The Chieftain

Chapter 22

Connor forgot what he was saying when Ilysa passed through the hall balancing a basket on her hip. He knew she must have passed through his hall several times a day over the past two and a half years. And yet, he had never been aware of her movements until their return from the gathering.
The problem was her new manner of dressing. Although she did not wear anything remotely inappropriate, her new gowns did not hide the feminine lines of her body. As she re-crossed the hall, Connor's gaze followed the graceful curve of her neck and the swell of her breasts. Before he could stop himself, he imagined the slender, shapely legs beneath her skirts.
When he finally tore his gaze away, he realized the men were waiting for him to continue whatever in the hell he'd been talking about. He began again but found himself straining to hear her soft voice as she spoke to one of the women.
This could not continue. He was chieftain, and the future of his clan was in his hands.
"We'll speak more of this later," he told the men. "Sorely, lead the practice, and I'll join ye shortly. Our foes do not rest, and neither must we."
Leaving them with that trite admonishment, he strode across the hall to where Ilysa appeared to be in a struggle to the death with a torch that had been rammed too forcefully into a sconce in the wall.
"I'll do it," he said, reaching for it.
When their hands touched, it was as if a lightning bolt went through him. Angry at his reaction to her, he jerked the torch out of the wall and tossed it into the hearth.
Ilysa raised her eyebrows, and he knew he'd offended her careful husbandry of the castle resources. But they belonged to him, damn it, and if he wanted to toss a torch into the fire, so be it. He had a far bigger problem to deal with here than one wasted torch.
"I must speak with ye," he said.
"I was just about - "
"Now." Connor turned, then marched across the hall and through the doorway to the other building and his private chamber. He wanted no risk of this conversation being overheard. But when he shut the door behind her, he was suddenly acutely aware that this was also his bedchamber, and that he and Ilysa were alone in it.
"What is it?" Ilysa asked with a pleasant smile and folded her hands in front of her.
With all his blood leaving his head and filling his cock, he was having trouble recalling his purpose in bringing her here. Something deep inside him made him want to break through her composure, to see if there was fire beneath all that brisk efficiency and calm control.
What was wrong with him? He reminded himself that Ilysa was a lass of undeniable virtue who trusted him blindly. If that wasn't enough - and it should be - she was his best friend's sister. Connor took a deep breath and approached her. Ach, it was a mistake to stand so close to her. The light scent of lilies filled his nose, making him long to smell it on her bare skin.
She glanced at the bed, drawing his attention to it, which was most unfortunate. It would be so easy to get her there. His breathing grew shallow as he imagined her naked above him, a tangle of red-gold hair falling over her breasts while he gripped her slim hips. When Ilysa shifted her gaze back to him, she looked a trifle nervous. As well she should.
"I want ye to go back to wearing your old gowns," he said, wanting to get this over with.
Ilysa stared at him wide-eyed. Finally, she said, "I don't have them anymore."
Damn it. "Why not?"
"Your sister and Sleas threw them all away," she said. "Besides, everyone else likes my new gowns."
"You're lovely - I mean, the gowns are lovely," he fumbled. "But you're distracting the men dressed like that."
"Distracting the men?" Ilysa said. "I'm sorry, Connor, but that's ridiculous."
"I don't want ye coming in the hall while I'm speaking with them."
"I try to be quiet." She looked at him with huge brown eyes as innocent as fawn's. "Did I disturb ye?"
She disturbed his peace of mind.
"I can't have ye coming in and out of the hall while I'm meeting with the men until ye have something that is less...less..." - he paused to swallow - "provocative to wear."
When she drew in a deep breath in a huff, he could see the swell of her breasts pressing against the soft fabric of her bodice.
"My clothes are not provocative," she said in a prim tone.
He was being unreasonable. The problem was not her clothes but that he could not stop imagining her without them.
"I don't mean to insult ye," he said and took her hands without thinking.
They were so small in his and her fingers wondrously delicate. Her hands were like the woman herself. Their fragile appearance disguised competence and strength. He turned them over and examined her palms.
"'Tis hard to believe ye cut an arrowhead out of my chest with these," he said.
