Knight In My Bed (15 page)

Donall paid him scarce heed, for the tumult beneath the ledge had come to an end. Isolde MacInnes clutched the still-growling dog to her breast. Her uncle leaned heavily against the base of the ledge, his barrel chest heaving, his mien furious.

"No need to thank me, 'tis my lady's orders," Rory sneered, bending to retrieve the other weight from beneath the foam-capped water.

The second weight attached, he began to back away. His own weight straining against his burden, he slowly hoisted Donall higher.

Only a foot or so above the water's surface, but high enough that Donall's arms would soon be disjointed. A groan of agony, full-bodied and hot, swelled in his throat, pushing hard to break free, but he drew on every last shred of his strength to quell it.

He would not abase himself by acknowledging the pain.

"... dinna ken what's gotten into her fool head of late," Rory groused.

Or so Donall thought, for the wench and her wee dog still claimed his interest. Despite the fire shards shooting through his shoulders.

... to me, I'd fasten weights onto your feet as well and have done with you ...
Rory's carping faded as he sloshed away through the surf. The moment the surly scoundrel reached the shore, Donall expelled his groan.

In teensy increments.

And without much regard.

For some strange reason even the wisest of men would have difficulty deciphering, the flames eating into his shoulders didn't grieve him half as much as the disturbing scene on the stairs that led up to the ledge.

The lady Isolde carefully traversed the steps, Bodo cradled safely in her arms. Her uncle followed close behind her, a still-palavering Rory fast on his heels.

But it wasn't Rory's fulminations that plagued Donall.

'Twas the murderous look Struan trained on his niece's back as she ascended the steps before him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“What Is Your intent, lady?” Donall asked a short time later, the frustration in his tone lost on the fair Lady Isolde.

He stared across the bedchamber at her, stung because she continued to ignore him.

Curled on the floor near the hearth, she cradled her wee dog in her lap. Gently stroking him, she made soft cooing noises as if Donall still dangled from a rusted chain in her dungeon and wasn't once again affixed to her bedpost.

Newly bathed, though this time he'd used the icy water gushing from an underground spring rather than the warm tub he'd enjoyed the night before, he stood beside her bed, garbed in borrowed raiment, manacled and seething. Every much an ornament as the precious baubles she claimed to scorn.

Ire brewed inside him, its mounting heat rivaling the searing ache in his shoulders.

"I would know your purpose." He tried a different tone.

Undaunted, she dipped her head and pressed the side of her face against the little dog's furry shoulder. And continued to mumble unintelligible nothings to her pet rather than address his concerns.

His most urgent concerns.

"Hell and botheration," he muttered between clenched teeth.

No lass had e'er provoked him more. Mayhap he had not provoked her enough.

"By all the Prophets and Apostles!" he thundered. The bellow caused a near imperceptible jerk in her shoulders ... and an odd, wholly unexpected stitch in the region of his heart.

A most unwelcome reaction.

Donall squared his own aching shoulders against the sensation. "I would have an answer," he said, his tone no longer gruff, but undeniably commanding. '”Your intent, Isolde of Dunmuir."

She finally deigned to glance at him. "I have told you. My sole purpose is to gain lasting peace."

Donall bit back another fierce epithet at her evasive answer. "Dare I hope to be enlightened as to how you think to achieve this wonder?"

A haunted look entered her beautiful eyes and its appearance sent scores of red-hot needles jabbing into a vulnerable area near his heart. An accursed weak spot he hadn't been aware of until a moment ago.

"How?" he persisted.

"I know not," she said, and he recognized the lie.

Blessedly, her glaring untruth promptly sealed the newly exposed tear in his resistance to her.

"I shall think on fit alter I've soothed my dog." Dismissing him, she turned her attention back to her four-legged champion and resumed her cooings.

Donall's vexation surged anew. Weary of the game she played, he sank onto the edge of her bed and dragged a hand through his damp hair. "My patience has flown, wench. I am not a chess piece to be pushed about, used or ignored at will."

She gave an exasperated little sigh --Donall heard it -- then scooted around on the floor rushes so she faced the hearth head-on, her rigid back to the bed.

To him
.

Thus depriving him of the satisfaction of unsettling her with penetrating stares, carefully chosen words of mockery, and a wicked senile or two to fluster her maidenly heart.

Worse, with her attention fully focused on coddling her pet rather than countering his barbs, or shooting off her own at him, she unconsciously freed him to observe her without the constraints of having to disguise his strong attraction to her.

Donall studied her, relieved she couldn't see how deeply her beauty and grave affected him. Firelight cast a coppery sheen on her thick braids. She'd wound them into coils over her ears, and the flickering light made her already-lustrous hair gleam like spun gold and bathed her supple form with a shimmering halo of soft, rosy hues.

Yet while the front of her glowed with angel fire, her back appeared kissed by starlight, gilded a fine silvery-blue by the wide swath of moonbeams streaming through the row of opened windows to her left.

Half fiery goddess, aglow with radiance. Half ice maiden, cool and aloof.

A potent combination.

Heady enough to stir any man's passion and befuddle his every last vestige of good sense.

As if she had a second pair of eyes appended to the back of her head and could see him shifting on the edge of her bed, could see why he squirmed about, she peered over her shoulder and gave him a cool little smile.

"You find it displeasing to be used as a pawn, Donall the Bold?" The feigned astonishment on her beautiful face offered a superb imitation of the mocking looks he'd so oft bestowed on her. "I rather doubt my sister cared for the role either."

Donall's stirrings ceased immediately.

She peered hard at him. "Shall we see how you fare as a game piece, my lord?"

