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lost in a crash of thunder and the din of men making ready for war.
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    THEY'D CHAINED HIM to her bed.
    Her cheeks flaming, Isolde quickly pulled shut the door she'd just opened. Too stunned for words, she stood staring at the two kinsmen guarding her bedchamber.
    A keening wind whistled 'round the curving tower wall, and thunder rumbled in the distance, an unceasing series of deep, resounding booms. Somewhere, a loose window shutter slammed repeatedly against the stone masonry of one of Dunmuir's towers, and that noise, too, she heard.
    Even the muffled rise and fall of the wind-whipped sea came to her ears, familiar and clear despite the thick walling and the loud fury of the storm.
    But none of the night's clamor could match the wild roar of her own blood pulsing madly in her ears. Nor could aught erase the image of Donall the Bold's splendor.
    Even though the closed door separated them, she still saw him standing there, fury sparking in his dark eyes. His black hair gleamed, damp from his bath. The broad expanse of his bare chest, hard-planed, imposing, and tensed in agitation. His shoulders broad and powerful-looking.
    He was taller than she'd realized, his face more noble and handsomely formed than the dim light in his dungeon cell had revealed. Bathed and well groomed, he bore an even more striking resemblance to the dream man she'd glimpsed on the night of Beltaine.
    Her senses reeling, Isolde stared at the door's solid wooden planking, but saw instead the two images. The man conjured by the yarrow's magic and Donall the Bold, both emblazoned across her consciousness and merged into one.
    She also saw the heavy chain hanging between her bed and a single iron band around one of his ankles.
    Niels and Rory had chained Donall MacLean to one of her bedposts and sheer black anger emanated from every glorious inch of him.
    Praise be, he'd wrapped those inches in a bed-sheet, thus sparing her an even greater shock.
    Not that she hadn't already seen that part of him, brief though the glimpse had been.
    If all went in accordance with her plan, she'd soon have to become far more intimate with him than merely peering at the majesty of his form.
    His naked form .
    At the moment, though, she found herself not yet ready to face him in any form. And the memory of her sister's form, still and lifeless, damned her for the unexpected thrill of excitement that had thundered through her upon glimpsing the MacLean's magnificence.
    Isolde struggled to calm herself. Daunting or nay, she would not allow his manly graces to unnerve her. Circumstances compelled her to deal with him, and the sooner she got on with what must be done, the sooner she could rid herself of him.
    She turned to the taller of the two men guarding her door. "Why is he bound to my bed?" Faith, but her heart still drummed against her ribs. "And why isn't he clothed?"
    Niels, her cousin, had the good grace to look embarrassed. "He's less likely to attempt an escape if he's chained."
    "But why is he unclothed?" Isolde persisted. "Did you purpose to vex him by leaving him thus?"
    A flicker of guilt in Niels's light green eyes answered her. "And if he takes out his vexation on me?" She looked between her cousin and Rory. As with Niels, a look of discomfiture passed over Rory's face and he avoided her eyes, gazing instead at the floor.
    Isolde pressed a hand to her breast, still struggling to regain her composure. "His fury came at me in waves when I opened the door. I am half afeared to do so again."
    Niels straightened to his full height and patted the broadsword hanging at his side. "You've naught to fear, he will not lay a hand . . ." he started, then broke off, his face coloring. "I mean," he began again, his fair complexion flushing a brighter red with every word, "he is not armed. He will not dare harm you knowing we stand guard outside your chamber."
    “Think you he would harm me were you not here?” Isolde fought to keep the blush from her own