Grabbing a longer piece of rock, he hefted it into the pile of matching pieces, careful not to chip any of them. So far, he had three mounds that were starting to form. There were the larger, heavier pieces that had once made up the base of the wall, some of which were still partially buried in their places, waiting to stabilize the house once more. Next were the midsized stones that formed the wall itself, enough to make a stronger, double wall, as the foundation suggested should be done. Lastly were the flat boulders that served as tie-in-stones. They were long enough to span both sides of the wall, tying one side to the other and creating a strong façade.
It was unclear what had caused the edge to crumble in the first place, but Will wasn’t concerned with it. He would build it back up stronger than before, packing the space between the rows with earth and smaller stones as well. By the time he was finished with it, he expected that it would have to be a purposeful demolition to bring it down again.
Isobel’s voice carried through the broken house toward him, her tone angry as she ranted to herself in her native tongue. Will understood some of it, the language being close to Gaelic, and chuckled, finding her fire admirable. She was calling him a great many names, several of which Maw would have washed his mouth out with soap for if she’d heard him utter them. A makeshift wall of hide hid her from his view, though, and kept him from replying. He assumed she’d tacked it up herself when she arrived, to counteract the fact that she was living in ruins.
“Stop that!” She yelled as he continued to sort through the rubble, peering around the hide. The branches and debris from the roof still blocked her from view some, but it was clear she was even more angry than she’d been before. “I don’t want ye here, ye fool! Go away!”
“I will not,” he replied calmly. “I said I’d fix this house and I intend to do it. Nothing ye say is going to sway me from doing what I feel is right.”
Huffing, she snapped her mouth shut, glaring at him as she retreated behind her screen once more.
With a sigh, Will turned back to his work, glancing at the water trough nearby. Deciding to finish clearing one spot before getting a drink, he set to work on accomplishing his tiny goal, allowing his mind to focus on just the task at hand. The stones would fit together in a pattern and had probably fallen close to their designated counterparts. If he paid close enough attention, he might be able to save himself some time when he started restacking them.
Half an hour later, he’d finished half of the sorting and broke to get a drink. Moving over to the basin, he knelt down and splashed the cool liquid on his face before cupping his hands and raising it to his mouth. The refreshing wave that followed left him feeling rejuvenated, as small as it was. Brushing excess droplets from his beard, he moved to rise, dipping his hand in the water and rubbing it on the back of his neck as well.
Suddenly, a screech sounded behind him and he turned, just in time to see Isobel flying at him with her hammer raised high. Shouting in surprise, he scurried out of the way, holding his hands up in surrender. The action didn’t seem to faze her, though.
Changing direction to follow him, Isobel swung the hammer toward him, and Will suddenly realize the head of it was at least as big as his own. With no time to run, he did the only thing he could think of, and caught the swing full on in his grasp, barely stopping it before it smashed into his face.
“A dhiobhail!” he exclaimed, wrenching the weapon from her hands and holding it away. It was surprisingly heavier than he’d imagined, with leather chord wrapped around the three-foot handle. Staring at her in surprise, he yelled without even considering the ramifications. “What were ye thinking, huh? Is murdering me so much better a prospect than a good roof over yer head and four walls to keep ye warm?”
Isobel looked shocked, standing breathless before him. She kept glancing from him to the hammer, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Ye took that from me.” Her voice sounded peculiar, almost betrayed, as if they’d had some long held trust between them that was now in question.
The expression on her face made him feel guilty for some reason, like he’d done something he should have known better than to do. Sighing, he brought the mallet back to his side, pursing his lips for a moment before speaking. When he did, his voice was much softer, apologetic even. “Aye, well, I’ll give it back, so long as ye promise to not try and hit me with it again.”
Regarding him with an appraising stare, she nodded once, acting as if they were in a hostage situation.
Somewhat begrudgingly, he offered it back to her, curious as to her reaction. The hammer was clearly special to her for some reason, but why wasn’t immediately clear.
Holding it lightly, she looked down at the tool, her fingers tracing the burned edges of the head. “Thank ye.” Without another word, she turned and walked back to the front door, head down, back straight. Before she went in, she peered back, giving Will a quizzical stare. “I’m . . . sorry.” Surprised by her own apology, she went inside straight away, closing the door behind her.
Taken aback, Will simply gazed after her, not knowing what to do. Her change in demeanor had happened so quickly, he wondered if he had imagined the whole encounter. At the very least, he had expected her to lecture him more, not apologize. The urge to follow her and ask if she was alright shot through him, but he pushed the impulse down. Something in the way she’d looked at him before going in made him think she needed to be alone for a while.
With nothing left to do, Will turned back to the crumbled wall and stones that still needed sorting. Rotten thatch littered the earth as well, covering splintered beams from the long destroyed roof. All of it would have to be cleaned up before he could start building anything. Sighing heavily, he joined the mess once more, gathering and piling each piece of rock in their respective spots.
