Lord of the Isles

LORD OF HER HEART

He kissed the tears from her cheeks. “I do love you, Aileanna, and I’m no’ marryin’ Moira. I wil na’ go through with the betrothal, no’ now.”

“Don’t . . . don’t lie to me. Lust isn’t love—that’s what you said, didn’t you? I won’t come second to anyone, Rory, not even your dead wife. I deserve more.”

He gave her a slight shake. “Stop. Why wil you no’ try to understand? Aye, I desire you as I never have another, in cluding Brianna. But I do love you, Aileanna, more than I should. And I canna’ let you go. I wil na’ let you go.”

“Did you just say you aren’t marrying Moira?”

“Aye, ’tis what I said,” he growled.

She hesitated then asked, “And you love me?” She low

ered her eyes and her cheeks flushed. “As much as you loved your wife?”

“The love I feel for you is no’ the same as my love for Bri

anna was. Canna’ you understand that?”

“Aye, I can.”

He blinked, then grinned. “I’l make a Scot of you yet, mo chridhe.” His eyes darkened. “But now al I want is to make you mine . . .”

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

This book is dedicated to the

memory of my father, Norm LeClair.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. You are my hero, and always will be. Thanks . . .

To my amazing husband Perry, and our three incredible children, April, Jess, and Nic. Your love, encouragement, and support, mean the world to me. I love you very much. To my mom, my sister, and brother, for their enthusiastic support. No one could ask for better cheerleaders. I love you. To Ludvica, my adopted daughter, for being the best reader a writer could ever hope for.

To my friends and mentors in ORWA. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you, especial y Coreene, Vanessa, Teresa, and Joyce.

A special thanks to my dear friend and critique partner Lucy. To my agent Pamela Hardy for believing in me, and making my dreams come true. You’re the best!

To my editor John Scognamiglio for taking a chance on me, and for your patience while guiding me through the publish

ing process. You’ve been a pleasure to work with. To my many family and friends. I can’t name you al , but you have my deepest gratitude and love.

Chapter 1

The red hatchback came to a grinding stop at the bottom of a desolate gravel road, and the driver flipped off the meter. Wide-eyed, Ali stared at the back of the bald man’s head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The cabbie shrugged. His eyes meeting hers in the rear

view mirror. “I canna’ make it up the hil , lass, on account of al the rain we’ve had. My car’s too heavy you ken, but Dunvegan’s just up the road a bit,” he said in his thick brogue. Ali leaned forward, peering past the rhythmic swipe of the windshield wipers to the mist-shrouded trees and the faint outline of a stone tower just beyond them, and released a resigned sigh. She shouldn’t be surprised. Lately, where she was concerned, if something could go wrong, it did.

“Okay then, what do I owe you?” she asked as she dug her wal et from the bottom of her black leather satchel.

“Two hundred pounds,” the older man answered as he opened the door and heaved himself off the front seat. Ali let out a soft whistle before she fol owed after him, her low-heeled shoes sinking in the mud. “Can you give me a receipt, please?”

Her agent and best friend, Meg Lawson, had told her the magazine would pay al her expenses and Ali wasn’t about to 2

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argue. It meant more money to go toward the hefty student loans she’d accumulated while going to medical school. And the sooner they were paid off the better. It was one of the rea

sons she’d agreed to take the modeling job in the first place. The money was great, and she’d get a chance to see some of Scotland—at the very least Skye, where the photo shoot was taking place. She just wouldn’t think about why she had the time to take the job. If she did, she’d cry, and she’d done enough of that already.

“Aye.” He lifted her luggage from the trunk and settled the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder. “I wish I could help with yer bags, lass, but I have a bum knee and wouldn’t be much good to you.”

“No problem.” Ali managed a tight smile as she dragged the heavy suitcase around the back of the car, its wheels get

ting stuck in the mud. She thanked the man and shoved the receipt he handed her into her bag before heading out on what she hoped would be a short walk to Dunvegan Castle. The trek was slow going, with the wheels of her suitcase getting stuck in every rut on the narrow, unpaved road. Her mud-splattered black shoes were waterlogged from the puddles she couldn’t seem to avoid. In an attempt to save her jeans from ruin, she bent down and rol ed them several inches above her ankles. She buttoned the navy blazer she wore over her white blouse—a blouse that had been crisp and clean when she left New York twelve hours earlier, but now was as limp and dirty as she was, or would be, after her little adventure.

Five minutes later she had to admit it wasn’t so bad. The air was fragrant with the heady aroma of flowers, the misty rain warm and gentle on her face, and the scenery amaz

ing. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and then she heard an ominous rumble, and a bolt of light ning crackled across the gloomy afternoon sky. Within sec

onds the clouds opened up and the rain came down in

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buckets. Ali shook her head and laughed. What else could she do—cry?

Rounding a bend in the road, a massive gray stone edi

fice came into view, and she felt an unexpected spurt of excitement. It looked like something out of a fairy tale with its majestic towers reaching toward the sky. Maybe Meg was right—the change of scenery would do her good. Gripping the suitcase with two hands, she hauled it onto the pavers of the long driveway. The mud from the wheels on her suitcase splattered her legs, but at least it no longer felt like she was dragging a hundred-pound weight behind her. Hiking up the strap of her carry-on, she dashed toward the massive oak doors. When she received no response to her first tentative knock she rapped harder, relieved when the door creaked open. She’d begun to think the place was deserted. A tal , elderly man stood framed in the doorway, staring at her, his bright blue eyes wide in his grizzled face, his mouth hanging open. Ali didn’t blame him. She could only imagine what she looked like with her long hair plastered to her head, and mascara no doubt running down her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Ali Graham.” She offered her hand, but he didn’t take it. Ali didn’t think he even noticed—his gaze was riveted on her face.

Splat.

She glared up at the offending carved overhang from which the water had cascaded to land on her head, then back to the man blocking the entrance. “Uhmm, do you mind if I come in?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she was drenched. With a brief shake of his head the befuddled look left his eyes. “Sorry, lass, please . . . please come in.”

He ush

ered her into the warmth of the cavernous entrance. Ali set down her bags on the slate floor and swiped her dripping hair from her face. She pul ed her wet clothing from 4

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where it stuck to her body and shook it out. “It’s real y coming down out there,” she said in an attempt to make conversation.

“Aye,” he murmured, giving her an odd look before closing the door.

The intensity of his stare was beginning to give her the creeps. She wondered if she’d made a mistake coming inside—she was alone and didn’t know this man from Adam. Not one to let things slide, Ali asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Sorry, lass, it’s just that . . . och, you’l have to excuse an old man for his rudeness.” He gave her an embarrassed smile. “I’m Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker. Who did you say you were?”

“Ali . . . Ali Graham. I have a reservation,” she said, searching her bag for the elusive piece of paper. “Some where.” Ali grimaced and pul ed the sodden reservation from her jacket pocket. With a wry grin she handed it to him. A frown creased his brow, and he looked from her to the paper. “Lass, you’ve come to the wrong place. It’s Dunve gan Hotel you’d be looking for. You passed it a ways back.”

She looked at the paper he handed back to her, the writ

ing barely legible, but there it was, plain as day, Dunvegan Hotel. “I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. Sorry for bothering you.” Ali bent down to retrieve her bags from the puddle they’d left on the floor.

“It’s no bother, Miss Graham. I was just about to have a spot of tea. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

“Please . . . cal me Ali, and a cup of tea sounds wonder

ful. Would you have something I could dry off with? I don’t want to . . . oh, no.” She groaned. “Look what I’ve done.”

The beautiful wool area rug beneath her feet was now marked with her muddy footprints. “I’m so sorry.”

He chuckled. “It’s seen worse. Don’t fret. I’l get you some towels and then you can come by the fire and warm up. My wife is off on a wee shop, but when she returns with the car I’l take you over to the hotel. How does that sound?”

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“Terrific.”

With her jacket and mud-caked shoes disposed of, Ali fol owed Duncan. She gazed appreciatively at the woodpaneled room he led her into, noting its decorative ceilings with interest. The antique furniture was tasteful and invit

ing; muted greens and golds complemented the heavy crimson draperies and ornate cherrywood bookcases that ran the length of the drawing room.

“This place is amazing, Mr. Macintosh. You must love taking care of it.”

“Och, now, Duncan wil do just fine. And aye, it’s a wonderful job I have,” he said as he dragged a high-back chair closer to the fire and placed a forest green throw over its delicate embroidered fabric. “Sit down, lass. Dry off a bit and I’l get us our tea.”

Ali sank grateful y into the chair, then leaned forward to warm her hands in front of the blazing fire. Its woodsy aroma reminded her of a damp day in fal , even though it was only the beginning of August. Duncan reentered the room carrying a heavily laden silver tray. “Move that wee table over here, lass.”

“That’s quite a spread. I hope you didn’t go to any trou

ble on my account, Duncan,” she said as she placed the table between them. The older man settled in the chair beside her. “No trou

ble at al .” He smiled. Looking over the rim of the porce

lain teacup, he asked, “What brings you to Skye, Ali?”

“I’m doing a photo shoot for Vogue. It’s a magazine.”

“I know of it. They requested permission a few months back to take photos here. So, you’re a model, then?”

Ali laughed. “Actual y, I’m a doctor, fourth-year resi

dent. But my friend is an agent and every once in a while she passes a job my way. Helps pay the bil s,” she said, biting into a dainty sandwich.

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“I thought you residents were a harried lot. Was it not difficult for you to get the time off ?”

Ali choked and took a deep swal ow of her tea before she answered, “Not real y.” Anxious to change the subject, she pointed to a tattered piece of silk encased in glass above the fireplace. “What’s that?”

“Ah, that would be the fairy flag,” he said, gazing at the box with reverence. Intrigued, Ali asked, “Fairy flag?”

“Would you be wanting to hear the tale?”

“I’d love to. If you’re sure you have the time.”

“I always have time for this story, lass.” He made him

self comfortable; stretching out his long legs, he crossed them at the ankles.

“A long time ago, according to the legend, the Laird of the MacLeods fel in love with a fairy princess.”

“Fairy princess? You mean like in storybooks?”

“Aye. Do you not believe in magic, Ali?”

She didn’t. As far as she was concerned only children who had been loved and protected had the luxury to be lieve in magic and fairy tales. Not someone like her, who had been slapped with the harsh realities of life at an early age. But Duncan didn’t need to know that.

“Of course.” She smiled. “Now don’t keep me in sus

pense, what happened next?”

He studied her with kind eyes, then went on with his story. “The two wished to wed, but the King of the Fairies refused to grant his permission. Noting his daughter’s sorrow, he reluctantly relented, but on with one condition; after a year and a day she must return to the fairy realm.

“Within that year the happy couple were blessed with a bonny baby boy. Their time together went quickly, and too soon the heartbroken princess had no choice but to keep her promise to her father. As she tearful y left her husband and baby at the fairy bridge, she made the laird promise

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never to leave their son alone, or to al ow him to cry. Even in the fairy realm, the sound of his sorrow would cause her great suffering,” Duncan explained.

Flames shot up from the fire with a loud crackle and pop, and Duncan leaned over, taking a poker to the logs before continuing. “Their laird was grief stricken, and his clan, want

ing to cheer him up, organized a celebration. The maid who had been left to mind the wee one could not resist the music and left the bairn alone while she went to watch the festivities. The baby started to cry, and hearing his cries, the fairy princess came back to comfort him. She wrapped him in her silk and was speaking to him in a lyrical voice when the maid returned. The princess kissed her son good-bye, then vanished.

“Years later, the lad came to his father with the story of his mother’s visit, and repeated her instructions to him. If ever the clan was in danger, the laird was to wave the silk to cal upon the fairies and their help. But the magic could only be summoned three times, and—”

Curiosity getting the better of her, Ali interrupted. “Has it . . . did the MacLeods ever raise the flag?”

“Aye, they did, back in 1570. The MacDonalds, an enemy to the MacLeods, attacked them. Severely outnum bered, the MacLeod unfurled the flag and its fairy magic. To this day no one knows for certain what happened, but the MacDonalds retreated. Some say it’s because the fairies made the MacLeod’s army swel , but others say something happened to the MacDonald’s wife and daughter that day, drawing him from the field, leaving his army in disarray.”

“Wel , Duncan, that story alone was worth getting soaked for. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” The older man glanced at her and seemed slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was a wee bit disconcerted when you first arrived.”

Ali grinned. “Now that you mention it, I did.”

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Color bloomed in the man’s heavily lined cheeks. “I should have said something. Come, I’l show you the reason.”

Ali padded barefoot across the thick oriental carpet to the far end of the room where Duncan stood in front of a large gilt-framed portrait. He stepped aside and her jaw dropped. At first glance it was as though Ali stood in front of a mirror. The woman in the painting could have been her.

“That would be Brianna MacLeod, wife to Rory. He was laird in the latter part of the sixteenth century. The resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?”

“I do,” she murmured, touching her wavy and stil wet platinum blond hair. The woman in the portrait’s long spiral curls were a burnished gold and caressed her delicate heartshaped face. Her eyes were coffee colored, whereas Ali’s were blue, but other than that, they could have been twins. The man chuckled at her expression before turning back to the portrait. “She was a MacDonald. Their marriage brought an end to the families’ long-standing feud, but they didn’t have many years together before she died in childbirth.”

“How sad,” Ali said, drawn to the woman in the portrait. Although Brianna MacLeod radiated happiness in the painting, an almost palpable sense of sadness washed over Ali, and she took an unconscious step backward. She looked at Duncan to see if he felt the same thing, but he’d already moved away.

“And this is Rory, her husband.” Duncan pointed proudly to the portrait on the other side of the large picture window. For one moment, just as she turned away from Brianna’s portrait, Ali sensed the coffee-colored eyes fol owing her. She shook off the feeling. Dismissing the notion out of hand, she joined Duncan in front of the second portrait. Her uneasiness faded the instant she looked at the man in the painting. She sucked in an appreciative breath. Now that was a highland hunk.

Rory MacLeod was breathtaking. Wavy black hair ac

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centuated high, chiseled cheekbones and a firm jaw. The sensual curve of his ful mouth hinted at a man who laughed often. His green eyes glittered with a penetrating intel igence as he looked down his straight and aristocratic nose at her. He exuded power and strength. A man’s man—

no metrosexual there.

A sudden draft swirled around her bare feet and ankles. The cold air enveloped her in its icy embrace, causing goose bumps to form beneath her skin. Ali tried to contain the teeth-chattering shiver by wrapping her arms around herself.

“Och, and look at you, freezing in those wet clothes while I blather on. Come, I’l set you up in one of the rooms where you can change.”

Ali nodded, unable to tear her gaze from Rory MacLeod, mesmerized by the powerful warrior he portrayed. She jumped when Duncan patted her shoulder. “Oh . . . sorry.”

With one last look at her handsome highlander, she fol owed the caretaker from the room.

“I’m going to give you a special treat.” Duncan winked at her as he unhooked the red velvet rope that blocked the pol ished wooden staircase. “But you must promise never to tel .”

“I promise.” She smiled.

As they made their way up the curved staircase, Duncan relayed more of the MacLeod family’s history, but Ali barely heard him, her mind fil ed with images of Rory and Brianna. She thought if she closed her eyes she would see them, young and in love, roaming the hal s of Dunvegan Castle. Touching the wood-paneled wal s, running her hand along the thick balustrade, Ali felt close to them, a part of their history. Hundreds of years ago they had walked these stairs; laid a hand on the same railing and wal s. Ali snorted, shaking her head at her whimsical musings. Total y out of character for her, she blamed it on jet lag.

“Here you go.” Duncan opened the door with a flourish.

“The laird’s chambers.”

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Ali quirked a brow. “Are you sure, Duncan? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t give it another thought. The present day laird doesn’t sleep here, but Rory MacLeod once did. And after my behavior earlier, I thought it the least I can do.”

“Please.” Ali shook her head with a smile. “It was no big deal, but I’m not going to refuse. This is amazing,” she said, stepping into the bedroom.

Duncan set her suitcase beside the four-poster bed. “It’s chil y in here,” he said as he crouched beside the stone fireplace across from the bed. “I’l get a fire going and leave you to freshen up. You can take a wee lie-down if you’d like, Ali. You’re probably tired from your long jour

ney. Afterwards you can join my wife and me for supper and then I’l take you over to the hotel, if you’d like.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble I’d love to.” Her gaze was drawn to the window and the breathtaking view. Dunvegan sat on top of a rocky hil with a rain-swept lake at its feet and cloud-draped hil s beyond.

“There, you’re al set, lass,” Duncan pronounced, rub

bing the soot from his palms onto the sides of his brown corduroy pants before heading for the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ali stripped off her wet clothing. She laid them over the chintz-covered chair, but not before retrieving a white towel from the foot of the bed to protect the obviously expensive piece of fur niture. Everything in the castle looked as though it be

longed in a museum. Ali gave a rueful grin. It was a museum, and if she planned on using her paycheck to pay off her loan, she’d better not damage anything. Settling her suitcase on the big bed with its opulent scar let coverings and mounds of pil ows, Ali flipped it open. She pul ed out a long black T-shirt—her nightwear of choice—

and slipped it over her stil -damp head. Anxious to warm her chil ed bones, Ali walked to the fireplace and sat on a smal

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area rug in front of the roaring blaze. Tugging a brush through her hair, she studied the tapestry that took up most of the white plastered wal on the opposite side of the room. It depicted a battle in al its gruesome glory, and Ali was thankful she hadn’t been born back then—an era when bloodshed was an everyday occurrence, and life, at least in her opinion, held little value.

The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold. Ali couldn’t abide violence of any kind. She turned away from the tapestry, afraid she’d have nightmares if she didn’t. Running her fingers through her hair and finding it dry, Ali walked to the bed and crawled beneath the crisp, cool sheets. She sighed—heavenly. Ali snuggled into the warmth that enveloped her and drifted off to sleep.

“Uhmm,” she murmured when a heavy hand caressed her thigh. Sliding the stretchy fabric over her hips, the man kneaded her bottom, pressing her to his long, powerful body. Ali groaned. This was one dream she didn’t want to wake up from. Al she wanted to do was get rid of the ma

terial that bunched between her and the man in her dreams, Rory MacLeod. It seemed he had the same idea. He tugged the T-shirt over her head, and she lifted her arms to help him. Free from the confines of her nightshirt, she wrapped a leg over his, stroking the taut muscles beneath her hand. A deep, husky voice whispered in her ear words she didn’t understand, but she didn’t care, not with his big hand cupping her breast. Ali arched her back, her body begging for more. She heard a low chuckle, and gasped when he squeezed her breast, tweaking the puckered nipple between strong, cal oused fingers. She nuzzled his chest, inhaling his heady, masculine scent before she lifted her face for a kiss. His mouth closed over hers—hot, so very hot—and he swal lowed her moan of pleasure. His tongue dueled with hers, exploring with a tenacity that left her weak with desire. She 12

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quivered with anticipation when he trailed his fingers over the heated flesh between her thighs, inching his way to her moist core. Ali shuddered. She’d never had an erotic dream before and was afraid to open her eyes, not wanting him or his fingers to disappear. She didn’t want to wake up, not when it felt so good. She’d rather sleep forever. He raised his mouth from hers. “Ah, Bree, my love, I’ve missed you.”

Ali stiffened. What the hell did he just say?

It was bad enough the men in her life wanted someone else—what was wrong with her that she couldn’t even sat isfy them in her dreams? Before she had a chance to mul over her ineptitude with men, he took her nipple deep into the heat of his mouth and suckled. Ali shifted, pressing her breast to his lips, rocking her hips against the hard, banded muscles of his thigh. She was close, so close. Rubbing harder, faster, she anchored herself with a hand to his side. Her dream lover cursed, loudly, and shoved her aside. Ali blinked, and slowly turned her head. In the dim light of the flickering candle she saw him: big, powerful, and grimacing in pain. She scrunched her eyes shut and took a steadying breath.

