Lord of The Isles. Debbie MazzucaЧитать онлайн книгу.
getting the better of her, Ali interrupted. “Has it…did the MacLeods ever raise the flag?”
“Aye, they did, back in 1570. The MacDonalds, an enemy to the MacLeods, attacked them. Severely outnumbered, the MacLeod unfurled the flag and its fairy magic. To this day no one knows for certain what happened, but the MacDonalds retreated. Some say it’s because the fairies made the MacLeod’s army swell, but others say something happened to the MacDonald’s wife and daughter that day, drawing him from the field, leaving his army in disarray.”
“Well, Duncan, that story alone was worth getting soaked for. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” The older man glanced at her and seemed slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I was a wee bit disconcerted when you first arrived.”
Ali grinned. “Now that you mention it, I did.”
Color bloomed in the man’s heavily lined cheeks. “I should have said something. Come, I’ll show you the reason.”
Ali padded barefoot across the thick oriental carpet to the far end of the room where Duncan stood in front of a large gilt-framed portrait. He stepped aside and her jaw dropped. At first glance it was as though Ali stood in front of a mirror. The woman in the painting could have been her.
“That would be Brianna MacLeod, wife to Rory. He was laird in the latter part of the sixteenth century. The resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?”
“I do,” she murmured, touching her wavy and still wet platinum blond hair. The woman in the portrait’s long spiral curls were a burnished gold and caressed her delicate heart-shaped face. Her eyes were coffee colored, whereas Ali’s were blue, but other than that, they could have been twins.
The man chuckled at her expression before turning back to the portrait. “She was a MacDonald. Their marriage brought an end to the families’ long-standing feud, but they didn’t have many years together before she died in childbirth.”
“How sad,” Ali said, drawn to the woman in the portrait. Although Brianna MacLeod radiated happiness in the painting, an almost palpable sense of sadness washed over Ali, and she took an unconscious step backward. She looked at Duncan to see if he felt the same thing, but he’d already moved away.
“And this is Rory, her husband.” Duncan pointed proudly to the portrait on the other side of the large picture window.
For one moment, just as she turned away from Brianna’s portrait, Ali sensed the coffee-colored eyes following her. She shook off the feeling. Dismissing the notion out of hand, she joined Duncan in front of the second portrait. Her uneasiness faded the instant she looked at the man in the painting. She sucked in an appreciative breath. Now that was a highland hunk.
Rory MacLeod was breathtaking. Wavy black hair accentuated high, chiseled cheekbones and a firm jaw. The sensual curve of his full mouth hinted at a man who laughed often. His green eyes glittered with a penetrating intelligence as he looked down his straight and aristocratic nose at her. He exuded power and strength. A man’s man—no metrosexual there.
A sudden draft swirled around her bare feet and ankles. The cold air enveloped her in its icy embrace, causing goose bumps to form beneath her skin. Ali tried to contain the teeth-chattering shiver by wrapping her arms around herself.
“Och, and look at you, freezing in those wet clothes while I blather on. Come, I’ll set you up in one of the rooms where you can change.”
Ali nodded, unable to tear her gaze from Rory MacLeod, mesmerized by the powerful warrior he portrayed. She jumped when Duncan patted her shoulder. “Oh…sorry.” With one last look at her handsome highlander, she followed the caretaker from the room.
“I’m going to give you a special treat.” Duncan winked at her as he unhooked the red velvet rope that blocked the polished wooden staircase. “But you must promise never to tell.”
“I promise.” She smiled.
As they made their way up the curved staircase, Duncan relayed more of the MacLeod family’s history, but Ali barely heard him, her mind filled with images of Rory and Brianna. She thought if she closed her eyes she would see them, young and in love, roaming the halls of Dunvegan Castle. Touching the wood-paneled walls, running her hand along the thick balustrade, Ali felt close to them, a part of their history. Hundreds of years ago they had walked these stairs; laid a hand on the same railing and walls.
Ali snorted, shaking her head at her whimsical musings. Totally out of character for her, she blamed it on jet lag.
“Here you go.” Duncan opened the door with a flourish. “The laird’s chambers.”
Ali quirked a brow. “Are you sure, Duncan? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Don’t give it another thought. The present day laird doesn’t sleep here, but Rory MacLeod once did. And after my behavior earlier, I thought it the least I can do.”
“Please.” Ali shook her head with a smile. “It was no big deal, but I’m not going to refuse. This is amazing,” she said, stepping into the bedroom.
Duncan set her suitcase beside the four-poster bed. “It’s chilly in here,” he said as he crouched beside the stone fireplace across from the bed. “I’ll get a fire going and leave you to freshen up. You can take a wee lie-down if you’d like, Ali. You’re probably tired from your long journey. Afterwards you can join my wife and me for supper and then I’ll take you over to the hotel, if you’d like.”
“If you’re sure it’s no trouble I’d love to.” Her gaze was drawn to the window and the breathtaking view. Dunvegan sat on top of a rocky hill with a rain-swept lake at its feet and cloud-draped hills beyond.
“There, you’re all set, lass,” Duncan pronounced, rubbing the soot from his palms onto the sides of his brown corduroy pants before heading for the door.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ali stripped off her wet clothing. She laid them over the chintz-covered chair, but not before retrieving a white towel from the foot of the bed to protect the obviously expensive piece of furniture. Everything in the castle looked as though it belonged in a museum. Ali gave a rueful grin. It was a museum, and if she planned on using her paycheck to pay off her loan, she’d better not damage anything.
Settling her suitcase on the big bed with its opulent scarlet coverings and mounds of pillows, Ali flipped it open. She pulled out a long black T-shirt—her nightwear of choice—and slipped it over her still-damp head. Anxious to warm her chilled bones, Ali walked to the fireplace and sat on a small area rug in front of the roaring blaze. Tugging a brush through her hair, she studied the tapestry that took up most of the white plastered wall on the opposite side of the room. It depicted a battle in all its gruesome glory, and Ali was thankful she hadn’t been born back then—an era when bloodshed was an everyday occurrence, and life, at least in her opinion, held little value.
The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold. Ali couldn’t abide violence of any kind. She turned away from the tapestry, afraid she’d have nightmares if she didn’t. Running her fingers through her hair and finding it dry, Ali walked to the bed and crawled beneath the crisp, cool sheets.
She sighed—heavenly.
Ali snuggled into the warmth that enveloped her and drifted off to sleep.
“Uhmm,” she murmured when a heavy hand caressed her thigh. Sliding the stretchy fabric over her hips, the man kneaded her bottom, pressing her to his long, powerful body. Ali groaned. This was one dream she didn’t want to wake up from. All she wanted to do was get rid of the material that bunched between her and the man in her dreams, Rory MacLeod. It seemed he had the same idea. He tugged the T-shirt over her head, and she lifted her arms to help him. Free from the confines of her nightshirt, she wrapped a leg over his, stroking the taut muscles beneath her hand.
A deep, husky voice whispered in her ear words she didn’t understand, but she didn’t care, not with his big hand cupping her breast.