stained a bright pink. His brother glared at him. Seconds later, he heard Fergus mutter under his breath before his chair scraped across the floor and he too strode from the table.
“Oh my, I didna’ mean for Iain and Fergus to leave as wel . I just couldna’ constitute that woman sitting there as though it was her God given right, after what she said to 156
me.” Moira’s tinted lips pinched into a thin line. Her gaze narrowed to where Iain seated Aileanna; then he and Fergus each took a place beside her. “I hope ye didna’
mind, Rory.” Patting his hand, she batted her lashes at him.
“I do mind, Moira. ’Tis no’ yer right to decide who is seated at
—his clan be damned. But he couldn’t do it; his loyalty, his sense of responsibility was too deeply ingrained. Moira squeezed her eyes shut and a solitary tear trick
led down her cheek. “I’ve made ye angry. I didna’ mean to upset ye, Rory, but ye must understand my reasons. I canna’ believe ye expect me to have her at the same table after what she said.” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “’Tis too much for me to abide.” Her brother handed her a hand
kerchief and she dabbed at her eyes, sniffling.
“Doona’ worry, pet, I’m certain the last thing Rory would want is to have ye upset.” Cyril who sat on the other side of his sister looked at Rory over her bowed head and jerked his chin in her direction as though he expected him to offer her some measure of comfort, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He grew tired of pandering to her tender sensibilities.
He brought the goblet to his lips, studying Aileanna over the rim. As though she sensed his perusal, she looked at him and held his gaze with hers. Strong and defiant, Aileanna would bend to no one, but she was mistaken if she thought he did not know that beneath her beautiful, tough exterior lay a heart that could be broken as easily as anyone else’s. Rory offered her a silent salute with his goblet. Her mouth curved in a slight smile, and she tipped her own in his direction.
“Rory, my aunt was askin’ ye a question,” Moira chided him.
LORD OF THE ISLES
157
“I’m sorry, what was that, my lady?” He leaned forward and addressed the sharp-nosed female who sat beside Cyril.
“I was just wonderin’, Lord MacLeod, if the weddin’
wil take place before Michaelmas. I have a verra busy social calendar and—”
Rory was quick to cut her off. “I think settin’ a date is pre
mature considerin’ yer niece and I are no’ betrothed as yet.”
“But . . . but I thought—” the older woman sputtered, looking askance at her niece. “Moira, ye said—”
Moira, face flushed, rounded on him. “How could ye . . . how could ye do this to me, Rory? Cyril, ye must speak to him. I wil na’ be treated in such a manner.”
Her brother tugged at the col ar of his tunic. “Ah, Rory . . . I think mayhap ye owe Moira an apology.”
Rory sighed heavily. “The meal is bein’ served, Cyril. I doona’ ken aboot you, but I’m starvin’. We’l discuss the matter later.”
“Good . . . good. See, poppet, al wil be wel . Dry yer eyes now, that’s a good lass.”
Rory thanked one of the serving girls who placed a plat
ter of pork in front of him. He turned at his cousin’s snort of laughter. “Got yerself in a fix now, cousin. ’Twil be in terestin’ watchin’ ye maneuver yer way out of this one.”
“There’s no way out of it, Aidan, and you ken it as wel as I. We need their men.” Rory kept his voice low so only his cousin would hear him. Not that Moira who sat beside him paid him any mind. At the moment she was too busy being coddled by her brother. Rory began to think the man would join them in their marriage bed given his druthers. Aidan rubbed his forehead. “I wil be the first to admit things would go easier if we were tied to the MacLeans, but I’l no’ have ye sacrifice yerself to obtain it. I didna’ ken ye had no interest in the lass, Rory. And if I had thought there was another, I wouldna’ have pressed fer the match as I did.”
“There is no other,” Rory said. As though to make a liar 158
of him, his eyes sought out Aileanna, who conversed with one of the serving girls. He smiled as the two of them shared a laugh.
“Of course no’, I can see that.” Aidan grinned. “Ye make a poor liar, Rory.” He brought his ale to his lips, shaking his head. “I’d no’ give up on that one so easily if I were ye.”
He tipped his chin in Aileanna’s direction. “Like the high
lands, she is. Wild and passionate, strong and brave. Like us. She’d be yer match, Rory Mor. Mark my words.”
His cousin’s sentiments rang true, and a dul ache built in his chest. Aidan spoke as though Rory had a choice. But if he did not do everything in his power to provide al they needed to battle the MacDonald and the adventurers, his clan’s blood would stain the ground and turn the waters red. And that he could not live with.
“How much ale have you imbibed? Was it no’ you who accused her of bein’ a spy?”