"They've done more than that to ye," she said and then inexplicably turned a violent shade of red. She tried to pull away, but he refused to let go.
"What have these hands done to me that I wouldn't know about?" he asked with a grin. Teasing her made him feel on safe ground again.
"Ye don't remember?"
Ilysa turned yet another shade of red, as only the very fair could. Now he was intrigued.
"What did ye do, ruffle my hair when ye were a bairn?" he asked.
"No."
"Ye were a perfectly behaved child, as I recall," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It must have been a strain being so good all the time."
When she dropped her gaze, he realized he had hit the mark squarely and felt badly for it. He ran his thumb over her palm instinctively to soothe her, but when she drew in a sharp breath, it set his blood boiling again. He should let her go. And yet, he did not.
"You're not leaving here until ye tell me what ye meant," he said, attempting a light tone.
Ilysa glanced sideways again, and her gaze appeared to become stuck on the bed. O shluagh! He should quit playing these games with her and send her out quickly. He was about to do just that until her next words sent sparks shooting through his veins.
"I bathed ye."
"What?" Surely he had misheard her, yet his whole body was alive with the misunderstanding. "Ah, ye mean ye bathed my wounds."
"Not just your wounds." She spoke so softly that he had to lean forward to hear her. "I washed all of ye. Several times."
Why would she say that? Was she trying to stop his heart and kill him? "I think I would have recalled that," he said.
"After the MacKinnons left ye for dead and Ian brought ye to Tearlag's, I tended your wounds." She paused and then added in a choked voice, "We feared we'd lose ye."
Ach, tears were suddenly spilling down her cheeks. Connor put his arms around her. He, Duncan, and Alex had been ambushed by two dozen MacKinnons and a few MacLeods. They had killed a good many of their attackers, but all three of them had been badly injured. It was Connor they were after, and they thought they had killed him.
"Ian cut your bloody clothes off in pieces and tossed them into the hearth fire," she said. "Every inch of ye was bruised and battered. I washed and bound your wounds, then for three days I fed ye broth and sponged your body to fight the fever that wanted to take ye to the other side."
"Shh. It's all right now," Connor said into her hair as he held her.
"Sometimes ye seemed to wake," she said, "so I thought ye might remember some of it."
"I was out of my head and thought I saw an angel watching over me," Connor said. "You must be my angel."
Ilysa laughed against his chest. "Hardly that."
Heat and tension flared between them, and Connor was suddenly aware of how very dangerous it was to hold her like this. He told himself to let go of her, but his arms would not obey.
"Why do ye want me to stay out of the hall, truly?" Ilysa leaned back and looked up at him with brown eyes that could melt the heart of a sea serpent. "I've always done it, and ye never minded my coming and going before."
"I don't know why I didn't notice," he said and touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. It felt so soft that he did it again. "But every time ye enter a room now, I can see nothing else."
Tension coiled in his belly and spiraled down his limbs. It was wrong to hold her like this, wrong to even think of kissing her. He knew it, and yet he wanted to feel her lips. This once, he wanted to be reckless. To do something that was just for him. And how could he help himself when he could feel her body drawing to his?
What harm could there be in one simple kiss?
"Ilysa." He breathed her name as he lowered his head.
One innocent kiss, and then he would put this behind him and do his duty, as he always did. But the moment her lips, soft and trembling, touched his, fire burned in his belly.
And yet, he might have had the strength to pull away if she had not curled her fingers into his shirt and pulled him closer. Hot jolts of lust shot through him from every point her body touched his. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and was vaguely aware that he had startled her, but she did not pull away.
When she made a high-pitched sigh against his mouth, he knew it was a lost cause. He pulled her hard against him and gave her deep, hungry kisses that should have frightened her. Instead, she returned them with an urgency that matched his own.
He could never trust a woman to want him, the man, rather than the chieftain. But he trusted Ilysa utterly and completely. She knew him, with all his flaws and shortcomings. She would not be in his arms for any reason except that she wanted him.
And, by the saints, he wanted her. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he backed her up to his bed. He refused to think, refused to let his conscience catch up with him. For once, he was giving in to blind passion.
