Chapter 13
Five days later, he found her at Alex’s bedside.
The same spot she’d been stationed at day and night since he’d rescued her from rape at the hands of Murdock Mackenzie.
Despite the pandemonium surrounding the attack, Rory had recognized the Mackenzie’s youngest son immediately—and had not hesitated to put an end to his foul life.
The man was the worst sort, the type who took immense pleasure in the pain of another; but even so, Rory knew there would be a reckoning with the Mackenzie chief over the life of his son.
But it did not matter. Standing in the doorway watching Isabel as she bent over the unmoving figure of his brother, wiping his brow repeatedly with a damp, cool cloth, Rory knew he would happily kill the fiend again and again for what he had nearly done.
The knock on Alex’s head had been more severe than they’d initially realized. He had a knot on his head the size of an egg and had remained unconscious for almost two days. Even now, when he woke, it was not for long and was usually accompanied by dizziness and strong bouts of nausea.
Isabel turned, somehow sensing his presence, although he’d made no sound as he entered. A weak smile of greeting lit her weary face.
“The swelling has gone down considerably.” Relief was evident within the exhaustion clouding her voice. Her finely defined brows drew tight over her nose. “But he still does not wake for long.”
Rory approached the bed and gazed fondly at his peacefully sleeping brother. “He looks much better. ’Tis best to let him sleep. When he wakes he’ll have one roaring headache. Besides,” he said with a grin, “Alex has much too hard a head to let a knock on the pate get him down for long.”
Her smile grew stronger. “Aye, he’s not the only hardheaded, stubborn man in this keep.” At his exaggerated look of affront, she laughed, her eyes sparkling, looking more like herself for a moment.
Rory moved closer to her, his hand reaching down to rest tentatively on her shoulder.
Ever since that day in the forest, he could not resist any excuse to touch her.
He could feel the tension from her tireless vigil under his fingertips.
Despite her obvious weariness, desire hit him hard.
He longed to knead the tightness from her body, to run his fingers in a gentle caress over her soft skin, to erase the fatigue of the last few days with his hands—and then his mouth.
But first they needed to talk.
Anticipating his thoughts, she clutched Alex’s hand protectively like a mother protecting her child, a defiant gleam in her haggard eyes, her stance evidence of her obstinate refusal to relinquish her position as head nurse.
Rory knew she blamed herself and had taken Alex’s injury extremely hard. But he refused to allow her to wallow in her guilt any longer. “Isabel, we must talk. Margaret will take over nursing Alex for a bit. His body needs rest to recover. You can do nothing for him right now. Come.”
“But I can’t leave him yet. I must be sure that I’m here if he wakes and needs anything. Please, just a wee bit longer.”
“Isabel, you can’t avoid this. We will talk.
Tonight, no later. I’ve already sent for Margaret.
She is most anxious to help nurse Alex. She’s taken much of the blame for what happened upon herself and longs to atone for her part.
We’ll talk, but first you will bathe, rest, and have something to eat or you’ll make yourself ill.
Go to our chamber. Now.” His clipped voice left little room for argument.
Her beautiful copper gold hair fell limp around her face, covering her features from his view as she made a great show of pondering his request. A request that they both knew was a command.
She fumbled distractedly with Alex’s blankets, but it did not take long for a sigh of resignation to escape the contrary set of her lips.
She flipped her hair behind her shoulders, lifted her chin resolutely, and replied, “As you wish, Chief. We will speak this evening. I will return to our chambers now to do as you have ordered.” Emphasizing the last word, she rose from her post beside Alex, placed the cool cloth on his brow once more, turned her back to him, and glided regally out of the room.
Rory’s mouth quirked. Her reprimand amused him. But he was chief, and used to giving orders. Truth be told, he did not have much experience with gentle requests to ladies. And he had waited too long to find out what had occurred in the forests about Dunvegan.
The shock of the attack had faded, to be replaced by thinly constrained anger. But he would hear her out. One thing was obvious: His orders not to leave the castle had been blatantly ignored.
