Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

“The last thing I’d be needin’ right now is trouble with the Kirk, but if I hear he’s put anyone to the stake on MacLeod land I’l send him to hel myself.”

“Aye, I thought that’s how you’d feel. I’ve sent a couple of men into the vil ages to keep an eye on him,” Fergus in formed him.

“Eat yer parritch, brother.” Iain gestured to the bowl the lass had left, and pul ed up a stool alongside him.

“And how is it I have parritch? I was under the impres

sion Cook quit.”

“Aye, he did, but I managed to smooth his ruffled feathers.”

“And who would it be that ruffled his feathers in the first place—Lady Aileanna?” Rory asked, raising a brow.

“Aye, but—”

He interrupted his brother with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just tel me what she did.”

“’Twas more what she said.” Iain glanced at him, then sighed. “She told Cook his kitchens were no better than a pigsty, and she was surprised he hadna’ kil ed anyone as yet.”

Rory snorted. It was something he himself had meant to do, and he wasn’t at al certain that no one had died. But before he could admit as much, Connor returned.

“I thought I told you to bring Lady Aileanna to me.”

“I tried, but the lady says she’s busy and wil come when she gets the chance.” The lad, head bowed, twisted his hands in front of him.

hands in front of him.

“She wil , wil she?” Rory muttered, rising to his feet.

“And . . . and she said I was to tel you you’d better damn wel be in bed when she does,” Connor stammered, obviously quoting the lady verbatim.

Fergus covered a snort of laughter with a cough, shrug

ging when Rory shot him a quel ing look.

“That’l be al , Connor.”

“Rory, she’s lookin’ to the men who were wounded in

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the battle with the MacDonald. There are a fair number of them.”

“Yer quick to her defense, brother.” Rory narrowed his gaze on Iain. The lad had a reputation with the ladies, and he wondered if he’d charmed his way into Lady Aileanna’s affections—a thought that didn’t sit wel with Rory, not with the memory of her naked in his arms and her passion

ate response to his touch. Fists clenched at his sides, he reined in the spurt of jealousy. An emotion he had no right or reason to feel, he reminded himself.

“Nay.” His brother gave an adamant shake of his head.

“’Tis no’ like that.”

He ignored Iain. Lowering himself into the chair, he leaned back. “I appreciate the lass seein’ to the men’s care, but what I’d be needin’ to ken is where she’s from. Is there a chance she could be a spy sent by the MacDonald?”

Iain guffawed. “Brother, you’d think yer own mother a spy if she was alive.”

Rory shrugged. “You canna’ be too careful.”

Fergus cleared his throat. “She’s no spy, lad. She’d been kidnapped by those bloody lowlanders on the account of her healin’ abilities, but she escaped. I found her when I went back to the battlegrounds lookin’ fer our wounded.”

Rory scrubbed his hands over his face, thinking on what Fergus told him.

“I thought I told you to stay in your bed.”

He looked up. Aileanna Graham stood only a few feet from him, hands on her hips, more bonny than he remem bered. The tops of her milky white breasts fil ed the square neckline of a gown the color of heather. Reluctantly, he pul ed his gaze to her face. His hands twitched at the memory of how she’d felt in his arms. Bloody hel , if he didna’ get his heated thoughts under control they would al have a verra good idea what he was thinkin’.

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Debbie Mazzuca

His plaid would soon resemble a tent.

He cleared his throat. “Lass, in case you hadna’ noticed, I am the laird. I listen to no one.”

She arched a brow. “I know exactly who you are, Lord MacLeod. But you are also my patient, and until I decide you are no longer under my care, you will do as I say. Now get back into bed.”

He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her.

“I’l no’ get into bed. I’ve been in there long enough.”

“I think I hear Mrs. Mac cal in’ fer me.” Iain rose from the stool and headed for the door with Fergus fast on his heels.

“Fergus, Iain, I expect a ful update on the army’s con

dition before evenin’ meal,” he yel ed, cursing when they shut the door firmly behind them without a word.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned over and placed cool fingertips to his forehead. Rory shook his head, not certain he’d get the words out. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips. She was so close he felt the heat of her body; the scent of lavender en

veloped him.

“Let’s get you into bed,” she said, slipping her soft hand into his. “I want to make sure you haven’t done any damage.”

“I told you, lass, I’m no’ gettin’ back in that bed.”

She sighed. “You’re a stubborn man. Has anyone ever told you that?” Shaking her head, she knelt before him.

“Aye, often.” He bit back a groan when she tugged at his belt.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Eyes the color of sapphires, awash with concern, met his.

“Nay,” he muttered. Brushing her hands aside he undid his belt, dropping it to the floor. She inched his plaid lower, exposing the wound, explor

ing with a firm yet gentle touch. Meeting his eyes, she low

ered hers quickly, and he wondered if she could see the desire in his. He didna’ doubt it was there. He wanted her with a

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need that surprised him. Closing his eyes, he imagined his wife, tiny and fragile, so slight and delicate. The memory of Brianna served to dampen his desire for the woman on her knees between his thighs.

“Are you al right?” she asked, the timbre of her voice low and husky. She cleared her throat. “Lord MacLeod?”

“I’m fine, lass,” he said. “Are you finished with yer pokin’?”

“Yes.” She patted his knee and rose to her feet. “I’m sur

prised at how wel you’ve healed. It’s quite amazing actu

al y. You’l be as good as new in no time. Now, if you don’t mind, I had better get back to your men.” She retrieved his belt and handed it to him.

Rory adjusted his plaid. “I’d like a word with you first.”

He studied her, watching for a reaction.

“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her gown. Biting the inside of her cheek, she looked at him.

“Fergus tel s me you were abducted by the lowlanders.”

“Umhmm,” she murmured, twisting the long length of her braided hair between her fingers.

“Does it trouble you to speak of it?”

“No.”

“They didna’ hurt you, did they?”

She shook her head, perfect white teeth worrying her ful bottom lip.

“Lass, look at me.” He stood up and tilted her chin, forc

ing her gaze to his. “You can tel me.”

“No one hurt me.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “How did you escape?”

“I . . . I don’t remember.” She dipped her head. “I think I must have hit my head.”

Rory framed her face with his hands, searching her eyes. She sucked in a startled gasp when he ran his fingers through her hair, probing her scalp. Her braid came undone, 48

Debbie Mazzuca

and silken tresses slid between his fingers. “I canna’ feel anythin’. Are you certain you hit yer head?”

She nodded, steadying herself with a palm pressed to his chest. He could stop; he had explored every inch of her head, but he didn’t want to, not when she felt so good lean

ing against him. He inhaled her soft, sweet fragrance, barely resisting the urge to bury his face in the delicate column of her neck. With a concerted effort, he brought his hands to rest on her shoulders.