Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

wil take place before Michaelmas. I have a verra busy social calendar and—”

Rory was quick to cut her off. “I think settin’ a date is pre

mature considerin’ yer niece and I are no’ betrothed as yet.”

“But . . . but I thought—” the older woman sputtered, looking askance at her niece. “Moira, ye said—”

Moira, face flushed, rounded on him. “How could ye . . . how could ye do this to me, Rory? Cyril, ye must speak to him. I wil na’ be treated in such a manner.”

Her brother tugged at the col ar of his tunic. “Ah, Rory . . . I think mayhap ye owe Moira an apology.”

Rory sighed heavily. “The meal is bein’ served, Cyril. I doona’ ken aboot you, but I’m starvin’. We’l discuss the matter later.”

“Good . . . good. See, poppet, al wil be wel . Dry yer eyes now, that’s a good lass.”

Rory thanked one of the serving girls who placed a plat

ter of pork in front of him. He turned at his cousin’s snort of laughter. “Got yerself in a fix now, cousin. ’Twil be in terestin’ watchin’ ye maneuver yer way out of this one.”

“There’s no way out of it, Aidan, and you ken it as wel as I. We need their men.” Rory kept his voice low so only his cousin would hear him. Not that Moira who sat beside him paid him any mind. At the moment she was too busy being coddled by her brother. Rory began to think the man would join them in their marriage bed given his druthers. Aidan rubbed his forehead. “I wil be the first to admit things would go easier if we were tied to the MacLeans, but I’l no’ have ye sacrifice yerself to obtain it. I didna’ ken ye had no interest in the lass, Rory. And if I had thought there was another, I wouldna’ have pressed fer the match as I did.”

“There is no other,” Rory said. As though to make a liar 158

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of him, his eyes sought out Aileanna, who conversed with one of the serving girls. He smiled as the two of them shared a laugh.

“Of course no’, I can see that.” Aidan grinned. “Ye make a poor liar, Rory.” He brought his ale to his lips, shaking his head. “I’d no’ give up on that one so easily if I were ye.”

He tipped his chin in Aileanna’s direction. “Like the high

lands, she is. Wild and passionate, strong and brave. Like us. She’d be yer match, Rory Mor. Mark my words.”

His cousin’s sentiments rang true, and a dul ache built in his chest. Aidan spoke as though Rory had a choice. But if he did not do everything in his power to provide al they needed to battle the MacDonald and the adventurers, his clan’s blood would stain the ground and turn the waters red. And that he could not live with.

“How much ale have you imbibed? Was it no’ you who accused her of bein’ a spy?”

“Nay.” His cousin waved him off. “She’s no more a spy than ye or me.”

Moira tugged on his sleeve to gain his attention and Aidan waggled his brows at him. “I’ve missed ye, cousin. I’d forgotten how amusin’ life is at Dunvegan.”

“I’m glad we’re keepin’ you entertained,” Rory drawled as he turned to the woman at his side. “What is it, Moira?”

She looked surprised by his tone. “I . . . I only thought mayhap ye have a toast to make.”

“Aye, I’l do that now.” He banged his empty goblet on the table to gain the crowd’s attention and rose to his feet.

“’Tis time fer a toast, my friends.” Rory noted the smiles that greeted his words and the knot in his gut tightened. They expected an announcement he was not yet prepared to deliver. His gaze shifted to Aileanna, and her face paled as she stared up at him. If she wanted him as much as he did her, and his eventual decision would hurt her, it LORD OF THE ISLES

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would tear him apart. He closed his mind to the thought, unwil ing to entertain the idea.

“First, a toast to Cook and the lasses who provided us with such a fine meal.” Metal clanged and cheers resonated through the hal , but al Rory could see was Aileanna smil

ing at him, a beautiful wide smile that could bring a man to his knees.

“And to Mrs. Mac and the lasses fer al their hard work. The keep is a-shinin’ thanks to you ladies.” Rory was tempted to include Aileanna for al that she’d done, but didn’t think he could cope with Moira’s hysterics if he did. And there were those who would condemn Aileanna for her actions, and she’d suffered enough for one day. Cyril cleared his throat. The third time he did so, Rory turned to offer him a drink, but the man once again jerked his head toward his sister. Oh, for the love of God. “And to Lady MacLean, who did such a fine job overseein’ everythin’.” The crowd hesitated before breaking into their cheers, obviously expecting more. Rory sat down heavily, his duty done for the night.

Moira’s aunt leaned across her nephew in an attempt to catch his eye. “Laird MacLeod . . . Laird MacLeod.” She raised her voice when Rory continued to ignore her. He sighed and turned his attention to her.

“With al my niece has accomplished, ye must think she’d make a fine lady of Dunvegan.”

“I’m certain she would.” He offered the woman a tight smile, leaning back in his chair so Mrs. Mac could refil his mug. Bending over him, she tipped the pitcher and the ale splashed into his lap. Mrs. Mac clapped a hand to her mouth.

Rory cursed.

She tsked. “Och, now, look what I’ve gone and done.

’Tis sorry I am, my laird. My only excuse bein’ I’m a wee bit tired.” She fought back a smile. 160

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His cousin was having a mighty fine laugh at his expense, as were Iain, Fergus, and Aileanna. Rory grabbed the linen before Mrs. Mac could dab at his lap. “I can see to it on my own, thank you,” he said while he tried to sop up the ale.

“You doona’ have to be fashed, Laird MacLeod. I was only tryin’ to help.” She sniffed and walked away, head held high.

“I’m certain you were,” Rory muttered under his breath.

“Rory, ye shouldna’ al ow yer help to speak to ye that manner. When I . . .”

Moira let the last of her statement trail off, and Rory wasn’t about to fol ow up on it. He’d had enough of emo tional women for one day.

A ful moon shone down from the clear night sky. The luminous bal lit Ali’s way along the path Cal um had told her led to the loch. She glanced over her shoulder. In the distance, lights twinkled at Dunvegan, giving the castle a fairy-tale appeal, but at the moment Ali didn’t care; she was simply glad her absence had gone unnoticed. As she came closer to the loch the sweet cloverlike scent was re

placed by the salty tang of sea air. A cool breeze drifted off the water to lift the hair from her shoulders. A deep sense of peace washed over Ali, and she quickened her pace, eager to sit at the water’s edge, to be lul ed by the gentle ebb and flow of the tide.

Fol owing the moon’s path, Ali paid little attention until a hulking shadow rose up from beside the rocky outcrop that lined the loch, dark and menacing, like the monsters from her childhood nightmares. A panicked scream cur dled in her throat, but before she could let it loose, a famil

iar voice said, “Aileanna, what are you doin’, lass?”

She let out a relieved sigh. “Rory?” She squinted, and he stepped from the shadows. His hair was as dark as the LORD OF THE ISLES

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night sky and his face as beautiful. More like a fairy-tale prince than a monster. Rory looked up at her, his white linen shirt bil owing in the breeze, dark brown suede pants molded to his thick, muscular thighs. “Let me help you.” He placed his hands at her waist and lifted her easily over the rocks to his side. His gaze focused on her, he said, “You didna’ answer my ques