Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

Ali grinned. “Now that you mention it, I did.”

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Debbie Mazzuca

Color bloomed in the man’s heavily lined cheeks. “I should have said something. Come, I’l show you the reason.”

Ali padded barefoot across the thick oriental carpet to the far end of the room where Duncan stood in front of a large gilt-framed portrait. He stepped aside and her jaw dropped. At first glance it was as though Ali stood in front of a mirror. The woman in the painting could have been her.

“That would be Brianna MacLeod, wife to Rory. He was laird in the latter part of the sixteenth century. The resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?”

“I do,” she murmured, touching her wavy and stil wet platinum blond hair. The woman in the portrait’s long spiral curls were a burnished gold and caressed her delicate heartshaped face. Her eyes were coffee colored, whereas Ali’s were blue, but other than that, they could have been twins. The man chuckled at her expression before turning back to the portrait. “She was a MacDonald. Their marriage brought an end to the families’ long-standing feud, but they didn’t have many years together before she died in childbirth.”

“How sad,” Ali said, drawn to the woman in the portrait. Although Brianna MacLeod radiated happiness in the painting, an almost palpable sense of sadness washed over Ali, and she took an unconscious step backward. She looked at Duncan to see if he felt the same thing, but he’d already moved away.

“And this is Rory, her husband.” Duncan pointed proudly to the portrait on the other side of the large picture window. For one moment, just as she turned away from Brianna’s portrait, Ali sensed the coffee-colored eyes fol owing her. She shook off the feeling. Dismissing the notion out of hand, she joined Duncan in front of the second portrait. Her uneasiness faded the instant she looked at the man in the painting. She sucked in an appreciative breath. Now that was a highland hunk.

Rory MacLeod was breathtaking. Wavy black hair ac

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centuated high, chiseled cheekbones and a firm jaw. The sensual curve of his ful mouth hinted at a man who laughed often. His green eyes glittered with a penetrating intel igence as he looked down his straight and aristocratic nose at her. He exuded power and strength. A man’s man—

no metrosexual there.

A sudden draft swirled around her bare feet and ankles. The cold air enveloped her in its icy embrace, causing goose bumps to form beneath her skin. Ali tried to contain the teeth-chattering shiver by wrapping her arms around herself.

“Och, and look at you, freezing in those wet clothes while I blather on. Come, I’l set you up in one of the rooms where you can change.”

Ali nodded, unable to tear her gaze from Rory MacLeod, mesmerized by the powerful warrior he portrayed. She jumped when Duncan patted her shoulder. “Oh . . . sorry.”

With one last look at her handsome highlander, she fol owed the caretaker from the room.

“I’m going to give you a special treat.” Duncan winked at her as he unhooked the red velvet rope that blocked the pol ished wooden staircase. “But you must promise never to tel .”

“I promise.” She smiled.

As they made their way up the curved staircase, Duncan relayed more of the MacLeod family’s history, but Ali barely heard him, her mind fil ed with images of Rory and Brianna. She thought if she closed her eyes she would see them, young and in love, roaming the hal s of Dunvegan Castle. Touching the wood-paneled wal s, running her hand along the thick balustrade, Ali felt close to them, a part of their history. Hundreds of years ago they had walked these stairs; laid a hand on the same railing and wal s. Ali snorted, shaking her head at her whimsical musings. Total y out of character for her, she blamed it on jet lag.

“Here you go.” Duncan opened the door with a flourish.

“The laird’s chambers.”

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Debbie Mazzuca

Ali quirked a brow. “Are you sure, Duncan? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t give it another thought. The present day laird doesn’t sleep here, but Rory MacLeod once did. And after my behavior earlier, I thought it the least I can do.”

“Please.” Ali shook her head with a smile. “It was no big deal, but I’m not going to refuse. This is amazing,” she said, stepping into the bedroom.

Duncan set her suitcase beside the four-poster bed. “It’s chil y in here,” he said as he crouched beside the stone fireplace across from the bed. “I’l get a fire going and leave you to freshen up. You can take a wee lie-down if you’d like, Ali. You’re probably tired from your long jour

ney. Afterwards you can join my wife and me for supper and then I’l take you over to the hotel, if you’d like.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble I’d love to.” Her gaze was drawn to the window and the breathtaking view. Dunvegan sat on top of a rocky hil with a rain-swept lake at its feet and cloud-draped hil s beyond.

“There, you’re al set, lass,” Duncan pronounced, rub

bing the soot from his palms onto the sides of his brown corduroy pants before heading for the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ali stripped off her wet clothing. She laid them over the chintz-covered chair, but not before retrieving a white towel from the foot of the bed to protect the obviously expensive piece of fur niture. Everything in the castle looked as though it be

longed in a museum. Ali gave a rueful grin. It was a museum, and if she planned on using her paycheck to pay off her loan, she’d better not damage anything. Settling her suitcase on the big bed with its opulent scar let coverings and mounds of pil ows, Ali flipped it open. She pul ed out a long black T-shirt—her nightwear of choice—

and slipped it over her stil -damp head. Anxious to warm her chil ed bones, Ali walked to the fireplace and sat on a smal

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area rug in front of the roaring blaze. Tugging a brush through her hair, she studied the tapestry that took up most of the white plastered wal on the opposite side of the room. It depicted a battle in al its gruesome glory, and Ali was thankful she hadn’t been born back then—an era when bloodshed was an everyday occurrence, and life, at least in her opinion, held little value.

The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold. Ali couldn’t abide violence of any kind. She turned away from the tapestry, afraid she’d have nightmares if she didn’t. Running her fingers through her hair and finding it dry, Ali walked to the bed and crawled beneath the crisp, cool sheets. She sighed—heavenly. Ali snuggled into the warmth that enveloped her and drifted off to sleep.

“Uhmm,” she murmured when a heavy hand caressed her thigh. Sliding the stretchy fabric over her hips, the man kneaded her bottom, pressing her to his long, powerful body. Ali groaned. This was one dream she didn’t want to wake up from. Al she wanted to do was get rid of the ma

terial that bunched between her and the man in her dreams, Rory MacLeod. It seemed he had the same idea. He tugged the T-shirt over her head, and she lifted her arms to help him. Free from the confines of her nightshirt, she wrapped a leg over his, stroking the taut muscles beneath her hand. A deep, husky voice whispered in her ear words she didn’t understand, but she didn’t care, not with his big hand cupping her breast. Ali arched her back, her body begging for more. She heard a low chuckle, and gasped when he squeezed her breast, tweaking the puckered nipple between strong, cal oused fingers. She nuzzled his chest, inhaling his heady, masculine scent before she lifted her face for a kiss. His mouth closed over hers—hot, so very hot—and he swal lowed her moan of pleasure. His tongue dueled with hers, exploring with a tenacity that left her weak with desire. She 12