Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

over his shoulder and make off with her into the night.

“Poppet, ’tis best fer al if this matter is settled.”

Rory heard her sigh, then she turned to meet the older woman’s beseeching gaze. “Al right, Auntie, we’l meet in the salon.”

Auntie? Rory narrowed his gaze on Aileanna. What the bloody hel was she playin’ at?

“Nay, we have guests, Fiona. ’Twould be best if we left this until the morrow, and I’l no’ have this mon anywhere near my daughter.”

Rory thrust his fingers through his hair. “Are you daft, mon? She’s as much yer daughter as I am yer son.”

Aileanna held up her hand. “Father, not another word out of you until we have some privacy.” She tipped her head toward the entrance of the grand hal where a smal crowd gathered.

“Aileanna, you doona’ understand. He’l make our lives a livin’ hel if you continue to let him believe yer his daughter. Doona’ pander to the mon, love.”

Alasdair gave a snort of self-satisfied laughter and clapped Rory a staggering blow to his shoulder. “Welcome to hel , my boy.”

The older woman intervened before Rory could re

spond. “Alasdair, see to yer guests while—” She stopped midsentence, her lips pursed. “After ye’ve put yerself to LORD OF THE ISLES

331

rights, that is. Laird MacLeod, I’l see ye to yer rooms and mayhap a bath would be in order.” She wrinkled her nose, a twinkle in her eyes.

They were mad, the lot of them. Including the bonny mother of his child, whose soft giggle hadn’t escaped his notice. Remembering his manners, Rory brought the woman’s hand to his lips. “’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, Lady Fiona.”

Ali looked up from where she sat, legs curled beneath her on the overstuffed armchair. Her father and Rory, with a matching purple hue surrounding their left eyes, entered the salon together. If the expression on their faces was any thing to go by, it was not by choice.

When her eyes met Rory’s, her breath caught in her throat. His damp hair, pushed back from the chiseled lines of his gorgeous face, brushed the snowy white linen that encased his broad shoulders. The tan suede pants he wore heightened the al ure of his narrow waist and long, mus

cular legs.

As though he sensed the direction of her thoughts, his beautiful mouth curved in a sensual smile. That and the promise in his eyes caused Ali’s stomach to do a slow rol . A commotion behind the men drew her attention. Fiona, fol owed by two young serving girls carrying platters, en

tered the room.

“I thought mayhap ye could use some sustenance, Laird MacLeod.” Fiona smiled at Rory, motioning for the plat ters to be placed on the table behind her. Ali groaned when the smel of roasted meat wafted past her nostrils. Rory strode to her side, a look of concern in his emer

ald eyes. “Are you al right, mo chridhe?” His long, warm 332

Debbie Mazzuca

fingers tipped her chin. She nodded, the intensity of his gaze making it difficult for her to speak. Rory stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“Good.” He crouched beside her, bringing her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry if my words in the garden hurt you, love.

’Twas no’ my intention.”

Her father’s loud grumbling was becoming difficult to ignore. When Fiona elbowed him, he glared at her. “What was that fer? Ye canna’ expect me to stand quietly by while he . . . he tries to seduce my daughter.”

Rory shot to his feet, rounding on her father. “Ye canna’

possibly believe that Aileanna is yer daughter.”

Ali’s nails dug into her palms, afraid of Rory’s reaction when he found out she was a MacDonald, Brianna’s sister.

“Laird MacLeod, please sit.” Her aunt nudged him into a chair opposite Ali. “Alasdair, you, too.” She pointed to a chair a good distance from Rory. “I think ’twould be best if he hears it from ye, poppet.”

“Aileanna, what’s goin’ on here?” Rory’s voice was harsh, edged with steel. Ali swal owed hard. “He’s my father, Rory. No.” She held up a hand to stop his angry protest, then proceeded to tel him al she had learned since the day he had raised what he thought was the fairy flag. Rory shook his head slowly. His mouth opened and closed.

Her father leaned back in his chair, a wide grin splitting his handsome face. “At a loss fer words, lad? ’Tis a wel come change.” Alasdair chortled.

Ali was tempted to smack him.

Rory took a deep swal ow from the goblet of whiskey her aunt had pressed into his hands midway through Ali’s halting explanation. He lifted his gaze to hers. “So, yer Brianna’s twin, then?”

Ali nodded. She looked down at her hands, the crim

LORD OF THE ISLES

333

son velvet twisted through her fingers. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, too afraid of what she’d see there.

“Aye, and now yer free of any guilt ye may have had fer takin’ Aileanna from her time. In truth, ye brought her back to us, and we must thank ye fer that,” her aunt said in an obvious attempt to relieve the tension in the room. Ali held her breath when her father began to mutter about it being because of the MacLeods she’d been stolen away in the first place. But it didn’t appear as if Rory even heard him. He sat, deep in thought. As the silence dragged on, the knots in Ali’s stomach twisted.

“Alasdair,” Fiona said, jerking her chin at Rory, a deter

mined look in her eyes.

Her father left his seat to pace in front of the hearth. Coming to an abrupt halt near Rory’s chair, he shot Fiona a disgruntled look. “It appears, MacLeod, that I have no choice but to give ye my daughter’s hand in marriage. If no’ fer the bairn she carries, I can tel ye I’d no’ let ye near her. I’ve arranged fer the priest to be here on the morrow.”

Rory scrubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head. “Ye ken as wel as I do, Alasdair, I canna’ marry Bri anna’s sister.”

Ali’s heart squeezed. She couldn’t breathe, her worst fears confirmed. Now that he knew who she was, Rory didn’t want her. She choked back a sob. Tears streamed unchecked down her face.

“Aileanna, what is it?” Rory came to her side and gently wiped the moisture from her cheeks.

“You don . . . don’t want to mar . . . marry me anymore,”

she sobbed.

With a tender smile, he took her hands in his. “You doona’ understand, mo chridhe. ’Tis no’—”

“It’s because I’m Brianna’s sister.” She hiccupped. “You can’t love me because . . . because I’m her sister.” Heart broken, Ali cried al the harder.

334

Debbie Mazzuca

“Shh, yer goin’ to make yerself sick, love. Look at me.”

He cupped her face between his roughened palms. “There is nothin’ in this world that would make me stop lovin’

you, mo chridhe. You misunderstood me. ’Twas marryin’

you before a priest that I was speakin’ aboot.”

Ali swiped at her tears. He loved her. The knots in her stomach loosened ever so slightly. “You don’t want a priest to marry us?”

He arched a brow. His deep chuckle rumbled over her.

“As I remember it, you were no’ plannin’ on marryin’ me in the first place.” He tilted his head to look at her. “Are you tel in’ me you’ve changed yer mind?”

She sniffed, then nodded. The thought of losing Rory overrode any of her sil y sensibilities, and they were sil y when she considered how much she loved this man. He stood and pul ed her up along with him. Wrapping her in his arms, he held her close. “Then we’re as good as wed,” he proclaimed with a grin.

“What?” she squeaked, easing out of his arms.

“Aileanna, because yer Brianna’s sister, a priest wil na’