The hours passed slowly, clouds rolling in overhead. He smelled the rain before he felt it, the icy droplets sprinkling down on him as he finished clearing the area of debris. The boulders were now arranged by size and length, with the obvious patterns he’d noticed kept together. A fourth pile had formed, full of filler rocks, which would be used to level the stones and fill gaps in the wall.
Glancing up at the darkening heavens, it was immediately apparent that the storm was going to last most of the night, if not into the next morning. Abandoning his work for the day, Will hurried over to where Arth remained tethered, hastily going through the pack he’d unsaddled earlier in the day. The sack was made of a long piece of hide that could be unraveled and spread out above him with ropes, to create a small shelter from the rain. That, coupled with the extra cover from the trees, would keep him dry enough.
The tiny camp came into being just before the moisture really broke from the clouds, and Will suddenly found himself very grateful for the bread Maw had packed for him. Seated beneath his little cover, he snacked on the rolls, watching the tiny fire he’d started crackle and hiss away. Arth snorted, settling down on the ground, ignoring the rain as it showered him. The water fell in a great rush, making it hard to really keep anything dry, but the cover did what it could.
Picking up a twig, Will drew in the wet dirt, mapping out a crude plan for his duties for the next day. It would take at least two or three more days to get the wall fixed—he didn’t want to rush it and risk the end product not being as good as possible. If he really tested each stone and made sure it was in the right place, it would be worth the extra time. Of course, he would need to gather heather and river reeds for the thatch. They would need a couple days to dry out, at least, maybe even a week. If he got up early every morning and gathered the plants, he could also do some fishing. Then he’d have meat for dinner . . .
The planning went on and on in his mind. Already, he was thinking of places he could look for lumber, planning what day he would construct a ladder to get to the roof, how he was going to keep Isobel and her belongings dry when he removed the entire top of the hut, and more.
“What are ye doing?”
Jumping, Will looked up at Isobel, her face half in shadow as she stared down at him. He’d been so invested in his plans that he hadn’t heard or seen her coming, though the storm had helped mask her as well. Her head was covered with a thick shawl, but the rain had already soaked it through in the time it took her to walk from the front door to the edge of the clearing.
“Thinking.” Scooting over, he motioned for her to join him in his minimal space.
Crouching down, she knelt in the spot he’d previously occupied, instantly making the safe haven he’d created for himself feel cramped and uncomfortable. “Listen,” she started, hesitating some. “I don’t want ye to sit out here in the storm all night. Come inside and have some soup.”
Surprised, he didn’t respond right away. He’d been so sure that he would have to fight her every step of the way while he was here, but now she seemed accepting of his presence. While her demeanor was still reluctant, it was obvious something had changed.
“Thank ye,” he replied, sincere. “Soup sounds delightful. I have some bread from my mother, if ye’d like some of that, too.”
Smiling tightly, she nodded, water dripping from the ends of her hair. “There’s not room for yer horse, though. It’ll have to stay out.”
“Arth will be fine. He can rest under the cover, if needed.”
Neighing slightly, Arth lifted his head, as if he were responding with agreement.
Chuckling, Will shook his head, grabbing a handful of dirt and using it to smother the small blaze in front of him. Standing up into a crouch, he hobbled out from under the shelter, Isobel quickly following.
They ran through the rain, feet squelching in the mud, the storm unleashing its full force on top of them. Isobel pushed forward, taking the lead, and grabbed the handle on the door, throwing it open and ushering Will inside. As soon as the wooden barricade closed behind them, lightning flashed outside, instantly followed by loud, booming thunder.
“The angels are having a good time tonight,” Will stated, laughing slightly.
“Angels?” She looked at him questioningly, lost by his comment.
“It’s a story my Da used to tell us when we were but weans and afraid of the thunder. He said that it was nothing but angels wrestling in heaven, not a thing to be scared of.”
Smiling, she chuckled as well. “I suppose it helped ye sleep better?”
“Aye, that it did.”
Silence stretched between them, an awkwardness suddenly present in their company. Clearing his throat, Will looked around, taking in the space.
Flagstones lined the floor, the fireplace in the back, left corner burning hotly with a pot boiling over it. The hearth must have been a latter addition to the home, as Will had never seen one in a blackhouse before. The stone walls looked sturdy, while the roof overhead appeared to be just as badly in need of a fix as the side that had caved in. On the right, the large hide that Isobel had hung revealed itself to actually be several animal skins sewn together. It stretched almost perfectly across the space, with only a few gaps up at the top, where she had tied it to the rafters. At the foot of the divider, she had stacked several rocks, in an attempt to keep the room sealed in.
Trying not to notice how little the Irishwoman had, he let his eyes wander over the pallet bed beside the fire, consisting of a blanket and a pile of dried grass. A tiny, makeshift table displayed a few candles and the silverware she’d saved from the Campbells, as well as a mismatched plate and bowl. There was a small trunk beside the door, guarded by her hammer. Here and there, dried flowers and other plants rested along the walls, their purpose unknown to him. Even though the area was small, her lack of belongings made it feel much larger.
