Highlander Untamed Read online

  As was true of all Highland clans, the MacLeods were clearly divided into two groups: those who fought and those who tilled the land or tended the livestock. Feuding and foraying were a way of life for the warriors of the clan. When idle, they practiced their fighting skills or devised organized trials of strength and skill. As a girl, Isabel had loved to watch the MacDonald warriors go through their exercises. There was nothing quite like watching Highlanders demonstrate their impressive strength and prowess with a claymore.

  Isabel turned the corner and stuttered in midstep. The warm salty air heavy with the toil and pungent scent of well-worked bodies enveloped her senses, but it was her eyes that were fixed on the display before her. A group of half-naked men stood in a circle, cheering on a pair of fierce combatants. It wasn’t the lack of clothing that startled her. The MacDonalds also practiced without their saffron shirts on warm days. Rather, it was one broad, tanned, tightly muscled chest in particular.

  At the center—figuratively and literally—was Rory MacLeod.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him, mesmerized by the raw masculinity of his bare chest. He could have been cut from stone; there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on him. The sun highlighted the hard, chiseled edges of his muscles. A thin sheen of perspiration made his body glisten like a bronze statue. His shoulders and arms were as thick and hard as granite, tapering to a flat stomach banded in tight layers. Very little hair marred the clean bronzed lines of his broad torso. The tops of his shoulders were burnished red from the sun, and the veins in his thick forearms bulged from the exertion of the sword practice.

  But it was not merely his powerful form that captured her admiration. His strength and prowess were utterly magnificent to behold as he took command of the warriors around him. One by one, his men entered the circle to take a turn at their champion. Rory thrust and parried, lifting the enormous sword as if it were no heavier than a feather. She recognized the claymore he wielded at once as the one she’d noticed hanging on the wall in the great hall, proving that it wasn’t merely decoration or fodder for boasting of the great strength of some illustrious ancestor. His arms flexed as he fought off the blows, though he made it seem effortless.

  He was a pillar of strength, immovable and unbending. Isabel didn’t think she’d ever get used to his size. Yet there was a sensuality to Rory’s movements, a grace that belied his muscular form.

  Whether inexperienced or experienced, the MacLeod treated each challenger with respect, relaying instructions as he deftly moved his opponent on the defensive. Not once did he grow impatient. Nor did he merely toy with his opponent as an opportunity to display his skills. He adjusted his approach with each man, finding a particular weakness and training the man first to identify it and second to conquer it. As the game continued, the relative skill of his opponent increased. But rather than tire, the MacLeod only seemed to grow stronger. Finally it was Alex’s turn.

  The two men circled each other, as if gladiators in an arena of ancient Rome. Engaged in their deadly dance, they moved with the pride of lions. Alex attacked first, the crash of steel on steel ringing in Isabel’s ears. At first she thought they were evenly matched, but as the game drew on, it looked as if Alex held the edge. Alex had Rory on the defensive, backing him to the wall of the battlements.

  She didn’t understand it when Rory smiled. “Very impressive, little brother,” he said, breathing hard. “You’ll force me to use my right.”

  Isabel gasped when he switched hands. She hadn’t noticed, but Rory had been using his left hand the whole time—and he was right-handed.

  Rory must have heard her because he turned to look at her, suffering a knock of Alex’s claymore on his shoulder for his distraction.

  “Damn,” he swore, rubbing his shoulder. He didn’t look pleased to see her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—I wish to discuss something with you, my lord,” she stammered shyly. “In private, if you please.”

  As she spoke, Isabel took a tentative step closer. She broke her stare and looked over his shoulder at the men who had gathered around to follow the exchange. Though perhaps only forty men were present today, she knew that his warriors numbered about four hundred—a considerable force, larger than her father’s and not much smaller than Sleat’s. He hadn’t introduced her to any of his men, but she had discovered some of their names. Rory was most often with Alex and two of his luchd-taighe guardsmen, Colin and Douglas.

