Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

mouth. Cup her breasts in his hands, knead them, taste every sweet inch of her. His cock throbbed in the tight confines of his trews, begging to be released, to drive into her. He had to get out of there, but as he turned to go the door inexplicably slammed closed. Aileanna emerged from beneath the water, eyes squeezed shut. Her long hair formed a curtain over her breasts; only her nipples peeked through, pebbled, primed for his attention.

“Oh, thank goodness, Mari, I’ve got soap in my eyes. Hand me a towel, please.”

Rory couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to her, a pul too great to deny, like a raging thirst needing to be quenched. She rose from the tub and stood but a breath away, so beautiful, so ripe. He could touch her if he dared. Trail his finger alongside the bead of water that dripped from the tip of a rosy bud over her flat stomach to rest in the silky curls at the juncture of her thighs. His fingers itched to stroke her there, to dip inside her moist velvet heat and make her moan in pleasure. Soft sounds he had heard her murmur once before, and had never forgotten. His breathing grew ragged, and his hand hovered above his stiff cock. She reached out blindly and Rory picked up the towel ing from the floor and placed it in her outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” she said as she brought it to her face. “Tel me, has his highness stopped his ranting and raving?” Her words were muffled behind the toweling.

“He has,” he said, his voice thick and low. Ali squealed. Her feet slipped as she tried to leap from the tub holding the towel in front of her. The soap blurred her vision, but she didn’t need her sight to know it was him. His deep smooth voice, his clean masculine scent, and the tingle of awareness she always felt whenever he was in the same room left her with no doubt it was Rory. Big hands, cal oused and strong, gripped her upper LORD OF THE ISLES

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arms to steady her. “Let go.” She pounded on his chest as he hauled her from the tub.

“Shh, lass, you doona’ want to draw a crowd.” His heated breath caressed her ear.

“Why? Because they’d find out their laird spies on women while they bathe?” Her face flamed with the knowledge he’d watched her. The huge bulge pressed tight against her stomach told her so.

“How . . . how long were you standing there?”

Rory exhaled a shaky breath. “Too long. Give me a moment, Aileanna, and I wil apologize as I should.” He didn’t let her go. He took several long, deep breaths and then released her. Taking a step back from her, he ran his fingers through his wavy black hair.

“Close your eyes,” she demanded. He locked his gaze with hers, and Ali’s fingers tightened on the towel that barely covered her naked, damp body from the hunger that glittered in his heavy-lidded gaze.

“Please,” she groaned, afraid if he looked at her like that much longer she’d forget her earlier anger and drop the towel. Give in to the desire to feel his rough hands caress her naked flesh. With determination she pushed the image aside, remind

ing herself of the apology he’d demanded of her earlier, of the risk he took with her safety by not defending her against Moira MacLean’s accusations, and most damning of al —

the fact he intended to marry that woman. No matter how much she wanted him, it would never be enough. She would be nothing more than a means to slake his desire. Ali padded across the floor to the foot of the bed and slipped the delicate chemise she’d laid out before her bath over her head. She wrapped her arms around her waist and turned to face him. Her cheeks heated. “I asked you to close your eyes. Damn you, Rory. For once couldn’t you behave like a gentleman?”

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“I told you, I’m no gentleman, lass.” His voice was rough and he took a step toward her. “Sweet Jesu’ but yer beautiful, Aileanna. I—”

“No . . . no, don’t say anything else. Please, just leave.”

She held up her hand to keep him at bay, her knees weak

ening at the look he raked her body with, wel aware the fine white fabric did little to conceal her from him. With a jerky nod of his head he turned away and strode toward the door.

She cleared her throat. “Rory, what was it you wanted?”

He leaned his forehead against the door and said, “I doona’ remember.”

Chapter 13

Moira’s incessant chatter came to an abrupt end and Rory breathed a sigh of relief, until he saw what drew her attention from him. It was Aileanna, preparing to take her seat by his brother. The image of her in her bath as she rose from the water with pearls of moisture beaded on her lumi

nescent skin, her lush curves, stirred his desire as fiercely as it had only hours before. He pul ed his gaze from her and drew a deep swal ow of his ale in an effort to quench his growing lust.

“Lady Aileanna, ye wil take a seat at one of the other tables. My kin wil be requirin’ that one.” Moira gave an imperious wave of her bejeweled hand. The hard edge in her usual y sweet tone took Rory aback as much as the request.

Iain rose stiffly from his chair and gal antly offered Aileanna his arm. He led her from the dais, her cheeks stained a bright pink. His brother glared at him. Seconds later, he heard Fergus mutter under his breath before his chair scraped across the floor and he too strode from the table.

“Oh my, I didna’ mean for Iain and Fergus to leave as wel . I just couldna’ constitute that woman sitting there as though it was her God given right, after what she said to 156

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me.” Moira’s tinted lips pinched into a thin line. Her gaze narrowed to where Iain seated Aileanna; then he and Fergus each took a place beside her. “I hope ye didna’

mind, Rory.” Patting his hand, she batted her lashes at him.

“I do mind, Moira. ’Tis no’ yer right to decide who is seated at my table and who is no’.” Anger reverberated in his voice, and it took everything he had not to ask her to leave. To shout from the rafters that there would be no union

—his clan be damned. But he couldn’t do it; his loyalty, his sense of responsibility was too deeply ingrained. Moira squeezed her eyes shut and a solitary tear trick

led down her cheek. “I’ve made ye angry. I didna’ mean to upset ye, Rory, but ye must understand my reasons. I canna’ believe ye expect me to have her at the same table after what she said.” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “’Tis too much for me to abide.” Her brother handed her a hand

kerchief and she dabbed at her eyes, sniffling.

“Doona’ worry, pet, I’m certain the last thing Rory would want is to have ye upset.” Cyril who sat on the other side of his sister looked at Rory over her bowed head and jerked his chin in her direction as though he expected him to offer her some measure of comfort, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He grew tired of pandering to her tender sensibilities.

He brought the goblet to his lips, studying Aileanna over the rim. As though she sensed his perusal, she looked at him and held his gaze with hers. Strong and defiant, Aileanna would bend to no one, but she was mistaken if she thought he did not know that beneath her beautiful, tough exterior lay a heart that could be broken as easily as anyone else’s. Rory offered her a silent salute with his goblet. Her mouth curved in a slight smile, and she tipped her own in his direction.

“Rory, my aunt was askin’ ye a question,” Moira chided him.

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“I’m sorry, what was that, my lady?” He leaned forward and addressed the sharp-nosed female who sat beside Cyril.

“I was just wonderin’, Lord MacLeod, if the weddin’