What else was it they didn’t want him to know?
He should just bide his time and wait for the ransom, then bid these secretive women farewell and return to his home on Skye. His memories would come flooding back once he was in familiar surroundings.
Why, then, did the notion of leaving Isabel churn his gut? The compulsion to learn more about her prompted him to break his silence. “Tell me about the outfit ye wore earlier,” he cajoled.
She shrugged, but he was pleased to see a hint of pink tinge her cheeks.
“’Tis for riding,” she replied.
“Costly, I’d think,” he ventured.
“Aye, it belonged to my late mother.”
The sadness in her voice told him she’d loved the mother who no longer lived. “And I’ll wager ye look just like her with yon hat atop those lovely curls.”
She smiled smugly, reached over for the hat and pulled it on.
“Looks grand,” he said, though he really wanted to blurt out that the jaunty cap only added to her stunning beauty. “Tell me about yer horse.”
She shifted her weight on the creaky chair, glanced at Fanny, then said, “As I told ye, his name is Storm.”
He chuckled. “Temperamental, is he?”
“Aye, but I can handle him,” she asserted proudly.
“Where is he now?”
She glanced at Fanny again before responding. He wondered why they were being careful about what they revealed.
“I left him behind on Skye,” she said sadly.
He gritted his teeth. “Skye! The selfsame island I hail from?”
“More broth?” Fanny asked, reaching for his bowl as she got up hurriedly from the table.
He held on to the empty bowl, trying hard to keep a rein on his rising frustration. “I dinna understand. We live on the same island but we’re nay friends. We both like to ride, but we’ve ne’er met.”
“’Tis a big island, cleaved in two by mountains,” the old woman shouted, apparently equally exasperated that she wasn’t winning the tug-o-war with the bowl. “Ye can ride for miles and ne’er meet a single person.”
Her words opened a window into Darroch’s soul. “I’ve remembered,” he exclaimed as he let go. Fanny toppled backwards into her chair, bowl in hand. The spoon flew across the croft. Within seconds Blue was licking it clean.
“My horse’s name is Barra,” Darroch yelled with a triumphant grin.
*
Apprehension thudded in Isabel’s ears. For a moment, she thought Darroch had remembered everything. That was all to the good. She wanted to confront him for his desertion, for forcing her to abandon the only home she’d ever known to evade her stepmother’s nefarious schemes. So why did she feel relieved when it turned out he’d simply recalled the name of his horse?
She couldn’t fault the grinning elation on his face as he hurried to retrieve the spoon, apologizing to Fanny.
“Barra, is it?” the old woman muttered, wiping splatters of broth off her face with her apron. “Godforsaken place.”
Darroch frowned, clearly unaware that Barra was another Hebridean island to the south.
Isabel deemed it amusing that a woman who lived on Harris would consider Barra godforsaken.
Darroch took his bowl to the cauldron, evidently intending to refill it, but then realized it would be impossible with only one hand. Without thinking, Isabel hurried to help him, aware of his gaze on her as she filled his bowl.
“Are ye still hungry?” he asked softly.
His husky voice wound tendrils of desire around her treacherous heart. Words refused to form. She hungered, but not for food. However, the need to hear the explanation for his cruelty gnawed at her innards. She thirsted to understand how such an appealing man could have humiliated her so thoroughly.
Perhaps Ghalla was right that he’d heard of her vitriolic protests against marrying a MacKeegan. She regretted those outbursts now, born of frustration with her father and a burning need to thwart Ghalla’s obvious desire that the marriage take place. She’d assumed her stepmother simply wanted to be rid of her.
She shook her head, filled her lungs to steady her breathing and decided to test the waters. “Have ye recalled aught of yer home, at Dun Scaith?”
He returned to the table and continued to eat heartily. “Nay. Tell me of it. Mayhap I’ll remember.”
A chill raced across her nape. “I’ve ne’er been there.”
She wished she hadn’t mentioned the MacKeegan stronghold, but Fanny sank her teeth into the topic. “They say the eerie place is built on a huge rock offshore. A stone bridge connects the keep to the mainland, but men have been lured to their deaths glancing down at the angry sea foaming below their horses’ hooves. Legend has it the Irish hero Cú Chulainn traveled to Skye from his home across the waters.”
Darroch stopped eating, his gaze fixed on Fanny. “Go on.”
Isabel sat across from the auld woman and glared but she seemed determined to continue. “He wanted to learn how to become a warrior.”
Darroch put down his spoon.
“His teacher was Sgathaich, the warrior queen. Faeries built the castle for her in one night, for ’tis weel accepted no human hand could have constructed a fortress in such a place. She gifted Cú Chulainn with her deadly spear.
