Highlander Untamed Read online

  All of a sudden he felt his body go rigid. His eyes locked on a superfluity of pale ivory skin. What in the bloody hell was she wearing?

  Unlike her previous gowns, this gown no longer teetered on the edge of indecent, it was indecent, and left very little to the imagination. The bodice dipped low, exceedingly low, and the thin silken fabric clung to every delectable inch of her womanly charms. His reaction was visceral. Every muscle in his body clenched with awareness and restraint, as he fought to control both the anger and the desire that her appearance wrought within him.

  A multitude of conflicting emotions raged through him: He wanted to leap up and cover her, he wanted to pull her into his arms, he wanted to order her to never wear that dress in public again, and he wanted to worship her like the goddess she evoked. Mired in a tempest of bodily conflict, Rory was certain of one thing: If she ever donned that gown again, he would rip it from her body. To hell with the consequences.

  He wanted her. He could not deny it. Nor apparently was he alone in his desire. Rory tore his eyes from Isabel and glanced about the room at the gawking stares of his clansmen. Even Alex could not look away. A violent surge of possession took hold of him. He felt a strange primal craving to exert complete dominion, a feeling so alien that it shook him. She did not, and could not, belong to him.

  God’s wounds, was it her intent to drive him mad with longing?

  His eyes narrowed. Yes. After what he’d told her today, she was trying either to not so subtly change his mind or to rub his nose in his losses. Neither sat well with him.

  What was her game?

  Rory’s fingers clenched the stem of his goblet. He held his face impassive as she moved to stand before him; he felt the pulse tick in his neck as he fought to douse the fiery blast of anger. He thought a bit of her bravado slipped as his eyes scanned the length of her body, lingering on her breasts. Good, she should be nervous. If he were any other man, he’d take what she offered.

  But he would not fall prey to such tactics.

  “Good evening,” she said, bowing slightly, her breasts nearly spilling forth from their delicate confinement.

  His breath seized, emitting a harsh sound reminiscent of a hiss. He could see the damn pink edges of her nipples, perched invitingly only inches from his mouth. His cock rose in appreciation as he imagined running his tongue along the delicate ridge before slipping the hardened tip in his mouth and sucking until she writhed in fervent entreaty. Isabel had a body built for sexual fantasies. And the knowledge that he was not the only one engaging in those fantasies right now enraged him beyond all endurance. By all that was holy, this woman had pushed him too far.

  Her cheeks turned pink as she tried circumspectly to adjust her gown.

  When the bolt of lust dissipated, Rory saw red. He’d had enough. No wife of his would flaunt herself in such a manner. The ripe fullness of her breasts, the narrow circle of her waist, the slim curve of her hips, and the soft pink of her nipples were not for public display. She belonged to him—for now, at least. And he would not share.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she offered. “It took me some time to get dressed.”

  Without a word, he stood up, took her arm, and unceremoniously led her from the room. Only when they were out of earshot of the clan did he respond. “I don’t think you’ve finished.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He did not bother to hide his fury. His voice was every bit as dark and dangerous as the strange emotions she evoked in him. “Do not test my patience, Isabel.”

  From her silence, he knew she’d heeded his warning. He sensed her nervousness as he steered her outside toward the Fairy Tower, through the entry, and up the stairs. He pulled open the door to his solar, pushed her inside, and slammed the door behind them with a resounding thud.

  She stood in the middle of the room, her hands fumbling in her skirt. Venturing a cautious peek from under her lashes, she asked, “What do you mean to do?”

  “Not what I should do,” he snapped. His gaze burned down the length of her body. She shivered in its wake. “That gown is indecent. What could you be thinking wearing something so inappropriate?”

  “It’s a bit revealing, perhaps—”

  “A bit revealing?” he exploded. “I can see the damn edge of your nipples!”

  Her cheeks blazed. “Don’t yell at me.”

  Rory forced himself to calm. “I’m not yelling,” he said in a lower voice. I’m so aroused, I can barely think.

  “I didn’t think you’d notice what I wear,” she said defiantly.

  “Oh, I noticed all right. As did every man in the hall with a pulse. My wife, the lady of this keep, will not flaunt herself like a wanton before my men.”

  He saw a spark of defiance flare in her eyes. “Temporary wife,” she corrected.

  “Is that what this is about?” His gaze sharpened. “You’ll learn that I cannot be manipulated, Isabel. Not by you and certainly not by a scrap of fabric. No matter how revealing.”

  “You’re wrong.” She stuck up that adorable chin. “I like this dress, that is all.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and looked right in her eyes so there would be no mistaking his meaning. “You’ll never wear that dress again, or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  “What consequences?” she asked with a rebellious toss of her flaming hair.

  The lass didn’t know how precariously close she was to finding out. Every nerve ending in his body was set on edge, primed for release. He wanted to rip the dress from her body and cover every inch of that velvety skin with his. He wanted her hot and aching, throbbing with need, just like him. Instead, he ignored her reckless challenge and moved to the adjoining chamber where their clothes were stored, threw open the door, and yanked out a gown. A sufficiently modest gown of green velvet.

  “Change,” he ordered. “Now.”

  “But Bessie—”

  A slow smile curved his lips as he met her anxious gaze. “You won’t be needing a serving woman.”

  Isabel withered under the heat of his predatory stare. She realized belatedly that she’d pushed him too far. The look of raw possession in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. The primal intensity she read there made her think he’d like to do nothing more than toss her on the bed and ravish her like a hell-bent marauding Viking. For the first time since she’d come to Dunvegan, Isabel sensed danger. This man she could not control.

  She bit her lip and took a step back. Perhaps she’d miscalculated slightly. The wisdom of wearing this dress suddenly escaped her.

  “Take it off,” he ordered.

  “I c-c-can’t.”

  She heard him curse as he grabbed her by the waist, turned her around, and began unlacing her gown with undeniable skill. Rory MacLeod had had plenty of practice unlacing ladies’ gowns. She felt a pang suspiciously like jealousy.

  Still, there was something incredibly intimate about his fingers working the laces of her dress. He stood so close, she could smell the distinctive scent of his soap. She felt every touch, every gentle press of his fingers, as he slowly made a path down the length of her spine. His hands came to rest around her waist and she was deeply aware of how close his fingers were to her breasts. How easy it would be for him to stroke her. He moved closer and her breath caught. He, too, was not unaffected. His breath, suddenly uneven, warmed the bare skin of her neck and shoulders, making her skin prickle.

  His touch was driving her mad with longing. She felt so strange, boneless, as if she had melted into a deep, warm puddle. Her body flooded with sensations that she didn’t understand.

  His lips hovered achingly close to her neck as his fingers slid along her back. She sank against him, closing her eyes, silently begging for more. He slid the sleeves past her shoulders, his fingers singeing a path along her sensitive skin. She moaned when his lips finally touched her neck in a soft caress. The scrape of his chin sent a rush of heat through her veins. Her nipples hardened. And God, he knew. With one swipe of his thumb acros