Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

“Who has her?” he grated between clenched teeth. Cyril struggled to breathe, his face purple. “Please . . . doona’ kil me.” He gave a strangled cry. Rory shook him. “Tel me and mayhap you’l live.”

“The MacDonald. I sent her to the MacDonald. She . . . she’s his spy. ’Tis where she belongs.”

He released his grip on the sniveling bastard’s tunic, and Cyril dropped with a thud into a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Get him out of my sight.”

Aidan and Cal um grabbed Cyril none-too-gently by the arms. “’Tis yer own fault. Ye left me no choice, Rory MacLeod. Ye were to wed my sister. I wouldna’ had to go to such lengths if ye had stuck to the agreement,” Cyril cried as he was dragged unceremoniously from the hal .

“Get him out of here!” Rory bel owed.

Fergus eyed him. “I ken what yer thinkin’, but you’l do neither the lass nor the clan any good if yer dead, and that’s what you’l be if you go after her on yer own. You have to think this through, lad. The MacDonald wil no’ harm her and wel you ken it. She has the look of Brianna, remem

ber that. She’l have him eatin’ out of the palm of her hand in no time. Mayhap she’l harangue him to death with her opinions on the feud.”

Rory al owed himself a tight smile. The MacDonald wouldn’t give in to her pleas for a truce, of that he was cer tain, but Rory had no doubt she’d try. She was as stubborn as the old fool. Mayhap the MacDonald would get so tired 254

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of her harassing him he’d send her back to Rory without any demands. He gave a derisive snort. It wouldn’t take much for his enemy to recognize the leverage he now held. How he would use her was the question. Ali dropped to her knees beside Lord MacDonald and loosened the laces of his shirt. “Breathe, slow and easy now

—there you go, that’s it.” She rubbed his broad back, ashamed she’d knowingly caused him pain. He might be Rory’s enemy, but the man had lost his daughter, and it was obvious he grieved for her stil . “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something. Given you some warning.”

“Who are ye, lass?” His bright blue eyes drank her in.

“I’m Ali Graham. Cyril MacLean had this man kidnap me and Connor from Dunvegan.” She pointed to Gordie, who stood shifting from one foot to the other behind her.

“Cyril thinks I’m your spy, but al he real y wanted to do was get rid of me so Rory wil marry his sister Moira,” she rambled.

Lord MacDonald touched her hair and a tear slid down his weathered face. Ali gently wiped away the moisture from his cheek, inexplicably drawn to the man. She felt guilty because of it, knowing he was the cause of Rory and his clan’s suffering, but Lord MacDonald suffered, too, and she’d made it worse. Gordie took a step closer. “I doona’ ken what she’s talkin’

aboot. Al I ken is Laird MacLean said ye’d give me coin fer bringin’ her to ye.”

Lord MacDonald slowly drew his gaze to Gordie. The tender look Ali had seen in his eyes turned deadly. If Ali thought Rory looked dangerous, he had nothing on this man, and she prayed he would not skewer her with the same look he now skewered Gordie with. Her captor was quaking in his boots.

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Drawing himself to his ful height, Lord MacDonald’s gaze raked over Ali. “Did he harm ye, lass?”

“Nay . . . no.” Ali shook her head. She wouldn’t have Gordie’s death on her conscience. And if she said yes, she was certain Lord MacDonald would not hesitate to cut him down where he stood.

“I’l see yer compensated on the morrow. Take him.” He jerked his chin at his waiting men. They led Gordie away with Connor staring after them. “Is the lad with ye?”

“Aye . . . yes, Connor was guarding me.”

The older man raised a silver brow as though to say he didn’t do a very good job of it, and Ali felt the need to come to Connor’s defense. “There were two of them. Gordie kil ed Mungo when he threatened me.” Without thinking, Ali’s hand went to the spot on her throat where he’d pierced her with his blade. Eyes wide, Connor’s jaw dropped.

“Good. No mon should harm a woman, no matter what the provocation. Come, yer shiverin’. We’l set ye by the fire. Are ye hungry, lass?” He guided her careful y to the open flame, handling her as though she were a fragile piece of glass. In a language Ali didn’t understand, but had heard often at Dunvegan, he ordered his men about. Within minutes she had a steaming bowl of stew in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. A swath of plaid was draped over her shoulders. Ali was relieved to see that Connor, too, was being treated as a guest.

“So tel me—how did ye come to be at Dunvegan in the first place?”

Ali related the story Fergus had concocted, then went on to tel him about Moira and Cyril MacLean and their ac cusations she was a spy, embel ishing details as she went along. She left out the part about the fairy flag, but told him how Rory sided with the MacLeans and locked her in the tower. She peeked through her lashes at Connor as she 256

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told the story. He didn’t bat an eye, just kept on eating, but Ali thought she saw his mouth twitch. She didn’t know why she babbled on. For some reason Lord MacDonald made her feel she could confide al her worries and her fears to him. “He locked ye in the tower, of al the . . .” he roared, and Ali jumped.

“It’s al right,” she reassured him. “I escaped. It’s how I hurt my ankle.” She lifted the edge of her gown to show him her wrapped foot. The once white linens were now as filthy as the rest of her. The older man slapped his thigh and hooted with laugh

ter. Wiping his eyes, he said, “Ye escaped from the tower, did ye? Wel , yer as brave as ye are bonny, my pet.”

Ali smiled to see the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, glad to take away at least some of the sadness she’d put there earlier.

“And what did the young fool do then?”

“He believed me and brought me back to Dunvegan.”

She flushed under his scrutiny as though he knew exactly what happened next. He stroked his mustache, his voice subdued. “Are ye in love with the mon?”

She hesitated. Rory had been his daughter’s husband and Ali didn’t know how he’d react, but she felt a need to be honest with him and figured she’d already given herself away. “Aye . . . yes, I am.”

He shook his head slowly. “’Twas the same with my Brianna. I didna’ want the match, ye ken, but she wanted no other. No matter how many lads I paraded before her, she always went back to him.”

Ali tried to ignore the pinch in her heart. It never got any easier to hear about the love Rory and Brianna had shared. Although she knew he loved her, too, no one wanted to be second best, and for her, Rory would always be her one true love.

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She cleared her throat. “Why didn’t you want her to marry him?”

“The MacLeods and the MacDonalds were always feudin’ over one thing or another. Ye must ken that, lass.”

“But the feud ended with their marriage. Surely you must have come to like Rory?”

The man looked beyond the fire and his answer came slowly. “Fer the most part. He wears the mantle of respon sibility wel fer al that it was forced upon him at a young age. Mayhap ’tis why he puts his clan above al else. Bri anna thought it was so. She never felt she truly came first in his heart. The day my daughter died the truce between our clans ended.”

Ali’s heart slammed into her throat. Brianna had suf

fered the same doubts she did. Her hope that one day Rory would be able to put her ahead of his clan diminished with each word the man at her side uttered. But she felt a need to defend Rory, and thought maybe she could ease some of Brianna’s father’s sorrow at the same time. “You mustn’t doubt he loved your daughter, Lord MacDonald. I know he did—very much.”