He wasn’t real.

He couldn’t be.

It’s just a dream, Ali. You were thinking about the man before you went to sleep, that’s all it is—an illusion. Ali opened her eyes one at a time. Biting the inside of her lower lip, she pinched the big arm that lay on top of the covers, jumping when a guttural curse exploded from his lips. He was real, and he was in her bed. Ali screamed and tried to scramble from the bed, tug

ging her entangled foot from the sheets. Thud.

She fel onto the cold, hard floor.

Chapter 2

Ali didn’t have time to contemplate the damage to her lower anatomy, not with the pounding of running feet coming closer. The last thing she wanted was to be caught bare assed on the floor by Duncan Macintosh. She scanned the room for somewhere to hide. Seeing no other choice, she scurried beneath the bed in time to hear the door crash open. Beneath the heavy canopy of timber, she saw two men rush into the room. Duncan Macintosh was not one of them. Afraid if she could see them they’d see her, Ali shuffled far

ther into the shadows. The men spoke in hushed tones at the entrance of the room. Certain she was soon to be discov

ered, Ali felt around for her T-shirt. Relieved when her fin

gers came in contact with the stretchy fabric, she careful y pul ed it toward her. Her muscles tightened as cold from the floor seeped into her skin.

Ali blinked, touching the hard surface beneath her, posi

tive when Duncan had shown her into the room earlier the floor had been hardwood. She ducked her head to get a better look at the rest of the interior. Nothing looked the same, right down to the chocolate-brown comforter that had been scarlet.

How the hell had that happened?

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“I’m no’ dead yet, so you can stop with yer whisperin’,”

the man in the bed above her rasped.

Far from it, Ali thought, remembering the heat of his kiss, how his hands had caressed her bottom, bringing her . . . She shook the thought from her head before embarrass

ment consumed her, leaving a pile of ashes in her place. How could she have done that with a stranger? The men moved closer, their brown leather boots inches from her face.

Who are these people, and where’s Duncan?

“You’d be al right then, Rory? We heard a scream and a loud crash. We thought you’d fal en from yer bed.”

Rory? Oh, come on, this had to be some kind of a joke. Lying flat on her back, Ali wriggled into her T-shirt, smooth ing it over her thighs.

“’Tis no’ me you heard, but the lass.” The bed creaked, a groan of pain accompanying his statement. Ali stil ed, frozen in place.

“There’d be no one aboot but you, lad.”

“Rory, ’tis on account of yer wound. You must have imagined it.”

“Nay, she was in my bed, of that I’m certain—wil in’

and eager.”

Ali’s face flamed. Now, isn’t he a gentleman. The big jerk. One of the men cleared his throat. “Mayhap ’twas one of the serving wenches.”

“Nay, I thought ’twas Bree come to take me with her.”

The last was spoken so quietly Ali had to strain to hear what he said.

Someone cursed before saying, “You’l no’ die, Rory. I’l no’ al ow it. ’Tis why I . . .” The man grunted as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“I ken it wasna’ Bree. The lass had the look of her, but bigger. Her breasts were ful , and her arse . . .” His voice trailed off.

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Ali groaned inwardly, deciding if this Rory person didn’t soon shut up, she’d make sure he felt worse than he obviously did now.

“Nay, Rory, lie back,” one of the men said before gasp

ing, “Yer wound, ’tis reopened.”

“I think she tried to finish me off.”

Both men cursed at the same time Ali did. She’d had enough. It was her bed the man had crawled into—either that or he’d somehow managed to get her into his own, taking advantage of her while she slept. She ignored the little voice inside her head that said it would be a toss-up on who had taken advantage of whom. And now he seemed to be accusing her of trying to kil him. Kill him? For God’s sake!

It was too much, and Ali didn’t plan on listening to any more of it, not without defending herself. With a closed fist, she whacked at the men’s feet. “Get out of my way,”

she said, dragging herself from under the bed. Two men dressed in old-fashioned attire—fitted suede pants tucked into their boots and white linen shirts—

backed away from her with their mouths agape. The older one was tal and had a powerful build, his dark red hair threaded with silver, his brown eyes wide as he stared at her. The other man was much younger, his hair a golden brown, almost as handsome as the man from her dreams. He opened and closed his mouth, his gaze swiveling from Ali to his companion.

Hands on her hips, she turned to confront the man in the bed. “I didn’t try to kil you . . . you big jerk, and what the hel were you doing in my bed in the . . .”

The rest of the question died on her lips. It was him—

Rory MacLeod—the man in the portrait. She rubbed her eyes, but nothing changed. He was stil there, in al his glo rious perfection—except he was bleeding. A circle of crim

son spread over the thick white linens pressed to his side. 16

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“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

“Aye.” Even in the dim light she could see the accusa

tion in his emerald gaze.

Ali shook her head. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know.” She leaned over him to get a better look before being roughly jerked away. Strong hands restrained her, biting into the flesh of her upper arms. She struggled to free herself from the younger man’s grasp. “Let go of me. This man needs medical attention. I can help him—I’m a doctor.”

“Let her go, Iain.” The older man forcibly removed Iain’s hands from her arms before dragging her to the other side of the room. Iain fol owed in their wake.

“Who are you?” the red-haired man growled, his ex

pression fierce.

“Dr. Aileanna Graham, and there’s no time for this. I told you, that man needs my help.” She’d had to deal with over protective family members before, but this was ridiculous.

“Where are you from?”

“New York.” She rol ed her eyes at the blank expression on the big man’s face. “Look, this wil have to wait or I swear to you he’s going to bleed to death.”

“How did you get in his chambers?” His manner had changed, no longer aggressive; there was an odd look in his eyes.

Ali let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know. I fel asleep in another room, and then I found myself in bed with him.”

She jerked her chin toward the man named Rory, and heat suffused her cheeks. “So maybe the question isn’t how I got in here, but who the hel put me in his bed, and why?”

It was something she wanted to know, along with why they were dressed the way they were, and what this Rory person was doing here instead of at a hospital. But now was not the time for discussion. LORD OF THE ISLES

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Iain looked at the older man, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Fergus, they sent her.”

“Quiet, lad,” the other man snapped.

Ali crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what the two of you are talking about, or what’s going on here, but I’m warning you, you’d better send for an ambulance. Your friend needs to be in a hospital, so I’d suggest you cal 911 immediately.”

Again with the blank stares.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t 911 in Scotland. “I don’t care what number you cal , but we have to get him to a hospital.”

The man named Fergus shook his head slowly from side to side. “’Tis up to you, lass. There’d be no one else.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’d be no time to explain. See to our laird, if you please.”

“Laird?”

“Aye. Laird MacLeod.”

Lord Rory MacLeod, the clothes, the . . . no, she wouldn’t go there. Not now. Whoever he was, he needed her help. With one last look at the men who watched her, their expres

sions bemused, she returned to her patient’s bedside. Rory MacLeod’s look-alike reached out his big hand. Clamping it around her wrist, he jerked her toward him.

“Who . . . who are you?” he rasped, the effort obviously costing him.

“Doctor Aileanna Graham.” She pried his fingers from her wrist.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Ali silenced him with a firm, “Be quiet.” She placed a finger to his lips when he tried to protest. “Shh,” Ali said, trying not to think about how that particular set of lips had felt, pressed to hers. She pushed aside her wayward thoughts and her profes

sional persona slid into place. “Your questions can wait.”

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She laid her palm against the side of his face, then his fore

head, relieved to find he didn’t have a fever.

“Could you get Duncan for me?” she asked Iain, who was closest to the bed.

“Duncan?” the younger man asked, his brow furrowed.

“There’d be no Duncan here.”

Ali took in a deep, calming breath. Don’t think about it. Do. Not. Think. About. It. “I need something to stop the bleeding. Can you bring me some fresh linen? And I’l need some more candles, or whatever it is you use for lighting.”

“Aye.” Iain shot a quick glance over his shoulder before heading for the door.

“And clean water and soap while you’re at it,” Ali cal ed after him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brought Rory’s arm across her lap and wrapped her fingers around his thick wrist to check his pulse. She tried to ignore his intense gaze, fighting the urge to smooth the heavy lock of raven black hair from his forehead. Ali shook her head when Fergus tried to speak to her; without a watch she needed to concentrate. The older man didn’t argue. Placing his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels. Waiting patiently, his fierce expression softened when every so often he glanced at her patient.

Ali rose to her feet and lowered the comforter. Removing the makeshift bandage, she tried to mask her reaction to the deep, jagged gash in his side and the fresh gush of blood. She swal owed. The muscle in his jaw pulsated, sweat beaded on his brow, and his complexion turned chalky.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have to examine the wound. I’l be as gentle as I can.”

He gave a jerky nod.

“How did it happen?”

“In battle,” he said between clenched teeth. Battle? Ali assumed she must have misunderstood him. LORD OF THE ISLES

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Unless he meant they did reenactments of battles here. She had gone to one in Virginia, and even though she knew it wasn’t real, she’d had to leave. “No, I mean, what did this to you?”

“A sword, lass,” he explained, as though he spoke to a child.

A sword . . . in battle. “For God’s sake, did you have to use the real thing? Honestly, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. A real sword.” She shook her head while she palpitated his abdomen. Moving lower, Ali folded back the comforter to just below the top of his hipbone.

“Lass, I doona’ think I can manage that. ” A weak smile tugged at the corner of his ful , sensuous mouth. Ali raised a brow. She couldn’t believe the man had the strength to tease. The amount of blood he appeared to have lost should have rendered him unconscious. He cursed, glaring at her when she pressed her fingers inches from the wound. Ali staunched the flow with the clean side of the old bandage, and held the fabric to the candle on the bed side table. Examining it for signs of infection, she was re

lieved when she didn’t see any. She sniffed at the cloth just to be sure. A commotion at the bedroom door drew her attention. A gray-haired woman in a long puce gown fol owed Iain—

who carried the buckets of water—into the room with an armful of white sheets, and a lantern dangling from her hand. When Ali came around the bed to retrieve the linens, the older woman drew in a shocked breath.

“Lass, yer naked,” she exclaimed.

“Nay, Mrs. Mac, her dress may be odd, but she is no’

naked. I would’ve noticed,” her patient assured the older woman.

Ali looked down at her T-shirt. She didn’t know what was so odd about it. But if she could have found her damn suitcase she would’ve changed. She might not be naked, 20

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but knowing she had nothing on underneath, that’s pretty much how she felt. She turned on him. “Shh, rest.”

He rol ed his eyes.

“Here, lass, put this around you. ’Tis no’ decent what you have on.” The woman retrieved a long length of red and black tartan and a thick black belt from the end of the bed. Wrapping the fabric around Ali, she fastened it at her waist with the belt. It fel wel past her calves with one end draped over her shoulder. Mrs. Mac stepped back to view her handiwork. “’Twil have to do.”

Ali clamped her mouth shut, knowing to protest would do her no good. A trace of humor glinted in her patient’s eyes and she scowled at him. “Not a word out of you.”

“I was only goin’ to say my plaid is verra becomin’ on you, lass.”

She snorted. “I’m sure. Mrs. Mac, I need some alcohol to disinfect his wound. Unless you have some antiseptic on hand, it’s the only thing I can think of.”

“I doona’ ken what ant . . . antiseptic is, lass, but I think I ken what you mean by alcohol.” With that said, the woman set off.

Ali pressed her fingers to her temples, rubbing in a slow, circular motion. Don’t think, don’t think. She repeated the mantra in her head. She took a cloth and dipped it into one of the buckets, groaning when she saw the color. “I can’t use this water. It’s dirty.”

“Nay, lass, ’tis fine.” Fergus’s brow furrowed.

“No, it’s not fine,” she snapped. “If any of this gets into his wound he risks infection. The water has to be boiled first.”

She glanced over at Rory, expecting him to say something, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing seemed shal ow. Ali cursed, ignoring the men’s startled expressions.

“What’s wrong? Is my brother gettin’ worse?” Iain asked. A tremor threaded through the deep timbre of his voice. LORD OF THE ISLES

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Ali placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Look, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he comes through this. We have a couple of things in our favor. First, as far as I can tel there’s been no damage to any vital organs, and that’s a very good thing. Second, I don’t see any signs of in

fection and that’s a big plus.”

Iain smiled weakly. “Now I ken why the—”

The older man cleared his throat, interrupting the younger MacLeod. He shot him a silencing look. Ali raised a brow, but before she could ask Iain what he meant to say, Mrs. Mac returned. Ali thanked her, sniffing the contents of the earthenware pitcher. She choked on the fumes, her eyes watering. “That should work,” she commented dryly. The woman looked relieved. “And here’d be the soap you asked for.”

Ali scrubbed her hands up to her elbows in the water from one of the buckets. “If any of you want to touch Rory you must wash your hands like I am, al right? We’l set this bucket aside for washing, but the water has to be changed often.”

They stared at her like she was from another planet, which was exactly how she was beginning to feel. Ali sighed.

“You have to do as I say. We can’t let his wound become infected.”

“Mrs. Mac, the lass says the water has to be boiled before she’l use it,” Fergus informed her.

“Och, wel , she seems to ken what she’s aboot. Come, Iain, help me with these. Fergus, you stay with the lass.” The woman gave him a meaningful look, and Ali had the distinct impression they didn’t trust her.

“What can I do, lass?” Fergus asked.

“At the moment the only thing we can do is try to con

trol the bleeding. I’l wait until Iain returns and then I’l pour the alcohol into his wound to ward off infection. Hopeful y the bleeding lessens. If it doesn’t, wel , we’l 22

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deal with that when the time comes.” Rory sucked in a ragged breath and Ali stroked the thick waves of hair back from his face.

“I didna’ ken you could be gentle, lass,” he murmured. She smiled down at him. “I can be very gentle, but only when my patient does as he’s told.”

“Ah, then, I promise to do whatever you want me to.”

Ali had a sneaking suspicion Rory MacLeod’s smooth tongue could be a very dangerous thing. “I’m glad to hear it. Now close your eyes and sleep.”

“Aye,” he murmured.

When Fergus cal ed out to her, Ali drew her gaze reluc

tantly from Rory’s beautiful face. He looked like a dark angel.

“Lass, I think you best have another look.”

She pushed the woolen blankets lower.

“Can you no’ leave a man some dignity?” Rory said as he watched her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don’t have to worry—you’re decent. Besides, I’m a doctor, there’s nothing you have that I haven’t seen before.”

The older man guffawed.

“I doona’ think they’re al the same, lass,” her patient said, sounding disgruntled. She shrugged. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them al .”

Rory’s gaze narrowed on her. “Where do you hail from?”

“New—” she began before being interrupted.

“Rory Mor, do as the lass says and sleep. Yer questions wil wait.”

Ali removed the blood-soaked cloth. Replacing it with a fresh one, she applied pressure. Fergus caught her eye and shrugged. “He needs rest.”

“Umhmm, he does,” she agreed, raising a brow at the older man’s continued scrutiny.

“Sorry, I didna’ mean to stare, but ’tis uncanny how much you resemble the Lady Brianna, is al .”

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“So I’ve heard.” And seen, Ali reminded herself.

“But only at first glance. There’d be differences.”

Ali snorted. “I heard that, too.”

“’Tis what you get for hidin’ under my bed,” Rory com

mented dryly.

A chuckle rumbled deep in Fergus’s barrel chest. Ali felt the color rise to her cheeks. “You are supposed to be sleeping.”

“How am I to sleep with the two of you yammerin’? I need a drink.”

“As soon as the water’s been boiled I’l give you some.”

“Water.” He scowled. “I doona’ want water. I want ale.”

“’Tis no’ a bad idea, lass. He’l need somethin’ to make him sleep.”

Ali looked at the blood seeping through the bandage. Sooner or later she would have to deal with it. If al they had was alcohol to knock him out, then she had little choice but to use it. Ali nodded. “Al right.”

She leaned over and adjusted the pil ows behind Rory’s back, careful not to jolt him. The plaid slipped from her shoulder, and she bit her lower lip. His warm breath heated the sensitive skin of her breasts through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Her nipples tightened in response. Please let his eyes be closed, she silently prayed.

“’Tis no’ fair to tease a dyin’ man, lass,” he said, his lips so close the material of her T-shirt rippled. Oh, for God’s sake. “You’re not dying,” she snapped, her tone more brusque than she intended. Ali stepped away, putting some distance between them.

“That’s good to hear,” Iain said, coming into the room with a mug in one hand and a bucket in the other. “And yer askin’ fer ale—another good sign.”

“Bloody hel , lass, you could have warned me you planned on gettin’ rough,” Rory growled when she placed the linens, as gently as she could, beneath his wounded side. 24

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She grimaced and reached for the pitcher of alcohol on the bedside table. “Fergus and Iain, I’l need you to hold him down for me.” Ali sighed when the three men glared at her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I have to make sure there’s no infection before closing the wound, and the only way to do that is to pour the alcohol on it. I won’t lie to you,” she told Rory. “It’s going to burn.”

Fergus and Iain tightened their hold on her patient as she careful y poured the amber liquid into the gaping wound. Ali clenched her teeth when Rory let out a string of exple

tives. Once she felt confident it was thoroughly cleansed, she returned the pitcher to the bedside table. “You can let him go. I’m finished.”

For the last hour Ali had kept herself busy tearing the linens into strips while they plied Rory with alcohol. She turned to look at her patient, trying not to smile in response to his crooked grin. The man had the constitution of a horse. At this rate, they were going to have to hit him over the head to knock him out. The alcohol hadn’t done any good. She pressed her palm to the side of his face, relieved there was stil no sign of fever. Tension knotted the back of her neck, and Ali rol ed her shoulders in an attempt to ease the taut muscles. She knew the cause. She had been trying not to think about it, but she had no choice, something had to be done to stop the bleed

ing. She had been optimistic when the bleeding had sub

sided, but now a tel tale circle of claret red appeared on the snowy white linen. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood.

“Lass, why doona’ I bring you a wee drop of ale?” Mrs. Mac offered.

“Thank you, but I better not.” She checked Rory’s pulse, noting its steady rhythm. LORD OF THE ISLES

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“Wil you be wantin’ to wrap the wound now?” Iain asked.

“No,” Ali said, unable to meet the younger man’s gaze.

“But—” Iain started to protest.

“Ah, would you be stitchin’ it then, lass?” Fergus inter

rupted him.

Ali shook her head. Clearing her throat, she said, “No, the wound is too wide, too deep. But he’s lost too much blood and I can’t let it go on any longer.”

She felt Rory’s gaze bore into her. “What is it yer plan

nin’ on doin’?”

“I don’t have a choice; the wound has to be cauterized.”

Ali’s stomach lurched at the thought of what she had to do.

“I’l have to seal the wound together. Burn it.”

“I ken what you meant, lass,” he commented dryly.

“Nay!” Iain shouted.

“Aye, lad.” Fergus nodded. “The lass is right. I’ve seen it done before.” He turned to Ali. “Do you think you can manage, because I ken I canna’ do it.”

“Yes, but not if he’s awake,” she admitted. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of him suffering, and her being the cause.

“Do it now,” Rory ordered.

Ali’s head jerked up. “I told you, I can’t, not while you’re awake. Just drink that damn stuff.”

“It won’t work, Aileanna,” he said. Her name rol ed off his tongue, his tone soothing. Heat unfurled in her bel y as though he caressed her.

“He speaks the truth, lass,” the older man said, sympa

thy in his eyes.

“Get my sword, Fergus.”

Ali’s gaze flew to Rory. “No . . . no,” she repeated when Fergus tried to press the weapon into her hand. “For God’s sake, I can’t. And certainly not with this. I can barely lift it,”

she protested.

Rory let out a ragged breath. “Give her my dirk.”

