Knight In My Bed (3 page)

"So if you believe me a liar, Isolde of Dunmuir, are you as bloodthirsty as your kinsmen?" Donall MacLean challenged her. His deep voice held a tinge of amusement and
 
cut straight through her musings. "Are you, too, determined to torture me?"

What I am wont to do to you, Donall the Bold, shall be a torture unto myself
. The words echoed so loudly in her ears, she half feared she'd blurted them for all to hear.

"Not as vocal as your wild-eyed band of elders, fair lady?" he taunted. "Have you no desire to recite the myriad cruelties you mean to inflict upon my flesh?"

Wincing, for his accusations came closer to the truth than he could possibly know, Isolde joined Lorne, the youngest of her clan elders, in front of the cell's narrow window.

She did not trust herself to meet her prisoner's dark and furious eyes. Keeping her back to him, she clasped her hands before her and took a deep, cleansing breath of salt-laden air. The muffled whoosh of waves washing over the pebbled beach just beyond the dungeon wall made her heart wrench.

How often had she and Lileas skipped along the shore's narrow reaches in the carefree days of their childhood?

And how often had her dear da scolded them for venturing onto a beach he deemed dangerous because of the quick-changing currents of its harmless-looking waters?

Now both Lileas and her father were gone.

Isolde blinked hard.

A speck
, something
, must've gotten into her eye.

She unclasped her hands and smoothed her palms against the woolen folds of her belted
arisaid.
The plaid's soft and nubby texture comforted her with its familiarity and provided a tenuous but reassuring link to normality during a situation that seemed to have skittered completely out of her control.

Not yet ready to turn around, she stared out the window slit. Too narrow to reveal more than a slim swath of brilliant blue sky, the view was enough to make her hands clench at her sides.

How could the sun shine when such darkness had settled over her heart?

She blinked again, no longer able to blame the stinging heat at the backs of her eyes on a mere speck of dust. But rather than give heed to tears, she squared her shoulders and braced herself to face her enemy.

The man she held responsible for her sister's murder.

Vengeance must be had but neither was all lost. She had much to be grateful for, and she wasn't alone.

She had the support and devotion of her clan. Her people now, for upon her da's passing, and following his wishes, she'd accepted her place as chieftain. And as such, she had to do what was best for the good of them all.

Especially in times of trouble, and including the daunting task of saving them from their own stubborn and foolish selves.

"One of our own, a fine young woman we trusted your brother to treat with respect, has been killed upon the Lady Rock," Lorne's commanding voice sounded beside her, his austere words calling her back from her silent reverie. "Murdered by her MacLean husband in the same manner as her ancestress so many years past. You, Donall the Bold, as MacLean laird, will do penance by --"

"Lorne, please." Isolde swung around and touched the elder's arm, unable to bear hearing the gory details of her kinsmen's intent spoken aloud yet again. "The MacLean is aware of what he faces."

Returning to her uncle Struan's side, she hoped naught about her bearing or expression revealed the turmoil swirling inside her.

Her voice as level as she could manage, she said, "I am weary and shall retire early. I trust verily no one will disturb or before cockcrow."

Bracing herself to play a role she already doubted she could master, she cast a disdainful glance at the MacLean. "Niels and Rory have insisted on guarding my door so long as he remains within our walls. Rather than injure their feelings, I agreed, so do not be alarmed if you see them there. They've sworn to let none save the Blessed Mother herself cross my threshold." With that, she kissed her uncle's cheek, gave the MacLean a curt nod, then sailed from the chamber as quickly as her pride would allow.

A safe distance from the cell, she paused before a dark alcove set deep in the passage's wall. "See that he is properly bathed and brought to my chamber this eve," she whispered to the man concealed by shadows. "Late ... not before the hour of compline. And, pray God, let none catch you."

The man opened his mouth to reply, but Isolde hitched up her skirts and hurried down the dank corridor before the words could pass his lips.

If her well-meaning cousin Niels tried once more to sway her purpose, she might well abandon her ambitious plan for securing peace with the MacLeans.

Indeed, after seeing their laird in the flesh,
completely in the flesh
, she harbored serious concerns about the wisdom of pursuing her goal.

Donall stared after her long after she'd gone, a multitude of conflicting emotions eating him alive. Saints, but she took his breath away, riling him with her blunt refusal to listen to reason, yet even as fury made his blood boil, he had to admire her courage and spirit.

She had to know what her clan elders meant to do with him. Her willingness to allow such barbarous acts beneath her roof spoke of her sheer will to see her sister's death avenged.

Whether he shouldered responsibility or nay, and he most assuredly did not, such strength of character as she displayed was something any Highlander or Isles man had to admire.

"An uncommon beauty, is she not?" Lorne MacInnes drew Donall's attention with a swift kick to his ribs.

Biting back a groan, Donall shot a dark look at the smirking graybeard. The tattered cloth that had covered his male parts dangled from the bastard's fingers.

"A sweetmeat the likes of you will never sample again," Lorne drawled, twirling the rag before letting it drop onto Donall's groin. "If good fortune is with you, mayhap our fair chieftain will grace your dreams," he added, then strode from the cell, the other MacInnes ancients trailing after him.

"Surely you cannot deny her appeal?" yet another male voice came from the darkness, robbing him of the welcome quiet that had settled over his cell since the graybeards' collective departure. "I doubt there is a finer lass in all of the Isles."

Donall clenched his jaw and said naught. He wouldn't give the insolent lout the gratification of an answer. Especially when none was necessary.

Isolde MacInnes was a prize grand enough to bring a king to his knees.

Most men would be afire with need at the mere thought of bedding a maid so fine.