He sat in the small wooden chair positioned next to the bed, its soft velvet cushion still warm, and gazed thoughtfully at his sleeping brother.
At the haggard face that was so familiar.
A small frown betrayed his thoughts. He had been more shaken by Alex’s injuries than he had let on.
In addition to the knock on the head, he’d suffered a severe beating at the hands of the Mackenzies.
That Isabel blamed herself for Alex’s injury was evident.
He ran his fingers abstractedly through his hair, pushing it back from his face and shaking his head as if he were trying to sort out the mixed thoughts in his mind. Rory did not know whom to blame.
The corners of his lips lifted with a bemused smile.
Apparently, many were fighting for that particular honor.
In addition to Isabel and Margaret, Colin had also sought to take the blame for Alex’s injury and Isabel’s near rape.
And knowing his brother, when he woke long enough for coherent thought, Alex would surely take full responsibility for the happenings on that day as well.
That horrible day. He couldn’t think about it without his stomach turning at the involuntary picture that came to mind of Isabel fighting wildly beneath Mackenzie with her skirts around her neck, her face beaten, and her violet eyes murky with terror.
Yet he knew it could have been worse, much worse.
If he and his men had not arrived when they had, if Margaret and Colin had not escaped to warn them …
They were lucky.
Rory wet a cloth with cool water from the basin, squeezed it out, and pressed it lightly to Alex’s forehead as he had observed Isabel do before she involuntarily relinquished her post.
Colin had provided him with a brief account of what they were doing in the forest but failed to explain adequately how the group had come to be outside the walls of the castle in direct contravention of Rory’s express orders—not to mention how the group had become separated from their escort.
Alex had much to account for when he woke.
But for now, Rory wanted to hear an explanation from Isabel’s own lips of how she could possibly justify being so foolish.
Despite his anger, he could not forget the sense of connection he’d felt for her that day amid the carnage.
She’d reached for him without thought. It was almost as if there were a fine silken thread holding them together—so fine that it could be easily snapped if pulled too taut or woven with more threads into something much stronger.
He shook his head at his romantic musings.
The attack had forced Rory to confront his growing feelings for Isabel—feelings he’d hoped to escape on his journey.
He hadn’t meant to be gone for so many weeks, but his business in Edinburgh had taken longer than expected.
In addition to presenting himself to the king to account for his good behavior in compliance with the General Band, he had resumed negotiations with the Earl of Argyll.
After assuring himself that Rory intended to go ahead with the alliance with his cousin Elizabeth Campbell, Argyll had promised to urge the king to decide on the disposition of Trotternish.
James’s continued refusal to take sides on the matter—even after what Sleat did to Margaret—infuriated Rory to no end.
But as the direction of Rory’s duty became more clear, he realized just how much he’d come to care for the lass he still could not trust. The primal intensity of his reaction to her near rape only clarified the depth of those feelings.
He bowed his head in his hands, but he couldn’t escape the truth.
Nothing had changed. He still had his duty to his clan to marry the Campbell lass.
Isabel was not for him. But for the first time, he wondered whether there might be another way—to both destroy Sleat and reclaim Trotternish—that didn’t involve Elizabeth Campbell.
Rory continued to wonder throughout the long evening, an evening made even longer by the punishing pleasure of Isabel’s presence at his side.
Even now, a sultry smell of lavender filled his nose.
He knew that if he leaned down close to her loose damp hair and inhaled, the smell would be even stronger.
And stronger still if he leaned down farther and burrowed his face in the graceful, elegant curves of her long, ivory neck.
And if he kept lowering his face down her body, smelling all the areas of warmth …
He groaned and shifted in his seat, adjusting the sudden discomfort he found hardening in his lap.
A perpetual discomfort, it seemed, since the arrival of his bride.
“Is something wrong, Rory? You sound as if you are in pain.” Isabel placed her fingers on his arm and looked up at him, her eyes wide with sudden concern.
“No,” he said a shade too roughly. He took her warm fingers, the touch that was only increasing his pain, and gently unfurled them from his arm. “I knocked my knee on the table, that is all.”