Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

  Isolated Hearts

  by

  Avril Borthiry

  Copyright © 2017 by Avril Borthiry

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  “In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;

  In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;

  In halls, in gay attire is seen;

  In hamlets, dances on the green.

  Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,

  And men below, and saints above;

  For love is Heaven, and Heaven is love.”

  (Sir Walter Scott)

  Canto lll, stanza 2. The Lay of the Last Minstrel

  Glossary: (Scottish Gaelic)

  Mo chridhe – {mo creea} – My heart

  Tuath Dé – {Too 'ha da} – A race of supernatural beings from the mythology and folklore of Scotland, Ireland and the Isle of Man. (Note: More commonly known today as Tuatha Dé Danann)

  Bheannaich – {Bee ann ick} – Blessing

  Mòr sìth – {Mor shee} – Great peace

  Each-uisge – {Ach Ooshka} – Water horse (mythological)

  Cadail – {cat-ul} – Sleep

  Tapadh leat – {Tah pu let} – Thank you

  Chapter 1

  Chateau Courtois, northern France

  AD 1312

  Roland de Courtenay regarded his Scottish guest with undisguised shock. He took a slow breath and fended off an urge to laugh at the man’s ludicrous request. “Unfortunately, I must deny your proposal, Laird MacRoth. Marriage to my daughter is out of the question.”

  “Out of the question, ye say?” The Scot assumed a puzzled expression, although Roland’s gut told him it was feigned. The man must surely have known what the answer would be. “Might I know why that is?”

  Roland felt his hackles twitch, but checked himself, not wishing to provoke the man. Something undefined seemed to prowl behind Hamish MacRoth’s calm demeanor, like the caged ferocity of a big cat. Indeed, the man’s appearance brought the image of a lion to mind, with his wild, tawny hair and strange, piercing eyes.

  “I do not consider it to be a suitable match,” Roland replied, trying to keep his voice calm despite his exasperation.

  “No’ suitable? Ah, I see.” MacRoth nodded and appeared to ponder. “Nay, actually, I dinna see at all. Tae what unsuitability are ye referrin’? My veins carry the blood of an ancient and noble line. Nor am I without means. My ancestral home sits in a fine glen and is surrounded by rich—”

  “Your ancestral home sits in a godforsaken country, rife with warring savages.” Roland clenched his fists as the beginnings of a headache throbbed between his temples. “I will not allow my daughter to be dragged off to such a place, nor will I see her dowry used to fund your endless skirmishes. That is the end of it.”

  The air in the room thickened perceptibly and Roland’s hand drifted to the hilt of his dagger. MacRoth, whose sword had been surrendered before being allowed entry to Roland’s chamber, apparently noticed the threatening move. His brow lifted.

  “I’ll have ye know Glenross is a fine, peaceful place,” he said. “Indeed, ’tis as close tae Heaven as ye’ll get on this earth. And ye should also know that Lady Isabeau’s dowry is of no interest tae me. ’Tis the lass I want and I’ll be happy tae take her with naught but the clothes on her back.”

  Roland scoffed. “Then you’re a fool. Only a man lacking ambition and purpose would take a destitute woman to wife.”

  “My ambitions amount tae more than material worth. Lady Isabeau has come tae mean much, and I’d venture tae say she feels the same.” MacRoth’s expression darkened. “And I dinna like bein’ called a fool.”

  A flush of heat crawled up Roland’s neck, and he toyed with a temptation to call his guard. “Spare me the false sentiment, MacRoth, and do not assume to speak for my daughter. Jésu, you’ve been at Chateau Courtois but five days. You barely know the girl. Your ridiculous offer is refused and, I can assure you, my decision will not change. We’re done here. As of this morning, I’ve been informed your injured horse is well-enough recovered, so I see no reason for you and your men to remain here any longer. I confess my hospitality has reached its limit.”

  MacRoth gave his head a slight shake. “Yer daughter would be content with me, Lord de Courtenay. Does her happiness no’ count fer somethin’?”

  Roland clenched his jaw. “You truly test my patience, sir. I’ve given you my answer and this conversation is over. I expect you and your men to be out of here by midday.”

  MacRoth’s dark, unsettling gaze never wavered, and Roland suppressed an unwelcome shudder. Something about this wild, foreign chieftain rattled his most basic instincts.

  “Well, it seems yer mind is made up,” MacRoth said at last, inclining his head. “I can but thank ye, then, fer yer hospitality. As ye demand, I’ll make arrangements tae leave right away. May ye live long and be prosperous, Lord de Courtenay.”

  Roland felt a cautious twinge of relief and forced a brief smile. “Likewise, Laird MacRoth. May God keep you and grant you safe return to Scotland.”

  Roland held his breath till MacRoth left the room. After the door closed, he emptied his lungs with a satisfied huff and waited a few moments, allowing enough time for MacRoth to be well out of earshot. Then he opened the door and spoke to his guard. “Find Sir Henri,” he said, “and send him to me. Quickly.”

  Roland paced while waiting for his son and spent the time revisiting his conversation with MacRoth. Something felt wrong. The man had capitulated too easily. Seemed a little too self-assured. He feared the Scot was not yet finished in his pursuit of Isabeau. He doubted his besotted daughter would deny the man, either.