  They made an imposing foursome. With his white blond hair and the pointed marquisotte beard, Colin had the look of a Viking. And with the perpetual frown he wore, a very angry Viking. She remembered Douglas from his short visit to court. He’d caused quite a stir with his untamed dark good looks and brusque Highland manners. He was quiet, but not shy. A man of few words. The ladies at court were intrigued by both his savage good looks and the exciting air of wildness that seemed to surround him. She recalled hearing that he was a cousin to Rory and Alex.

  “As you can see, I’m busy right now,” he said abruptly.

  “Please, it’s important.”

  “It will have to wait—”

  He seemed poised to deny her request when Alex interrupted.

  “Surely you can attend your bride for a few minutes, Rory. We were just about finished here, weren’t we?”

  Rory glared at his grinning brother. With obvious unwillingness, he lifted a dark eyebrow to Isabel and reluctantly accepted her invitation. “It seems I may have a few minutes to spare,” he said sarcastically, tossing his claymore to Alex.

  Rory pointed in the direction of the battlements. “Would you care to stroll around the courtyard while you talk?”

  Before the words had even left his mouth, he started to move away. Taken aback by his lack of gallantry, she followed, practically running as she tried to keep up with his much longer strides. He led her toward the battlements along the coastline. Well, she thought, catching her breath, at least the view from behind was every bit as impressive as the naked chest she had admired earlier. His back was equally tanned and well muscled, narrowing at the waist above a tight backside. He strode forward with the assurance of one who was born to lead—the unqualified authority of his ancestors trailing behind him. Even if she did not know he was chief, the pride of his carriage left no doubt.

  Rory finally stopped at a point overlooking the sea loch and allowed her to catch up. He gazed pensively out past the curtain walls to the loch beyond. Small, feathery lines around his eyes shone stark white against his tanned skin as he squinted into the sun. He looked so content that Isabel almost hesitated to intrude. Her shoulder grazed his shirtless side as she moved next to him, wondering what had captured his interest.

  Ignoring the flutter in her stomach from the touch of his skin and the hypnotic scent of sun, sweat, and a hint of heather that filled her nose, she turned her eyes to follow his gaze, sucking in her breath in awe at the splendor unfolded beneath them. The jagged, rocky coast shimmered like polished stone against the teal blue waves capped with delicate white froth that marched in flawless symmetry toward the shore. The juxtaposition of the deep teal blue of the sea against the clear azure sky was breathtaking. It seemed unreal, as if she were looking at a painting where the colors were too vivid, too sharp, too perfect. It was simply beautiful.

  Notwithstanding the stunning display of natural beauty before them, the pronounced silence was awkward. He was obviously waiting for her to speak.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your training. I hope I have not ruined your practice.” Isabel paused, waiting for a polite response.

  He looked at her blankly.

  When no assurance was forthcoming, she shuffled her slipper-clad feet nervously beneath his hard, penetrating gaze.

  Try compliments, she reminded herself. “Your sword skills are quite remarkable. I enjoyed watching you practice with your men.”

  He shrugged.

  “I couldn’t believe it when you switched hands. I’ve never seen anything like it. It must h
ave taken you years of practice to master using both hands.”

  “Yes.”

  So much for compliments. This was like talking to a stone wall. “I have some experience with a blade myself,” she offered casually, “though I’m better with a bow.” Trying to get the attention of three brothers did have some benefits.

  He stared at her, his shock patent. “You are serious?”

  She met his gaze with a proud tilt of her chin. “Perfectly.”

  He gave her a quick glance up and down. “You look like you could barely lift a sword.”

  “I’m stronger than I look,” she said, standing a little straighter.

  Now he looked amused. “And what use could a wee lass have for swordplay?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  He shook his head, looking as though he wanted to laugh. Isabel fought to control her temper, but she was used to such masculine condescension from her brothers. It had only made her work harder.

