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had definitely been implied. She must use all her charms to get what they wanted, even seduction. How could she, who had never allowed any man close enough to steal a simple kiss, seduce a fierce and ruthless Highland chief?
    Now, after having met the man, Isabel was even more certain that it would never work. Rory MacLeod was as rock hard as a stone parapet, seemingly impervious to a weakness like emotion.
    Bessie bustled into the room. “They’re waiting, poppet.” She stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her heart with a dramatic exclamation. “Ah, Isabel, you are a vision. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a square of linen. “Oh, how your mother would have loved to see you on your wedding day.”
    A wave of emotion swept over Isabel. Hot tears gathered at the back of her throat. Bessie’s joy only made Isabel feel worse for deceiving her—and the mention of her mother nearly undid her completely. She took a deep breath.
    “Then we best not keep them waiting any longer.” Alighting into the corridor, Isabel took her first step down a path that could only lead to betrayal.
     
    Rory faced the day with a much clearer head, once again in control of his errant—and lustful—thoughts. Visions of his bride had haunted his dreams—erotic fantasies of a wedding night that was not to be. Vivid images of candlelight and silk. He pictured her standing before him, looking up at him with those seductive eyes full of invitation. He’d taken his time in undressing her, running his hands over the soft velvet of her skin, slipping the wispy night rail down her shoulders, revealing her tantalizing nakedness one lush inch at a time. The dream had been so vivid, so real, he’d awakened hard and throbbing, needing release. He attributed his unusual reaction to the MacDonald lass to the disquiet brought on by Sleat’s presence in his keep and the girl’s undeniably rare beauty.
    Today, Rory was prepared to be awed by her beauty. He would admire her as one would admire a beautiful piece of art—an object to put on display. But that was all. Admiration need not breed intimacy. It was enough that she was a MacDonald and not a suitable alliance for his clan. He need know nothing else.
    As was custom, the handfast ceremony would take place outside. Given the circumstances, Rory had decided on a small, private ceremony to be followed by a larger celebratory feast. Notwithstanding the enmity between the clans and the unwanted alliance, the clan would be disappointed with anything else. Feasting was an integral part of Highland life, and Highlanders welcomed any excuse to celebrate.
    Thus, as the morning sun gathered intensity on the eastern horizon, Rory, Alex, Sleat, Glengarry, and Isabel’s brothers gathered around the barmkin awaiting his bride.
    His very late bride, the ten o’clock hour having come and gone some time ago. Perhaps she was having second thoughts? Oddly, the notion didn’t relieve him as much as it should have.
    Glengarry had glanced up at her chamber enough times for Rory to know that he was growing impatient and annoyed. Finally, Glengarry smiled with relief. “Ah, here she is now.”
    Rory turned, and all of his newfound clarity vanished.
    He felt that same forceful blow to the chest, the same physical intensity of attraction. He was as overwhelmed as when he’d first beheld her last night, perhaps more so. In the clear light of day, Isabel MacDonald was breathtaking.
    Her thick copper gold tresses blazed a fiery red in the bright sunlight. The long wavy strands were swept from the sides of her face and held in place with a silver-wired wreath heavily decorated with diamonds and tiny pearls. Her features were at once both delicate and vivid. The snowy whiteness of her skin contrasted with the dark brows and lashes that framed her lovely violet eyes and the bloodred pout of her sensual lips.
    His gaze traveled down her face and halted at her breasts. He sucked in his