  Laird Hamish MacRoth and his spirited group of knights had arrived at the chateau five days earlier requesting shelter. They’d been on their way home after spending several weeks on the French tournament circuit, when MacRoth’s favorite horse had turned lame. Despite some misgivings, Roland de Courtenay felt obliged to offer them his hospitality.

  To Roland’s dismay, the attraction between Isabeau and the young laird had been evident from the start. Protective of his only daughter and disquieted by the strong presence of the enigmatic Scotsman, Roland took steps to ensure MacRoth never had an opportunity to be left alone with Isabeau. Even her chamber had been guarded each night. Yet, despite all Roland’s efforts, and to his growing consternation, MacRoth and Isabeau’s liking for each other became increasingly obvious.

  Until that morning, however, Roland assumed the Scot was merely toying with Isabeau. Flexing his carnal prowess and feeding his ego. MacRoth’s request for her hand had been unforeseen and surprising. It seemed the man had developed genuine feelings for the girl.
Which only made things worse.

  “I’ll be happy tae take her with naught but the clothes on her back.”

  Not a welcome revelation. The implications of it sat like a stone in Roland’s stomach.

  A casual rap at the door interrupted Roland’s musing. It opened and Henri stepped into the chamber.

  “You wished to see me, Father? The guard said it was urgent.”

  Roland nodded. “It is. Until further notice, your sister is not to be left alone or allowed to wander the grounds without a guard.” He frowned. “In fact, I’d rather she didn’t wander the grounds at all for the next while. She’ll be in the solar with her mother right now. I want her removed from there and escorted to her chamber where she’ll stay till I say otherwise. Make sure she bars her door, and instruct the guard to remain outside. And I want the guard doubled at night.”

  Henri’s eyes widened. “Might I know the reason for this?”

  “Hamish MacRoth.” Roland all but spat out the man’s name. “He and his knights are leaving shortly, thank God. I ordered him to be gone before midday. Make sure he complies with the order and has all his entourage in tow. Should he or any of his men return, they are to be refused entry. No exceptions. And if any of them are seen within the castle boundaries after today, they are to be treated as enemy trespassers and killed on sight.”

  A look of bewilderment had settled on Henri’s face. “With respect, Father, do you really believe the man to be so great a threat? ’Tis true he’s a little rough in his manner, and it’s obvious he’s smitten with Isabeau, but MacRoth seems like a good-hearted soul. What makes you think he’d do her harm?”

  “He asked me for her hand just now. Said he’d take her with or without her dowry.” Roland gave a humorless smile. “My refusal was not well received.”

  Henri’s brows lifted as he released a soft whistle. “That changes things.”

  “It does, indeed,” Roland replied. “It makes Hamish MacRoth a dangerous man.”

  *

  The window shutter creaked, startling Isabeau from the murky depths of sadness. She rubbed tears from her eyes, pulled the bedcovers up to her chin, and whispered a prayer for the swift passage of time. Maybe, a year or two hence, the emptiness she felt inside would be gone. Perchance, at some distant point in the future, her heart might not ache with such intensity. And then, at the mercy of the passing years, she might look back on the past few days without a crushing sense of regret.

  Hamish MacRoth had apparently left Chateau Courtois that afternoon. She hadn’t seen her beloved laird’s departure, or even been given a chance to say goodbye. Midmorning, without notice, Henri and two of her father’s guardsmen had swooped into the solar and dispatched Isabeau, protesting, to her chamber. Any attempts to leave, she’d been told, would be countered by the guards at her door.

  “It’s a temporary measure,” Henri said, by way of explanation. “Father thinks MacRoth intends to abduct you and cart you off to Scotland.”

  Isabeau had laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Hamish would never do such a thing. He would never hurt me or any of my family.”

  “He apparently asked Father for your hand in marriage and it did not go well.” Henri gave her a pointed look. “Do you happen to know anything about that, dear sister? Ah! Judging by your face, it seems you do.”

  Yes, she had known, for Hamish had told her of his intent two days earlier and her stomach had not ceased churning since. She knew his request for her hand would likely be a futile exercise, but grasped at a sliver of hope.

  Hamish MacRoth had swept into her life like a summer storm – potent, unpredictable, and totally alluring. He possessed an untamed charm that tested the boundaries of decorum without breaching them. Somehow, and perhaps unconsciously, he had a knack of making his presence known simply by entering a room. She had never met anyone like him.

  Whenever Hamish was near, Isabeau’s heart quickened and excitement fluttered in her belly. With a single glance in her direction, he could steal her breath and muddle her thoughts. His dark eyes, which seemed to mirror a starlit sky, blatantly worshipped her.

  Hamish MacRoth made her feel like a desirable woman, one whose ideas and opinions were worthy of consideration, not ridicule. Even his accent was seductive. The way her name spilled off his tongue made her shiver. In five short days, the enigmatic Scottish chieftain had captivated her heart and her imagination. The spark between them had lit a fire deep inside that refused to be quenched.