  “And your father approved of this unusual pastime?”

  “You’re making a nuisance of yourself, lass. You’re brothers need to practice.”

  Isabel hated that word, nuisance. She heard it enough. “But I just want—”

  “Your mother was a real lady. You must be as well.”

  But Isabel was ten years old and she didn’t want to be a lady. She wanted to play with her brothers.

  “Not at first,” she admitted. Never. “But I believe he saw the wisdom in a woman learning how to defend herself.” She hoped.

  “Well, you’ve no need of that while you are here,” he said. “I will protect you. And my warriors do not have the time to waste on child’s play.”

  Isabel bit back her pert reply, but his attitude set her teeth on edge. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask whether I could arrange some short hunting excursions—”

  He crossed his arms. She tried not to stare, but the display of muscles made her feel slightly warm and fuzzy all over. “No.”

  His terse denial surprised her. Her eyes shot to his face. “Why not? I believe hunting is a suitable activity for a ‘wee lass.’” And it would do much to relieve her boredom.

  “It’s much too dangerous.”

  “I would have an escort—”

  “I said no.”

  He was being unreasonable. But now was not the time to argue, so she fumed silently.

  “Was there a reason you wanted to speak with me?” he asked impatiently, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere than standing here with her.

  Isabel thought quickly. “Yes, I would like to make a few minor changes to our chamber to make the room more comfortable, and I thought it best that I seek your permission before I did so. Even though,” she couldn’t resist adding, “you spend so little time there.” An unmistakable trace of reproach colored her voice as she glanced at his stern face from under her long eyelashes—implicitly offering him a chance to explain their sleeping arrangements. But he didn’t take the bait. “I assume that you want me to take over the duties of chatelaine. If you could direct me to the appropriate person, as I do not know who is currently administering the castle—”

  “You need not worry about that.” He cut her off. “My sister Margaret has handled those duties for the last two years.” He looked at her grimly. “Since her return to Dunvegan.”

  Isabel blanched, instantly realizing her error. She should have guessed that his sister would be acting as mistress, and now her innocent reminder of her family connection to his sister’s disgrace had ignited his anger. But it was easy to forget Margaret’s presence at the castle, as she had not even been introduced to her. It was an omission that she would have to remedy.

  “Of course your sister should remain chatelaine. I’m sorry, as I have yet to meet Margaret, I didn’t realize. Should I address my requests to make some changes to the chamber to her?” Even though she asked politely, Isabel knew that by all rights she should be insulted—his refusal to bestow the position that was her due as his bride was a serious affront. She was the new mistress, and as such she should have the duties of chatelaine. Her smooth features betrayed nothing of her feelings, but suppressing her natural propensity for argument was more difficult than she had anticipated.

  He was obviously displeased by her request. “Tonight, Eoin Og O’Muireaghsain will entertain us with his verse of the history of the clan. I will ask that Margaret sit with us for the evening meal.”

  “Wonderful.” She couldn’t hide the eagerness from her voice.

  “Was there anything else?”

  She twisted her hands. He certainly wasn’t making this easy on her. “I’d hoped that we would be able to spend some time together to get to know each other,” she ventured.

  “Why?”

  Was he serious? She bit back a sarcastic retort, tamping down the flicker of anger. She was trying to make him fall in love with her, after all. She must do her best to be charming and complacent, even if it killed her. “It just seemed natural that we would get to know each other since we are recently handfasted.”

  “I’m very busy, Isabel. You must know that as chief I have responsibilities and duties that require my attention. We take meals together, what more can you require? I assumed, as the daughter of a chief, you would understand the limited time I have to engage in mere frivolity.”

  Mere frivolity! The arrogance of this man was beyond compare. So much for compliments and platitudes. This conversation was not progressing at all as she had hoped. Her mind raced, searching for what had gone wrong. Perhaps he misunderstood her intent.