"So your boasts of saving me from execution were naught but a poor jest?" Donall said, unable to think of a better retort. "Or mayhap you overestimated your influence?"

A glimmer of doubt crossed her face, but his triumph at putting it there proved mightily short-lived when she set her dog on his cushioned bed and pushed to her feet with more easy grace than he would have credited her for, considering the game she played.

"Perchance I have overestimated myself," she said, and lifted her hands to the bodice of her gown. She began unfastening its ties. "Regardless, I mean to test my skill."

The need to squirm assailed Donall with renewed vigor.

"Skill at ...
what
?" Not that he needed to ask. The clumsiness of her fingers and the crimson stain on her cheeks shouted the answer.

Silently cursing himself for the need to do so, Donall snatched up the leather-wrapped drinking jack she'd offered him earlier and took a healthy swig of ale.

And another.

Saints, but his throat had gone arid as a young lad's about to catch his first peek beneath the well-aired skirt of a willing and fetching lass. Blood surged into his loins at the very thought. The image of Isolde MacInnes lifting
her
skirts, and for
him,
made his manhood swell beneath the worn folds of his borrowed
lenicroich.

Fury at his body's reaction rose as well.

With great effort, he struggled to tear his gaze from the expanse of creamy skin she'd bared ... and failed.

She'd only revealed the base of her throat and the delicate line of her collarbone, but what an alluring feast even such a wee glimpse presented. And her fingers still worked. Already, he could see the top of her camise.

The empty drinking jack slipped from his fingers and landed on the rushes with a dull
thunk.

A most welcome distraction.

As was the sharp rap upon the door.

The enthrallment shattered, the heated quickening in his blood slowed and cooled. Banished by the persistent knocking at the door, someone's attempt to cough discreetly, and his own well-developed instincts of self-preservation.

She seemed to have realized the folly of her actions, too, for her face no longer glowed scarlet. She'd gone quite pale, and the lone freckle on her left cheek stood out in stark contrast to her sudden pallor.

More telling still, her attempts to refasten the lacings of her gown proved even more inept than her bumbling endeavors to undo them.

Donall lifted a lazy brow. "Do you require assistance, my lady?"

"I am in need of a great deal!" she snapped.

High amusement, sublime and rare, spread its unaccustomed warmth through Donall. Unable to curb himself, his lips curved into a slow smile.

"And I, sweeting, have a great deal to give." He winked. "Mayhap more than you can take."

She stared at him, incomprehension clouding her amber-flecked eyes, but then the double meaning of his words must've sunk in, for her brows shot heavenward and her pretty lips formed a shocked-looking little "o."

Donall laughed.

A deep, mirth-filled rumble the likes of which he hadn't indulged in years. But whoever stood outside the door did not share his humor. The raps and discreet coughs ceased immediately, and the door's heavy oaken panels shook beneath a veritable hail of fist poundings and loud callings of the wench's name.

Rory.

Donall leaped off the bed, his hands curling to fists, his brief merriment flown. He glowered, waiting. The wench had scarce unbolted the door before it burst open, cracking loudly against the wall.

Her two dullard guardsmen loomed on the threshold, their hulking frames edged by the leaping flames of a well-burning wall torch opposite the door.

His countenance thunderous, Niels's gaze went straight to Isolde's half-gaping bodice. "What manner of havoc goes on here?"

“Your lady's virtue has in nowise been disturbed. I am not a despoiler of women." Affecting a disinterested mien, Donall leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms. He fixed the giant with a haughty stare. "Nor shall I allow her to despoil me ... despite her most valiant efforts."

Isolde drew a sharp intake of breath, but it was lost in the outraged sputterings of her two henchmen. Rory's face contorted with rage, while the giant's suffused a deep purple.

"I'll see you howling in hell before you utter such slurs again." Niels reached for his sword. The large platter he'd been holding with both hands tilted sideways, the viands atop it near sliding onto the floor. "Damnation!" he roared, struggling to rebalance the tray.

"Hush, please!" Isolde leaned around the two guardsmen and peered into the passageway. "Naught but ill will befall us should you be heard."

Her pained embarrassment sent an unexpected twinge of contrition to Donall's newly discovered soft spot. Thankfully, the sensation ebbed quickly. Riling her was his purpose, not seeking solace for a weakness he would not acknowledge.

"Please leave us," she pleaded of her men. "Make haste about your business, then be gone.
Please."

Looking duly chastised, Rory pressed his lips into a thin, hard line and stepped forward. A streak of brown and white halted him. His short coat bristling, Bodo planted himself in front of Rory's booted feet. Barring his crooked teeth, the little dog growled his displeasure.

"Hail Maria!" Rory exploded. He slid a livid glare at Isolde. "Call him off."

"Bodo, go to bed," Isolde ordered, her voice firm. "
Now
. "

Reluctant to oblige, the little dog glanced at his mistress before he toddled off, disgruntlement rumbling in his throat. He paused once or twice to cast a look of high reproach over his shoulder.

"Crazed mutt!" Rory swore, then stalked across the room to haul the table before the bed as he'd done the previous night. His task accomplished, he retrieved the platter of victuals from the giant.

Stone-faced, he plunked the generously apportioned meal on the table. Niels stayed where he was, blocking the doorway with his bulk, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

"Succubus swine," Rory mumbled as he passed Donall on his way to the door.

"And you are a clumsy fool!" With lightning speed, Donall thrust his un-manacled foot in Rory's path. The oaf stumbled, pitching forward. Seizing him from behind, Donal] yanked him up by the back of his tunic.

Holding fast to the lout's bunched neckline, Donall twisted the material until the other man gasped for air. "Can't walk without falling over your own feet, can you?"