magic could only be summoned three times, and—”
Curiosity 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 outnum bered, 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 swel , but others say something happened to the MacDonald’s wife and daughter that day, drawing him from the field, leaving his army in disarray.”
“Wel , 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.”
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Color bloomed in the man’s heavily lined cheeks. “I should have said something. Come, I’l 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 stil wet platinum blond hair. The woman in the portrait’s long spiral curls were a burnished gold and caressed her delicate heartshaped 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 fol owing 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
Rory MacLeod was breathtaking. Wavy black hair ac
LORD OF THE ISLES
9
centuated high, chiseled cheekbones and a firm jaw. The sensual curve of his ful mouth hinted at a man who laughed often. His green eyes glittered with a penetrating intel igence 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’l 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 fol owed 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 pol ished wooden staircase. “But you must promise never to tel .”
“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 fil ed with images of Rory and Brianna. She thought if she closed her eyes she would see them, young and in love, roaming the hal s of Dunvegan Castle. Touching the wood-paneled wal s, 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 wal s. Ali snorted, shaking her head at her whimsical musings. Total y 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.”
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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.