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Ali wrapped her arms around her waist, and shook her head. She was furious at what he wanted her to do. He was wide awake, for God’s sake. She walked to the hearth and swiped a tear from her cheek. She heard Fergus coming toward her. Taking her hand, he placed the knife in her palm. He rubbed her shoulder and bent his head to her ear.

“You can do it, lass. The fairies wouldna’ have sent you if you couldna’.

“Yer the only one who can save him.”

Chapter 3

Fairies. Only you can save him. The words echoed in Ali’s head. She turned to gape at Fergus. “What the hel are you talking about?”

The big man shot a furtive glance over his shoulder before saying, “Hush, you canna’ let the laird ken what I’ve told you.”

“Know . . . know what? That you think I’ve been sent by fairies?” she hissed.

“Och, now, lass, doona’ fash yerself,” Fergus pleaded, keeping his voice low.

“I’m holding a knife, preparing to cauterize the wound of a man who is wide awake, and you’re tel ing me I’ve been sent by fairies . . . fairies . . . for God’s sake. And you expect me to stay calm?” She glared at him.

“Aye.” He grimaced. “Please, lass, I promise I’l explain everythin’ to you once ’tis over.”

Ali’s brain swirled with images and emotion, panic lead

ing the way. She felt like she’d been tossed into another world where everything she knew didn’t matter, and her confidence plummeted. She didn’t trust her abilities, not here, not now. She wanted to run as far and as fast from Dunvegan as she could. Part of her hoped it was a nightmare 28

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and that she’d wake up, but she knew it wasn’t. Just as she knew the man in the bed was real, and beautiful, and strong. So unlike anyone she’d ever met before. And she couldn’t run away and leave him to bleed to death. Ali glanced over her shoulder at Rory. His eyes locked with hers. He gave her a weak but encouraging smile, as though somehow he sensed her distress. She knew then she wasn’t going to leave him—not yet.

“You have no choice, lass, it has to be done,” he said quietly.

Ali gave him a brisk nod. He was right. Fairies aside, no one else was stepping up to volunteer for the job. The sooner it was done the better—for both of them. She thrust the knife into the flames, letting out a yelp of pain when the handle heated along with the blade.

“Fergus, did you no’ wrap the hilt?” Rory growled. Sheepishly, the older man shook his head and retrieved the knife.

“Sorry, lass.” He dug through a battered chest and found a piece of leather and a cloth to wrap around the metal shaft before reheating it over the flame. After handing it to Ali, he went to stand behind Rory. She shook her head and pointed to where she wanted him. “I need you to hold the wound together while I sear it closed.”

The man paled.

“Iain, it would be better if you sit behind your brother and hold him by his shoulders,” she advised the younger MacLeod, whose mouth was set in a grim line. “Right about there, Fergus.” She motioned once more to the side of the bed, grateful he would shield Rory’s face from her line of sight. “Now press the edges together. No . . . no, I don’t want to burn you. Al right, much better.” She tried to ignore Rory’s agonized curse. In an effort to center herself, Ali closed her eyes, only to find herself back in the operating room with a panicked LORD OF THE ISLES

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Drew, her supervisor and ex-boyfriend, yel ing accusations at her, the equipment flatlining—a young mother dead.

“Lass, are you al right?” Fergus’s tone was gruff with concern.

“Yes . . . yes, I’m fine.” I wil be. I have to be. You didn’t make the mistake, the little voice in her head reminded her. Drew did. You’re a good doctor, no matter what he said. Heat leeched from the red-hot steel blade to Ali’s palm. A stinging reminder of where she was, and what she had to do. Before she lost her nerve, Ali lowered the blade to the wound. The sizzling sound was quickly drowned out by Rory’s shout of pain. His body jerked, then went stil . Ali gagged as the smel of burnt flesh assaulted her nostrils. She pressed a fist to her mouth, and Fergus gently removed the knife from her trembling hand.

“Yer a brave lass,” Mrs. Mac crooned, wrapping a com

forting arm around Ali. “Come, I think you could use some lookin’ after now.” The woman gently guided her away from the bed.

“But . . . I . . .” she began to protest, looking to where Rory lay unconscious in the bed, his blue-black hair a sharp contrast to his paper white skin, his ful sensuous lips pul ed into a thin line of pain.

“Fergus and Iain wil watch over him fer now. I’ve pre

pared a hot bath fer you and laid out a change of clothes.”

There was nothing else she could do for him, other than pray the wound didn’t become infected. If it did, Ali didn’t know if she’d be able to save him. “Thank you.” Exhausted, her muscles aching, Ali al owed herself to be led away. Mrs. Mac opened the door to an adjoining room. “’Twas the Lady Brianna’s. Come,” she said when Ali hesitated in the doorway of a room twice the size of Rory’s. The fourposter bed covered in maroon satin looked inviting, but it was the large wooden tub-like structure in front of a blaz

ing fire that drew her in. She inhaled the lavender-scented 30

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water in an effort to al eviate the acrid smel that stil in

vaded her senses. “Lovely.” Ali sighed. Her gaze took in the pastoral tapestries that lined the wal s and covered the floors. “What a beautiful room.”

“Aye, the laird spared no expense when it came to his lady.”

“He must have loved her very much.” Ali tried to ignore the tightening in her chest when she stated the obvious.

“Aye, that he did,” the older woman said. “He’s had a hard time of it.”

“When . . . when did she die?” Ali asked.

“’Tis been almost two years.”

She hesitated before asking her next question. “How did she die?” Afraid she already knew the answer.

“In childbirth, lass.” Mrs. Mac watched her closely. Ali spun on her heel and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, but I real y do have to talk to Fergus.” She tried to get around the woman who now stood between her and the door. Mrs. Mac shook her head, taking Ali’s ice-cold hands in hers. “’Twil do you no good, lass. There’s nothin’ can be done aboot it now.”

“Wh . . . what do you mean?”

“Yer bathwater is coolin’. I promise we’l answer al yer questions once you have a chance to freshen up.”

“You know?”

“Aye, I ken what’s happened.” She nodded, sympathy in her gray-blue eyes. “I’l help with the laird while you bathe, and then we’l talk.”

Goose bumps rose along Ali’s arms and she shivered, noting the inviting warmth the steaming tub offered. “Al right,”

she agreed, “but I won’t be put off.”

The woman nodded, then headed out the door. Unbuckling the belt, Ali laid it on the floor along with the length of plaid. Shrugging out of her T-shirt, she stepped into the tub and slid down. She grimaced when her right hand LORD OF THE ISLES

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hit the water, and turned her palm up. The outline of the knife’s shaft was clearly visible. Slowly, she submerged it, sucking in a breath until the throbbing eased. She reached to take the bar of soap from the stool beside the tub and sniffed. Lavender—obviously Mrs. Mac thought the aromatic scent would calm her. Ali closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep through her knotted muscles and tried to do just that. But her thoughts were in turmoil. Rory MacLeod, the beautiful sixteenth-century laird, alive—at least she hoped he was—

in the room next door.

It was unbelievable, inconceivable, and part of her re

fused to consider the possibility it was true, but the annoy

ing little voice in her head kept flashing the evidence before her: the differences in the castle’s interior from when she’d first arrived, no Duncan, no electric lights, no doctors, no medicines. And the most damning evidence of al

—Rory MacLeod himself.

Fergus’s words came to mind. That’s why the fairies brought you. You’re the only one who can save him. Ali cursed and hopped out of the tub. Grabbing the towel off the stool, she rubbed herself vigorously. Fairy flag—it was that stupid fairy flag. Wel , if the fairies had brought her here, they could damn wel send her home. She ran her fingers over the amethyst gown laid out on the bed, frowning when she lifted it to reveal what looked like a delicate white nightgown and a long ruffled skirt. She wondered which one Mrs. Mac wanted her to wear. Shov ing them aside, she searched for a pair of panties and a bra. There was a light tap on the connecting door, and Ali wrapped the towel around herself.

“’Tis only me, dear,” Mrs. Mac said, coming into the room. “I thought you might have need of me. Here.” The older woman held out the sheer, white nightgown. “The che

mise goes on first.”

Ali ducked her head, lifting one arm and then the other 32

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to slip through the armholes before she released her grip on the towel. Mrs. Mac tsked. “No need to be shy, lass.”

“Sorry. I’m not used to someone helping me dress.”

“Aye, wel , there’d be a lot you’l have to get used to,” the older woman chided, fastening the ruffled skirt at her waist. Ali’s response was muffled as Mrs. Mac pul ed the gown over her head.

“Ye look verra bonny, lass. I didna’ put out a corset fer you, but if you . . .” She prattled on, lacing the gown with brisk competence.

“Ahh, no, I’m fine.” She barely got the words out of her mouth before Mrs. Mac nudged her toward the bed.

“Here are yer stockings and slippers.”

“Are you sure whoever you got these from doesn’t mind?”

Ali asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “They look like they’ve never been worn.”

“They havena’, the laird ordered them fer our lady. Spoiled her he did. Never wanted to give her father anythin’ to complain aboot. Not many have gowns such as these. They were a gift fer after the bairn was born.” She gave a sad sigh before she went on to explain, “’Tis why they’re long enough fer you. I didna’ have a chance to alter them fer her.”

Ali didn’t know what to say, so she concentrated on pul ing up the stockings, wincing as the fabric scraped across her palm.

“What’s wrong, lass?” The woman reached for Ali’s hand. She tsked, and shook her head. “Fergus should have been the one to see to the wound, but I ken he couldna’

do it. No’ after the last time.”

“The last time?”

“Aye, he tried to help Dougal, you see, doin’ as you did fer our laird. Kil ed him instead,” she said as she bent to rol on the stockings for Ali.

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Ali’s eyes widened. “Oh, ah . . . I’m sorry.”

“Aye, wel , these things happen, but at least our laird had you to care fer him.” Stepping back she gave Ali the onceover. “Yer set now.”

Ali got up from the bed, anxious to check on her patient. Not sure she was ready to have her suspicions confirmed.

“Did Rory wake up when you were in his room?”

“Nay, but he seems to be restin’ comfortably. Doona’

fash yerself, lass. You can see to him once we’ve had our wee chat.” Mrs. Mac opened the adjoining door and cal ed out to Fergus and Iain, gesturing for them to come inside.

“I’d rather not leave him on his own. We can have this conversation in his room.”

“Nay, we canna’ do that. I have a lass sittin’ with him. If need be, she’l cal .”

Fergus and Iain came into the room, looking il at ease, unable to meet her eyes. Mrs. Mac closed the door behind them. “Sit, lass,” she ordered.

Ali obeyed. The woman was bossy.

Iain rubbed the shadow along his jaw with the palm of his big hand, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Do you ken what happened?”

Ali chewed the inside of her lower lip, wondering if she dare risk the embarrassment of explaining exactly what it was she thought had happened. It was so far-fetched as to be laughable, but she wasn’t laughing, and she needed to know what was going on.

“When your brother was wounded you thought he was going to die, so you raised the fairy flag, and poof, here I am.”

She tried to make light of it.

The three of them stared at her in stunned silence. Oh, my God, they think I’m crazy. Please, don’t let anyone be recording this. Surrepti

tiously, she searched for cameras in the crevices of the gray stone wal s. 34

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“How did you ken?” Iain asked.

“Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker, he told me about the fairy flag when he took me on a tour of the castle this afternoon,” she said absently, until she realized what Iain had asked. “What do you mean, how did I know? Are you trying to tel me that’s what happened?”

“Aye.” Iain grimaced.

She jumped off the bed. “Wel , wave it again and send me back.”

“We canna’ do that. There’s only one wish left,” he ex

plained, backing away as she strode toward him.

“I’m tel ing you to do it, now.” She stabbed a finger into his broad chest.

“I’m sorry, lass, we canna’. We have to think of the clan,” Fergus said quietly.

“What about me? You expect me to stay here, stuck in the sixteenth century, never to go home?” She choked back a sob, determined not to cry.

“Ah, lass, I didna’ mean for this to happen. But I had no choice. I couldna’ let my brother die.”

“’Tis no’ the lad’s fault. He only raised the flag and the fairies did the rest.”

Mrs. Mac, who had remained quiet the entire time, stepped forward. “Lass, do you have bairns you’d be leavin’

behind?”

“If by bairns you mean children, then no, I don’t.”

“A man . . . a husband?”

Ali shook her head. She didn’t, not for the last five months. And Drew Sanderson was one person she wouldn’t miss. He was a lying, disloyal slimebal , who not only broke her heart; he did a good job destroying her rep utation while he was at it.

“Mother, father . . . a family of any kind?”

“No,” Ali snapped. She didn’t need this woman to

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remind her how little she had left behind. “But I have a friend and my career.” Now that just sounded pathetic.

“You can make friends here, lass, and we’re in need of a healer.” The older woman gave her a sympathetic smile.

“No . . . no, I can’t stay here. I won’t.” Ali’s chest tight

ened, panic inching toward hysteria. “Don’t you under

stand? I’m not like you. For God’s sake, I’m from the twenty-first century!” She closed her eyes to keep from crying. Memories of her childhood crowded in on her. The images tormented her. The fear and rejection she’d felt, being shipped from one foster home to another after her mother’s death, mirrored the emotions that now threatened to overwhelm her. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Please, please, just send me home.”

Iain grabbed her by the arm. “Are you sayin’ the fairies stole you from the future?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “Fergus, can you believe it? She’s from the future! Oh, Ali, there’s so much I want to—”

“Quit yer blatherin’, lad. Can you no’ see the lass is havin’

a hard time of it?” Fergus said, watching her with concern.

“Drink this, lass. Come on, there’s a good girl.” Mrs. Mac pressed a cup to her mouth. Ali took a deep swal ow. The liquid burned a path to her stomach, and her eyes watered. She swiped a hand across her mouth. “What the hel is that?”

“Uisge na beatha.” Fergus grinned. “Not many a lass can stomach it.”

“Why doona’ you take a wee nap?” Mrs. Mac sug

gested, patting her shoulder.

Ali shook her head. “No, I’l go and sit with Rory.” She’d see to her patient, and after she reassured herself he would be al right, she’d work on a plan to get out of this nightmare.

“Lass, you canna’ tel my brother about the fairy flag.”

“Why not? Maybe he’l agree to use the flag to send me home.”

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“Nay, I swear to you, he wouldna’ do it. My brother puts the wel -being of the clan above al else. ’Tis why he canna’

find out. He’d kil me if he kent what I did.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Iain.” But the look on the faces of Mrs. Mac and Fergus reminded her she didn’t know Rory MacLeod. The man was a warrior, very different from the men she knew. She’d been thrust into a time where brutal ity was an everyday occurrence. One more reason she had to find a way home. The fairy flag was the key, and if they weren’t going to help her, she’d find it on her own.

“Aye, lass, if he didna’ kil me, for truth he’d never for

give me, and I canna’ live with that.”

Ali sighed. How could she fault him when his only crime was that he loved his brother? She knew she wouldn’t be able to make him suffer because of it. “I won’t tel him, Iain, I promise. I know you were only trying to save him. It’s not your fault those damn fairies picked me to do the honors.”

A look of relief lightened Iain’s handsome features.

“You’l forgive me then?” he asked, taking ahold of her hand.

Ali nodded. “You, but not your fairies.”

He pressed her hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he mur

mured.

Mrs. Mac cuffed the back of his head. “There’l be none of that, Iain MacLeod.”

“Can I no’ kiss the lass’s hand?”

The older woman folded her arms across her ample chest. “Nay, she’d no’ be fer you, lad.”

Iain frowned. “And who would you be thinkin’ she’s fer?”

Ali opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, the woman said, “The fairies sent her fer yer brother.”

“Now just a—” Ali began.

Iain shook his head. “Mrs. Mac, you ken as wel as anyone my brother wil never take another. He loved only Brianna.”

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Mrs. Macpherson shrugged.

“Hel o, I’m right here.” Ali waved her hands at the two of them, annoyed to be treated like a prize up for grabs.

“Just so we’re al straight on this, I have no interest in Rory MacLeod, or any other man for that matter.”

Fergus raised a bushy auburn brow. “You doona’ like men, lass?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she grumbled in frustration. “Yes, I like men, but I’l choose one on my own, thank you very much.” Because you did such a good job the last time, the little voice in her head said. “Now, if we’re finished here, I’d like to look in on Rory.” She walked toward the door.

“A moment, lass,” Fergus cal ed out to her. Ali groaned. “I have a name, if any of you are inter ested. It’s Ali.”

A frown furrowed Mrs. Mac’s brow. “’Tis an odd name, lass.”

Ali rol ed her eyes. “You can cal me Aileanna if you’d prefer.”

“Aileanna. ’Tis better.”

She pressed her face into her hands, shaking her head before looking at Fergus. “What were you going to say?”

“We need a story, la . . . Ali, to explain where you’ve come from.”

“Right. We wouldn’t want to tel people the fairies sent me, now would we?”

“Aileanna, ’tis no’ somethin’ to make light of. Folks might think yer a witch, and that would be a verra danger ous thing,” Mrs. Mac said, her expression serious.

“A witch?”

“Aye, and there’s a priest in these parts who has stirred up some trouble of late. ’Tis why our healer left,” the woman explained.

Ali rubbed her temples. This just gets better and better.

“So, where am I supposed to have come from?”

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“You said yer last name is Graham and I’m thinkin’ the laird wil have some memory of that. Do you ken any Graham that could slip us up, lad?” Fergus asked Iain.

“Nay, but I canna’ say for certain Rory doesna’.”

“We’l hope as no’.” Fergus gave Ali an odd look. “I hate to say it, but I’m thinkin’ we’l have to say she’s English. It may goes a way to explainin’ her strange way of speakin’.”

“’Tis a shame, Fergus, but you have the way of it,” Mrs. Mac agreed.

Ali frowned. “There’s nothing strange about the way I speak, but what’s the problem with saying I’m English?”

“We canna’ abide the English, lass.”

“We could say she’s from the borders. Not so bad, aye?”

Iain piped up.

Fergus nodded, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Aye, and because of her healin’ abilities, those bloody Fife adventurers kidnapped her to take her on to Lewis. But she escaped and we gave her shelter.”

Mrs. Mac’s eyes widened. “’Tis quite a tal tale to swal

low.”

“Can you think of somethin’ better?” Fergus grumbled.

“Nay.”

“’Tis settled, and now I’l be off to get somethin’ to eat,”

Iain said, heading for the door.

“I’l join you, lad. Doona’ fret, Ali, we’l take good care of you,” the older man promised.

“Thank you.” Despite everything, Ali was touched by his offer.

“’Tis the truth, Ali. The clan is in yer debt fer savin’

my brother. No one wil say a word against you.”

“That’s good to hear.”

After the men left, Mrs. Mac turned to her. “Go to the laird, Aileanna, and I’l bring you somethin’ to eat.”

“Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.”

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“A wee bit of broth, then. And, lass, though I’m sorry fer yer troubles I’m glad ’twas you the fairies brought to us.”

Moisture gathered in Ali’s eyes at the woman’s kind words. Afraid she might cry, Ali nodded and opened the door to Rory’s chambers.

When she entered the room, a young girl popped out of the chair beside the bed. Her mouth dropped open as Ali came closer. “My lady,” she stammered, bobbing a curtsy. Ali waved off the formality. “Please don’t do that. I’m not a lady. I mean, I am a lady, just not the kind of lady you mean.” She blew out an exasperated breath. It was obvious the girl didn’t know what she was talking about. “Has Lord MacLeod awakened yet?”

“Nay,” the young girl said, her eyes downcast.