  She reached out and touched his arm imploringly, her fingers momentarily shocked by the heat of his bare skin. He was just as hard and strong as she’d anticipated. She could feel the power radiating under her fingertips. She noticed that the hairs on his arms stood up at her touch, almost as if she chilled him.

  “I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply that I am not familiar with the demands upon your time. Indeed, my father is a very busy man and did not spend much time with me—I mean us,” she corrected hastily, “as busy as he was with his duties at Strome Castle. It’s just that I have not had much company other than Bessie this last month, and I was hoping you might spare a few minutes to show me around.”

  Rory lifted a dark arched brow. “I am not a nursemaid and did not realize that you would require one.”

  Isabel felt her cheeks grow hot with indignation. “Well, perhaps if you could spare a moment to glance in my direction now and again, you would see that I am well past the age for a nursemaid.” She resisted the feminine urge to stick out her chest and force him to notice just how far from a child she truly was.

  Ah, Rory thought, there was the spark. He was beginning to think that he had imagined the spirit he’d glimpsed before. She’d been acting remarkably sweet in the face of his increasing rudeness. She seemed to be trying awfully hard to please him. Her blandishments might have amused him if he weren’t so aggravated. He hadn’t set out to provoke her, but finding himself face-to-face with the recent source of his woes did nothing to improve his already bad temper.

  The memory of her soft backside pressed snugly against his groin was not easily dismissed. Nor was the constant reminder throbbing beneath his plaid.

  Being so close to her at night and not being able to do anything about it was wearing on him. Rory damned himself for his unusual impulsivity. Moving Isabel to his room had been a hasty decision brought about by her interest in his kitchens and his swift reaction to touching her in the storeroom. His error in judgment, his unreasonable fascination with her every movement, and his unsated lust had all combined to put him in a foul mood.

  A foul mood that he’d sought to erase on the lists, only to find his beautiful bride invading his peace again.

  When he’d first caught sight of her, he froze, captivated by her lustrous hair blazing in the sun with intertwined hues of copper, fiery red gold, and deep bronze—suffering the blow of a sword for his stupidity in allowing himself to be distra
cted. But she looked as fresh as the first dew of spring in her simple green woolen gown. Her eyes seemed lighter in the daylight, more lavender than violet.

  An uncomfortable tightness pulled in his chest. He wished it were simply her beauty that called to him. But the more he watched her, the more she entranced him. Even the gentle lilt of her voice enticed him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her simmering next to him. He could tell by the way her hands clenched that she was furious. Furious and adorable with her pursed lips and stubborn chin. A sweet Isabel was intriguing, but with fire she was irresistible. Oh, he’d noticed that she was well past the age for a nursemaid all right, but he still had to keep his distance.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I did not realize your statement required a reply. But if you must know, I have noticed that at least physically you appear of age to not require a nursemaid.”

  Her frustration at his inept responses had clearly turned to anger. “I was only asking that we spend some time together because I just thought—”

  “What did you think, Isabel?” he snapped, refusing to look at her beautiful upturned face. Rory was not nearly as indifferent as he pretended. He forced a coolness to his words that belied the heated awareness her touch brought to his body. He knew she was lonely, but he could not allow himself to feel sympathy.

  She needed to know how it would be.

  He knew that if he looked, he would see the hurt in those haunting lavender eyes. Duty, he reminded himself silently. The sooner she realized this was not an ordinary union the better.

  Still, he was finding it increasingly difficult to act the cold stranger in the face of her innocent friendliness. And why did he feel like he was pulling the tail of a defenseless puppy?

  He felt a strange urge to protect her. To wrap her in his arms and discover what made the shadow cross her face when she thought no one else was looking. Even more, he wanted to make sure nothing ever troubled her again.

  He sighed, the frustration of the situation getting to him. “This is a political arrangement. King James ordered our handfast to settle the feud between our clans. Do not try to make it into something more. If you are expecting love and romance, you will only be disappointed.”