“They called it the Fortress of Shadows and protected it with a pit of snakes and beaked toads.”
Darroch frowned. “That’s strange. I was thinking of toads not long ago—when Isabel was helping me don my shirt.”
Any fanciful notion that Darroch found her attractive fled. Her presence evidently filled his head with thoughts of toads. She stood, gathered up the bowls and spoons and took them to the pump.
Traitor
Once again Darroch had said something to upset Isabel, though he’d no notion what it was. And he wasn’t going to reveal he’d conjured an image of toads to take his mind off bedding her.
Fanny was almost as prickly as Isabel. She was drying the bowls Isabel had washed, her wrinkled brow furrowed.
His instinct was to stride up the stone steps and disappear from their lives. But that wasn’t an option. He had no weapon and one unreliable arm. Hammond’s men would track him down quickly and truss him up. If they thought the women couldn’t handle the situation they might throw him into some dank pit while they waited for the ransom.
The box-bed was cramped, but at least it was out of the weather and sheep-free.
In any case, the secret to his identity lay in this croft, with these women. They knew more about him than where he’d come from. Perhaps honey would be more effective than vinegar in prying out the answers. He pasted a smile on his face and took the drying cloth from Fanny.
She stared at him as if she’d never seen a man dry crockery before, then shrugged and moved to heft the cooking pot from the chain. He hurried to help her. “I may have just the one good hand, but I’ll do that.”
She eyed him suspiciously, then beamed a toothless grin. “I reckon ye’ll come in useful after all,” she chortled.
He easily lifted the pot and carried it to the shelf she indicated. “In case yon dog gets his nose in it.”
When he turned and caught Isabel watching him, she averted her eyes.
Fanny’s mood seemed to have improved, so he risked another gambit. “The box-bed is too small for me,” he said. “I cede it to ye ladies. I’ll kip on one of the pallets.”
To his surprise, the old woman agreed. “These aching bones thank ye for it,” she said. “But my tossin’ and turnin’ would keep the devil himself awake.” She raised a brow at Isabel. “Ye dinna mind sleeping on yon pallet, do ye? Closer to the heat o’ the fire?”
*
“O’ course,” Isabel replied, struggling to keep the annoyance out of her voice even as she wondered what Fanny was thinking as the old woman left the croft, presumably headed for the privy.
She wouldn’t need any more heat with the fiery furnace that was Darroch MacKeegan asleep on a pallet a fe
w feet away.
He said nothing, but his delight was evident as he enthusiastically retrieved the pallets stacked against the wall and moved them into place near the hearth—much too close together. Even one-handed he lifted things with ease.
She hefted the straw mattresses, threw his down on his pallet and knelt to arrange hers, straining to shove the makeshift bed further from the hearth.
Fanny returned to the croft and handed him two blankets retrieved from a cupboard. He smiled as he passed the one he’d used in the box-bed on to Isabel. She thought to protest but then he might guess she was aware the wool held his scent.
She accepted it with a feigned smile, wrapped it around her shoulders and headed out the door to the privy.
“Aye,” he said, “best ye go now while there’s still a wee bit o’ light. Dinna forget yer hound.”
She slapped her thigh, irritated Blue hadn’t followed, evidently preferring to stay with Darroch. And how did the infuriating man know she was terrified of venturing out in the dark?
Blue’s momentary reluctance to obey until Darroch growled, “Go, boy,” only added to her frustration.
“Traitor,” she muttered to the dog as she made her way round back.
She saw to her needs as quickly as possible, finding comfort despite herself in inhaling his scent from the blanket. “Ye’re in a fine mess, Isabel MacRain,” she muttered as she retraced her steps to the door.
She stopped abruptly when she became aware Darroch lounged against the outer doorframe, watching her. Had he heard?
“Just making sure ye’re all right,” he explained as their paths crossed.
Perched in the opening of the box-bed, Fanny held the lone remaining candle high. Isabel navigated the steps and curled up on her pallet, wrinkling her nose against the smell of wick in the tallow. They’d used only expensive beeswax candles at Dungavin since Ghalla’s advent on the scene. It was a change Isabel had benefitted from, yet it galled just the same. Tallow hadn’t been good enough for the likes of Ghalla Nellis. “Won’t he need the light when he returns?” she asked, hoping to take her mind off the annoying memory.
“I reckon the fire will be enough,” Fanny replied. “He kens to be wary on yon steps.”
Isabel curled up in the blanket with her back to Darroch’s pallet. Blue yawned and slumped down beside her. She told herself she didn’t care if the perplexing man returned safely or not, but breathed more easily when she heard the click of the latch and the squeak of the newly repaired hinges.