“Wel , thank you for watching over him. I’l sit with him now if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

The girl bobbed another curtsy and scurried from the room with one last look at Ali. Taking a seat on the hard wooden chair the girl had va

cated, Ali looked at Rory. She smiled at the unruly wave of thick black hair that fel across his forehead, smoothing it from his face, pleased the skin beneath her hand was nei

ther hot nor clammy. Without thinking, she al owed her fingers to trail along his cheekbones, to his strong jaw. He stirred. Guiltily she looked up, but his eyes remained closed. Long lashes rested against sun-bronzed skin, with no sign of his previous pal or. When her fingers grazed his ful lips they twitched, curving into a smile. Butterflies quickened in her stomach.

Ali pul ed her hand away, shaking her head at her fool

ishness. This was no time to be weaving fantasies about the man, no matter how beautiful he was. She needed to come up with a plan to get home. The sixteenth century was no place for her. Wearily she stood and eased back the 40

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bedding to get a better look at her handiwork. She winced. The wound was fiery red and swol en. Her gaze wandered over his broad chest, the hard mus

cles beneath the taut skin of his bel y. The man was in amazing condition. Muscles stiff, she lowered herself in the chair only to find Rory MacLeod looking at her. Or at least she thought he was, until she heard him say, “Brianna.”

He reached out to stroke his long, cal oused fingers along her cheek in a gentle caress. He smiled, then closed his eyes. His arm dropped back to the bed. Ali groaned. She had to find that damn flag. Chapter 4

“What are you doin’ tiptoein’ aboot, lad?” Rory grumbled. Gritting his teeth, he pul ed himself upright in bed. The young lad ducked his head. “Sorry, my laird, I didna’

mean to disturb you.”

“Disturb me?” Rory jerked his chin toward the light fil

tering into the room. “From the looks of it you’ve awakened me none too soon. Where are my brother and Fergus?

Breakin’ their fast, are they?”

“Nay,” the lad said, shuffling from one foot to the other. Rory let out an exasperated breath. “Connor, I canna’

read minds, so you’d best tel me what’s on yers.”

“’Tis just that we’ve no’ eaten, Laird MacLeod. No’ since yester eve.”

Rory frowned. “And why would that be?”

“Cook quit.”

“Nay, lad, you must be mistaken. Cook wouldna’ do that.”

“’Tis the truth, my laird. He did.”

Rory cursed. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his muscles rebel ed at the action. He stifled a groan at the wrenching pain in his side as he rose to his feet. Gingerly, he touched the site of his wound—the red, puckered flesh—

and he thought of the woman who’d put it there. With the 42

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memory of her soft hands and their gentle touch on his heated skin, he felt himself harden. Sky blue eyes fil ed with concern, in a face as bonny as his wife’s. He shook the image of her from his head. No matter that the lass had the look of Brianna; no one could take his wife’s place. He was loyal to her memory. Swiving was one thing—a man had his needs—but love—nay, never again.

“Aye, Laird MacLeod.” The lad bobbed his head, eyeing Rory’s wound. “’Tis her that did it.”

“Aye, lad, the lass made a fair job of it, she did.”

“Nay . . . I mean aye, she did, but ’tis no’ what I meant.

’Tis on account of Lady Aileanna that Cook quit.”

“Nay, lad, she could no’ have managed that. She was seein’ to my needs yester eve.”

Connor’s mouth fel open; the tips of his ears pinked.

“Fer the love of God, ’tis no’ those needs I was talkin’

aboot. ’Twas my wound she saw to.” Rory began to think the boy meant to drive him daft.

“But . . . but, my lord, ’tis been seven days since we car

ried ye home.”

“Yer tel in’ me I’ve been lyin’ abed for seven days!” he bel owed, holding his side.

“Aye,” the lad squeaked.

“Get the woman and bring her to me, Connor.” Rory clenched his teeth as he reached for his plaid at the foot of the bed.

“She’s seein’ to the men that were injured. Mayhap ye should wait until—”

“Connor, you ken me wel . I’ve given you an order, lad, and I expect it to be carried out. Bring the lady to me now.”

The boy rushed headlong from the room, almost bowl

ing over Iain and Fergus as they entered his chambers.

“What’s got you riled, brother? We heard you bel ow from down below,” Iain asked after he’d righted the lad. Rory folded his arms over his chest, eyeing the two

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men. “Which one of you would care to explain how ’tis I’ve been abed fer seven days?”

The two men looked at each other, then shrugged.

“Why doona’ I take a guess—would it be Lady Aileanna’s doin’?”

“Aye, but ’twas fer yer own good, brother. You were rest

less, and she didna’ want you to rip open yer wound.”

“So you let her drug me? ’Tis too bad she didna’ have the means to render me unconscious when she closed my wound.” Anger reverberated in his voice and it had noth

ing to do with being awake when she had laid the blade to his side. Times were difficult, what with the MacDonald renewing the feud and King James sending the lowlanders to Lewis. It was no time for the clan’s laird to be laid out flat, and by a lass he didna’ ken.

Iain flushed under his scrutiny. “I brought the physician’s notes to her, the one you had see to Brianna. ’Twas there she found the herbs listed.”

“Now, lad—” Fergus began, then turned to the young maid who’d entered Rory’s chambers. Her fiery red hair was tucked neatly beneath a cap. “Leave it on the table. That’s a good lass.” Fergus laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder as she was about to leave. “Mari, this would be yer laird.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and gave Rory a shy smile. He nodded, masking his shock when the lass looked at him, one eye blue, the other green. “Welcome to Dunvegan, Mari.”

“Thank ye, my lord.” She bobbed again, then looked to Fergus for direction. He nodded, waiting until the girl left the room before he explained. “Her mother brought her to us on account of that bloody priest. He’s been up to his tricks again, rantin’

aboot the lass on account of her mismatched eyes and red hair. Claiming she’s a witch, he is. He wanted to put her to the stake.”

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Rory sighed, lowering himself into the chair by the fire.

“The last thing I’d be needin’ right now is trouble with the Kirk, but if I hear he’s put anyone to the stake on MacLeod land I’l send him to hel myself.”

“Aye, I thought that’s how you’d feel. I’ve sent a couple of men into the vil ages to keep an eye on him,” Fergus in formed him.

“Eat yer parritch, brother.” Iain gestured to the bowl the lass had left, and pul ed up a stool alongside him.

“And how is it I have parritch? I was under the impres

sion Cook quit.”

“Aye, he did, but I managed to smooth his ruffled feathers.”

“And who would it be that ruffled his feathers in the first place—Lady Aileanna?” Rory asked, raising a brow.

“Aye, but—”

He interrupted his brother with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just tel me what she did.”

“’Twas more what she said.” Iain glanced at him, then sighed. “She told Cook his kitchens were no better than a pigsty, and she was surprised he hadna’ kil ed anyone as yet.”

Rory snorted. It was something he himself had meant to do, and he wasn’t at al certain that no one had died. But before he could admit as much, Connor returned.

“I thought I told you to bring Lady Aileanna to me.”

“I tried, but the lady says she’s busy and wil come when she gets the chance.” The lad, head bowed, twisted his hands in front of him.

hands in front of him.

“She wil , wil she?” Rory muttered, rising to his feet.

“And . . . and she said I was to tel you you’d better damn wel be in bed when she does,” Connor stammered, obviously quoting the lady verbatim.

Fergus covered a snort of laughter with a cough, shrug

ging when Rory shot him a quel ing look.

“That’l be al , Connor.”

“Rory, she’s lookin’ to the men who were wounded in

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the battle with the MacDonald. There are a fair number of them.”

“Yer quick to her defense, brother.” Rory narrowed his gaze on Iain. The lad had a reputation with the ladies, and he wondered if he’d charmed his way into Lady Aileanna’s affections—a thought that didn’t sit wel with Rory, not with the memory of her naked in his arms and her passion

ate response to his touch. Fists clenched at his sides, he reined in the spurt of jealousy. An emotion he had no right or reason to feel, he reminded himself.

“Nay.” His brother gave an adamant shake of his head.

“’Tis no’ like that.”

He ignored Iain. Lowering himself into the chair, he leaned back. “I appreciate the lass seein’ to the men’s care, but what I’d be needin’ to ken is where she’s from. Is there a chance she could be a spy sent by the MacDonald?”

Iain guffawed. “Brother, you’d think yer own mother a spy if she was alive.”

Rory shrugged. “You canna’ be too careful.”

Fergus cleared his throat. “She’s no spy, lad. She’d been kidnapped by those bloody lowlanders on the account of her healin’ abilities, but she escaped. I found her when I went back to the battlegrounds lookin’ fer our wounded.”

Rory scrubbed his hands over his face, thinking on what Fergus told him.

“I thought I told you to stay in your bed.”

He looked up. Aileanna Graham stood only a few feet from him, hands on her hips, more bonny than he remem bered. The tops of her milky white breasts fil ed the square neckline of a gown the color of heather. Reluctantly, he pul ed his gaze to her face. His hands twitched at the memory of how she’d felt in his arms. Bloody hel , if he didna’ get his heated thoughts under control they would al have a verra good idea what he was thinkin’.

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His plaid would soon resemble a tent.

He cleared his throat. “Lass, in case you hadna’ noticed, I am the laird. I listen to no one.”

She arched a brow. “I know exactly who you are, Lord MacLeod. But you are also my patient, and until I decide you are no longer under my care, you will do as I say. Now get back into bed.”

He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her.

“I’l no’ get into bed. I’ve been in there long enough.”

“I think I hear Mrs. Mac cal in’ fer me.” Iain rose from the stool and headed for the door with Fergus fast on his heels.

“Fergus, Iain, I expect a ful update on the army’s con

dition before evenin’ meal,” he yel ed, cursing when they shut the door firmly behind them without a word.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned over and placed cool fingertips to his forehead. Rory shook his head, not certain he’d get the words out. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips. She was so close he felt the heat of her body; the scent of lavender en

veloped him.

“Let’s get you into bed,” she said, slipping her soft hand into his. “I want to make sure you haven’t done any damage.”

“I told you, lass, I’m no’ gettin’ back in that bed.”

She sighed. “You’re a stubborn man. Has anyone ever told you that?” Shaking her head, she knelt before him.

“Aye, often.” He bit back a groan when she tugged at his belt.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Eyes the color of sapphires, awash with concern, met his.

“Nay,” he muttered. Brushing her hands aside he undid his belt, dropping it to the floor. She inched his plaid lower, exposing the wound, explor

ing with a firm yet gentle touch. Meeting his eyes, she low

ered hers quickly, and he wondered if she could see the desire in his. He didna’ doubt it was there. He wanted her with a

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need that surprised him. Closing his eyes, he imagined his wife, tiny and fragile, so slight and delicate. The memory of Brianna served to dampen his desire for the woman on her knees between his thighs.

“Are you al right?” she asked, the timbre of her voice low and husky. She cleared her throat. “Lord MacLeod?”

“I’m fine, lass,” he said. “Are you finished with yer pokin’?”

“Yes.” She patted his knee and rose to her feet. “I’m sur

prised at how wel you’ve healed. It’s quite amazing actu

al y. You’l be as good as new in no time. Now, if you don’t mind, I had better get back to your men.” She retrieved his belt and handed it to him.

Rory adjusted his plaid. “I’d like a word with you first.”

He studied her, watching for a reaction.

“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her gown. Biting the inside of her cheek, she looked at him.

“Fergus tel s me you were abducted by the lowlanders.”

“Umhmm,” she murmured, twisting the long length of her braided hair between her fingers.

“Does it trouble you to speak of it?”

“No.”

“They didna’ hurt you, did they?”

She shook her head, perfect white teeth worrying her ful bottom lip.

“Lass, look at me.” He stood up and tilted her chin, forc

ing her gaze to his. “You can tel me.”

“No one hurt me.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “How did you escape?”

“I . . . I don’t remember.” She dipped her head. “I think I must have hit my head.”

Rory framed her face with his hands, searching her eyes. She sucked in a startled gasp when he ran his fingers through her hair, probing her scalp. Her braid came undone, 48

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and silken tresses slid between his fingers. “I canna’ feel anythin’. Are you certain you hit yer head?”

She nodded, steadying herself with a palm pressed to his chest. He could stop; he had explored every inch of her head, but he didn’t want to, not when she felt so good lean

ing against him. He inhaled her soft, sweet fragrance, barely resisting the urge to bury his face in the delicate column of her neck. With a concerted effort, he brought his hands to rest on her shoulders.

“Aileanna, you ken as laird to the MacLeod clan ’tis my duty to see to their protection.”

She took a steadying breath, her breasts rising within the confines of her gown. Pul ing his gaze back to her face, he sighed. “Look at me, Aileanna.”

She stiffened. Raising her chin, she took a step away from him. “I’m not a danger to you or your clan, Lord MacLeod, if that’s what you’re implying. In fact, quite the opposite. I think I’ve cared very wel for al of you.” A flash of temper flared in her eyes as she held his gaze.

“Aye, you have, and I thank you for that. I was remiss not to thank you earlier, but it seems someone decided to knock me out.” He tilted his head, looking down at her. She rol ed her eyes. “So, Iain was right. He said you wouldn’t be happy about that.” She shrugged her shoul

ders. “I had no choice. You were thrashing about and other than tying you to the bedposts, which probably wouldn’t have worked anyhow, it was my only option.” Her gaze traveled the length of his body, a delicate flush of pink tint ing her cheeks.

“No man likes to be drugged, lass, especial y a man re

sponsible for others.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “And what do you think you could have done in the condition you were in?”

“More than most,” he answered truthful y.

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“Right—king of the castle and al that.”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “Yer speech is verra strange, lass.”

“So is yours,” she grumbled, a stubborn set to her chin.

“Are you finished with me now?”

“You said you were a Graham?”

“I did. What of it?”

“There’s no need to get prickly, lass.”

“I’m not prickly,” she snapped. “I’m just tired of being treated as though I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t.”

“Which Graham?” He fought back a smile, finding her temper amusing.

“I’m from the borders,” she said through clenched teeth, stabbing her finger into his chest. He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Now—” he began, frowning when he saw the raised welt on the palm of her hand. “What’s this?”

She tried to pul her hand from his. “Nothing.”

Rory tightened his hold on her. “’Tis from the dirk, isna’ it?”

“Yes. Now wil you please let me go?”

Holding her gaze with his, he pressed her palm to his lips, trailing light kisses along the reddened mark. “I’m sorry you were hurt while you cared fer me.”

She swal owed, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “It was nothing compared to what I did to you.” Her voice had gone soft and breathy.

“Ah, but you meant to save me, Aileanna, no’ hurt me,”

he said into her palm.

“Umhmm.” Her eyes fluttered closed.

He tugged her closer, pressing himself against her lush curves. “Aileanna, what were you doin’ in my bed that night?”

he whispered in her ear before lowering his lips to her neck.

“Sleeping,” she murmured. A soft moan of pleasure 50

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escaped from her parted lips. She tilted her head back, granting him access to a creamy expanse of skin. With a low chuckle, he accepted her invitation. Bending his head, he kissed his way across the top of her ful breasts, delving beneath the gown’s fabric with his tongue. He tugged her neckline lower, ignoring the sound of the cloth tearing. He freed her breasts to his hungry gaze. Lust pounded in his veins.

“Nay, you weren’t sleeping, lass.” He tweaked her nipple between his fingers before taking it into his mouth.

“Dreaming . . . I thought I was dreaming.” She moaned. Rory cupped her breasts, kneading, squeezing, watch ing the play of emotions on her angelic face. “’Twas no dream, lass. ’Tis no dream now,” he said against her lips. He’d slowly maneuvered them toward the bed and care

ful y lowered Aileanna onto the mattress. Her eyes sprang open and she gasped, tugging at the bodice of her gown. He eased himself onto the bed. Lying down beside her, he stopped the frantic movements of her hands, pul ing her against him when she struggled to sit up.

“Calm yerself, Aileanna.” He stroked the hair from her face.

“We . . . we can’t do this,” she stammered.

“Why? We’ve done it before,” he reminded her, trailing his finger along the soft swel of her breasts. He didn’t want to talk. Al he wanted to do was feel her, warm and wil ing, beneath him.

She shivered, stil ing his hand with hers.

“I told you, I thought I was dreaming that night. And you . . . you thought I was your wife.”

Rory didn’t stop her when she struggled to rise from the bed. She was right. He had thought she was Brianna, but not now. He knew who she was, and he wanted her more than he thought he’d ever want a woman again. He scrubbed his

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hands over his face. Bloody hel , what was wrong with him?

What had Aileanna Graham done to him?

“Did I . . . did I hurt you?” She stood at the end of the bed, clutching the front of her gown, her hair spil ing over her shoulders in wild abandon.

“Nay.” He winced as he sat up.

“Good.” She gave a brisk nod of her head, then turned to walk away.

“Where are you goin’, Aileanna?”

“To my room.” She hesitated, her hand on the latch to the room that adjoined his. His wife’s room. She looked at him over her shoulder. “It’s where I’ve been staying. Mrs. Mac put me in there. If you’d prefer, I can take a room elsewhere.”

He stood, adjusting his plaid. “Nay, that’l be fine, lass. Aileanna, I’m—”

She shook her head, closing the door firmly behind her. Rory cursed. He ignored the burning pain in his side as he wrenched the door to his chambers open. He barely ac

knowledged the greetings of his men gathered at the bottom of the staircase as he made his way to the study. Once inside, he rummaged through the desk for a piece of parchment and his quil . Finding what he required, he sat down to compose a letter to Angus Graham inquiring into the identity of one Aileanna Graham.

Chapter 5

Ali rested her forehead against the rough wood-planked door, softly cursing the man on the other side and her reac tion to him. His tender kisses and heated caresses had turned her into a quivering mass of boneless desire. Her brain had stopped working, and she was lucky he hadn’t prodded further with his questions. She slapped a hand to the door, pretending it was his broad, muscular, and total y gorgeous chest. Typical man; seducing her with his tempting kisses only to get the answers he wanted. It would serve him right if she told him the truth. But Ali couldn’t, not without break

ing her promise to Iain, and his only crime was that he loved his brother. She envied them that. No, she wouldn’t reveal his secret. She’d find the fairy flag on her own and no one would be the wiser. Until the MacLeods are in danger and need the fairies’ help, the an

noying voice in her head reminded her. Ali grimaced at the thought of the MacLeods’ suffering because of what she planned to do. But it couldn’t be helped. She had to find a way home. To what? Charges that could ruin your career, and all because a man you thought you loved made a mis

take that cost a young mother her life and left you to take the 54

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blame, the voice in her head taunted. A man who professed to love you while he slept with how many other women?

Al right, so her personal and professional lives were a mess. But at least she’d be back where she belonged. Belong? When have you ever belonged, Aileanna Graham?

“ Would you just shut up,” Ali muttered.

“My lady?”

Ali whirled around to face Mari, who hesitated in the doorway to her room, a wary expression on the young maid’s face. “Ah, hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

The young girl dipped her head. “I’m sorry, my lady. I didna’ mean to disturb ye.”

Ali waved off her apology, hoping Mari hadn’t been there long enough to witness her hitting the door and talk ing to herself. “You didn’t.” She smiled in an attempt to ease the young girl’s discomfort. Mrs. Macpherson had persuaded Ali to take Mari on as her maid. She’d resisted at first; she didn’t have any idea what she was supposed to do with a lady’s maid and didn’t plan on being here long enough to find out. But the older woman was nothing if not tenacious. And Ali had given in, once Mrs. Mac explained that because of Mari’s appear ance, and the clan’s superstitious tendencies, the girl would have a difficult time of it if she didn’t. Ali knew how it felt to be on the outside looking in, and she wasn’t about to al ow Mari to suffer the same fate. Not if she could help it.

“Come in, Mari. Is Mrs. Mac looking for me?”

“Nay, she said to tel ye the last of the men have been seen to and ye can have yerself a wee rest.”

