Ali blinked, touching the hard surface beneath her, posi
tive when Duncan had shown her into the room earlier the floor had been hardwood. She ducked her head to get a better look at the rest of the interior. Nothing looked the same, right down to the chocolate-brown comforter that had been scarlet.
14
“I’m no’ dead yet, so you can stop with yer whisperin’,”
the man in the bed above her rasped.
Far from it, Ali thought, remembering the heat of his kiss, how his hands had caressed her bottom, bringing her . . . She shook the thought from her head before embarrass
ment consumed her, leaving a pile of ashes in her place. How could she have done
“You’d be al right then, Rory? We heard a scream and a loud crash. We thought you’d fal en from yer bed.”
Rory? Oh, come on, this had to be some kind of a joke. Lying flat on her back, Ali wriggled into her T-shirt, smooth ing it over her thighs.
“’Tis no’ me you heard, but the lass.” The bed creaked, a groan of pain accompanying his statement. Ali stil ed, frozen in place.
“There’d be no one aboot but you, lad.”
“Rory, ’tis on account of yer wound. You must have imagined it.”
“Nay, she was in my bed, of that I’m certain—wil in’
and eager.”
Ali’s face flamed.
“Nay, I thought ’twas Bree come to take me with her.”
The last was spoken so quietly Ali had to strain to hear what he said.
Someone cursed before saying, “You’l no’ die, Rory. I’l no’ al ow it. ’Tis why I . . .” The man grunted as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
“I ken it wasna’ Bree. The lass had the look of her, but bigger. Her breasts were ful , and her arse . . .” His voice trailed off.
LORD OF THE ISLES
15
Ali groaned inwardly, deciding if this Rory person didn’t soon shut up, she’d make sure he felt worse than he obviously did now.
“Nay, Rory, lie back,” one of the men said before gasp
ing, “Yer wound, ’tis reopened.”
“I think she tried to finish me off.”
Both men cursed at the same time Ali did. She’d had enough. It was her bed the man had crawled into—either that or he’d somehow managed to get her into his own, taking advantage of her while she slept. She ignored the little voice inside her head that said it would be a toss-up on who had taken advantage of whom. And now he seemed to be accusing her of trying to kil him.
It was too much, and Ali didn’t plan on listening to any more of it, not without defending herself. With a closed fist, she whacked at the men’s feet. “Get out of my way,”
she said, dragging herself from under the bed. Two men dressed in old-fashioned attire—fitted suede pants tucked into their boots and white linen shirts—
backed away from her with their mouths agape. The older one was tal and had a powerful build, his dark red hair threaded with silver, his brown eyes wide as he stared at her. The other man was much younger, his hair a golden brown, almost as handsome as the man from her dreams. He opened and closed his mouth, his gaze swiveling from Ali to his companion.
Hands on her hips, she turned to confront the man in the bed. “I didn’t try to kil you . . . you big jerk, and what the hel were you doing in my bed in the . . .”
The rest of the question died on her lips. It was him—
Rory MacLeod—the man in the portrait. She rubbed her eyes, but nothing changed. He was stil there, in al his glo rious perfection—except he was bleeding. A circle of crim
son spread over the thick white linens pressed to his side. 16
“You’re hurt,” she gasped.
“Aye.” Even in the dim light she could see the accusa
