Highlander Untamed Read online

  Sleat swore, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to clear the residue of wine. So, his disloyal niece returned under guard—she must have been discovered. ’Twas as he had expected, then. The chit had failed. Silly wench, to succumb so easily to the wiles of a handsome face. He shrugged with disgust. Well, what could you expect from a woman? Women were good for only two things: providing a substantial tocher and providing an heir. Good thing he was smart enough not to wager his quest for the Lordship solely on the capabilities of a lass. An alternative plan was already in position.

  He drew his fingers across his chin, considering her return. Isabel knew where the secret entrance was to Dunvegan—of that he had no doubt. Mackenzie had followed the three retreating MacLeods after the latest attack until they had simply disappeared right into the face of the rocky cliff beneath Dunvegan. The Mackenzie chief had searched the area exhaustively for the entrance, to no avail. But Isabel would be able to find it. He would watch his dear niece closely. And wait. She might be of some use yet.

  Another bungled attempt on MacLeod, he thought, disgusted. The man was proving exceedingly difficult to kill. He’d had high hopes that this last attempt might succeed, until his informant had apprised him of the MacLeod’s miraculous recovery. Sleat did not believe it was actually magic that had enabled MacLeod to evade death so many times, but he would take no chances. That bloody flag had defeated the MacDonalds before; it would not do so again. Magic or luck, it did not matter, it would run out soon enough. All was ready—soon he would reclaim the Lordship and rule the Western Isles. It wouldn’t be long now before his dream was fully realized.

  The great Rory MacLeod would not stand in his way.

  Chapter 24

  Isabel waited for a reprieve that never came. Though her head knew differently, her heart refused to accept that he might not forgive her. Bessie had urged her to give him time, time for his anger to dissipate and understanding to take hold. But Isabel had waited long enough. If she waited any longer, she might find Rory wed to another.

  A sharp pain pierced her chest, as it always did whenever she thought of him—which was constantly. She yearned for perspective, the bittersweet dulling edge of time, but it had been only a little over one week since he had sent her away.

  That meant enduring five days alone with her uncle, forced to wait for her family to arrive at Dunscaith and escort her back to Strome Castle. Not that she looked forward to the impending confrontation with her father. No, she had failed doubly, letting her family down and losing Rory. But at least the arrival of her family would bring a stay from Sleat’s daily interrogations. She sensed hat her uncle was merely biding his time, waiting for her to make a mistake. Clearly, he did not believe her tory that she was so deep in shock after the attack by the Mackenzies that she could not remember how to access the secret entrance to Dunvegan. Sleat was planning something. If only she could find out what.

  She stood, as she had for days, at the window in her bower, overlooking the beautiful loch, staring north past the great Cuillin in the direction of her forsaken heart. Scanning always for a rider, someone to bring her the news she longed to hear.

  Instead, a loud rumbling knocked her out of her dreary reverie. Instinctively, she clasped her hands over her stomach as it beckoned noisily for sustenance. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of food. Admittedly, she had not eaten much over the last week. The pungent smells of food turned her stomach, but she knew by the looseness of her clothing that she had lost too much weight. She would need to be strong if she was going to fight for Rory.

  Was she going to fight for Rory? Her eyes widened. She felt a bud of awakening in the wintry slumber of her anguish—and a trace of something else that could only be termed excitement.

  She had to do something; she could not go on like this. Isabel needed to let him know how sorry she was for what she’d done and find some way to make him understand. If only she could make it up to him and prove that she was worthy of his trust…and his love. She headed downstairs toward the kitchens. First, she needed to eat. Then she would be able to think. And plan.

  “Good morning, Willie. Are you going somewhere?”

  A very distracted Willie had just exited her uncle’s solar when Isabel greeted him on her way back from the kitchens. She felt much better after the small meal she had managed to force down and was ready to begin planning.

  Startled by the sound of her voice, Willie stumbled, and the stack of missives in his hands flew up in a parchment rainstorm over his head, scattering haphazardly around him on the floor. After a stunned moment, he managed to collect his thoughts enough to speak. “Good morning, my lady.”

  She did not have the heart to correct his improper address. He looked flustered enough as it was. “It appears you are off to deliver some messages.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He managed to right himself, still staring at her. Recognizing the look, Isabel reluctantly gave up on conversation. She bent down to help him collect the jumbled letters strewn across the rushes. Suddenly, her eyes caught sight of the familiar script and distinctive seal: Per Mare per Terras.

  Were the capricious fates smiling on her at last?

  Her heart beat furiously with anticipation, and her eyes widened when she noticed whom it was addressed to. Please let this be what I’m praying for! Carefully, she craned her neck to make sure Willie could not see what she was doing as she slipped the letter between the folds of her gown. Handing the remaining letters to Willie, she smiled with genuine delight—for the first time in over a week. Distractedly, she wished him a good journey and tried not to race up the stairs.

  Isabel had been gone for only a little more than a week, and Rory had done nothing more than sit before the fireplace and drink rather copious amounts of cuirm. He ran his fingers through unkempt hair, snagging on a few knots along the way, and swept it back from his face.

  A wee lass had toppled the powerful Rory Mor. He would laugh if the irony weren’t so painful. For a man who prided himself on control and decisiveness, discovering that he was not immune to emotions was a severe blow. Every man had his weakness. Apparently, Isabel MacDonald was his.

  The question was, what was he going to do about it?

  What he wanted to do was immerse himself in his duties, find a way to repair the alliance with Argyll, and begin plans to resume the fighting with Sleat. Instead, he found himself dissecting every moment of the last few months and analyzing every word of their conversation, unable to focus on anything else.

  In repudiating the handfast and sending her away, Rory had acted as he always did: coolly, dispassionately, and decisively. His judgment had been sound. Never had he questioned a decision. But he realized that in this, in determining the fate of someone he loved, he was without experience. He could not simply cut Isabel out of his heart because he wanted to.

  She’d wronged him, yes. But when his anger had cooled, Rory realized that Isabel’s treachery was not as clear-cut as he’d first thought. She’d handfasted with him under false purpose, but he could not fault her loyalty to her clan. She should have come to him, though he could understand her hesitancy. She had spied on him, but she hadn’t taken the flag.

  But one realization above all blocked his ability to put Isabel behind him forever. Had she truly chosen him over her uncle and her family?

  A knock on the door disturbed his reverie.

  He glanced up to see Douglas. “A letter, Chief. From the king.”

  Rory looked at Douglas blankly, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. It took him a moment to realize what he held in his hand.

  Douglas knew as well, for he stood woodenly, awaiting instructions, and would not meet Rory’s glance. Slowly, Rory cracked the seal, unfolded the parchment, and began to read. When he’d finished, he let out a pained laugh.

  “Well, it appears I have an answer to my proposal.”

  “Yes,” Douglas said evenly, with no evidence of the curiosity Rory was sure he felt.

  “The king has agreed