“Wel , I don’t know about taking a nap.” She wouldn’t. Now was the perfect opportunity to search the castle. Too busy during the last week seeing to the men of Dunvegan, Ali hadn’t had a chance to look for the fairy flag. With LORD OF THE ISLES

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Mrs. Mac occupied, and Rory MacLeod tucked away in his room, she could search at her leisure.

“My lady, what have ye done?”

Ali fol owed the direction of Mari’s stricken gaze. “Ah, this?” She touched the tear in her gown. Her face flushed, remembering who put it there. “I caught it on . . . on the chair when I was seeing to Lord MacLeod. Do you know how to sew, Mari?”

“Aye, my lady. I’l take care of it fer ye. I’l find ye an

other gown,” the girl said. She bent over the trunk and pul ed out a gown of robin’s egg blue. “’Twil look bonny on ye, my lady.” Mari held up the dress, a wistful expres

sion on her young face.

Ali’s heart clenched. She couldn’t help but notice the sharp contrast between the beautiful gown Mari held out to her, and the threadbare brown woolen dress the girl wore.

“I don’t know, I think the color would be perfect on you, Mari. Why don’t you try it on?”

Mari gasped. “Nay, my lady. I canna’ do that. ’Tis no’

right.”

“Don’t be sil y. Mrs. Mac said you’re my maid, so there’s no reason you can’t wear what I want you to.”

“’Tis verra kind of ye, my lady, but ’tis no’ my place.”

Ali took the dress from the girl’s trembling fingers.

“Let’s just see . . .” She frowned. “I guess I’m quite a bit tal er than you, and . . .” Looking at Mari’s slight frame, she remembered the comments about how tiny the laird’s wife had been. “I have an idea. I’l be right back.”

Returning after a brief conversation with Mrs. Mac, Ali smiled at Mari. “Wel , it’s al settled. Mrs. Mac has agreed, so no argument from you.”

The girl watched her warily from where she knelt rear

ranging the contents of the trunk.

Ali opened the wardrobe and pul ed out a lemon yel ow gown, holding it up for Mari. “Come and try it on.”

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The girl hesitated before rising to her feet. “Are ye certain?”

“Of course I am.”

Mari looked at Ali; moisture clung to the girl’s auburntipped lashes as she gently caressed the fabric. “’Tis bonny, my lady,” she whispered reverently.

“It is. You’l look beautiful, Mari. The color wil show off your gorgeous red hair.”

Mari lowered her hand, shaking her head. “I doona’ think I can accept it, my lady, but I thank ye fer yer kindness.”

“Don’t be sil y—of course you can. Mrs. Mac said it was fine.”

“Aye, but folk might think I doona’ ken my place.”

Ali blew out a frustrated breath. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”

“I do, my lady,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry, Mari, of course you do. I understand how you feel.” And she did, only too wel . “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I ken what yer tryin’ to do, and I appreciate it. ’Tis just with my eyes and my hair, I stick out enough as ’tis.”

“You’re very pretty, Mari. You’l always stand out from the others.”

The young girl giggled. “Yer verra funny, my lady. Pretty.” She repeated the word and laughed again, shaking her head.

“It’s true, Mari, whether you believe me or not. Now, I want you to take the dress and try it on later, when you’re on your own. Maybe you’l change your mind. No arguments.”

She wagged her finger at the girl, placing the gown in her arms despite her protests. Mari looked up at Ali with a shy smile. “My lady, once ye’ve changed gowns ye must let me see to yer hair. ’Tis a bit of a fright if ye doona’ mind me sayin’.”

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drop. It’s not like she could say after the laird ran his fingers through my hair to the girl. With her young maid’s help, Ali changed into the robin’s egg blue gown. Her poking and prodding complete, Mari held out a chair for Ali. She took a seat and Mari began combing the tangles from Ali’s hair.

“Sorry,” she apologized when Ali cried out, the comb catching on another knot. When al the tangles were combed through, Ali leaned back in the chair. “Mari, do you like it here?”

“Aye, my lady, ’tis blessed I am to be yer maid.”

Ali snorted. “I’m sure.”

“’Tis true. Yer verra kind to me.”

“Thank you, but I’ve been worried you might be miss

ing your mother.”

“My mam’s verra busy with the others. There are eleven in my family, my lady.”

Eleven. Ali shuddered. “What about friends?”

“I doona’ have friends. I’m too busy helpin’ me mam.”

“You’l have time to make friends here at Dunvegan. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ali asked, turning side ways in the chair to look at Mari.

“Aye.” The girl sighed, a wistful expression on her face. Ali reached back and patted her hand. “I’m going to make sure you do.” And she meant it. Something about the young girl touched her deeply. Perhaps Mari reminded Ali of herself a long time ago, a time when she wished some

one had been there for her. She promised herself before she left Dunvegan, she’d see that Mari was safe and happy.

“Mrs. Macpherson and Fergus have been verra kind—

the laird, too.”

“You met Lord MacLeod?”

“Aye. He’s the bonniest man I ever did see.” The girl sighed.

Ali wrinkled her nose. “I guess.”

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“You doona’ think he’s bonny, my lady?”

“Aye.” Oh, for God’s sake, now she was starting to talk like them. “I mean, yes, he’s very handsome. But you know, Mari, it’s more than good looks that make a man.”

“I ken it wel , my lady, but everyone kens the laird is a good man. He’s kind and generous, and verra powerful. No one man can take our laird down.”

Ali snorted. “Wel , someone almost did.”

“Are ye talkin’ aboot his wound? ’Twas five against one, my lady—no’ a fair fight.”

Five . . . one man against five. Ali didn’t know why she was surprised, not when she thought of his rippling mus cles and the strength of his hands—hands that could crush a man, or bring a woman to the edge with a gentle caress. Ali’s stomach clenched at the memory, and she shot out of the chair. “Okay, perfect, that’s wonderful, Mari.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, unwil ing to continue the conversation about Rory MacLeod’s many attributes any further. “Thank you. Now I’d better see if Mrs. Mac needs me for anything. Would you like to spend some time out side? It’s a lovely day.”

“Thank ye, my lady, but I’l see to yer gown.”

“Al right.”

Standing in the long narrow corridor outside her room, Ali contemplated her best course of action. Deciding to begin one floor at a time, she headed for the stairs and almost col ided with the laird himself when he slammed out of his chambers.

“Lady Aileanna, I’m sorry.” He reached out to steady her.

“No harm done.” She took a step backward, putting some distance between them. “You know, Lord MacLeod, just because you’re feeling better doesn’t mean you should resume your daily activities right away.”

He arched a brow; the corner of his mouth twitched.

“And what do you consider my daily activities, lass?”

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She waved her hand. “Oh, I don’t know—laird things.”

“Laird things?” He grinned. “I’l keep that in mind, Aileanna.”

He walked down the curved staircase beside her, match

ing his long stride with hers. “’Tis a verra bonny gown you have on, my lady. As bonny as the one you wore this morn.”

Ali stopped and stared at him. “I can’t believe you just said that. It is not very gentlemanly of you to remind me of this morning,” she muttered.

He leaned into her. His heated breath fanned her cheek.

“I’m no’ a gentleman, Aileanna.”

“You’re tel ing me,” she huffed. Anxious to get away from him, she fairly flew down the stairs, catching her foot on the underskirt of her gown.

“Lass, be careful you don—” His hand shot out, and he grabbed her before she tumbled headlong down the stairs.

“Thank you,” Ali murmured, feeling her cheeks flush.

“I’m fine. You can let me go.” She tried to pul away from him, but he held her firmly against his chest.

“Mayhap I doona’ want to, lass.” Heat flared in moss green eyes that ensnared her. The sound of raised voices broke the spel , and she jerked her gaze from his. “Let me go.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Aye, I wil , lass, as soon as you tel me where ’tis you’d be goin’.”

Ali’s eyes widened, panic inching its way up her chest at the thought he knew what she was up to. “Why? I didn’t realize I was your prisoner, Lord MacLeod.”

He arched a brow. “Yer my guest, Aileanna, and as such, under my protection. I only meant to suggest as yer unfa miliar with the lay of the land, Connor should accompany you. I would do it myself but I have things I must attend to.”

“No,” she blurted out. “I mean, thank you, but I won’t wander.”

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and Ali didn’t want to think what he’d do to her if he knew what she planned. She felt his gaze fol ow her as they parted company at the bottom of the stairs. Two hours later, Ali abandoned her search. She’d man

aged to investigate only three rooms, spending most of her time in the drawing room where the flag had resided in her time. She searched every nook and cranny, but to no avail. It didn’t help that Mrs. Mac kept popping in and out, and if not her, Connor seemed to show up at the most inoppor

tune times.

Frustrated, Ali closed the door of the drawing room with a little more force than she intended.

“There you are, lass. I’ve been lookin’ fer you. Dinner is bein’ served.” Mrs. Macpherson gestured for her to fol ow. Ali’s stomach grumbled. She was starving, but after witnessing the filth of the kitchens, she’d been unable to eat anything for the past few days other than the freshly baked bread.

She stepped aside to al ow the servants to pass into the dining hal . Their arms were laden with heavy trays con taining steaming platters. The smel of roasted meats made Ali’s nostrils twitch. She fol owed Mrs. Mac into the cav ernous room lined with long wooden tables. Torches lit the interior, casting a golden hue on the tartan banners that hung from the gray stone wal s between the narrow win

dows. The room was crowded—at least twenty people hunkered down at each table, mostly men, and the servants scurried about trying to accommodate them al at once. At the table on the raised dais, she spotted Rory. He came to his feet when he saw her. The loud chatter quieted as the diners watched her walk by. Their curiosity was one of the reasons she’d taken to eating her meals in her chambers.

“Mrs. Mac, maybe it’s better if I eat in my room,” Ali suggested, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. LORD OF THE ISLES

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“Och, no, the laird wanted you to join him and so you shal .”

“Of course, we wouldn’t want to upset his lordship.”

Mrs. Macpherson shook her head, making her now fa

miliar tsking sound.

“I’m glad you’ve joined us, lass,” Rory said when Ali reached them, indicating the vacant chair to his left, beside Iain.

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” she muttered, nodding at Iain, Fergus, and Connor as she took her seat.

“Ah, stil prickly I see.”

Before she could respond, two platters were placed on the table in front of her. She eyed them with trepidation; fish of some sort on one, lamb on the other. Relieved when a basket of fresh bread was placed to her left, she smiled at the girl who put it there.

“Thank you.”

The girl bobbed her head.

“You canna’ live on bread alone, Aileanna,” Rory said, with a hint of amusement in the low rumble of his voice.

“Cook took yer suggestions to heart. I’ve checked on the kitchens myself. ’Tis safe to eat.”

Even if that was the case, Ali wasn’t sure she could. She didn’t know how. Not without a fork or a knife to cut the meat. There was only a spoon beside her wooden plate. She glanced surreptitiously down the tables to see how everyone else was managing. Iain, obviously aware of the problem, took his dirk and sliced off some mutton for her. Everyone was so busy eating they no longer watched her, and she took a tentative bite.

“So, Aileanna, did you find what you were lookin’ for?”

Ali choked on the piece of meat and both Rory and Iain pounded her back simultaneously.

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stop with their forceful slaps, she wouldn’t be. She took a deep swal ow of wine from the goblet in front of her. Clearing her throat, she said, “I wasn’t looking for any

thing in particular, Lord MacLeod. I just wanted to see more of Dunvegan, since I’ve spent most of my time caring for your men.”

“Did it meet with yer approval?” Goblet in hand, he swirled the liquid, looking at her over the rim.

“Yes, it’s lovely.” She bent over her plate, pretending to be absorbed with her meal, ignoring the suspicious look Fergus shot at her across the table and the one she felt coming from Iain. Ali had a sneaking suspicion she would be watched closely from now on.

She drained her wine.

Rory refil ed it for her. “I’m sorry I didna’ have the time to show you aboot myself.”

She shrugged. “You were busy.”

“Aye, and I’ve learned, thanks to you, Aileanna, that my men fared much better than I anticipated.”

“Aye, and next time we meet the MacDonald, we’l be ready for the sneaky old bastard,” Iain said. Men al along the tables heard his comment and pounded their fists against the scarred wood. A loud chorus of ayes fil ed the room. Ali couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Please, tel me you aren’t serious. My God, you were almost kil ed. Several of your men died.” An image of a battlefield like the one she’d seen on the tapestry the day she arrived flashed before her. Her stomach lurched at the thought of Rory in the midst of that slaughter. He shrugged. “’Tis the way of it, lass. We have no choice.”

“Of course you do. You always have a choice. Wasn’t your wife a MacDonald?”

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tant. She had to find a way to make Rory see reason—to stop the senseless loss of life.

“Aye.” Rory’s expression turned fierce. Gone was the teas

ing man of earlier, replaced by someone she wouldn’t want to meet in a dark al ey, or anywhere else for that matter.

“Are the men you fight with not related to her, can’t—?”

“’Tis her father.”

“You both loved the same woman. Surely there’s a way to settle your differences without bloodshed.”

“’Tis none of yer concern.” His tone was dismissive.

“You’re right, it’s not,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Please, give Cook my compliments. Good night.”

Rory looked ready to say something, but instead he stood and offered her his arm. “I’l see you to yer room, Aileanna.”

“I can manage.” She brushed past him, her attention drawn to a flurry of activity at the far end of the hal . Sev eral men surrounded a big, fair-haired man, pounding his back. Ali caught a glimpse of his face when the crowd parted and noted his coloring—the man was purple.

“Stop that,” she cal ed out. Lifting her skirts, she rushed toward them. When she reached the man, she wrapped her arms around him. Making a fist, Ali placed her other hand over it and gave a quick upward thrust to his abdomen, repeating the motion five times. On the last thrust, a smal bone shot out of his mouth and landed in the goblet of the man across from him.

“Thank ye, thank ye, my lady,” he gasped. “I couldna’

breathe.”

Ali patted his arm. “That’s what happens when you’re about to choke to death. Next time you might not want to swal ow the bone along with the meat.”

“Aye,” he said sheepishly, to the amusement of his friends.

“It seems I’l be forever in yer debt where my men are concerned, Lady Aileanna.” Rory took her arm, grabbed a torch from the wal , and led her from the hal . 64

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“Here, give me that.” She reached for the torch. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your battle plans.”

Rory sighed, the grim lines of his face softening in the dim light. “Aileanna—” He stopped. A commotion at the castle’s entrance drew his attention. The two men who en

tered were covered in grime and armed to the teeth. Rory indicated they were to wait, then stepped back into the hal and cal ed for Connor. When the lad appeared he said,

“Take Lady Aileanna to her room.”

Just like that she was dismissed, and more annoyed than she knew was reasonable. After al , hadn’t she been the one to tel him she didn’t want him to see her to her room?

Ah, but when you looked at that towering mountain of a man, and his beautiful green eyes, all you could think of was how his mouth would feel kissing you good-night, the little voice in her head said. Ali didn’t bother issuing an objection. The stupid little voice was right.

“Thank you, Connor,” Ali said when they came to her room. The hal was damp and cold, and she was unable to contain a shiver.

“I can see to yer fire, my lady,” he offered with a shy smile.

“I’d appreciate that. I’m not very good at it.” She wasn’t. On her second day at Dunvegan—if not for Fergus and Mrs. Macpherson coming to her rescue—she would’ve died from smoke inhalation after her first attempt. Ali opened the door to her chambers to find her young maid scouring the floor, a bucket of soapy water at her side. “Mari, what are you doing working at this hour?

Have you had anything to eat?”

“Nay, but I wil , my lady. I didna’ realize the time, is al ,”

the girl said, averting her eyes from Connor, who appeared to be doing the same.

“Connor, have you met Mari?”

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His cheeks turned bright red. A lock of reddish brown hair fel across his forehead. “Aye . . . nay.”

“Mari, have you met Connor?”

The girl shook her head. Her face flushed the same color as her hair.

Ali held back a laugh. “Connor, Mari. Mari, Connor.”

They gave each other a brief nod, but while Connor busied himself with the fire, Ali saw him glance every so often in Mari’s direction. And Mari peeked at him when

ever she thought he wasn’t looking.

“Connor, when you’re finished here would you mind taking Mari to get something to eat? She’s new to Dunvegan.”

“Nay, my lady, ’tis fine, I . . .” Mari began to protest. With a sidelong look at Mari, Connor said, “Aye, my lady, I wil .”

The young maid glared at her, and Ali suppressed a laugh, happy to see her spurt of temper. When Connor wasn’t looking, Ali mouthed He’s very cute. Mari’s expres

sion didn’t change, but Ali thought she saw her lips twitch. Ali shut her eyes to the early morning sunlight stream ing through the open drapes on her window and snuggled deeper into the comfort of her feather bed. Now that was something she’d miss. Hah, you’ll miss that beautiful hunk of a man next door, the voice in her head chimed in. Ali buried her head beneath the pil ow. That wasn’t something she wanted to think about.

“My lady?”

Ali removed the pil ow from her head and blinked. “Oh, Mari, sorry, I didn’t see you there. I—” She sat up and stared at her maid. The girl stood before her, resplendent in the bright yel ow gown, twisting her hands in front of her. 66

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“Mari, you look wonderful.” Noting the girl’s frightened expression, she said, “Something’s the matter. What is it?”

“He’s here, my lady.” Her eyes fil ed with tears. Ali got out of bed and pul ed the trembling girl into her arms. “Who’s here?”

“The priest. The one who wanted to put me to the stake.”

Ali rubbed her maid’s back, remembering what Mrs. Mac had told her the day she brought Mari to her. Know ing what she did, Ali could wel imagine the young girl’s terror. “Shh, now, how do you know he’s here?”

“The maids were talkin’ aboot it. The laird’s men brought him in yester eve.”

“Did they say why?”

“Aye, he’s demanding an audience with the laird.” The last of her words came out on a sob.

“Don’t worry, Mari. Lord MacLeod won’t let anyone hurt you, and neither wil I. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Aye, my lady.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You’l stay in my room. I’l find you some mending and you can sit by the fire for the day. How does that sound?”

“Verra good.”

“I have to check on Mrs. Chisholm, but after that I’l come back and sit with you. I’l talk to Lord MacLeod as soon as I get dressed.” Ali didn’t trust herself to confront the priest, not with the look of terror he’d put on Mari’s face. She was afraid she’d put him to the stake herself.

“He’s not here, my lady.”

“What do you mean, he’s not here?”

“He and his men are trainin’ in the glen this morn. He’s to meet with the priest later.”

“Training?”

“Aye, for battle.”

“For God’s sake, does the man have no brains? He was on

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death’s door less than a week ago and now he’s running—”

She cursed.

Mari clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.

Ali grimaced. “Don’t repeat that.”

There was a sharp rap on the door to her chambers and Mari jumped.

“’Tis only me, my lady,” Mrs. Mac said, peeking around the door. Stepping into the room, the older woman’s eyes widened. “Och, now, would you look at that.” She smiled at Mari. “You look bonny, lass.”

“Thank ye.” Mari bobbed her head shyly.

Mrs. Macpherson squinted, looking at the girl more closely. “Ah, I see you’ve heard.”

“About the priest? Yes. I’ve told Mari to stay in my room until I can speak to Lord MacLeod. Which I gather won’t be for some time since the fool’s off playing war games with his men.”

“Lady Aileanna, ’tis no way to speak of yer laird,” the older woman chided. Ali curled her lip. “He’s not my laird.”

Mrs. Macpherson gave her an odd look before bustling about the room, setting out Ali’s toilette. “I’m goin’ to the vil age, but the laird has left Connor to see to you, my lady.”

Spy on her more likely, Ali thought. “I have to check on Mrs. Chisholm, but other than that I’l be staying with Mari.”

“Aye, Maureen’s time is drawin’ near. I’l leave you to get aboot my business. Remember, my lady, if you need anythin’, yer to ask Connor.” Mrs. Macpherson leveled a pointed look at her before closing the door. Leaving Ali in no doubt the older woman knew exactly what she was up to.

