Chapter 27
A chill at the back of Rory’s neck stirred him from the viselike arms of slumber, but the warning had come too late.
Falling asleep with Isabel after nearly two weeks of sleepless nights had dulled his senses, severely limiting his instincts.
He woke to the cold press of steel against his neck and the malevolent, glassy-eyed Mackenzie hovering over them.
Rory stilled. The invigorating blood rush of battle swept all vestiges of sleep from his body. Every nerve ending flared, primed to attack.
Seeing that Rory was awake, the Mackenzie chief jostled Isabel. “Get up, whore.”
He wanted to reach out to protect her, but he dared not move. Not yet. Not with the blade so close. It took a moment for the haze of slumber to clear enough for Isabel to realize what was happening. Rory watched her eyes widen with fear.
“Move slowly, love,” Rory soothed. “Stay calm.”
The Mackenzie sneered, his expression teeming with the promise of vengeance. “I said get up, whore.”
Rory swore. “Do as he says, love.”
Isabel clutched a sheet to her nakedness and rose from the bed. The moon lit the sensuous curves of her figure to perfection.
The Mackenzie did not move the sword from Rory’s neck, but his eyes devoured her near nakedness.
His grayish tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Lust transformed his features into a mask of depraved cruelty.
Rory felt every muscle in his body clench.
Rage surged through him. Killing the man who dared threaten his woman would be a pleasure.
But first he needed to create a diversion.
Unfortunately, Isabel seemed to have the same idea.
Rory could see how terrified she was, but heedless of the risk, she drew the Mackenzie’s gaze to her, innocently allowing the sheet to fall low on her breasts.
Damn. A hot burst of anger erupted inside him.
She’d sworn not to endanger herself. He was going to throttle her when this was done.
The only thing that kept him from doing it right now was that he knew she was trying to sacrifice herself for him, and her distraction was working. Too well.
“How did you get here?” Rory asked, though he’d already figured it out.
The Mackenzie’s eyes still gorged on Isabel’s body, but at least he did not move to touch her. “Why, I followed the gel, of course.”
“That’s impossible!” Isabel exclaimed. “I made sure I was not followed.”
“You were careful to make sure no one was behind you. But I had an advantage. I knew where you were headed—where you had disappeared last time. So I waited for you to come to me.”
Isabel cursed softly and turned to Rory. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault.”
Instinctively, Rory moved to reassure her, only to stop at the pressure of the blade against his neck. He sat back. “You couldn’t have known, love.” He turned back to the Mackenzie.
The castle was silent. It was a good sign. “Where are the others? Did you come alone?”
The Mackenzie shrugged. “Patience, MacLeod. All things in good time.” He threw a lascivious glance at Isabel. “Some things can’t wait.”
The Mackenzie was too eager to kill them.
Rory’s mind worked quickly. It might work to their advantage if the Mackenzie had followed Isabel inside by himself or with only a few men.
But Rory knew they must work fast. Sleat would not be far behind.
He drew the Mackenzie’s attention back to him. “What do you want?”
“Why, the Fairy Flag, of course. To start with.” The Mackenzie leered again at Isabel. Rory fought the urge to rip the lewd smile from his face.
“Never,” Rory said evenly. Cool authority rang clear in his voice, despite the presence of the claymore pressed to his neck.
“We shall see.” The Mackenzie turned to Isabel. “You, whore, bring me the flag. And no tricks, I know what it looks like.”
“Never.” Isabel met Rory’s eyes, her voice imitating the calm authority she had heard in his.
“You dare defy me? You, the strumpet that lured my son to his death? I will enjoy watching you beg. How much do you care for your former handfast husband?”
The Mackenzie flicked his claymore, and the razor-sharp sword sliced a deep gash across the top of Rory’s bare shoulder. Rory didn’t flinch, but Isabel cried out with horror as blood gushed from the wound.
“We’ll see how determined you are to defy me as I cut him apart limb by limb. How long do you think you’ll be able to stomach his pain? By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging me to cut his throat.”
Pleasure transformed the Mackenzie’s face as he spoke.
The quest for revenge had deadened the man; there was nothing left in his soul but evil.
Rory knew that the Mackenzie would kill them, with or without the flag.
He did not doubt his ability to take the man one-on-one, but if the Mackenzie turned on Isabel …
He needed a distraction—and not the one Isabel proposed—so that he could get his weapon.
