Donna Grant: Untamed Highlander

And then, the dream was gone. For a moment Isla did nothing but lay there, unsure of what had happened. She didn’t know where she was. The anguish of her dreams had vanished. The terror of it all, however, still filled her.

Of a sudden, she recalled the solemn black eyes which had stared at her as she begged for death. Obviously the blond man hadn’t carried out her wishes.

Isla tried to swallow and felt her raw throat rebel at the effort. Her body burned with the ravages of a fever and her skin itched from sweating, but at least she was out of the snow and ice.

Between one heartbeat and the next she realized she wasn’t alone. She cracked open her eyes to find herself staring at Fallon and Lucan MacLeod as they stood at the foot of the bed.

Isla threw off the covers and dashed toward the door she spotted to her left. Instant, agonizing pain tore through her, but she had withstood far worse in her years at Cairn Toul and she pushed through the weighty mantle of pain.

She had to get away from them, away from everyone, before it was too late! She had taken only a few steps before a big blond stepped in front of the doorway, effectively blocking her escape.

She skidded to a halt, her body aching with each breath. With frantic hands Isla clawed at the strands of hair that clung to her sweat-covered face so she could better see. Her gaze scanned the chamber to find five men and three women watching her, but her gaze returned to the blond giant.

He stood silently, almost at ease, but she wasn’t fooled. He had the look of a Warrior, battle-hardened and ready for anything. At any moment.

“Let me leave,” she demanded of the chamber at large.

“Isla, you’re injured.”

She blinked and focused her vision on the man who spoke. “Broc?” Could the winged Warrior actually have sided with the MacLeods? Somehow she wasn’t surprised.

“Aye. It’s me.” His voice was soft, as if he were talking to a half-wit. “You need to rest.”

Isla shook her head, and then instantly regretted it as the chamber spun. She stepped back and ran into a wall. Her stomach churned, and she sunk her fingers into the stones to help keep herself standing. Her body was weak, and she didn’t know how long she could stand before what little strength she had was depleted.

“You have to let me go,” she panted. “Now. You have no idea what you’ve done by bringing me here.”

Fallon MacLeod stepped forward, his dark brown hair pulled in a queue at the back of his neck. He looked like the natural leader that he was. “Deirdre is dead, Isla. There is nothing for you to fear anymore.”

Isla couldn’t control the bubble of laughter that welled up inside her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and blinked back the sudden rush of tears. She shook her head and lowered her hand. “She’s not dead.”

“She is,” Lucan said.

Quinn nodded. “Listen to my brothers, Isla, for they’re correct. I saw Deirdre die with my own eyes.”

Isla briefly wondered why Marcail, who was on Quinn’s lap, looked ill, but the need to leave was too great for her to think of anything else. “Deirdre isn’t dead.”

A red-headed female with sharp amber eyes took a step toward Isla. “You have a fever, and your wound festers. Allow your body to recover. You will then see we speak the truth.”

Isla knew it was pointless to argue with them. As much as she didn’t want to say the words, she had to. “Stop it!” she yelled. “I’m not addled. I know Deirdre better than any of you. She isn’t dead, because if she was, I would be as well. We are linked through her black magic.”

The MacLeods shared a look, but it was Broc’s furrowed brow that told her he might understand what she was trying to say. Even the blond giant’s brow puckered at her words.

“Broc, I’m speaking true,” Isla said. He had to trust her so she could leave. “Deirdre isn’t dead. You have to believe me.”

Fallon shook his head. “I doona understand this. We saw Deirdre’s neck snap, and Hayden set her on fire.”

Isla didn’t know who Hayden was and didn’t care. “Deirdre cannot be killed by a broken neck or being burned.”

“Stay here and heal,” Quinn said again. “If you leave now you’ll die.”

“If only that were true,” Isla murmured, tired to her soul. She saw the hulking blond glance away from her and she took that moment to dart toward him, intent on escaping under his arm.

She wasn’t quick enough, however. As she reached him, his arms wrapped around her like iron manacles and dragged her against his hard chest. Her injury throbbed and her bones felt as if they would crush any moment under the impact of his strength. She looked up into the same black eyes she had seen before.

His face was a mask of anger, but flickering in the dark depths of his eyes, Isla saw a glimmer of emotion, as if he battled within himself over something.

Her hands had come to rest against his chest to push away, but beneath her palms was a solid wall of hard, unyielding muscle which wouldn’t be budged.

For a moment, she had the insane urge to run her hands over his chest, to feel all that sinew moving beneath her fingertips. She lost herself in the black pits of his eyes, wondering what it would feel like to stop fighting him and lay her head on his thick shoulder, to relinquish the need to stay strong and allow him to carry her burdens for a bit.

She had seen striking men before, but there was something about the man holding her that was different, special. It could be the hardness of his black eyes or the way his blond brows slashed over those eyes giving him a harsh, sinister look.

It could be the strong jaw and chin and hollowed cheeks or the way his blond hair fell haphazardly around his face and shoulders, as if he raked his hands through it often.

Whatever it was that held her it urged her not to fight him, to give into the new and wondrous sensations his touch caused. Her eyes dropped to his lips. What would it be like to press her mouth against his? She had never kissed a man before, never wanted to.

What was it about this man? How was he connected to the MacLeods? And what was wrong with her? Had her wound affected her thinking and her body?

All too soon she remembered where she was, and why she needed to leave.

“You should have taken my head as I asked,” she told him.

His wide, firm lips compressed into a tight line. She knew she should fight him, but she was held transfixed by the handsome face staring back at her.

“Nay.” That one word was said with finality, his deep voice laced with an edge.

Though she couldn’t see much of his body, the way he held her effortlessly against him told her all she needed to know about his strength. The fact he was a Warrior was a given.

She also noticed while the others wore tunic and breeches, this Warrior wore a kilt of blue, green, and white with a saffron shirt beneath it that did nothing to hide his chest corded with muscles, muscles her hands itched to caress.

“Please,” she tried again, disturbed to her soul at her reaction to this man. “Let me leave. You’re all in terrible danger if I stay.”

His gaze flickered over her shoulder, and that’s when Isla heard the chant.

“Nay!” she screamed and tried to wrench out of the Warrior’s arms. “Do not make me slumber!”

The last thing she wanted to do was go back to sleep and be tormented by her nightmares once more. There was no chance for her to fight the magic, though, not in her damaged state. She tried to beg the Warrior once more, but the sleeping chant took her before she could.

Hayden looked down at the woman in his arms. Isla’s ice-blue eyes had gone wild when she’d heard Sonya’s chant, her fingers digging into his shoulders.