Chapter 6

On the short walk back from Mrs. Chisholm’s with Connor, Ali savored the warmth of sunshine on her face. With her days spent caring for the wounded, she’d had little time to take advantage of the beautiful scenery Dunvegan’s grounds provided. She inhaled the salty tang of sea air and knew if it wasn’t for Mari, shut up in her room, frightened and alone, Ali would have been unable to resist the urge to scramble over the rocky banks to the aquamarine loch where the gul s now played. The birds’ noisy serenade faded into the distance as they came closer to Dunvegan and another sound—a low, ominous chant—reverberated through the air. Ali stood at the center of the wel -worn path, straining to make out the words. “Connor, do you hear that?”

“Nay, I . . . aye, my lady.” His expression tensed. The sound seemed to be coming from the inner courtyard of the castle. “What are they saying?”

“Witch.”

Mari.

A feeling of dread tightened in Ali’s chest. She grabbed the boy’s arm. “Connor, you have to get Lord MacLeod. Now!” Not waiting for a response, she took off at a run, cursing when she stumbled on the loose stones beneath her 70

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slippered feet. Unable to get enough traction, she bent down and yanked off the impractical shoes. Connor was looking at her as though she’d lost her mind. “I canna’ do that. I’m to look after ye, my lady,” he said, fol owing close on her heels.

Frustrated at his unwil ingness to go against his laird’s directive, Ali bit back a curse, but she had no time to waste arguing with him. She heard the plaintive wail of a young girl and her heart pounded in her ears. Her throat tight ened, making breathing painful as she raced toward the courtyard, past the men lining the wal s. Several young children and three serving girls were gathered in a circle, hurling rocks. A faint, pitiful cry was drowned out by their abusive taunts. A short, middle-aged man in voluminous gray robes encouraged them from the sidelines.

“Why aren’t the men doing anything?” she yel ed at Connor over her shoulder.

“’Tis on account of the priest. They wil na’ stand against him,” he panted, trying to keep up with her. When a young boy bent down to retrieve more rocks, Ali saw a flash of yel ow. “Oh, dear God,” she groaned.

“Connor, you have to get Lord MacLeod,” she begged, unable to contain the sob that bubbled up in her throat.

“’Tis Mari,” he croaked. Without further pressure from Ali, he tore from the courtyard in the opposite direction.

“Stop it!” she cried, grabbing a young boy by the scruff of his neck as he resupplied his cache of ammunition. He looked up at Ali, and his mouth dropped. He released the edges of his grubby white shirt and the rocks tumbled to the ground. Ali shoved aside the children to reach Mari, who was crouched low to the ground, an arm raised to pro tect her face. Her beautiful gown was in tatters, leaving her half naked, her arms and chest smeared with dirt and blood.

“Mari,” Ali whispered, dropping to her knees beside her.

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She heard a whizzing sound, then a rock bounced off Ali’s shoulder and grazed her cheek in a stinging blow. She turned to face the crowd that seemed to have doubled in size, like a dark, sinister shadow closing in on them. Furious, she rose to her feet and stared them down.

“Throw one more of those rocks and you’l answer to your laird. Do you hear me?” Ali prayed she was right and Rory would be as angry with what they’d done as she was. There was a rhythmic thud as one by one the rocks were released from their grimy fingers.

“Nay . . . nay, they answer to no one save their Lord our God.”

Ali whirled on the speaker. The slight man was al but swal owed up by his gray robes. A thick wooden cross hung around his scrawny neck. A neck Ali was tempted to wring. His pasty white face was pul ed into a mask of hate while his black eyes blazed with self-righteous recrimination. She took a step toward him, trembling with rage. “Their God tel s them to do this?” She waved a hand at Mari. “To stone an innocent child to death?”

“She is no’ innocent. The devil’s spawn is what she is. Look at her,” he screeched, reaching for Mari. Ali put herself between them. The man was a raving lunatic, but he held sway over those gathered at her back—

a crowd she knew he could fan into an angry mob with his words. Afraid she would be unable to keep them at bay much longer, Ali backed away before turning to help Mari to her feet. She wrapped an arm around the young girl’s waist to keep her upright. The priest’s bony fingers dug into Ali’s injured shoulder and she bit back a groan of pain.

“Get your hands off me,” she growled low in her throat. Before she could stop him, he wrenched the cap from Mari’s hair. The force of the motion jerked the young girl’s head back and she whimpered in pain, a look of terror on her face.

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“Tel me ye doona’ see it now, the devil’s mark—red hair and eyes of two colors.” Spittle ran down his weak chin, and his eyes bulged.

“Don’t touch her,” Ali yel ed. Pul ing Mari out of his reach, she put up a hand to stop him from coming any closer. He took a step toward them, and his foot caught on the edge of his robe. The crowd gasped when he stumbled, fal ing to the ground with a resounding thud.

“Yer my witnesses,” he cried from where he lay prone on the cobblestones, pointing a gnarled finger at Ali. “She struck me down in defense of a witch. In the name of the Lord, my Father, I demand ye seize them both.”

Panic threatened to overwhelm her, but Ali forced it down with a vengeance. Fighting to keep Mari close to her side, she pushed past the menacing faces, but it was too late. The crowd came at them as one, sinking their claws into their exposed flesh, tearing at their clothes, their hair.

“No, stop! You have to stop!” she cried when someone wrenched Mari from her arms. A man loomed over her and everyone else, hauling her to his chest. It was the blond giant she’d saved from chok ing the night before, but from the look on his face she wasn’t sure if he was friend or foe. He wrenched Mari free from two serving girls before he dragged Ali and her maid along with him. Their feet barely touched the ground.

“Doona’ fret. Al wil be wel once the laird comes,” he re

assured them quietly. To the crowd he shouted, “Our laird wil hear of the priest’s charges upon his return.”

Helped to his feet, the priest brushed off his robes and bel owed his demands after them. “See you lock them away like the criminals they are. Justice wil be served this day.”

“Aye,” the man-at-arms muttered. Under his breath he said to Ali, “Emotions run high. ’Twil be safer and ap pease the old buzzard if I put ye in the dungeons. But doona’ fret, my lady, I’l see to yer care myself.”

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“Thank you,” she murmured, trying with difficulty to keep up with his long strides. Her feet ached, and she left a trail of bloody footprints on the unforgiving stone. But Mari’s condition was worse. She was limp as a rag dol ; the man-atarms al but carried her. As though sensing Ali’s concern, he reassured her. “As soon as we’re out of their line of sight I’l carry her, my lady.”

Ali appreciated his kindness, but she couldn’t help but feel it had come too late. Mari could’ve died. With the thought, Ali’s temper flared. “I can’t believe Lord MacLeod would al ow his men to stand back while a child was being abused on his land.”

With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he scooped Mari into his arms and turned to Ali. “He wouldna’ al ow it, my lady.”

“But the guards on the wal never did anything and you—”

“I wasna’ here. I had returned to have my wound tended to when I came upon the mob.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Brow furrowed, she searched for his injury and found the place on his arm where blood stained the fabric just below his shoulder.

“Are you sure you can manage?”

“’Tis no’ but a scratch.” He crossed the slate floor, past the hal , barking orders at the servants who darted out of his way. “Bring whatever Lady Aileanna wil need to see to the wee lass.” He unhooked a lantern from the wal beside a heavy wooden door and handed it to Ali. The thick oak creaked as he opened it and gestured for her to take the lead.

“Step careful y,” he advised.

She did as he suggested, easing her way down the roughhewn stone steps. Cool, musty air enveloped her at the foot of the stairs, and she was unable to suppress the shiver that skittered down her spine. He nudged her forward from behind and something brushed the bottom of her gown. Ali 74

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screamed, nearly dropping the lantern. “What . . . what was that?” she croaked.

“Rats,” he murmured. “I’l send for the cats. The laird should be on his way.”

Ali nodded. She sure as hel hoped so, for both her and Mari’s sake. The man-at-arms propped the girl against his side while he retrieved a key from a heavy iron ring. The barred metal door clanged open, and his mouth flattened as he ushered them inside the four-by-four-foot cel . He gently placed Mari on a rusty old cot. The girl hadn’t made a sound and Ali was afraid she was in shock. “I’l need some blankets . . .”

“Cal um. I’l see to it, my lady. I wil na’ be long.”

Ali sat beside Mari, trying to ignore the grating sound of the key turning in the lock. She cupped the girl’s face between her hands and looked into her eyes. “I won’t let anyone else hurt you, Mari. I promise.”

The young girl shuddered. A strangled sob escaped her pale lips, and she threw herself into Ali’s arms.

“There . . . there, it wil be al right.” Ali patted her back, relieved at least to get some sort of reaction from her. She pul ed away and rested her hands on Mari’s shoulders. “Let’s have a better look at you.”

Mari tugged self-consciously at the tattered remnants of her beautiful gown. Ali came to her feet. Lifting the bottom of her own gown, she tugged the ruffled underskirt down and stepped out of it, careful not to get any blood on the snowy white flounces.

Mari gasped. “My lady, what are ye doin’?”

“Wel , in case Cal um has abandoned us, I won’t have you sitting around half naked when Lord MacLeod arrives.”

“Do ye think he’l come?”

“Of course I do. And when he does, it’l be that psycho

pathic priest who’s down here, not us.”

Mari shook her head. “Nay, ’twil no’ happen.”

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Ali shrugged. “We’l see,” she said as she ripped the underskirt in half and draped it over Mari’s shoulders. “Now, do you think you’ve broken anything?” She knelt on the cold, damp floor, careful y running her hands over Mari’s legs. Mari drew the shawl closed with hands that were scraped raw. “Nay, I hurt is al ,” she whimpered. Ali blinked back tears and hugged Mari to her chest, knowing the young girl hurt as deeply in her heart as she did in her body. Ali vowed the priest would pay for what he’d done. Somehow she’d make sure of it.

“I’l have to wait until Cal um comes back before I can see to your cuts.” Scanning the dimly lit dungeon, she was thankful the lantern provided as little light as it did. She could hear the unmistakable sound of rats scurrying in the dark corners. Ali pushed herself to her feet and took a seat beside Mari. She pul ed the young girl into a tight embrace and leaned against the wal . She tried to ignore the slimy dampness that seeped through the fabric of her gown. Ali longed for the comfort and safety of her cozy apart

ment, the chance to curl up on her couch with a good book and a cup of coffee after a long, hot shower. She swal owed a heartfelt moan. If only she’d found that damn fairy flag. But then you wouldn’t have been there to protect Mari, the voice in her head reminded her. Ali shuddered, not want ing to think about what might have happened if she hadn’t been there to intervene. The sound of feet thudding on the floor above their heads and a familiar deep voice issuing orders caused Ali’s heart to quicken. She squeezed Mari’s hand. “It’l be al right now.”

She heard the door leading to the dungeon crash open and the thunder of footsteps on the stone steps. And then he was there, standing in front of her, big and powerful. His raven black hair was slicked back from his handsome face. His white shirt was open almost to his waist. Sweat 76

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beaded on his sun-bronzed chest. She drew her eyes back to his face, to where a muscle pulsated in his clenched jaw.

“Open the bloody door,” he shouted over his shoulder. From amongst the men crowded behind Rory—Fergus, Iain, and Connor included—Cal um stepped forward and ducked his head. He fumbled with the key as he tried to fit it into the lock. Ali wanted to tel Rory not to be angry at the blond giant. If not for him, she didn’t know what would have happened to her and Mari. But the look in Rory’s eyes when they met hers stopped her cold. Anger reverberated from him as he strode into the cel , and Ali shrank away from him. He crouched in front of Mari and quickly took in her condition. “Let’s get you out of here.” He tucked the lacy fabric around her. Brow furrowed, he slanted a look at Ali, and something flickered in his piercing green eyes. He reached out and skimmed his knuckle along Ali’s cheek.

“Yer al right?” he asked, his voice gruff. Their eyes locked, oblivious to anyone else in the room. Her throat went dry, and she was unable to draw her gaze from his.

Rory quickly lowered his hand to his side, resisting the urge to take Aileanna into his arms, to run his hands over her soft, sweet-smel ing skin and see how badly she had been injured.

He scooped Mari into his arms and strode from the cel . He caught Iain’s eye and jerked his head toward Aileanna. Iain nodded and along with Fergus, escorted her from the cel , each taking a firm hold of her. Rory wasn’t certain if he did it to protect her, or the priest. Both Connor and Cal um had told him how she’d leaped into the fray in order to protect the young maid, without regard for her own safety. His admiration for her only served to inflame the desire he tried so hard to deny.

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no doubt that was exactly what would happen if the two crossed paths before he could intervene. He understood her anger. He’d been hard-pressed when he encountered the man not to beat him to a bloody pulp. Mari stiffened in his arms when the bel ows of the priest, coming from the tower above them, reached her ears. “Shh, he canna’ hurt you, Mari. I wil na’ al ow it,” he soothed the young girl. She seemed to relax, but his words didn’t have the same effect on the woman cursing behind him. He shook his head. Aileanna Graham was like no woman he’d ever known—more of a warrior than many of his own men. He only wished she hadn’t seen fit to strike the priest. She’d put Rory in an unenviable position. He had to find a way for al to save face. Somehow he would prove Mari was no witch, but was at a loss as to what to do with Aileanna. The priest demanded she be lashed, or at the very least sent to a nunnery to atone for her sins.

For a brief moment Rory had been tempted to send her away. After al , he stil had his suspicions where she was concerned, and the wel -being of his clan was his first pri

ority. But if he was honest, he’d admit what disturbed him most was her ability to stir him in a way no other woman had, not since he’d lost Brianna. Her resemblance to his wife was uncanny, and at first he was able to put his desire for her down to that, but no longer. Aileanna was as differ

ent from Brianna as night was to day.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught the angry flash in her blue eyes and the stubborn set of her chin as she argued with Iain and Fergus.

“Aileanna,” he said firmly. She looked up at him, a chal enge in her expression. “You’l have yer say, but no’

until you’ve calmed yerself.”

“Calm? You expect me to be calm after what that . . . that,”

she sputtered.

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Rory sighed. “You’l see to Mari and yerself, and then we’l talk.”

Before she could say anything else Mrs. Mac hurried toward them, a hand pressed to her mouth. “You poor wee thing. What have they done to you? When I get me hands on that lot I’l —”

Rory rol ed his eyes. God save me from vengeful women.

“Mrs. Mac, you wil let me deal with the matter and help Lady Aileanna see to Mari.” He ignored her exasperated harrumph and continued up the stairs. When he reached the landing, he cal ed down to his man-at-arms. “Cal um, you’l stand guard outside Lady Aileanna’s room.” The big man nodded, a smile lightening his rough-hewn features. Rory knew his choice was a good one. Cal um had withstood the brunt of his anger when he’d informed Rory that he’d placed Aileanna and Mari in the dungeons. Cal um had meant to protect the women, but when Rory had seen them huddled together in the cel it was al he could do to keep his hands from the big man’s throat.

“As wil I, my lord,” Connor said, coming up behind him. The lad’s ears pinked at Rory’s perusal. Connor had been beside himself when he reached Rory on the field. He sensed the boy’s concern had been not only for Aileanna, but for the young maid as wel . Rory nodded his assent. Once he saw Mari settled and did his best to reassure her there was nothing for her to fear, he took his leave. He hadn’t realized Aileanna fol owed him until she stopped him with a tentative touch to his arm.

“You won’t let him hurt her, wil you?”

“Nay, Aileanna, he wil na’ harm either you or Mari ever again.” He couldn’t stop himself. He stroked her bruised cheek with a gentle caress.

“Thank you.” Her heated breath whispered across his palm. He dropped his hand. Clenching his fist, he gathered what little control he had left.

Chapter 7

White-hot pain lanced through Rory’s side as he shrugged into the clean linen. He clenched his teeth, determined his brother would not witness his discomfort. Taking a slow, shal ow breath, he rode it out.

“What?” he rasped at the look of concern on Iain’s face.

“You canna’ hide it from me, Rory. I ken yer wound is troublin’ you. I’l get Aileanna.” His brother rose from where he sat by the fire and made to leave Rory’s chamber.

“Nay, she’s seein’ to Mari. Leave it be, Iain.” The last thing he wanted was to feel those soft, gentle hands of hers touch

ing his bare skin, or her sharp tongue cursing him for being a fool. She’d be right. He shouldn’t have gone with his men. It was too soon. But he hadn’t had a choice. The MacDon

ald, knowing Rory had been wounded, would press his ad

vantage. Ever since his year of mourning his daughter had passed, the old man had been relentless. Belting his plaid, Rory took the mug of whiskey Iain held out to him and shot the amber liquid back. He eased himself into the chair opposite his brother and sucked in a harsh breath as his side rebel ed. “Did you get the answers I asked fer?”

“Nay, they al closed up tighter than clams on a sea 80

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bed.” His brother’s voice was laced with frustration. “’Tis no’ helpin’ matters that the priest hasna’ stopped rantin’

since you placed him in the tower. Truth be told, my head wil explode if I have to listen to him much longer and

’tis no’ helpin’ our cause.”

“Yer right. Best I deal with this now. I wanted to give Aileanna and the lass some time, but ’tis no’ playin’ out as I hoped.” He sighed wearily and placed the mug on the table at his side. “Has Fergus returned with the sheriff ?”

“No’ that I ken. Mayhap ’tis no’ a bad thing, Rory. ’Tis yer word that is law, no’ his.”

“Aye. Be that as it may, I’ve heard he’s put a stop to the priest on two separate occasions these past months while we fought the MacDonald. He’s a fair man fer al that he was appointed by James.”

Iain snorted in disgust at the mention of the king. “Aye, and ’tis James who stirred up this hornet’s nest.”

“Aye, wel , we’l deal with it as best we can, brother. Now, give me some time before you bring Aileanna and Mari to the hal . ’Twould be best if you stand by them—

Cal um and Connor as wel .”

His brother gave him a knowing look. “Ah, so you think Aileanna might cause a spot of trouble, do you?”

Rory’s mouth twisted in a grin. “Aye, I’m certain of it. Mind you keep yer hand at the ready to cover that mouth of hers.”

Iain waggled his brows and rose from the chair. “I can think of another much more enjoyable way to cover that delectable mouth of hers.”

“Hold yer tongue, Iain,” he growled, his body’s response to his brother’s words primal. Iain’s eyes widened. “You want her.” He let out a low whistle. “After Brianna, I didna’ think—”

Rory stiffened, his body as taut as a freshly strung bow.

“Leave it be.”

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“Nay, I wil na’!” his brother al but shouted at him. “If you want Aileanna only to warm yer bed, Rory, doona’ do it. The lass deserves better.”

He narrowed his gaze on his brother. “I am laird, Iain, no’ you, and ’twould be best if you remembered that.” But Iain was right. Aileanna was not the kind of woman for a quick tumble. She was a lady, although not like any lady he’d ever known. Her beauty alone set her above the rest, but it was her courage, her strength that intrigued him beyond measure. And a tumble was al he could offer her. Never again would he give his heart to another. The cost was too high.

The door rattled on its hinges as he slammed from his chambers before he said something he’d regret. He gave Cal um and Connor a curt nod. “You both wil accompany Lady Aileanna and Mari to the hal when the time comes. Be prepared for trouble.”

“Aye,” they responded as one, purposeful y avoiding his gaze.

Bloody hell, he cursed beneath his breath. They’d heard his exchange with Iain. He opened his mouth to say some thing, then closed it. What could he say? His gaze drawn to the door they guarded, he could only hope Aileanna hadn’t heard them, too.

