Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

“Is it so bad I have to take both of them?”

“Fer now, but ’twil pass.” His gaze softened as though he sensed how difficult it was for her to have so many of his people despise her.

“No, it won’t, Rory, not if you lose men in the battle. It’l just get worse, and I don’t think I’l be able to . . .” He didn’t understand how hard it was for her to know she would be held to blame, distrusted and disliked. He couldn’t know the painful memories it resurrected.

“Aileanna, we go nowhere with this, and I wil na’ dis

cuss the battle with you.”

“Because you won’t listen, you—” Once more he si

lenced her with a hard kiss.

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“Nay, I won’t, so save yer breath. I have much to do and wil na’ see you until later this eve.”

“Busy planning your war strategies, are you?” As soon as Ali said it she knew she shouldn’t have, but his easy dis missal of her made her angry.

“Aileanna.” His voice was rough, tempered steel.

“Wel , maybe I’l be busy, too. If I’m not in my room . . .”

Her tone was flippant, and she raised a shoulder to make her point. “I’l see you tomorrow.”

Before she could stop him, he had his hand beneath her gown. She gasped when he shoved aside the heavy layers of fabric. “What do you think you’re doing?” she sput

tered, but it didn’t take the heated look in his eyes to tel her what he meant to do, and stil , her struggles were half hearted. Her anger melted along with the rest of her as his fingers caressed the inside of her thigh, grazing her where she was swol en and throbbing for his touch. He teased her. Over and over again, he stroked her slick folds only to trail his fingers back down her thighs. Groan

ing in frustration, she fisted her hands in the sheets, tilting her hips toward him, her body begging for more. He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Nay, mo chridhe, you’l be here waitin’ fer me, of that I’m certain.”

His deep voice caressed her ear, and he twirled his tongue in the delicate whorls. When he plunged his strong fingers deep inside, her hips rose from the bed. “Yer so hot, and wet.” His words brought her to the brink as much as his touch. She bucked against his hand as he increased the tempo of his stroke. “Come fer me, mo chridhe,” he rasped against her ear, putting pressure on her swol en nub. Under his passion-fil ed gaze she shattered, and he swal owed her moans of pleasure.

“Aye, I think you’l be here, doona’ you?” he murmured against her lips before he rose from the bed. 234

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Ali’s face heated. “You’re such a conceited ass, do you know that?”

Rory grinned as he headed for the door. “I doona’ think you’ve cal ed me that one before.” He ducked when she flung a pil ow at him.

Cal um and Connor trailed behind Ali while she hob

bled along the narrow path, leaning on the stick they had provided for her when she insisted on walking instead of riding Bessie. Even with a sprained ankle she was faster than the horse; not that it mattered. It wasn’t like she had any pressing engagements, unless she counted Rory and his promise to love her long and hard tonight. Muscles low in her stomach tightened at the thought, and no matter how much she denied it, she knew she wouldn’t make him wait. It wouldn’t be fair—to her.

Connor took the lead and Cal um brought up the rear. Lost in thoughts of Rory, Ali hadn’t noticed the three men blocking the path until Connor stopped short and she slammed into him. She fought back the urge to run. She wouldn’t get very far, and she’d be damned if she’d let Cyril MacLean think he frightened her. Cal um and Connor wouldn’t let him near her, but the man didn’t need to physi

cal y touch her to hurt her. His words did enough damage on their own.

“Stand aside and let us pass,” Cal um growled. Cyril rol ed his eyes and flicked a handkerchief at his two men. They moved off the path. The cold, condescend

ing look he gave Ali was ful of malice, his upper lip curled in a sneer. His companions leered at her, and she quickly averted her gaze. One was almost as tal as Cal um, but without the muscles. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks; his shaggy, light brown hair fel wel past his shoul

ders, and his teeth when he smiled at her were rotten. His

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sidekick’s head was misshapen, and he barely met his friend’s shoulder. The man licked his lips and palmed his crotch when Ali walked by. She held her breath, afraid their rancid smel would cause her to lose her breakfast.

“Lady Aileanna,” Cyril MacLean’s high-pitched voice cal ed after them. “Are ye off fer a wee walk?”

Ali gave a curt nod without looking at him.

“Best have a care then. The woods can be a verra dan

gerous place and I’m certain Laird MacLeod wouldna’

want anythin’ to happen to ye.”

Her attention diverted, she tripped on a raised tree root and one of his men snickered. She heard Cal um’s heavy footfal s and turned to see him step in front of them. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Cyril raised his hands defensively. “’Twas a friendly warnin’ is al .”

“Take yerself back to the keep and bring yer compan

ions with ye.”

“Now, see here.” Cyril puffed out his chest.

“Laird MacLeod’s hospitality to ye extends only so far, and if ye doona’ want him to send ye packin’, then I’d sug gest ye do as I say.”

Cyril blanched. Motioning for the two men to fol ow him, he headed in the direction of Dunvegan with a minc ing step.

Cal um snorted. “The mon is a bloody peacock.”

“Who were the other two men with him, Cal um?” Ali asked, uncomfortable with how they made her feel. Cal um frowned. “I doona’ ken, but I mean to find out once we get back to the keep. I didna’ like the looks of them.”

Ali shuddered. “Me neither.”

“And I didna’ like the smel of them,” Connor quipped. They walked on in companionable silence. Weak sunlight filtered through the heavy shadows of the pines and the birds flitted happily overhead. Not far from the Chisholms’, 236

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Cal um laid a heavy hand on Ali’s shoulder. When she looked back at him, he put a finger to his lips and jerked his chin toward Connor. Ali tapped Connor on the shoulder and nodded to Cal um. A loud crack rent the air and Connor dove for Ali, pul ing her to the ground. She held up her injured foot, her bottom taking the brunt of her fal .

“Halt,” Cal um cal ed out, placing himself in front of her and Connor. She heard him curse before he said,

“Jamie Cameron, ye get yerself out here now.”

Dragging his feet, the little boy emerged from behind a tree.

Ali released a relieved sigh, al owing Connor to help her to her feet.

“Sorry, my lady. I didna’ hurt ye, did I?” Connor asked, his ears pink.

“No, not at al .” She didn’t want him to feel worse than he obviously did and refrained from rubbing her bruised behind.

“Get yerself over here, lad. Ye’l remain with us until I can take ye to yer mam,” Cal um bel owed at Jamie. The boy kicked a stone. “But I doona’ want to.”

“And I doona’ care. I’m thinkin’ ’tis time yer mother tanned yer wee arse, and mayhap I’l be offerin’ to do it fer her.”

Jamie’s eyes widened.

“Cal um, I’l be awhile. Why don’t you take him to Janet?” she suggested quietly, feeling sorry for the little boy.

“Connor and I wil be fine. You sent Cyril back to Dunvegan, and I think he’s too afraid Rory wil send him home to Moira to be much of a threat.”

The big man looked unconvinced. Ali lowered her voice. “It might help if you spent some time with Jamie, Cal um. I’m sure Janet would appreciate it.”