“Let me get that soup.” Breaking him out of his impromptu inspection, Isobel took the bowl and a spoon off the table, crossing the little space and using the hem of her wet cloak to pull the pot away from the flames that had been heating it.
The scent of potatoes and mushrooms reached him, causing his mouth to water as excitement filled him at the prospect of having something warm to eat after being in the freezing rain.
“Here,” she said, passing the dish to him after she’d filled it. “Ye can sit on the pallet, if ye’d like. There’s not much else I can offer.”
“That’s fine.” Sitting where he was, he blew on the scalding liquid carefully before raising it to his mouth and tasting it. “It’s verra good.”
Simply smiling, she sat down on her bed, watching him with piercing eyes. After a moment or so, she cleared her throat, leaning forward. “I suppose now is the time we get to know each other?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Is it?” he replied, surprised yet again.
“Aye, I think it is.”
Six
“Ye have to understand,” she explained. “If ye plan to be here, workin’ and eatin’ with me, I’m going to have a few questions. It’s not a usual practice of mine to allow a stranger to move in on my life so easily.”
“Why did ye do that?” Will butted in, curiosity getting the better of him. Setting the bowl on the floor in front of him, he laced his fingers together, fully focused on the conversation. “I thought for sure we were going to fight the entire time, but then ye suddenly stopped flinging yer attitude at me.”
“I don’t have an attitude. I have a sense of self preservation and a caution around strangers, there’s a difference.” Glaring at him, she folded her arms, as if waiting for him to challenge her on the matter.
Letting the mounting questions he had about what made her act so independent go, he grinned. “Fine, then. What made ye change yer mind about me?”
She paused then, doubt flickering across her features for a second before she responded. “Sheila.”
“Who’s that?”
“More like what,” she stated, nodding toward the door. “That’s what I call my hammer.”
“Ye named yer hammer?” he asked incredulously. “Why?”
“People name their swords, why is it odd that I named a hammer?”
“Fair point,” he mumbled, staring at the weapon with a renewed interest. If she’d taken the time to name the thing, it was more important to her than he’d originally guessed. Still, that wasn’t what fascinated him the most about the mallet at the moment. “And Sheila convinced ye to give me a chance, eh? How did she do that?”
Isobel’s nose twitched, as if she were amused by something. “Sheila is my ultimate protector. Anyone who means me harm won’t be able to take her from me; she’s a magic hammer.”
Staring at her wide eyed, Will didn’t know what to say. Half of him wanted to laugh, while the other suddenly recalled the many sermons and scriptures that spoke out against witchcraft.
Laughing loudly, Isobel shook her head. “It’s a joke, MacDonald. I know what they say about me in yer village. They all think I’m a witch—everyone does, no matter where I go. I just wanted to see yer face when I said something about working spells and the like.”
“That’s not a joke I would make around these parts,” he replied seriously. “They hang witches faster than they can cry that they’re innocent here. When my Da was my age, he said every week they heard more news of people being put to death for making deals with the Devil. It isn’t so bad now, but I wouldn’t fan the flames.”
“Ye’d be surprised at how closely I know the witch trial system.” Bitterness seeped into her tone and she glanced at the floor, a grimace crossing her face as she relived a memory unknown to him.
“Is that what ye meant before,” he asked, trying to veer the conversation toward getting some of the answers he wanted out of her. “When ye said that people had tried to get rid of ye? They accused ye of being a witch?”
“Something like that.” Her expression was stony now, her fingers curled into fists so tight it made her knuckles white. Combined with the stringy wetness of her hair and the dark cloak still wrapped around her, she looked like some vengeful spirit, waiting for the day of judgement.
“Are
ye?” he asked softly, studying her face.
Staring back up at him, her emotions fell flat, her lips forming a thin line. “Would it make a difference to ye if I was?”
Caught off guard, Will realized that it didn’t matter to him whether she was a witch or not. She still needed his help and was treating him kindly, despite his own stubbornness and refusal to listen to her. “No, it wouldn’t.”
Raising an eyebrow, she smiled slightly, pleased with his answer. “It really was Sheila that made me change my mind, ye know. Anyone else would have fought back if I attacked them like that, but ye just held me off. Ye had my weapon and everything and I never once felt like ye would hurt me.”
“Never.” The strength and speed in which the reply left his lips was unexpected. Will meant it, though. Looking at her now, something inside him insisted that in all his life he’d never been more determined to protect someone. It was a strange feeling to have for someone he’d just met, let alone a woman who had openly tried to maim him earlier. What made it even more odd was that he knew Isobel didn’t need him to take care of her. He could walk out of her life right now and she would be just fine, despite her living conditions.
“Be careful what ye promise, MacDonald. Never is an awfully long time. I’ve yet to meet one person who could keep their word in that regard.” Her voice grew softer as she spoke, her gaze transferring to her hands as she slowly wrung them. Bitterness shone in her eyes as she frowned again, the ghosts of whatever memories she was hiding flashing across her face.
Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story): A Scottish Highlander Romance (The Swept Away Saga) Page 4