The priest’s voice broke through his thoughts, preaching the dangers of hel and damnation. He pinched the bridge of his nose, almost wishing he battled the MacDonald in

stead of dealing with what was to come. “Connor, tel the men to bring the priest to the hal .” He shot the order over his shoulder as he made his way below, scattering the ser

vants gathered at the base of the stairs with an impatient wave of his hand. He looked up in time to see Fergus stride into the keep empty-handed. “I take it the good sheriff was nowhere to be found.”

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Fergus raised a bushy brow. “Yer no’ surprised?”

“Nay, but what of Mari’s mother?”

The big man shook his head. “Too terrified of the priest to stand in defense of her daughter.”

Rory scrubbed a hand along his jaw. “I canna’ say I blame her. At least she thought to bring Mari here when he threatened her the first time.”

“Aye, and Lady Aileanna wil stand up fer her.”

“Aye, and that’s what worries me,” he commented dryly. A commotion from behind him drew his attention. The priest, slapping at his guard’s hands, barreled toward them. With his robes bil owing behind him he looked like an overgrown carrion crow come to feed. The man cuffed one of the guards that tried to restrain him. “Laird MacLeod . .

. my laird, do ye no’ hear me?”

“I wish I didna’,” Rory muttered under his breath. Fergus snorted, clasping his big hands behind his back as he stared down his oft-broken nose at the twitching bundle of fury that stood before them.

“Laird MacLeod, if ye wil release the woman and the girl into my care ye’l be done with the matter.”

“And what is it you’re plannin’ on doin’ with them?”

The priest cleared his throat. “There wil be a trial, of that ye can be certain.” His beady eyes darted toward the en trance of the hal .

“Ah, I see. And do you plan on usin’ torture durin’ this so-cal ed trial?”

The man gave an indifferent shrug of his birdlike shoul

ders. “’Tis necessary at times, ye understand.”

“I understand only too wel , and you should understand this.” He leaned toward the man. “They are under my pro tection. You came onto my lands and almost kil ed that child. The only reason yer no’ locked in my dungeon is on account of my clan and the fact they hold you in some

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regard. Fer that reason, and that reason alone, I’l al ow you to state yer case.”

“Ye canna’ stand against the Kirk, Laird MacLeod, and wel ye ken it.”

“Yer new to the Isles, Father, or you’d already ken I’ve stood against the Kirk before when it comes to those under my protection. And I’l do so again if need be.”

“But . . . but . . .”

Rory jerked his head at his men, leaving the priest to protest until he was blue in the face. “Take him to the hal .”

Fergus fol owed behind at a leisurely pace. Tilting his head, he took a look into the grand hal and let out a low whistle. “’Tis packed to the rafters.”

Rory rol ed his eyes. He wasn’t surprised. Superstition ran deep amongst his people. They would be crying for the young maid’s death as loudly as the bloody priest. They were slow in giving their acceptance, and Aileanna and Mari had not been around long enough to earn it. “’Tis time, Fergus. See to the women.”

“Aye.” Fergus clapped a heavy hand on Rory’s shoulder.

“Al wil be wel , lad. They respect you. No one wil doubt the wisdom of yer decision once you render it.”

“We’l soon see.” He hoped Fergus was right. The prob

lem was not in making the judgment, but in seeing that his clan saw the truth of it. He made his way into the hal . A warm, musky scent as

saulted his senses. Bodies packed twenty deep lined the wal s. It took time to reach the dais in front of the room as those around him clamored for his attention. Looking out over his clan, the mantle of responsibility settled over his shoulders. His father had entrusted them to his care. They were as much his legacy as the land and the riches that went with his title—maybe more so. Every decision he’d made since assuming his role as laird had been for the good of his clan. His marriage to Brianna had 84

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been one such decision. Their union brought peace and stability to his people, but with her death, they were once more mired in the constant turmoil of war. His thoughts turned to Aileanna and her eloquent plea for peace. It was as though she assumed he took pleasure in the battle, but that was far from the truth. She didn’t understand. How could she?

She was a woman.

As though his thoughts conjured her up, she stood in the entrance to the hal , her bonny face pale. The somber color of her simple gown didn’t help, but the choice had been a good one. She looked prim and proper, with the col ar but toned up to her throat and the cap hiding the bounty of her long, flaxen hair. Although, when Rory looked at her, al he could see was the outline of her voluptuous curves and wisps of hair that escaped the tight confines of her cap to caress the delicate beauty of her face.

From where he sat, he sensed her vulnerability. She was strong, but he could feel her fear, see it in the way she twisted her hands. She wasn’t daft. She had good reason to be afraid.

Eyes lowered, she took a cautious step forward. The tenor of the room changed. Al conversation halted, and a menacing silence resonated in the hal . Aileanna flushed, and Rory noted the rapid rise and fal of her chest. If he could, he would go to her and offer his reassurance, but that would be a foolish move on his part. Rory’s hand came to rest on his dirk. His muscles coiled with tension, ready to spring into action if the need arose. He would protect her even if it meant one of his own would die. He’d let no harm come to Aileanna. Iain, Fergus, Connor, and even Mrs. Mac would do the same. He could see it in the grim determination on their faces. Aileanna cast a sidelong glance at the young maid who now entered the hal behind them. The wee lass would LORD OF THE ISLES

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move no farther, frozen in place by fear. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. Connor and Mrs. Mac tried to nudge her forward. Even though he imagined their words were ones of reassurance, they did no good. It was only when Aileanna took Mari’s hand in hers and whispered in her ear did the lass gather the courage to move forward. Aileanna squared her shoulders and looked out over the crowd as though she dared them to do or say anything against the young girl at her side. She’d swal owed her own fears in defense of Mari. Rory felt a surge of admiration wel within him. There was no denying it; Aileanna Graham was an amazing woman, and he was drawn to her like he’d been to no other. But he refused to act on those feelings. She was under his protection, nothing more. For both their sakes he had to keep his distance. The priest, surrounded by members of his flock, was only now becoming aware of the women’s presence. The priest’s chest puffed out like a rooster, and Rory knew he was getting ready for his tirade. He caught the man’s eye and shot him a fierce look. It was a look Rory had per

fected over a decade of being laird. He had Fergus to thank for the ability. Since the death of his own father, the older man had stepped aptly into the rol of surrogate. Rory trusted him like no other, and seeing him sit at Aileanna’s side brought him a measure of calm.

A buzz of excitement hummed in the air as those gath

ered anticipated what was to come. Rory cleared his throat to gain their attention. “The first charge to be dealt with is the charge of witchcraft brought against the young maid, Mari.” Out of the corner of his eye he spied Aileanna draw the wee lass closer. And he would have to be blind not to have seen the aggrieved look she shot him. What did she expect? As laird he had no choice. “Who has evidence to support this charge?”

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The priest leapt to his feet. “I do.”

Brow quirked, Rory regarded him evenly. “I would imag

ine so, since yer the one to bring the charge against the child. Are there no others?”

“Aye,” a voice shouted from the back. The rotund figure of the cook pushed his way to the front of the room and pointed to the lass cowering beside Aileanna. “Three of my chickens died fer no reason the day after she arrived.”

He heard Aileanna’s undignified snort. “He probably fed them the slop I insisted he throw away,” she muttered. Both Fergus and Iain barely managed to suppress their mirth at her comment. He shot the lot of them a forebod ing look. “Cook, was the lass anywhere nearby when the chickens died?”

“Nay, but—” the man sputtered.

“Did you no’ have several chickens die a few months past?”

“Aye, but—”

Rory gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Are there no others?” He noted some movement at the back, and for their benefit hardened his tone as he added, “Think twice before you cast aspersions on the girl. I wil demand evi dence of yer charge; if there is none, I wil assume you cast it for no other reason than malice and wil no’ look kindly on the one who does.”

The priest’s eyes darted from left to right, scanning the crowd. He appeared to be trying to cajole the woman beside him to come forward, but she shook her head, eyes downcast.

He glared at her, then came to his feet in a show of blus

ter. “Laird MacLeod, as the Kirk’s authority in these matters no other witness is required,” he began self-importantly.

“My evidence alone should be enough to convict the lass.”

Rory raised a brow, tilting his head. “And yer evidence is?”

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“She carries the mark of the devil’s handmaiden. Her hair is red, her eyes mismatched.”

“Oh, come on.” Aileanna shot to her feet, shaking off Fergus’s restraining hand. “Genetics is what it is. Look around you. What about him, or her?” She pointed out a redheaded man and woman on either side of the hal who were doing their best to duck behind those who stood in front of them. The priest pointed at Mari, trembling with frustrated rage.

“’Tis no’ only the hair. ’Tis the eyes that damn her the most.”

“A condition cal ed heterochromia is what is responsi

ble for Mari’s eyes. It’s because she has either too much pigment or lack of it in her iris.”

Rory didn’t know what she was saying, but he did know it was not her place to say it. His brother was to defend Mari. He skewered Iain with an angry glare. Iain shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Lady Aileanna, you wil sit!”

“This is a farce, and I can’t believe you’re al owing it.”

“Sit down. Now,” Rory growled from between clenched teeth. The bloody woman would undermine him in front of his clan if he was not careful.

“Harrumph.” She sat back down on the bench, folding her arms across her bountiful chest, and gave him a damn ing look.

The priest sneered at her, and Rory expel ed a sigh of relief when Iain grabbed her before she went after the man. His brother leaned over and quietly spoke to her before rising to his feet. Iain held out his hand to the wee lass. “Mari, come here, please.”

Aileanna urged her to her feet.

Noting the curled fist at his brother’s side, Rory hid a smile of satisfaction behind his hand. Iain turned the girl to face the gathered crowd and looked directly at the priest.

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come in contact with a cross, and if it was metal it would surely burn them.”

“Wel , aye, but—” The priest’s eyes widened when Iain re

moved a silver cross from his hand and placed it around the lass’s neck. For added effect, he had her bring it to her lips.

“I would say that’s al the evidence we need. But per

haps we should simply ask Mari.” Rory raised his voice to be heard above the din of voices in the hal . “Are you a witch, lass?”

“Nay.” She shook her head vehemently.

“In league with the devil?”

“Nay, my laird.”

“Thank you, Mari, you may take yer seat.”

Iain guided her back to the bench and Aileanna wrapped Mari in her arms while the lass sobbed quietly. Rory met her gaze above Mari’s head. The smile curving her soft pink lips and the look of gratitude in her sapphire eyes stoked the flame of desire that had simmered inside of him since the moment she’d walked into the hal . Determined to dampen the fire that threatened to engulf him, he tried to draw forth an image of Brianna, but al he managed to conjure of her was an intangible wisp of memory. Guilt ate at him. He was beginning to forget, and al because of her, the woman who sat in front of him. He’d made a promise on Brianna’s deathbed that no other would take her place. He’d meant it then, as he did now. Rory turned his attention from her to the priest. The man was scarlet with pent-up fury. “What of her?”

He pointed a gnarled finger at Aileanna. “I demand she be punished or I shal go to the king.”

Rory leaned forward. “Do you threaten me, Priest?”

“Nay . . . nay, but ye must—”

“What I must do is get at the truth.”

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God help him.

“She struck me down. There are witnesses.”

“None who have come forward,” Rory commented dryly.

“Surely ye jest.”

“Yer cal in’ me a liar, are you?” Rory kept his voice quiet, dangerously so.

“Nay, but—”

“There’s only one person who is lying and that is you.”

Once again, Aileanna was on her feet, ducking beneath Fergus’s outstretched arm she crossed to the priest before anyone could stop her, and grabbed the hem of his gown.

“He caught his foot . . . see, right there.” She pointed to the tear at the bottom of his robes. A tear the priest was doing his best to conceal. “That’s why he fel . I didn’t push him. Al

though I was tempted to.” She said the last under her breath. Rory jerked his head at some of his men to take up their positions amongst the crowd, afraid the excited chatter would soon turn ugly.

“Blasphemy. Laird MacLeod, I demand this woman be made to pay fer her sins.”

“Be quiet. Lady Aileanna, are you sayin’ you didna’

push the priest?”

She gave a curt nod. “I didn’t. He fel because he’d worked himself into a frenzy and his robes are too long.” She turned her head and gave the priest a look of condemnation. “Per

haps God was punishing him for encouraging others to harm an innocent child.”

Bloody hell. She surely would be the death of him. The priest looked about to have an apoplexy. The crowd was stunned into silence.

“Someone must have been a witness to this.”

“Aye, Laird MacLeod, it is as Lady Aileanna says.”

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“Lady Aileanna speaks the truth, my lord,” Mari bravely added.

From the back, Rory saw a flash of movement. Janet Cameron pushed her son forward. The lad was al of about eight. “Ye tel yer laird what ye told me,” she admonished him.

The boy stumbled toward the front of the hal .

“What’s yer name, lad?”

“Jamie. Jamie Cameron,” he mumbled, glancing back at his mother, who glared at him, arms crossed over her heaving chest.

Rory closed his eyes at the memory of the battle where the lad’s da had lost his life. He released a weary sigh. Cameron had fought hard and died honorably earlier that year. He gentled his voice. “And what is it you have to tel me, young Jamie?”

“The lady didna’ trip the priest. She held her hand like so.” He demonstrated the defensive posture with his own wee hand. “To protect the maid, and then he fel .” He low

ered his head, casting a sidelong glance at Mari. He let out a pained breath, and once again looked over his shoulder at his mother. She jerked her head toward Mari. He shuf

fled his feet, then directed his ful attention to the lass.

“I’m sorry fer throwin’ the rocks at ye.”

The young maid’s eyes widened. She flushed, then smiled at the boy. “Thank ye,” she said, blinking back tears. Rory noted Aileanna swipe at her own cheek, then squeeze Mari’s hand.

“Jamie, yer a verra brave lad to come forward. Just like yer father, and I wil na forget it. Yer mother’s done a fine job with you, lad. When yer old enough, I’d be as hon

ored to have you fight at my side as I was to have yer father.” The boy beamed at his words. Out of the corner of his eye Rory saw Robert Chisholm

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come forward and whisper something in Aileanna’s ear. She started to rise, then looked at Rory. He nodded when he realized Maureen’s time must have come. Anytime a woman of Dunvegan was about to deliver, Rory battled his fears, praying no other would suffer as he had. He was thankful Maureen would have Aileanna to see to her. His gaze fol owed them as they left the hal .

“What . . . ye canna’ mean to let her get away with this?”

“Were you no’ listenin’?”

“But I am a man of God.”

“Aye, but that didna’ stop you from trippin’ over yer own two feet.” He ignored the snickers his words drew and con tinued. “In the future I would suggest you be verra careful before you bring charges against another. Yer welcome to join us fer the evenin’ meal, and then my men wil see you to wherever it is you travel.”

The priest dropped onto the bench with a thump, no longer surrounded by supporters. He looked around him and turned back to Rory. “I have matters elsewhere that re

quire my attention. I shal leave now.”

“My men wil be ready to escort you shortly.”

Ali laid the bundled baby into his mother’s arms. “He’s beautiful, Maureen, and very healthy.” The look of pure joy on the woman’s face wiped away Ali’s exhaustion.

“Thank ye, Lady Aileanna. Thank ye fer al ye’ve done.”

Ali smiled and patted Maureen Chisholm’s arm. “I didn’t do a thing. You were the one who did al the work.”

“I was verra scared and ye took my fears away. I’l no’

forget ye fer that.”

“It was my pleasure. Now I think his father’s waited long enough, don’t you? I’l tel him to come in and I’l see you first thing in the morning. Get some rest.”

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two men straightened from where they leaned against an old, battered oak tree. A half moon hung overhead, cast ing a glimmer of light on the men’s shadowed faces. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of Rory, her body’s re sponse to him immediate. She tried to ignore the implica

tions, to pretend her reaction was no different than any woman’s would be to a man as powerful and as gorgeous as the Laird of Dunvegan. But she didn’t need the voice in her head to tel her she was ful of it. Everything she’d witnessed in the hal earlier that day had proven to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was one man worthy of not only a woman’s love, but her re

spect as wel . His strength of character, the fairness of his judgment—although she’d doubted it in the beginning—

and the depth of loyalty he garnered from his clan al bore witness to that. She envied Brianna MacLeod more than she cared to admit. Envied the love they had shared—a love worthy of a romance novel, and she should know—

she’d read enough of them.

One day, if she was lucky enough to find her own hero, he’d be a very tarnished version of Rory MacLeod. They didn’t make men like him anymore. Drew Sanderson, her slimebal of an ex-boyfriend, was proof of that. The man was nothing like Rory, nor were any of the others she’d dated before him. And that said a lot about what her love life would be like once she got back to the twenty-first century.

She shoved her thoughts aside and took a step toward Robert Chisholm. “Your wife and son are waiting for you.”

A big grin creased his craggy face.

Rory clapped a hand on his friend’s back. “Go to Mau

reen and the bairn. I’l see you on the morrow.”

“Aye, I’l do that.” Robert clasped Ali’s hands with his.

“I canna’ thank ye enough, Lady Aileanna.”

“There’s no need. Your wife did al the work. He’s

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lovely, and they’re both doing wel ,” she reassured the proud father. “I told Maureen I’d stop by in the morning, so I’l see you then.” A cry that sounded like a little lamb came from within the cottage and they laughed. “I think your son is impatient to meet you.”

With one more squeeze of her hands, Robert released her, ducking his head before entering the cottage. A breeze wafted off the loch, rustling the trees, tugging at the cap on Ali’s head. She scratched beneath the stupid piece of fabric Mrs. Mac had insisted she wear. Damp and hot, her head itched after the hours she’d spent closed up in the cottage with the blazing fire Robert had insisted upon. The smoky scent of peat clung to her clothes. She heard Rory’s chuckle rumble deep in his chest and looked over to where he stood watching her. “I’m sur prised yer stil wearin’ the cap. I didna’ think ’twas one of yer favorites.”

She snorted. “It’s not, but Mrs. Mac didn’t give me much choice in the matter.”

Rory pushed away from the tree and seemed to hesi

tate before he came to her side. He looked down at her.

“You can take it off, Aileanna. The priest is gone,” he said quietly.

“Thank God. Mari wil be relieved.” She grimaced, pul ing out the pins that dug into her scalp.

“Aye, and you?” He lifted his hand as though to help her, but then let it drop to his side.

“Of course. The man is crazy.” The cap final y free, she tugged it from her head. “Uhmm, that feels so good,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she combed her fingers through her hair. When she opened them, she saw that Rory watched her with a pained expression on his face. She frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Nay . . . nay. I’l see you home.” His tone was gruff. 94

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“Oh, I didn’t . . . you didn’t have to come for me. It’s light enough to make my way back on my own.”

“You were no’ the only reason I came, Aileanna.” Her name rol ed off his tongue in a low, smooth rumble that caused her toes to curl. “I thought I should be here fer Robert, in case . . .” He closed his mouth, his lips drawn in a thin, tight line. Tilting his head back, he squinted up at the stars that twinkled overhead. It took a moment for Ali to realize what he meant, and when she did her heart ached for him. “Oh, Rory.” She squeezed his arm. “Maureen and the baby are fine. They were at very low risk for anything to go wrong.”

His eyes searched her face, and then he shrugged. “I ken it.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult for you. Would it help to talk about it?”

“Nay, it wil na’ do any good. I canna’ bring her back.”

“No, but sometimes talking can help.” Her voice trailed off. His beautiful face was set in hard, razor-sharp edges. She thought she’d pushed too far and was surprised when his deep voice fil ed the silence.

“’Twas my fault. I should never have al owed her to get with child in the first place. She was too fragile, too smal .”

“Rory, don’t blame yourself. Women of al shapes and sizes have babies al the time. Sometimes these things just happen, and it doesn’t matter whether a woman is delicate or not.”

“Nay, Brianna was no’ like you. She—”

Ali couldn’t help but feel a pinch of hurt at his words.