His gaze moved around the room from the fireplace to the chair to Isabel’s trunk that she’d never sent for—
His gaze jerked back. The fireplace. Isabel’s trunks. A slow smile slid over his face. He would give the Mackenzie what he wanted.
Rory turned to Isabel. “Isabel, love, we have no choice. Give him the flag.” He pointed to her trunk. “It’s in my trunk over there.”
Rory saw relief and understanding flash in her eyes.
She moved toward the chest, pulling the sheeting along with her to cover her nakedness.
Slowly, she opened the lid and retrieved Bessie’s shawl from the stack of linens.
Reverently, she held up the shawl for the Mackenzie to see.
When her eyes looked to Rory’s, he flicked his glance over to the fire.
She nodded, and he knew she understood.
Isabel took a seemingly innocent step toward the fireplace. “Here it is.” She held it up for Mackenzie to see, then quickly crumpled the thin silk into a ball.
“Give me the flag, gel, or I will sever his head from his body. Now!”
Rory waited, making sure the Mackenzie’s greedy eyes stayed on the “flag.” A few seconds were all he needed.
“Here, if you want it—catch.” And before the Mackenzie realized what she was about to do, Isabel tossed the shawl into the crackling flames of the fire.
“No!” the Mackenzie yelled.
He lunged for the piece of cloth, using his claymore to lift it from the flames, and Rory rolled off the bed naked and pulled a dirk from beneath the pile of his discarded clothing.
“Get back, Isabel,” he ordered softly.
She ran to the far corner of the room, as far from the Mackenzie’s reach as possible.
But there was no need; the distraction had worked.
With the Mackenzie’s gaze focused on the “flag,” Rory was afforded the precious seconds he needed to attack.
The familiar hot rush of blood and clarity of mind descended on him, as it always did in battle.
Dirk raised, Rory lunged toward the Mackenzie.
He moved with lethal precision, his eyes narrowed in on the kill.
Too late, the Mackenzie realized his error.
He turned at the last minute to ward off the blow, but his efforts were futile.
Rory would not be denied—he easily blocked the swing of the Mackenzie’s sword.
With the steely determination of a man intent on protecting the woman he loved, Rory plunged his dirk deep into the heart of his prey.
The Mackenzie’s eyes rounded, and his mouth opened in surprise.
The horrible sounds of a gurgling death echoed in the room as he remained pinned by the dirk against the fireplace.
Rory released his hold on the dirk, and the Mackenzie chief slipped to the floor, his face a death mask of shock, his cold, flat eyes fixed on eternal nothingness. Like those of his son months before.
It was over.
Isabel ran into his arms. “I thought he was going to kill us.”
Rory smoothed her hair. “I would never let anyone harm you.” But the fierce pounding of his heart told him danger was much closer than he would have liked. There were still no sounds of an attack, but he would have to be ready. The Mackenzie had not come alone.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Rory, I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t know he was watching me.”
His fingers pressed against her lips. “Shush, love. I trust you.” He held her out to look at her, a black scowl suddenly descending across his handsome face. “But I thought we agreed that you would not do anything reckless ever again. Allowing that sheet to slip was no accident.”
He could see the color spread across her cheeks, knowing very well to what he referred. She tried to look contrite. “I had to get that blade away from your neck. I could think of no other way to distract him.”
“I know what you were trying to do, but next time save your seductions for me. And only me.”
She frowned. “If you’ll recall, I tried, but you were immune. Frustratingly so.”
Rory shook his head. “Nay, lass, never immune.” He pulled her close again and kissed her, telling her with his mouth and the hardness of his body how much she affected him.
Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. “Later. I have to raise the men and see to the safety of the keep.” His mind was racing.
He realized that the Mackenzie must have traveled fast to arrive before Isabel, but he could not be sure how far the rest would be behind.
“The entrance?”
Rory nodded. “Aye, it’s where they will try to enter.” He turned away to gather his clothes when he heard Isabel gasp.
The sheet she held was covered with blood. “Your shoulder, it’s bleeding.”
“ ’Tis nothing, just a scratch.” One that hurt like hell.
Their eyes met. He knew she wanted to argue, but there was no time. “Just see that you don’t get any more.”
He dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “I’ll do my best.”