Part of him wanted her to say no, to be the sensible lass she usually was and push him away. Instead, Ilysa melted into his arms. He pressed her against the side of the bed with his body and devoured her mouth for long minutes. He only tore his mouth away from hers to run his lips and tongue along the divine curve of her throat, which he had been longing to kiss without knowing it.
But as he reached to pull back the bed curtain, guilt reared its ugly head. This is Ilysa. Duncan's sister. If ever there was a lass who deserved honorable treatment and his protection, it was she.
Connor unclasped her hands from around his neck. Her breathing was uneven, and her eyes held a dark passion that spoke to the erotic dreams he harbored. And yet, he forced himself to pull away. It was his duty to protect her, even from his own desire - and hers.
Confusion clouded her eyes. If Connor looked into them another moment, he would lift her onto the bed, and they would not leave it for a long, long time.
"This is wrong," he said and turned his back on her. "Forgive me."
"I don't understand," she said, and her light touch on his shoulder pulled him like an undertow.
"'Tis my fault," he said. "I beg ye, Ilysa. Go quickly."
* * *
Ilysa shut her door and leaned against it.
Connor kissed me! Not a brotherly peck on the cheek, either. Nor a light brush on her lips. No, this was a real kiss. He wasn't pretending he wanted to do it, as her husband Mchael had. This was a thrillingly passionate kiss.
And not just one kiss. Ilysa wanted to count them all and remember each one, but they had blended together, one into the next. Her head was still swimming. She had been surprised when Connor used his tongue. Though she was aware people did that sometimes, she had not expected to like it so very much.
She touched her fingertips to her lips. She had dreamed of this, but it had been more wonderful than she ever imagined. Truly, she could have kissed Connor all night and wanted more. When he pulled her against him, his arms felt so strong around her. She hugged herself, remembering how magical it had been. While Connor held her, she had felt as if anything was possible. Anything at all.
Still, Ilysa was no fool. She understood Connor could never be hers, not truly and not for long. That did not keep her from wanting however much of him he would give her.
Connor had not wanted to stop any more than she had. His kisses did not lie. Nor did the desire in his eyes. His sense of honor stood in her way. He had only turned away from her out of some misplaced sense of duty.
Ilysa may not have Connor for long, but she did mean to have him. Then, for the rest of her life, she would have that to remember.
* * *
As soon as Lachlan passed through the gate, he knew that Connor had returned from the gathering. The guards on the wall were more alert, and men in the courtyard were practicing with greater intensity, wanting to earn his praise. Lachlan's awareness of the men's respect for their chieftain was inescapable.
He saw Connor observing the lads who were fourteen to seventeen practicing and crossed the courtyard to stand beside him.
"I see you're back," Connor said, and he did not sound friendly.
"I've been scouting the MacLeod camps," Lachlan said. "They've brought in more warriors."
"I expected as much," Connor said and kept his gaze fixed on the young warriors. "We'll discuss it later."
Sorely, who was a decent swordsman but a poor teacher, was leading the practice.
"They're no better than when I left," Connor muttered under his breath.
"Not like that, ye fooking idiot!" Sorely shouted at an awkward lad named Robbie. Belatedly, he felt their presence and turned around.
"Lachlan and I will work with this group today," Connor said.
Sorely did not enjoy training the younger men. All the same, he resented the dismissal, judging by his sour look before he covered it. If Connor noticed, he did not show it. But then, Connor wouldn't.
"Bless ye for taking this burden from me!" Sorely said and gave a laugh that rang false.
Sorely was an arse.
"Gather 'round," Connor called out. "If I hear any more grumbling, you'll all spend the night in the dungeon with the rats."
The young men went silent.
"The MacLeods will shred ye to bits if ye don't learn to fight better than this - and soon," Connor continued. "Your lives are my responsibility, and I don't intend to see that happen. Now, ye will give me your best, or go home to your mothers."
None of them wanted that humiliation. They shuffled their feet as Connor's steel-gray gaze moved from face to face.