“Yes, I know, you’ve mentioned that before.” It was diffi

cult being compared to his wife and found wanting. A woman he loved even now. Not that it should bother her. She didn’t love him, didn’t want him to love her. She smothered the little voice in her head before it could cal LORD OF THE ISLES

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her a liar and make her face things she had no intention of facing.

He raised a brow; the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Nay, you misunderstand me, Aileanna. Yer strong and healthy. Brianna never was. She wanted to give me a bairn and I couldna’ refuse her. I should have. I had a physi

cian come from Edinburgh, but he could do nothin’.

’Twas her heart that gave way. Neither she nor the bairn had a chance.”

Ali blinked back the moisture that gathered in her eyes. Even after two years, his pain was palpable. It lay thick and heavy between them. She cleared the emotion from her throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Come.” He held out his hand. “You’l catch a chil .”

She hesitated before placing her hand into the warmth of his. He captured her fingers in his firm grip. They were rough and cal oused, and she remembered how they felt skimming over her body when he’d caressed her that first night. When he thought you were his wife, she reminded herself. A poor substitute for the woman he adored. Preoc cupied, she forgot to pay attention as they walked along the path to Dunvegan and stepped on a sharp-edged rock that pierced her slippers and her stil -sore feet. She stifled a cry of pain. Rory, as though sensing her distress, turned to look at her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine . . . go.” She jerked her head in the direction of the castle. He cursed under his breath when he noticed her limp

ing. “Yer a stubborn one, Aileanna Graham. Enough,” he said as she tried to push past him and continue down the path. With little effort, he reached over and scooped her into his arms.

“No, Rory, put me down. You’l hurt yourself.” She twisted in his arms, but it only caused him to tighten his hold on her. His hand brushed the underside of her breast, and the hard muscle of his arms flexed just below her 96

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bottom. He was more of a man than she’d ever known, and she wanted him. And he wanted his wife.

“You wil na’ hurt me, Aileanna.” His voice was husky, his breath hot against her ear. Maybe not, but she knew, without a doubt, he could hurt her.

Chapter 8

The air whooshed from Ali’s lungs when Rory dumped her unceremoniously onto her bed with a muttered curse.

“Did you have to cause such a bloody commotion down below?” He glowered at her, hands on his hips, his hair and clothes dripping with ale. He smel ed like a brewery.

“Me? It wasn’t me who caused a scene—it was you. There was no reason to carry me once we arrived home. I didn’t know the girl was behind me when I tried to get out of your arms.” Truly, she hadn’t meant to kick the maid car rying the ful jug of ale, and certainly hadn’t meant for it to land on Rory’s head. Remembering his stunned expression, the helpless giggle she could no longer contain turned into an al -out bel y laugh. Ali fel back onto the satin comforter, clutching her sides.

Rory leaned over, bracing a hand on either side of her head. The muscles in his arms rippled beneath the fine lawn of his white shirt. His emerald eyes gleamed with amuse

ment, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I think you ken exactly what you were doin’, Aileanna. You doona’ take orders wel , lass.”

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between her thighs sent a surge of heat to her core. She curled her fingers into the starched fabric of her gown, re sisting the urge to trace his ful , sensuous lips, and the shadow that darkened his jaw. Slowly he drew his gaze to hers. How easily he ensnared her with his powerful body and the heat of desire she saw there, desire that mirrored her own. She wondered if he knew how easily she’d succumb to his passion. How she longed to feel his mouth on hers, his fingers stroking be

tween her thighs. She swal owed a frustrated groan when he pul ed away. Without a word, he crouched before her.

“Uhmm, Rory, what . . . what are you doing?” she stam

mered, pushing herself into an upright position. She fisted her hands into the maroon comforter. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he bent his head, his long fingers leaving a heated trail along her too-sensitive skin as, inch by inch, he rol ed the stocking down her left leg. She winced as he gently tugged the silk from where the blood adhered the fabric to the sole of her foot. Encircling her ankle in a firm grip, he examined her foot, then raised his eyes to meet hers. “Yer a healer, lass. You shoulda’ taken care of this.”

Did he expect a response? She could barely think, let alone speak, as he turned his attention to her other leg. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she bit her lower lip to keep from begging him for more. Ali slowly lifted her lids when he removed the other stocking. From the look he gave her, she could tel he had watched her the entire time, had seen the play of emotions on her face, and knew what she wanted from him. And al he’d done was see to her needs with gentleness and consid

eration. She felt the color rush to her cheeks. How stupid could she be?

He stood, abruptly turning away from her. “I’l send Mrs.

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Mac to see to you. Mari needs time to heal before resumin’

her duties.”

Ali blinked, startled by the underlying anger she heard in his voice. “Of course, I didn’t expect her—” She might as wel have saved her breath. Her words ricocheted off the barrier of the oak door he slammed between them. Ali pressed her fingers to her temples. She had to leave Dunvegan before she made a bigger fool of herself than she already had. Not that her powerful attraction to their laird—an attraction that wasn’t returned—was her only reason for finding the flag—far from it. She wanted to go home. To the life she left behind. The man destroyed her equilibrium, her common sense. He was every woman’s ideal of a dream lover, and that was the problem. She was living a dream, or as today had proven—a nightmare. The fairy flag was her only way out, away from Rory and the pain of wanting more from him than he was wil ing to give. She rose to her feet and grimaced.

“Och, now, sit yerself down,” Mrs. Mac said as she bus

tled into the room, linens draped over one arm, a pail of steaming water looped over the other. She set the pail onto the slate floor and water sloshed over the rim. “So what did you do to put the laird in such a temper?”

Ali shrugged. “Nothing.” She hadn’t. It wasn’t like she’d asked him to make love to her. And now that she thought about it, she doubted he even knew what his heated touch had done to her. Mrs. Mac gave her a considering look. “’Tis probably his wound botherin’ him. Iain spoke of it earlier.”

“He never said anything.” He’d been in pain and now she’d made it worse. Ali shot a nervous glance at the ad joining door. “I should check on him.” She pushed off the bed and rose on her heels to protect her sore feet.

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sit back down. “Iain has already suggested he let you tend him, but he refused.”

“Oh.” Once again she felt the heat rise to her face. He didn’t want her anywhere near him. Aware of what he could do to her with just a look, a touch, she thought maybe it was for the best.

“Och, now, doona’ fash yerself, lass. He doesna’ doubt yer abilities. ’Tis on account he doesna’ like to be fussed over is al .”

Ali returned her attention to Mrs. Mac and waved off her explanation. “That’s fine. I understand how he feels.”

She raised a brow to make her point.

“Och, yer two of a kind.” She held out the linens to Ali.

“If you doona’ need me I’l see to Mari.”

“Why? What’s happened?” Gingerly, Ali hopped off the bed.

Mrs. Mac shook her head. Steel gray curls bounced as she pointed to Ali’s feet. “If you doona’ stay off those fer a while, they’l never heal. As fer Mari, there’s nothin’ time and a little kindness wil na’ cure.”

“Of course, I’l do whatever I can. I stil can’t believe what they did to her. I don’t think it’s something I’l ever forget.”

She shuddered. Mari was the one reason she’d de

layed her search for the flag. She had to be sure her maid would be al right before she left.

“I’m thinkin’ we should be a mite careful with the type of kindness we give her from now on.”

Ali’s gaze narrowed on Mrs. Mac, certain the woman held something back. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Mac released a weary sigh. “I’m hearin’ the lasses turned her over to the priest on account of the yel ow gown. They thought she was reachin’ above her station and were a wee bit jealous.”

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of me.” Remembering the scene in the courtyard, bile rose in Ali’s throat. She felt dizzy, overcome with guilt. “My God, look at what I’ve done. I can’t stay here any longer, Mrs. Mac. Please, you have to help me,” she pleaded. The older woman patted her shoulder. “Hush now. You ken I canna’ do that, Lady Aileanna.”

“Lady!” Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “I’m no lady. You know who I am. I don’t belong here. I never know what to do, what to say, and now look—someone almost died be

cause of it.” Mari. Sweet, innocent Mari had nearly died because of her. The connecting door flew open and Rory stood framed within it, fil ing the entryway with his broad shoulders.

“What the bloody hel is goin’ on in here?”

Mrs. Mac quickly placed herself between the two of them. “There’s nothin’ goin’ on, my laird. Lady Aileanna is a mite overwrought is al .” She waved him off. “No need to trouble yerself. I’l see to her.” Mrs. Mac sent a plead ing look over her shoulder to Ali when Rory strode toward them like a panther stalking his prey. Ali could barely raise the effort to care. Al she wanted to do was crawl in the bed, bury her head, and pray the night mare would end. She’d wake up in New York and everything would be okay. Other than the malpractice suit and the fact you could lose your job, you’re right—everything will be just peachy, the voice in her head jeered. Ali didn’t think she could take much more. What had she done to deserve this? Waves of despair threatened to drown her and her anguish broke free. Body-quaking sobs racked through her body.

Rory tried to step around Mrs. Mac to reach Aileanna, but the woman placed herself in front of him, putting her hands up. “Nay, ’tis no’ proper. I’l see to her.” Determina

tion marked her stance.

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his advance. Rory growled in frustration, lifting her bodily out of his way. “I doona’ give a damn if ’tis proper or no’.”

Before he could take the crying woman into his arms, Mrs. Mac whispered urgently in her ear. Whatever she said caused Aileanna’s sobs to intensify. Rory drew her toward him. He was at a loss as to what had broken the woman he cradled in his arms. She hadn’t shed a tear during her ordeal with the priest. Yet now, she soaked his tunic with her tears.

“Leave us be,” he ordered Mrs. Mac, ignoring her dire warnings as she closed the door behind her with a resound ing click.

“Shh.” Rory stroked hair the color of moonbeams from her bonny face. His fingers combed through the silken tresses he’d denied himself the pleasure of touching ear

lier, for fear he’d be unable to stop himself from going fur

ther. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the bed. Unwil ing to release her, he sat with her on his lap, al the while trying to quiet her with words of comfort. Her gown had worked its way over her thigh, revealing long, shapely, bare legs. She was pure temptation; the reason he’d left her to Mrs. Mac’s care. The memory of her heavylidded, passion-fil ed eyes sent a bolt of heat to his shaft, and it jerked against the soft curve of her behind. She shifted, and the friction made him throb.

“Al right now. You wil tel me what has upset you, Aileanna,” he said, his voice gruff with pent-up frustration.

“I wan . . . I want to go home,” she sobbed. Rory buried his face in her honeysuckle-scented hair.

“Aye, Aileanna, we’l find a way to get you home.” It was a decision he’d come to only moments before he’d walked from her room. So why now did he feel a hol ow, empty ache at the thought of her leaving Dunvegan? She sniffed and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. Rory patted the far end of the bed and found the linens he saw there earlier. He handed the cloth to her.

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“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Is that why yer cryin’, Aileanna? You miss yer home?”

“No . . . yes.” She hiccupped.

Rory held her chin with his thumb and forefinger, forc

ing her to look at him. Eyes the color of the loch after a storm met his. “Which is it, lass?” With tenderness, he stroked his knuckles over her tearstained cheek.

“It was my fault, Rory. Oh, God, I didn’t know.”

“Aileanna, I doona’ ken what yer talkin’ aboot.”

“Mari.” She clutched at his shirt. “Don’t you see? It was my fault the girls gave her to the priest.” She burrowed her face into his neck, sniffing back fresh tears.

“No, I doona’ understand, Aileanna. Tel me.”

She murmured her answer into his neck. The feel of her soft lips moving against his skin and the warmth of her breath fanned the flame of his desire. He bit back a groan.

“Aileanna, sit up, lass. I canna’ make out what yer tryin’

to tel me.” He held her upright with a firm grip on her forearms.

“I . . . I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I just thought it would be nice if Mari had something pretty to wear.” She looked at him from beneath long lashes spiked together with tears. “Mrs. Mac said it was al right, but that was why . .

. that was why the girls gave her to that madman. They were jealous, and it was al my fault. Oh, my God, I can’t believe what I’ve done.”

He framed her face with his hands and brushed away the moisture with his thumbs. “You were bein’ kind, Aileanna, that’s al . And when Mari needed you most you were there fer her. Yer braver than any woman I’ve ever known, and Mari is lucky to have yer friendship.”

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her startled gasp. Taking advantage, he swept his tongue past her lowered defenses. She whimpered, encircling his neck with her arms, her tongue matching his stroke for stroke. Rory groaned. Her passionate response was al he hoped for. He had thought he imagined it that first night with her in his bed, thought he’d been hal ucinating with the pain, but feeling her now beneath him, he knew it wasn’t so. She was everything he remembered: giving, sensual, and responsive. It was nothing like it had been with Brianna. Because his wife had been so delicate, so very fragile, the few times they’d made love Rory had been reluctant to unleash the ful strength of his desire. With Aileanna there would be no need to hold back.

He deepened the kiss, making love to her with his mouth. She arched her back, her lush curves pressed ful against him, and his fierce hunger for her drove the guilt from his mind. Lifting his mouth from hers, he pressed a kiss to her eyes, the curve of her cheek, and the corner of her lips; trailed kisses along the delicate line of her jaw while he worked at the buttons of her gown in an effort to get to the slender elegance of her neck. He kissed every inch of pearly white flesh exposed with each button he opened. She speared her fingers through his hair, drawing his mouth back to hers. Her kiss was hot and wet. He plundered her mouth, taking everything she offered and more—losing himself, forgetting everything but Aileanna and how he wanted her, needed her. The words echoed in his head, need her . . . need her. Like an icy bucket of water they cooled his desire. As though sens ing his retreat, Aileanna stiffened beneath him.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked. Her concern was obvious, and she gently brushed her fingertips over the heated flesh near his wound.

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Rory rol ed onto his side and brought her hand to his lips, taking the excuse she offered him. “’Twil be fine.”

Her brow furrowed and she drew away from him, touch

ing his forehead, his cheek, before she began to prod near his wound. “No, it won’t, not if you don’t take better care of yourself.”

He took a firm hold of her wrist to stop those insistent fingers of hers from traveling lower. Without interference from his head, his body readily responded to her. “Speak

in’ of wounds, I take it Mrs. Mac didna’ have a chance to see to yers.”

She gave him a questioning look, then slowly pul ed her

self up from the bed, turning away from him, but not before he saw the hurt in her eyes. “Please, don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

She sat on the edge of the mattress, stiffening when he laid a hand upon her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aileanna, it’s just—”

She released a heavy sigh. “It’s because this is your wife’s room, isn’t it?”

Rory groaned. Stomach churning, he rose from the bed. Bloody hel , he’d nearly taken another woman in his wife’s chambers. He couldn’t think straight around Aileanna. With an effort conceived of desperation, he hardened his resolve and his heart, doing his best to ignore the compas

sion he saw in her tear-swol en eyes. Eyes he could easily lose himself in. Knowing the danger she posed, he forced himself to say,

“I ken you wish to return to yer kin but have no memory of them, so I took the liberty of makin’ an inquiry on yer behalf to Angus Graham. If anyone wil have the answers,

’twil be him. I expect word shortly.”

Aileanna looked startled. “Why . . . why did you do that?”

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Rory frowned. Unsure why, her response gave him pause. “Is there somethin’ yer no’ tel in’ me, Aileanna?”

She shook her head, eyes averted. “No.”

With his fingers beneath her chin he forced her gaze to his. “Aileanna, I’m warnin’ you—doona’ keep anythin’

from me.”

He’d made her angry. The stubborn jut of her chin gave her away, as did the temper that brought out the midnight blue of her eyes. He’d seen it before—both passion and anger turned them that same shade of violet blue. If it wasn’t a matter of importance, he would’ve laughed. She stood up to him, closing what little distance there was between them. “Don’t you threaten me, Rory MacLeod, just because you feel guilty for wanting me, be cause for a few minutes you forgot your precious Brianna.”

Tears and fury glittered in her eyes. “It was only lust. It happens. But don’t worry, it’l never happen again. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my room. As Mrs. Mac said, it isn’t proper.” She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around her waist.

He’d made a mess of it, but she was right. It was only lust.

Chapter 9

Ali sat huddled with Fergus and Iain at a table in the hal , picking at the big bowl of porridge in front of her. She gri maced as she tried to swal ow the mouthful without a swig of ale. It was difficult to get past her modern-day sensibil ities, and ale at eight in the morning was one of them, even if it was watered down.

“Is somethin’ wrong with yer parritch?” Iain asked. She held up her spoon. The oats stuck like glue no matter how hard she tried to shake them off. “You can’t convince me Cook isn’t doing his best to kil me.”

Both men guffawed. Ali smiled, a little surprised that she could. After last night, she didn’t think she’d ever smile again. Learning Mari had been handed over to the priest be

cause of her had devastated Ali. And her response to Rory’s heated kisses only made matters worse. She’d almost con

vinced herself he wanted her as much as she wanted him. But men only cared about one thing. She thought she could do the same, but her heart always managed to get in the way. With her dating history, she was surprised she’d been so gul ible. Most of them weren’t worth wasting that pre

cious emotion on, but this one . . . Leave it to the little voice in her head to reappear now. 108

Debbie Mazzuca

Fergus studied her from beneath his bushy brows. “Is somethin’ amiss, lass?”

More than I can tell you. She took a furtive look around the room. None of those gathered at the other tables ap peared to pay them any attention, but she lowered her voice just the same. “Did either of you know that Rory wrote to someone named Angus Graham to ask about me?”

“Oh, sweet Jesu’, I’d forgotten al aboot Angus.” Iain rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “What are we to do now, Fergus?”

The big man shrugged. “Waylay any messengers that come to Dunvegan.”

Iain tapped his spoon on the side of the wooden bowl.

“Yer better at sneakin’ aboot than me, so I’l leave it to you.”

Fergus nodded, then gave Ali a long, considering look. “Mrs. Mac says yer verra upset aboot the wee lass. Holdin’

yerself to blame.”

Ali blinked away the sting from behind her eyes. She was to blame, no matter what any of them said, and they couldn’t convince her otherwise. She shoved a spoonful of porridge into her mouth to avoid arguing with him. Fergus wagged his wooden spoon at her from across the table. “I’l hear no more of that nonsense. You’ve done more good than harm, lass, and you remember that.”

Iain shot her a look of concern. “I ken ’twas a terrible day fer you, Ali. They’l no’ al be like that.”

She tried to swal ow past the thick lump in her throat, but it was no use. Grabbing her mug, she gulped down a mouthful of ale. “That’s comforting,” she choked out. She studied the two men who sat across from her while they ate. Ali wished she could think of another way to find out where the fairy flag was hidden, but knew there was none. Using her wiles on Fergus would be next to useless, but Iain was another matter. A handsome man, charming LORD OF THE ISLES

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to the extreme, he’d made it clear that given the slightest bit of encouragement he would jump at it—or her.

“Iain, would you walk with me to the Chisholms’ this morning? I promised to check in on Maureen and the baby, and after . . .” She let her voice trail off and hoped the events of yesterday would make her little act as a distressed female believable. Trying her best to come across as helpless, she didn’t realize Rory had joined them until she heard the scrape of his chair as he dragged it back from the table.

“I thought you meant to miss breakin’ yer fast. Is yer wound actin’ up?”

“Nay, I didna’ have a chance to speak with Cal um and rectified the matter this morn.” Rory directed his answer to Fergus, but his gaze lingered on Ali. “Good morn, Aileanna,” he said quietly. She gave him a cool nod, but kept her gaze trained on Iain, who looked from her to his brother before answering.

“Aye, Ali, ’twil be my pleasure.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it, Iain.”

Rory eyed her over the rim of his mug. “And what does my brother have the pleasure of helpin’ you with, Aileanna?”

Although asked pleasantly enough, there was no mistaking the edge of steel beneath his question.

“He’s agreed to accompany me to the Chisholms’.” She poked at the oats with her spoon. Iain, as though he felt it necessary to explain, added,

“After yesterday Ali is understandably nervous to be on her own.”