Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

His eyes searched her face, and then he shrugged. “I ken it.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult for you. Would it help to talk about it?”

“Nay, it wil na’ do any good. I canna’ bring her back.”

“No, but sometimes talking can help.” Her voice trailed off. His beautiful face was set in hard, razor-sharp edges. She thought she’d pushed too far and was surprised when his deep voice fil ed the silence.

“’Twas my fault. I should never have al owed her to get with child in the first place. She was too fragile, too smal .”

“Rory, don’t blame yourself. Women of al shapes and sizes have babies al the time. Sometimes these things just happen, and it doesn’t matter whether a woman is delicate or not.”

“Nay, Brianna was no’ like you. She—”

Ali couldn’t help but feel a pinch of hurt at his words.

“Yes, I know, you’ve mentioned that before.” It was diffi

cult being compared to his wife and found wanting. A woman he loved even now. Not that it should bother her. She didn’t love him, didn’t want him to love her. She smothered the little voice in her head before it could cal LORD OF THE ISLES

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her a liar and make her face things she had no intention of facing.

He raised a brow; the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Nay, you misunderstand me, Aileanna. Yer strong and healthy. Brianna never was. She wanted to give me a bairn and I couldna’ refuse her. I should have. I had a physi

cian come from Edinburgh, but he could do nothin’.

’Twas her heart that gave way. Neither she nor the bairn had a chance.”

Ali blinked back the moisture that gathered in her eyes. Even after two years, his pain was palpable. It lay thick and heavy between them. She cleared the emotion from her throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Come.” He held out his hand. “You’l catch a chil .”

She hesitated before placing her hand into the warmth of his. He captured her fingers in his firm grip. They were rough and cal oused, and she remembered how they felt skimming over her body when he’d caressed her that first night. When he thought you were his wife, she reminded herself. A poor substitute for the woman he adored. Preoc cupied, she forgot to pay attention as they walked along the path to Dunvegan and stepped on a sharp-edged rock that pierced her slippers and her stil -sore feet. She stifled a cry of pain. Rory, as though sensing her distress, turned to look at her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine . . . go.” She jerked her head in the direction of the castle. He cursed under his breath when he noticed her limp

ing. “Yer a stubborn one, Aileanna Graham. Enough,” he said as she tried to push past him and continue down the path. With little effort, he reached over and scooped her into his arms.

“No, Rory, put me down. You’l hurt yourself.” She twisted in his arms, but it only caused him to tighten his hold on her. His hand brushed the underside of her breast, and the hard muscle of his arms flexed just below her 96

Debbie Mazzuca

bottom. He was more of a man than she’d ever known, and she wanted him. And he wanted his wife.

“You wil na’ hurt me, Aileanna.” His voice was husky, his breath hot against her ear. Maybe not, but she knew, without a doubt, he could hurt her.

Chapter 8

The air whooshed from Ali’s lungs when Rory dumped her unceremoniously onto her bed with a muttered curse.

“Did you have to cause such a bloody commotion down below?” He glowered at her, hands on his hips, his hair and clothes dripping with ale. He smel ed like a brewery.

“Me? It wasn’t me who caused a scene—it was you. There was no reason to carry me once we arrived home. I didn’t know the girl was behind me when I tried to get out of your arms.” Truly, she hadn’t meant to kick the maid car rying the ful jug of ale, and certainly hadn’t meant for it to land on Rory’s head. Remembering his stunned expression, the helpless giggle she could no longer contain turned into an al -out bel y laugh. Ali fel back onto the satin comforter, clutching her sides.

Rory leaned over, bracing a hand on either side of her head. The muscles in his arms rippled beneath the fine lawn of his white shirt. His emerald eyes gleamed with amuse

ment, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I think you ken exactly what you were doin’, Aileanna. You doona’ take orders wel , lass.”

His gaze fastened on her mouth and the laughter died in her throat. The feel of his thick, powerful legs pressed 98

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between her thighs sent a surge of heat to her core. She curled her fingers into the starched fabric of her gown, re sisting the urge to trace his ful , sensuous lips, and the shadow that darkened his jaw. Slowly he drew his gaze to hers. How easily he ensnared her with his powerful body and the heat of desire she saw there, desire that mirrored her own. She wondered if he knew how easily she’d succumb to his passion. How she longed to feel his mouth on hers, his fingers stroking be

tween her thighs. She swal owed a frustrated groan when he pul ed away. Without a word, he crouched before her.

“Uhmm, Rory, what . . . what are you doing?” she stam

mered, pushing herself into an upright position. She fisted her hands into the maroon comforter. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he bent his head, his long fingers leaving a heated trail along her too-sensitive skin as, inch by inch, he rol ed the stocking down her left leg. She winced as he gently tugged the silk from where the blood adhered the fabric to the sole of her foot. Encircling her ankle in a firm grip, he examined her foot, then raised his eyes to meet hers. “Yer a healer, lass. You shoulda’ taken care of this.”

Did he expect a response? She could barely think, let alone speak, as he turned his attention to her other leg. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she bit her lower lip to keep from begging him for more. Ali slowly lifted her lids when he removed the other stocking. From the look he gave her, she could tel he had watched her the entire time, had seen the play of emotions on her face, and knew what she wanted from him. And al he’d done was see to her needs with gentleness and consid

eration. She felt the color rush to her cheeks. How stupid could she be?

He stood, abruptly turning away from her. “I’l send Mrs.

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Mac to see to you. Mari needs time to heal before resumin’

her duties.”

Ali blinked, startled by the underlying anger she heard in his voice. “Of course, I didn’t expect her—” She might as wel have saved her breath. Her words ricocheted off the barrier of the oak door he slammed between them. Ali pressed her fingers to her temples. She had to leave Dunvegan before she made a bigger fool of herself than she already had. Not that her powerful attraction to their laird—an attraction that wasn’t returned—was her only reason for finding the flag—far from it. She wanted to go home. To the life she left behind. The man destroyed her equilibrium, her common sense. He was every woman’s ideal of a dream lover, and that was the problem. She was living a dream, or as today had proven—a nightmare. The fairy flag was her only way out, away from Rory and the pain of wanting more from him than he was wil ing to give. She rose to her feet and grimaced.

“Och, now, sit yerself down,” Mrs. Mac said as she bus

tled into the room, linens draped over one arm, a pail of steaming water looped over the other. She set the pail onto the slate floor and water sloshed over the rim. “So what did you do to put the laird in such a temper?”

Ali shrugged. “Nothing.” She hadn’t. It wasn’t like she’d asked him to make love to her. And now that she thought about it, she doubted he even knew what his heated touch had done to her. Mrs. Mac gave her a considering look. “’Tis probably his wound botherin’ him. Iain spoke of it earlier.”