Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

He shrugged, watching as she careful y unraveled the plaid. “I doona’ care—you’l no’ be wearin’ it again.”

“Yes, I wil . I like the colors. They’re pretty.”

“They may be pretty, but they’re the MacDonalds’ colors no’ the MacLeods’.”

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She laid the plaid on the end of her bed, standing before him in only a sheer linen tunic. Her nipples puckered be neath the fabric, ripe for his attention. “I’m not a MacLeod, Rory, and I can wear whatever I want,” she countered with a stubborn jut to her chin.

“Yer mine, and you will be a MacLeod.” He held her in his arms and lifted her off the floor. “Do you ken yer mine, mo chridhe? That I’l never let you go?” Through the light

weight fabric he suckled her taut nipple.

“Yes . . . yes, I know I’m yours,” she groaned, wrapping her legs around his waist. He could feel her warm, wet core through the fabric of his tunic and his cock throbbed. She pressed her breasts tight to his mouth. He fought with his trews while he held her with one hand, needing to be inside her. A sharp rap on the door stayed his hand, and he cursed when he recognized the deep voice cal ing through her door. “Lass, can I have a moment of yer time?”

A look of panic came upon Aileanna’s face and she struggled to get out of his arms. “Put me down . . . put me down,”

she whispered fervently.

“Mayhap I would if you’d unwind yer legs from my waist,” he whispered back, his voice laden with sarcasm. She glared at him, then cleared her throat. “Give me a minute, Alasdair. I’m not quite decent.”

“That’s the truth,” Rory muttered.

She grabbed the plaid from the end of her bed and hastily tried to wrap herself in it. “Hide,” she hissed at him.

“I’m no’ hidin’ in my own keep,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He was your wife’s father, and I’m not going to flaunt that we’re together like . . . like this.” She waved an arm at the bed before her gaze frantical y searched the room.

“Bed . . . under the bed.”

“Coming, Alasdair,” she cal ed out sweetly as she 274

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shoved him toward the bed and tugged at the plaid to cover the wet spot on her tunic.

“You would’ve and so would’ve I,” he muttered to him

self as he crawled beneath the bed.

“Shh!”

He heard her pad across the floor and the door creak open. He couldn’t believe he was hiding from Alasdair MacDonald like a wee lad, but Aileanna was right. He’d not rub the mon’s nose in their relationship.

“Sorry fer disturbin’ ye, my pet, but there’s somethin’

been weighin’ on my mind since we arrived.”

“Come in.” Rory heard the door close and Alasdair’s heavy footfal s as he came into the room.

“Has someone said anything to make you feel unwel

come, because if they—”

Rory rol ed his eyes. Now she protected his enemy.

“Nay . . . nay, ’tis no’ to do with the MacLeods. Get into yer bed. Ye must rest yer wee foot.”

The bed creaked and the toes of Alasdair’s boots stared Rory in the face. He barely resisted the urge to hit them.

“Alasdair, I’m fine,” he heard Aileanna laughingly protest. Rory’s fist came within an inch of the old man’s foot. “Now tel me what’s bothering you. You look upset.”

“Ye ken when I first saw ye I was no’ myself and ye in

troduced yerself as Ali Graham.” She must have nodded because Alasdair continued. “But upon our arrival I heard Rory refer to ye as Aileanna. Why is that?”

“That’s my name. Ali is short for Aileanna. Alasdair . . . Alasdair, what is it?”

The man staggered and Aileanna must have made him sit down because the bed dipped, and Rory now faced the heels of Alasdair’s boots.

“Ye remember how I told ye Brianna had a sister, a twin?

Her name was Aileanna. Nay, doona’ look at me like that. Ye ken wel enough how much ye look like Brianna, but even

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more ye have the look of my wife. Ye have her ways, too, and yer name—’tis too much to be only a coincidence.”

Rory sucked in a pained breath and nearly choked on the dust beneath the bed. He brought his hand to his mouth. Alasdair MacDonald had his faults, but he’d lost much and handled it better than most. Rory didn’t wish him to suffer further, and he knew how difficult it would be on Aileanna. But she wouldn’t lie to the man, even if it was to ease his pain. She was honest and compassionate, and somehow he knew Aileanna would find a way to re lieve Alasdair’s disappointment.

“Alasdair, you have to believe me when I tel you there is nothing I’d like more than to be your daughter, but I’m afraid I’m not.” She paused, and Rory could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she planned out her wee story. It was not as if she could tel him the fairies had stolen her from her own time. “I told you I never met my father, and that’s the truth, but my mother spoke of him often. She said he was from . . . from England, and he had . . . red hair . .

. red like an apple, and . . .”

Bloody hell, Rory thought. She’s rambling again.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Alasdair.” Rory heard the raw emotion in her voice and he thought she was just as disappointed as Alasdair, even though she’d know there was no way the old man could be her father. Rory had sensed when she spoke to him about her life that she’d missed out on having a family, and it had left her deeply scarred. It was something he hoped to rectify by making her his wife, part of his clan.

“Nay, ’twas only the hopes of an old man. I’m sorry, Aileanna. Ye get some rest now, lass, and I’l see ye later.”

He heard Aileanna sniff, and groaned inwardly. There was nothing he hated more than when she cried.

“Now, I didna’ mean to make ye weep. Dry yer eyes—

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there ye go. Doona’ worry, my pet, I’l be fine. I’l see myself out.”

At the sound of the door closing, Rory began dragging himself from beneath the bed. When it slowly creaked open again, he cursed inwardly and scrambled back to his hiding place, cracking his head on the rail as he did.

“Aileanna?”

“Yes?” She sniffed.

“I’m thinkin’ yer in need of a father, seein’ as how yer tangled up with the MacLeods. And since ye have the look and name of one of my own, I’m goin’ to be lookin’ to ye as though ye are. If that’d be al right with ye.”

“Yes . . . yes, that would be wonderful.”

No . . . no, it won’t! Rory silently banged his head on the floor.

“Good, ’tis settled then. And, Aileanna, tel the lad I ken he’s under the bed and I expect to see him in the salon mo mentarily.” With that said, the old meddler slammed the door. Rory stood, rubbing his head. “What do you think yer doin’ tel in’ him he can stand in fer yer father? Do ye no’

ken what that mon wil put me through?”

She shrugged. “It made him happy, and I think it wil be nice to have someone stand up for me.”

He snorted. “As if you canna’ stand up fer yerself. And if you couldna’, Fergus, Iain, and Mrs. Mac would be quick to do so.”

“I know, and now I have Alasdair, too. It won’t be so bad, Rory. Can’t you humor him, just a little?”

He looked at Aileanna, her bonny eyes shining, and thought if it pleased her, the least he could do was try. If she could bring a little joy to the MacDonald’s life, so be it. “I’l no’ make any promises, but fer now we’l let it be, as long as you remember yer no’ a MacDonald, yer a MacLeod.”