Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

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murmuring, “I’m sorry you suffered, and I doona’ mean to make you suffer further, but I canna’ send you back.”

“You can . . . but you won’t.”

He stood at the side of the bed and looked down at her.

“Mayhap you’l feel better once you have something to eat. I’l have Mrs. Mac fix you a plate.”

She was starved. But she wasn’t a man, and if he thought he’d soften her up by feeding her, he was sadly mistaken.

“Aileanna.” He gave her a pointed look, his hand on the handle of the door. “The flag is no longer in my room, but even if it was, lass, it would do you no good. The magic only works if a MacLeod waves the flag.”

“You’d think someone could’ve told me that before,” she muttered.

She heard his husky laughter as he left the room and threw a pil ow, hitting the back of the door instead of him. Ali swung her legs over the edge of the bed and cursed. Her foot—she’d forgotten. She brought the candle from the bedside table and held it so she could examine her leg, noticing her bloodied fingers as she did. Her ankle was swol en to twice its size. She blew out a frustrated breath. It was obvious she wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. At the end of Rory’s bed she noted the linens piled on the battered wooden trunk. Unable to reach them, she grabbed ahold of the carved wooden post and groaned; every muscle ached, protesting the movement. Gritting her teeth, she hopped on one foot, then bent down to pick up the piece of cloth. Back in the comfort of Rory’s big bed, Ali dipped the fabric in the pitcher of water. Wringing it out, she wrapped it around her ankle and propped her foot on a pil ow. Anx

ious to inspect her injuries, she hiked the chemise to her thighs to check on her knees. Obviously Mrs. Mac had cleaned her up as wel as changed her. Only a smal amount of dried blood was visible on her skinned knees. 200

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Her stomach grumbled as she dabbed at the scrapes with the other cloth. Maybe she would feel better if she had something to eat, especial y if it was Mrs. Mac or Mari who kept her company instead of Rory. Looking up at the sound of metal clanging against metal, she saw Rory, framed in the door. The flickering light from the torches in the hal cast him in shadows—

a hardened warrior, the man she’d fal en hopelessly in love with, a man who tore her heart from her chest and flung it aside. She was too tired, too vulnerable to deal with him.

“Thank you, you can leave it over there.” She pointed to the table that stood by the fireplace. Rory hesitated before coming into the room, and she quickly realized what held his attention. Hastily, she pushed the shift over her knees.

He cleared his throat. “I doona’ think ’tis a good idea fer you to be walkin’ aboot,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of her foot.

“No, it’l be fine. I’l —” She sent her eyes heavenward when he ignored her and strode to the bed. “Do you ever listen to what anyone says?”

“Nay.” He smiled. “You ken I’m right, Aileanna. Yer in no condition to be leavin’ the bed.”

“I did just fine, thank you very much.” She gestured to her foot. “I real y do appreciate you bringing me some thing to eat, but you can—”

The bed creaked under his weight when he sat beside her. He took the bowl and set it on his lap, dipping a wooden spoon into what looked like stew with dark gravy. Ali’s eyes widened. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m feedin’ you. Look at yer hands, lass. They’re a mess. You’l no’ be able to do it on your own.” He brought the spoon to her mouth.

Glaring at him, she shook her head and pressed her lips together.

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He frowned. “I doona’ think I’ve met anyone as stubborn as you.”

“I’m . . . ugh—” The second her mouth opened, he shoved the spoon inside.

“Yer a verra messy eater,” he said as he dabbed at her chin with the edge of the linen.

“I wouldn’t be if . . . Oh, my God, you are the most in

furiating man I’ve ever met,” she cried when he managed to get another spoonful into her mouth.

“You canna’ win with me, so be a good lass and eat yer dinner.”

Five minutes later, Rory gave her a satisfied smile.

“There, that wasna hard,” he said as she finished the last of the stew.

“It was good. Thank you,” she admitted grudgingly as he returned the bowl and spoon to the bedside table. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Aye, I’l leave you be in a moment. Mrs. Mac sent some salve fer yer bruises and to take the ache from yer muscles.”

Ali narrowed her gaze on the smal pot he held in his big hand, recognizing the scent of fragrant herbs with a hint of animal fat as a formula she and Mrs. Mac had recently come up with. They had been combining their knowledge of herbs to create medicines for the clan, but it was diffi

cult with no refrigeration, and the concoctions had to be made almost daily. “If you think I’m going to let you put that on me, you have a few screws loose.”

Rory raised a brow at her. “Aidan was right—yer speech is verra interestin’, but at least I ken why. Now, be a good lass and turn on yer side.”

Ali crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him.

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe Mrs. Mac sug

gested you were to put that on me.”

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He grinned. “Aye, she did. You canna’ do it yerself, Aileanna. You have open wounds on yer hands. It wil sting.”

“I’m tough.” She motioned for him to give her the pot of cream.

His gaze softened. “Aye, you’ve told me that before.”

She closed her eyes, damning the tears that threatened at the memory of when she’d said those exact words to him.

“Let me do this fer you. I promise, I’l be gentle.”

That’s what she was afraid of. “It’s al right. Mrs. Mac can do it for me.”

“They’re al abed, lass,” he murmured, scooping a smal amount of cream onto his fingers. Despite her protests he began to massage it into her arm. His hands were warm and strong. Holding the strap of her shift aside he worked his way from the top of her shoulder, down to her wrist. Careful y he lifted her hand and brought it into the light from the candle, his fingers tracing the bones. “The other night I hurt you when I grabbed you here.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to the inside of her wrist, his eyes never leaving hers. Her mouth went dry and she didn’t dare speak—she didn’t think she could. Her heart hammered in her chest. He lowered her hand and scooped more of the salve onto his fingers to massage the other arm in a slow, sensual motion. Her eyes fluttered closed, his gentle touch a form of exquisite torture. She wanted to feel those powerful hands al over her. He pressed his lips to her other wrist and murmured an apology. She prayed he was finished as much as she prayed he’d just begun. Rory leaned over and lifted her hair away from her shoulders. “Rol on yer side, mo chridhe.” His words came out deep and gravel y against her ear. She couldn’t protest—it felt too good. He skimmed a knuckle along her cheek and down her arm. The bed creaked when he stood and gently cradled her foot with his hand while he urged her

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onto her side with the other. Placing another pil ow between her calves, he propped her injured foot on top. The weight of his body settled in behind her as the mat

tress dipped. His fingers worked at the delicate buttons at the back of her shift. Before she realized what he had done, the fabric drifted apart and the whole of her back was ex