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Authors: Monica Mccarty
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etched with the badge of Sleat. For Rory’s benefit, she even leaned down to kiss his hand as if in homage to the chief of the family. If Rory were still watching, her study of the ring would not look too peculiar. The ring contained an armored fist holding a cross with the motto of Sleat scrolled across the top: Per Mare per Terras, “By Land or by Sea.”
“I’ll know it, Uncle. You’d best be on your way before I have to explain what we were talking about. I wouldn’t want to arouse Rory’s suspicions.”
“Very well, then, good hunting to you, lass.” The MacDonald snickered with a lewd yellow smirk.
With a heavy sigh of relief, Isabel watched him go. Something about the man made her skin crawl. Her uncle was undoubtedly a powerful chief. But he inspired fear, not devotion.
There was no denying Sleat’s cruel edge. His brutal repudiation of Rory’s sister proved that. It had been done for political purposes. The MacDonald had been carefully building support for his bid to reclaim the ancient fiefdom of the Lordship of the Isles lost by Clan Donald over one hundred years ago. It was simple: The MacLeods were out of the king’s favor, and the Mackenzies were not. Her uncle needed royal support if he was to reclaim the political power that went with the title Lord of the Isles. Thus, Margaret MacLeod became expendable. Isabel may have understood the motivation, but to reject the woman by ridiculing her misfortune seemed unduly harsh. Of course, that too must have been the point. The MacLeod would be forced to retaliate, and her uncle had hoped to destroy them with feuding. But the MacLeod continued to be a thorn in the side of the MacDonalds. A thorn that she was to remove.
Sleat did not want simply to increase the power of the clan, he wanted to rule western Scotland and the Isles without interference from the king—or MacLeod. Knowing the king, Isabel thought the idea far-fetched. Nevertheless, it wasn’t her job to wonder about the legitimacy of her uncle’s plan; her job was to succeed. And to succeed, she needed Rory. Or more precisely, she needed Rory’s love and trust.
Perhaps the MacDonald’s quick departure was not such a bad thing. Clearly, Rory loathed her uncle. Sleat’s presence undoubtedly reminded Rory of his sister’s tragedy. And that certainly wouldn’t help her cause.
She drew up her shoulders and shook off her despondency. It would do no good to brood. She had a job to do. She would make her family proud of her, and then she could leave this dismal place. A year would not come soon enough. At least she hadn’t been completely abandoned. Bessie had agreed to stay for a few months to help her get settled.
“You shouldn’t be standing out here in the rain.”
Startled, Isabel jumped, her feet skidding on the stone walk of the battlements. She felt the heat of his body and the hard shield of his chest behind her as he steadied and then promptly released her.
She knew who it was before she turned.
Her heart had leapt for a moment, thinking from his words that he might be concerned. But when she met his blank gaze, she knew it was not so. The man had a face about as yielding as stone.
“I wanted to make sure my kinsmen departed safely. I hoped that they might reconsider and remain at Dunvegan until the storm passed.”
She winced, knowing that she sounded defensive.
“Well, you can see that they have gone. Return to the keep and dry yourself before you catch a chill.”
His brusque tone, coupled with the acute loneliness she was feeling at the moment, stung. She nodded, unable to keep the wounded expression from her face.
He must have noticed, for he let out an exasperated sigh and offered her some semblance of reassurance. “’Tis for the best, lass. Your uncle will never be welcome at Dunvegan. And after the trouble yesterday, tensions between the clans were running high. The MacLeods and MacDonalds will never be friends.”
Isabel thought she detected another
“I’ll know it, Uncle. You’d best be on your way before I have to explain what we were talking about. I wouldn’t want to arouse Rory’s suspicions.”
“Very well, then, good hunting to you, lass.” The MacDonald snickered with a lewd yellow smirk.
With a heavy sigh of relief, Isabel watched him go. Something about the man made her skin crawl. Her uncle was undoubtedly a powerful chief. But he inspired fear, not devotion.
There was no denying Sleat’s cruel edge. His brutal repudiation of Rory’s sister proved that. It had been done for political purposes. The MacDonald had been carefully building support for his bid to reclaim the ancient fiefdom of the Lordship of the Isles lost by Clan Donald over one hundred years ago. It was simple: The MacLeods were out of the king’s favor, and the Mackenzies were not. Her uncle needed royal support if he was to reclaim the political power that went with the title Lord of the Isles. Thus, Margaret MacLeod became expendable. Isabel may have understood the motivation, but to reject the woman by ridiculing her misfortune seemed unduly harsh. Of course, that too must have been the point. The MacLeod would be forced to retaliate, and her uncle had hoped to destroy them with feuding. But the MacLeod continued to be a thorn in the side of the MacDonalds. A thorn that she was to remove.
Sleat did not want simply to increase the power of the clan, he wanted to rule western Scotland and the Isles without interference from the king—or MacLeod. Knowing the king, Isabel thought the idea far-fetched. Nevertheless, it wasn’t her job to wonder about the legitimacy of her uncle’s plan; her job was to succeed. And to succeed, she needed Rory. Or more precisely, she needed Rory’s love and trust.
Perhaps the MacDonald’s quick departure was not such a bad thing. Clearly, Rory loathed her uncle. Sleat’s presence undoubtedly reminded Rory of his sister’s tragedy. And that certainly wouldn’t help her cause.
She drew up her shoulders and shook off her despondency. It would do no good to brood. She had a job to do. She would make her family proud of her, and then she could leave this dismal place. A year would not come soon enough. At least she hadn’t been completely abandoned. Bessie had agreed to stay for a few months to help her get settled.
“You shouldn’t be standing out here in the rain.”
Startled, Isabel jumped, her feet skidding on the stone walk of the battlements. She felt the heat of his body and the hard shield of his chest behind her as he steadied and then promptly released her.
She knew who it was before she turned.
Her heart had leapt for a moment, thinking from his words that he might be concerned. But when she met his blank gaze, she knew it was not so. The man had a face about as yielding as stone.
“I wanted to make sure my kinsmen departed safely. I hoped that they might reconsider and remain at Dunvegan until the storm passed.”
She winced, knowing that she sounded defensive.
“Well, you can see that they have gone. Return to the keep and dry yourself before you catch a chill.”
His brusque tone, coupled with the acute loneliness she was feeling at the moment, stung. She nodded, unable to keep the wounded expression from her face.
He must have noticed, for he let out an exasperated sigh and offered her some semblance of reassurance. “’Tis for the best, lass. Your uncle will never be welcome at Dunvegan. And after the trouble yesterday, tensions between the clans were running high. The MacLeods and MacDonalds will never be friends.”
Isabel thought she detected another
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