Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

“That’s good to hear.”

After the men left, Mrs. Mac turned to her. “Go to the laird, Aileanna, and I’l bring you somethin’ to eat.”

“Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.”

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“A wee bit of broth, then. And, lass, though I’m sorry fer yer troubles I’m glad ’twas you the fairies brought to us.”

Moisture gathered in Ali’s eyes at the woman’s kind words. Afraid she might cry, Ali nodded and opened the door to Rory’s chambers.

When she entered the room, a young girl popped out of the chair beside the bed. Her mouth dropped open as Ali came closer. “My lady,” she stammered, bobbing a curtsy. Ali waved off the formality. “Please don’t do that. I’m not a lady. I mean, I am a lady, just not the kind of lady you mean.” She blew out an exasperated breath. It was obvious the girl didn’t know what she was talking about. “Has Lord MacLeod awakened yet?”

“Nay,” the young girl said, her eyes downcast.

“Wel , thank you for watching over him. I’l sit with him now if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

The girl bobbed another curtsy and scurried from the room with one last look at Ali. Taking a seat on the hard wooden chair the girl had va

cated, Ali looked at Rory. She smiled at the unruly wave of thick black hair that fel across his forehead, smoothing it from his face, pleased the skin beneath her hand was nei

ther hot nor clammy. Without thinking, she al owed her fingers to trail along his cheekbones, to his strong jaw. He stirred. Guiltily she looked up, but his eyes remained closed. Long lashes rested against sun-bronzed skin, with no sign of his previous pal or. When her fingers grazed his ful lips they twitched, curving into a smile. Butterflies quickened in her stomach.

Ali pul ed her hand away, shaking her head at her fool

ishness. This was no time to be weaving fantasies about the man, no matter how beautiful he was. She needed to come up with a plan to get home. The sixteenth century was no place for her. Wearily she stood and eased back the 40

Debbie Mazzuca

bedding to get a better look at her handiwork. She winced. The wound was fiery red and swol en. Her gaze wandered over his broad chest, the hard mus

cles beneath the taut skin of his bel y. The man was in amazing condition. Muscles stiff, she lowered herself in the chair only to find Rory MacLeod looking at her. Or at least she thought he was, until she heard him say, “Brianna.”

He reached out to stroke his long, cal oused fingers along her cheek in a gentle caress. He smiled, then closed his eyes. His arm dropped back to the bed. Ali groaned. She had to find that damn flag. Chapter 4

“What are you doin’ tiptoein’ aboot, lad?” Rory grumbled. Gritting his teeth, he pul ed himself upright in bed. The young lad ducked his head. “Sorry, my laird, I didna’

mean to disturb you.”

“Disturb me?” Rory jerked his chin toward the light fil

tering into the room. “From the looks of it you’ve awakened me none too soon. Where are my brother and Fergus?

Breakin’ their fast, are they?”

“Nay,” the lad said, shuffling from one foot to the other. Rory let out an exasperated breath. “Connor, I canna’

read minds, so you’d best tel me what’s on yers.”

“’Tis just that we’ve no’ eaten, Laird MacLeod. No’ since yester eve.”

Rory frowned. “And why would that be?”

“Cook quit.”

“Nay, lad, you must be mistaken. Cook wouldna’ do that.”

“’Tis the truth, my laird. He did.”

Rory cursed. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his muscles rebel ed at the action. He stifled a groan at the wrenching pain in his side as he rose to his feet. Gingerly, he touched the site of his wound—the red, puckered flesh—

and he thought of the woman who’d put it there. With the 42

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memory of her soft hands and their gentle touch on his heated skin, he felt himself harden. Sky blue eyes fil ed with concern, in a face as bonny as his wife’s. He shook the image of her from his head. No matter that the lass had the look of Brianna; no one could take his wife’s place. He was loyal to her memory. Swiving was one thing—a man had his needs—but love—nay, never again.

“Aye, Laird MacLeod.” The lad bobbed his head, eyeing Rory’s wound. “’Tis her that did it.”

“Aye, lad, the lass made a fair job of it, she did.”

“Nay . . . I mean aye, she did, but ’tis no’ what I meant.

’Tis on account of Lady Aileanna that Cook quit.”

“Nay, lad, she could no’ have managed that. She was seein’ to my needs yester eve.”

Connor’s mouth fel open; the tips of his ears pinked.

“Fer the love of God, ’tis no’ those needs I was talkin’

aboot. ’Twas my wound she saw to.” Rory began to think the boy meant to drive him daft.

“But . . . but, my lord, ’tis been seven days since we car

ried ye home.”

“Yer tel in’ me I’ve been lyin’ abed for seven days!” he bel owed, holding his side.

“Aye,” the lad squeaked.

“Get the woman and bring her to me, Connor.” Rory clenched his teeth as he reached for his plaid at the foot of the bed.

“She’s seein’ to the men that were injured. Mayhap ye should wait until—”

“Connor, you ken me wel . I’ve given you an order, lad, and I expect it to be carried out. Bring the lady to me now .”

The boy rushed headlong from the room, almost bowl

ing over Iain and Fergus as they entered his chambers.

“What’s got you riled, brother? We heard you bel ow from down below,” Iain asked after he’d righted the lad. Rory folded his arms over his chest, eyeing the two

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men. “Which one of you would care to explain how ’tis I’ve been abed fer seven days?”

The two men looked at each other, then shrugged.

“Why doona’ I take a guess—would it be Lady Aileanna’s doin’?”

“Aye, but ’twas fer yer own good, brother. You were rest

less, and she didna’ want you to rip open yer wound.”

“So you let her drug me? ’Tis too bad she didna’ have the means to render me unconscious when she closed my wound.” Anger reverberated in his voice and it had noth

ing to do with being awake when she had laid the blade to his side. Times were difficult, what with the MacDonald renewing the feud and King James sending the lowlanders to Lewis. It was no time for the clan’s laird to be laid out flat, and by a lass he didna’ ken.

Iain flushed under his scrutiny. “I brought the physician’s notes to her, the one you had see to Brianna. ’Twas there she found the herbs listed.”

“Now, lad—” Fergus began, then turned to the young maid who’d entered Rory’s chambers. Her fiery red hair was tucked neatly beneath a cap. “Leave it on the table. That’s a good lass.” Fergus laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder as she was about to leave. “Mari, this would be yer laird.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and gave Rory a shy smile. He nodded, masking his shock when the lass looked at him, one eye blue, the other green. “Welcome to Dunvegan, Mari.”

“Thank ye, my lord.” She bobbed again, then looked to Fergus for direction. He nodded, waiting until the girl left the room before he explained. “Her mother brought her to us on account of that bloody priest. He’s been up to his tricks again, rantin’

aboot the lass on account of her mismatched eyes and red hair. Claiming she’s a witch, he is. He wanted to put her to the stake.”

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Rory sighed, lowering himself into the chair by the fire.