"Are ye prepared to become warriors worthy of Clan MacDonald?" When they remained silent, Connor raised his claymore into the air and shouted, "Are ye?"
"Aye! Aye!" the lads shouted back.
Connor directed them to form two lines, one in front of Lachlan and the other in front of him. During the long period in which the castle was in the hands of the MacLeods, Lachlan had led practices with small groups in fields, with someone keeping watch. He had discovered he was good at training others in the skills of war, and it gave him satisfaction.
As he worked through his line, practicing with each would-be warrior in turn, he kept one eye on Connor. Again, he begrudgingly approved. Unlike Sorely, Connor never ridiculed the lads' mistakes. He was patient, but persistent. He corrected, praised, and pushed each young man to improve his skills, which could make the difference between life and death for them one day soon.
After a couple of hours, Connor raised his hand to call for a rest. Lachlan started to sheath his blade, but Connor stopped him.
"Let's give them another kind of lesson," Connor said, with a glint in his eye. "I've been dying to fight ye since the day ye arrived and knocked Sorely on his arse."
Unease settled in Lachlan's belly. Though Connor was smiling now, Lachlan was fairly confident that the chieftain would not like being knocked on his own arse in front of the men.
"Pay attention, lads!" Connor shouted and faced Lachlan in a crouch with his sword in his hands.
Sweat broke out on Lachlan's forehead as it occurred to him that if he was going to kill Connor, he should do it now. He could slide his blade between the chieftain's ribs and be done with it. He heard his father's voice in his head, saying the words he'd said to Lachlan from the time he was a bairn with a wooden sword in his hands.
One day, you will avenge your mother and restore our honor. You must kill him. Kill him! Kill him!
As they circled each other, Lachlan was aware of the shouts and cheers of the men gathered about them. But once Connor sprang at him with a series of powerful blows, he no longer heard the other men - or his father's voice. He had grown accustomed to being better than every man he fought, but he soon realized Connor MacDonald was his match. The practice with the others had not shown Connor's skills to their fullest. He was good. Very good.
The chieftain should be tired after hours of training, but he showed no sign of it as he slammed his sword against Lachlan's time and again. And he was enjoying himself! Lachlan had not had an opponent who truly tested his skills in a long while, and to his surprise, he began to take pleasure in the fight as well. When Connor leaped over Lachlan's blade after Lachlan was dead certain he had him, Lachlan smiled in appreciation of his opponent's quickness.
They spun and pounded each other back and forth across the courtyard. Finally, Lachlan got lucky and landed a blow with the flat of his sword against Connor's thigh. He hit him hard enough that the blow should have knocked Connor off his feet - but it didn't. Before Lachlan could recover from the force of his swing, Connor spun in a circle.
The next thing Lachlan knew he was lying on his back with Connor's foot on his chest.
"That was good," Connor said, grinning down at him. He was breathing hard and beads of sweat were rolling down his face, despite the cold, misty weather.
It was not until Connor held out his hand to help him up that Lachlan saw the blood soaking through the chieftain's shirt.
Someone shouted, "The chieftain's been hurt!"
Lachlan froze. In a practice, a man was supposed to fight hard, but never strike to kill. Had Lachlan forgotten himself in the heat of their battle? Had he given in to his father's admonition ringing in his head?
Anguish twisted in his gut as he saw that Connor was bleeding both from his chest and his upper thigh.
"I did not mean to do it," Lachlan said, barely speaking the words aloud.
"What?" Connor looked down at himself with a frown. "Ach, ye didn't do this."
Several men jerked Lachlan to his feet and held him by his arms.
"For God's sake, let him go!" Connor thundered. "This blood is from old wounds. They must have broken open in the fight."
Lachlan staggered when the men released him.
"See, there's no cut in my shirt," Connor said, holding it out, then he pulled it off and showed the men the bleeding wound in his chest.
The jagged, circular wound clearly was not made by the blade of a sword, but by an arrow, and Lachlan knew Connor had a matching wound on his thigh.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I told ye," Connor said, gripping his shoulder and looking straight into his eyes. "Ye didn't do this."
But Lachlan had done it. And not in a fair fight, man-to-man, as Connor deserved.