching the morning sun climb over the distant horizon, Rory hardly recognized himself. Never had he felt unsure of his ability to control his baser instincts. Of his ability to do his duty for the clan. Never had he questioned his role as chief.
But when he’d enfolded her in his arms, crushed his lips to hers, run his fingers through the silky thick veil of her unbound hair, and found himself overcome with the heady sweet scent of her, he’d done just that.
At that moment, lost in the fever of their embrace, he had wanted her more than he wanted revenge.
And he might have thrown it all away, tossed away his heritage as fast as he could unbelt his plaid, for the moment of sweet pleasure waiting between her slender thighs.
The proud heritage that had passed from his father, Tormod, to his elder brother, William.
A heritage that had never been meant for Rory, but one he had fully embraced upon the untimely tragic deaths of his brother and his young nephew John.
The welfare of the clan depended on the strength of its chief.
In return for their absolute loyalty, the clan expected the chief to protect and to provide.
The chief was the leader in war, the holder of land, the judge and jury—with absolute authority over the clan.
A chief without honor, a man who was not true to his word, failed his clan.
Rory’s heritage as Chief of the MacLeod was of duty to the clan above all else.
Duty above personal desire. The MacLeods had been shamed by the MacDonalds, and he must restore the honor of the clan.
He shook his head with disgust. He had nearly forgotten this, until her unconscious plea had broken the spell and brought his responsibilities back to him in full force.
But she played with fire. He’d warned her not to tempt him again. He’d been furious with her, and with himself, for falling into her trap so damn easily, causing him to strike out in a blind rage. And if the look on her face was any indication, his words had found their mark.
His rejection had hurt her. She’d stared at him as if he were a hunter who had just released an arrow straight to her heart. Her anguish had been real.
He pressed his hands against the cold, unbending rock of the stone windowsill. Usually the sea gave him a modicum of peace, but today it deserted him.
As a child, full of the fanciful tales of the bards, he’d imagined that he glimpsed the shimmering scales of mermaid’s tails, the Maighdean na Tuinne, beckoning him from the sun-splayed iridescent sea.
Of course, now he realized he had seen only gray seals—not mermaids.
How long ago that seemed; he barely remembered the carefree child he’d been before he’d been consumed by responsibility.
A heron dipped in a perfect arch down and up again, clutching a fish in its mouth.
Rory savored the sights of nature displayed before him, as he knew that soon the days would shorten and the majestic colors before him would be hidden behind a curtain of gray mist and heavy rain.
Summer’s reluctant parting beckoned, its chilling wind breathing down the neck of a still sunny day.
Yet even as he beheld the tranquil roll of the waves climbing and cresting in a perfect, almost musical tempo, he could not rid himself of those luminous violet eyes so filled with pain.
Had she really only been looking for a book? It surprised him to realize how much he wanted to believe her. Perhaps Isabel deserved the benefit of the doubt.
He rubbed his unshaven chin thoughtfully.
He’d never considered a learned wife but found that he liked the idea.
It bespoke a certain fortitude. He was the first of his clan to have had the benefit of a university education.
Reading was a passion and his one escape—other than the passion of a good woman.
Rory was quite proud of the depth of his library and made new acquisitions whenever and wherever he traveled.
There was more depth to Isabel than he’d expected.
He moved away from the window and strode purposefully toward the basin on the other side of the room.
The cold water splashed unmercifully against his skin, shocking the weariness from his face.
He dressed quickly and unthinkingly, the complicated wrap of the plaid now routine after years of practice.