Not that such thoughts had entered his mind.

Nor was he most men.

Though regional unrest and his duties as laird left him little time or inclination for wenching in recent years, none could claim he lived a monk's life.

But ne'er had he sampled the favors of a female as alluring as the MacInnes chieftain, and a merry pox on the whoreson who'd brought such unwanted notions to his mind!

His brows drawn together in ire, he sought the source of his irritation, ready to unleash the full wrath of his fury on
 
the cur, only to have the words lodge in his throat when he spied the wretch in the shadows of the still-open cell door.

A veritable giant of a man, the overgrown ox with his outrageously red hair had the audacity to look amused by Donall's surprise. "Not all MacInnes men are old and bent," the giant said, holding out his well-muscled arms and flexing his fingers. "'Twould be wise of you to remember it."

"And who are you?" Donall shot back, wishing fervently he could rid himself of his shackles. "Are you come from the lady to begin my torture?"

The man peered hard at him. After a long moment, he said, “`Tis Niels MacInnes I am, and, aye, the lady Isolde sent me, but her reasons for a-wanting you have naught to do with breaking your bones, though I will not deny I wouldn't mind getting my hands on you."

"So why are you here?'

1 asked if you find our chieftain appealing. You didn't answer." Niels MacInnes folded his arms and pinned Donall with a piercing stare. "Do you?"

Thinking the great buffoon a mite short of all his wits, Donall snapped, "And if I did?'

“ ‘Twould lend ease to the covenant my lady seeks to offer you."

"
Covenant
?" Now Donall knew the man was witless.

"I will come for you sometime between the hours of vespers and compline," the giant informed him, his voice so low Donall scarce heard him. "If you do not cooperate, your daylight hours will be made as miserable as the night ones could have been pleasurable."

"You spout nonsense," Donall protested, straining his full might in a vain attempt to break free. "I'll go nowhere with you and I want naught to do with your lady and her covenant."

“Aye, you will go, and you will be gentle with my lady. If you are not, I shall grind your bones to powder. The decision falls to you." With a last sharp stare, the giant stepped back through the open doorway. "Misery or paradise," he added, and disappeared from view.

Miserable, indeed, and more than confused, Donall stared at the rough planks of the door the lumbering oaf had closed and locked behind him.

What the devil had he meant about Donall
being gentle with
his lady? Surely not the obvious? Heat sprang to the base of his neck at the very thought, and of a sudden, his lungs seemed incapable of drawing air.

Nay, it could not be anything so preposterous.

Beautiful, of exceptional grace, and very likely yet to be deflowered, Isolde MacInnes would be the finest paradise.

If such was the meaning behind the giant's riddles, a possibility Donall highly doubted. Still, none could call him dense. His sharp wit and keen sense of perception had guided him through many a treacherous encounter.

And the more he mulled it over, the more he came to the wildest, most absurd conclusion.

With a sigh, he fell back against the wall and stared at his cell's water-stained ceiling. May the saints and their entire retinue of holy men preserve him, but a trace of the wench's scent lingered in the air.

A mere whisper of wildflowers, but enough to tempt his senses and mock his determination to remain unmoved by her charms.

Should his suspicions prove true
.

Donall closed his eyes and groaned. A deep, full-bodied groan straight from the very bottom of his soul. Had the pant truly said he had a choice?

Indeed, he'd most assuredly been given a choice. The trouble was, if his instincts hadn't failed him, he doubted he possessed the strength to make the right one.

CHAPTER TWO

JSOLDE HURRIED THROUGH the gloaming, her arisaid clutched tight about her shoulders. A stiff wind whistled past her ears, its chill bite ripe with the thick tang of the sea and the damp, earthy scent of coming rain.

She followed a narrow track through a landscape of wind-stunted trees and shrubs, a well-trodden path that hugged the sheer crags forming this end of Doon before ending in a cliff-top glade the old ones called the edge of the world.

A notion enhanced in its eeriness by the silver birch and rowan trees surrounding the clearing, and the presence of Devorgilla, the ancient crone who dwelled there.

Isolde struggled against the increasing strength of the gales sweeping in off the sea, eager to reach the only living soul she'd trusted with all her reasons for having the MacLean secreted to her chamber.

Not even the ever-faithful Niels knew everything, and certainly not his shadow, Rory.

Only the
cailleach
, and Isolde's little dog, Bodo.

And neither one of them would betray her confidences.

Even now, Bodo displayed his devotion, his eagerness to keep her safe. He trotted along a short distance ahead of her, his tail held upright, his gait self-important. Though diminutive and still playful as a puppy, the little brown and white dog would defend her to the death if need be.

And if he possessed such courage, who was she to harbor niggling doubts about going through with a plan to ensure a secure future for her people? Didn't she owe them as much loyalty as wee Bodo showed her?

Wouldn't lasting peace be a more noble tribute to Lileas than another death?

Wasn't an alliance of necessity with Donall MacLean preferable to seeing her clan fade from existence?

Isolde sent a quick glance heavenward. Bands of fast-moving clouds, deep gray and heavy with rain, stretched across the sky, stealing the early evening's luminous light as easily as the mere thought of Donall MacLean had robbed her of her nerve.

Determined, she continued on, but an unshakable sense of ill ease accompanied her, while doubt threatened to cloud her intentions.

She'd spent hours, whole nights, searching for a solution. She'd mulled over every minute detail... even questioning Evelina, Doon's own joy woman, about the art of seduction!

Quickly, before her cheeks could flame, she pushed aside all thought of her clandestine meetings with Evelina, a woman most womenfolk of Doon, Maclnnes and MacLean alike, pretended didn't exist.