  Only once had he touched her. It had been on the third day, in the afternoon, when he’d passed by her in the great hall. His fingers had brushed her hand in a plainly intentional, yet surreptitious caress. A delicious shiver had rippled over Isabeau’s flesh, every hair on her body lifting in exquisite fashion. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to lay with Hamish MacRoth. To taste his kiss and feel his hands on her. Would she even be able to survive such pleasure?

  Now, it seemed, she would never know.

  Meeting Hamish had simply been a magical interlude in her life. A brief glimpse at something beautiful that lay within reach, but was beyond her grasp.

  “I wanted you,” she murmured into the darkness. “I wanted you to love me, Hamish MacRoth.”

  No sooner had the words escaped her lips than a familiar tingle ran across her skin. She breathed in and held it, telling herself she imagined the scent of pine and fresh, rain-soaked grass. Then a breath of cool air wafted across her face, as if someone had opened a window, and a familiar, seductive voice drifted out of the night.

  “Isabeau.”

  She gasped and sat up, squinting into the gloom. Sweet Jésu. It couldn’t be. Had she lost her mind? Blood rushing in her ears, she dared to speak, though her words came out as little more than a whisper.

  “No, this cannot be real.”

  Like a ghost, Hamish emerged from the shadows and stood beside her bed.

  “Tell me if this feels real tae ye or no’,” he said. Then he bent and kissed her—a soft, lingering embrace that drew a whimper from Isabeau.

  “Oh, Hamish.” She touched his hand as he straightened. “I can’t believe it’s you. They told me you’d gone.”

  “Och, ye wound me, lass.” He unlaced his shirt and tugged it over his head. “Did ye really think I’d leave without a word tae ye?”

  “But how, in God’s name, did you get in here?” Heat spread across her skin at the sight of his broad, bare chest. “You didn’t climb the walls, surely.”

  He kicked off his shoes, unfastened his breeches, and let them drop. “Determination mixed with a wee sprinkle of magic,” he said, now wearing nothing but a smile. “Shuffle over a wee bit, mo chridhe. I’ve a fierce desire tae hold ye.”

  Without hesitation, Isabeau moved to give him room as he clambered in beside her. Nothing in her life had ever felt as natural as welcoming this naked and blatantly aroused man to her bed. For this one night, as sure as the stars twinkled, they would have each other. They would belong to each other. It felt exquisitely elemental, and Isabeau fought a joyful urge to laugh out loud.

  Instead, she feigned composure and blinked at him. “Do you intend to make love to me, Laird MacRoth?”

  “All night long, my lady,” he said, settling at her side and wrapping her in his arms. “Unless ye have an objection.”

  “Not a single one.”

  “I didna think so.”

  She stifled a giggle. “But there are guards outside the door.”

  “Good, we’ll no’ be disturbed, then.” Hamish grinned, shifted onto his elbow, and gazed down at her. “Dinna worry, bonny lass. I’ll stifle yer cries of pleasure with my kisses.”

  Desire shot through her veins like sweet wine. “This is some type of madness, Hamish.”

  “Of a glorious kind.” His hand stroked her breast. “Och, Isabeau, I canna face the rest of my life knowin’ I didna love ye when I had the chance.”

  He kissed her again, his mouth gentle against hers as his hand reached down to
tug at her night robe. She lifted her hips, allowing him to slide the garment up and over her body. Then she raised her arms and he pulled the garment free, casting it aside.

  Hamish sat up and peeled back the bed covers, releasing a slow, soft sigh as his gaze wandered over Isabeau’s nakedness. She felt no shame beneath his scrutiny. She wanted only to please him. He muttered something in his strange, native tongue as she, in turn, studied him.

  The darkness softened the strong lines of his unshaven jaw and blurred the sculpted edges of his body. His tawny hair, which glinted with bright copper threads in daylight, hung in a wild and wavy mass past his broad shoulders. The same rich color continued in the sparse triangle of hair on his chest, the latter a wall of hard muscle. Hamish’s body was a splendid vessel, one that carried a brave and courageous heart. But it was only part of what had drawn her to this man.

  Isabeau had forged a connection to the wild spirit that occupied Hamish’s flesh and bones. It exuded an intoxicating, unearthly power, something she recognized, yet could not begin to describe. It seemed to transcend any mortal explanation.

  This physical union would be the culmination of an intimacy begun five days earlier. Indeed, at the male center of him, Hamish’s desire stood ready. As her gaze fell upon it, she heard him draw a soft breath.

  She raised her eyes to his.

  “I will touch every part of ye this night, mo chridhe,” he whispered. “I will kiss every part of ye. I will love ye time and again, till the only word ye’re able tae speak is my name.”

  *

  “I could carry ye off tae Scotland with me,” Hamish murmured hours later as Isabeau lay in his arms. He heard her draw breath and, for the first time that night, sensed her hesitancy. He immediately regretted his lapse and silently cursed the carelessness of his statement.

  This night belonged to them, but their futures lay elsewhere.

  Their lovemaking had been the summation, the sweet joining of two souls that had danced around the inevitable for days. In all his years, Hamish had never been so sated. Never felt so complete. Only one thing – although it carried a pleasure all its own – had marred the magic.