*
Darroch descended the steps carefully and peered into the smoky gloom of the darkened croft.
The fire in the hearth provided sufficient light for him to see his pallet—and Isabel curled up on hers with the faithful dog, probably pretending to sleep.
He stretched out on his back, his good hand behind his head. The pain in the injured elbow was lessening, but he’d no intention of letting the women know it still bothered him.
He turned his head when the dog whimpered, his eyes glowing blue. The beast had definitely taken a liking to him. He suspected it wouldn’t take much to lure the hound to his side of the hearth. His prickly mistress was a different matter. She’d even lied about her name for some reason. Getting her to trust him was a bigger challenge, but he knew deep in his heart he had to try, not only for his sake, but for…
Someone else needs a woman like Isabel.
Once again, the memory proved frustratingly elusive.
The croft was strangely quiet. The sheep had settled. Only Fanny’s soft snoring and the occasional hiss of the fire disturbed the silence.
Blinking the sting of smoke from his eyes, he drifted into sleep, remembering his grin of satisfaction when Isabel’s efforts at weaving finally pleased Fanny. There was something about wanting to learn how to weave…
Stinks to High Heaven
Dawn’s grey light pried open Isabel’s eyes to the inevitable truth—she wasn’t likely to enjoy another night of restful sleep until she confronted Darroch. He might not remember jilting her, but she would never forget it, and revealing the reason for her anger would ease the burden. She could forget the episode and get on with life—once she and Uncle Boyd devised a way to thwart Ghalla.
The outer door opened and closed. Probably Fanny off to the privy.
She turned over, ready to spew her resentment. The sight that greeted her caused tears to well, choking off the bitter words. Darroch lay on his back, snoring softly, with Blue stretched alongside the injured elbow, as if to protect it. The dog’s massive back paws rested atop still-booted feet. Her hound stared at her, tongue lolling, obviously pleased with himself. He’d made sure Darroch couldn’t roll over and injure the arm further.
Yawning, she sat up and combed both hands through her hair. “How is it ye care for him?” she whispered. “Ye’re normally a good judge o’ character.”
She scrambled to her feet when Darroch stirred. He opened his eyes and rubbed Blue’s ear with his good hand. “I think yer dog likes me,” he said with a sleepy smile.
She looked down at him. If they’d married, she’d be waking up every morning in his bed, gazing into those emerald eyes, running her hand through disheveled auburn curls. She swallowed the lump in her throat, dismayed that deep regret rather than anger had given rise to her renewed grief.
She admitted inwardly Blue wasn’t the only one who liked him, and resigned herself to another day of stoic silence.
*
Feigning sleep, Darroch admired the curves of Isabel’s breasts as she combed the glorious tresses off her face. His body responded fiercely, convincing him once and for all he wanted to wake up every day next to this beautiful young woman. But before then, he’d kiss away the fear that haunted her gaze. She stared at him with a confusing mixture of longing and resentment. He hadn’t yet regained his memory, and knew almost nothing about himself, but he thirsted to know more about her.
Perhaps she was annoyed Blue had lain with him. He pushed the dog away gently. “Go. Ye’ve taken care of me, now yer mistress needs ye.”
Blue scarpered to the door and ran out as Fanny returned, mumbling something that might have been a greeting, and began pumping water into the kettle.
Isabel went to help her lift it onto the chain over the hearth. Darroch got up and assisted them. “I think the sling can come off today,” he suggested hopefully, cupping the injured elbow.
Fanny poked the fire and piled on more peat. “Depends on Hammond,” she replied gruffly. “Oatmeal for breakfast.”
It seemed an unnecessary announcement, since it was unlikely the auld woman boiled up anything else at the start of the day. Taking the twinkle of amusement in Isabel’s brown eyes as a good omen, he reached for her hand. “I need fresh air,” he said softly. “Walk with me.”
She didn’t pull away—another good sign—but shook her head. “I must help Fanny.”
“Nay,” the auld woman retorted, brandishing bowls she’d taken from the cupboard. “I can manage. Let the sheep out while ye’re around back.”
He squeezed Isabel’s hand and pulled her gently to the steps before she could voice an objection.
Outside, she raised her face to the weak morning sun.
“Ye’re beautiful, Isabel,” he murmured. “What are ye doing here in Harris? Ye dinna belong with a crusty auld woman and a flock o’ sheep.”
She pulled her hand from his, avoiding his gaze. “Ye ken naught about me.”
He took a risk. “I ken a stupid mon jilted ye.”
She clenched her jaw and glared at him, as if he’d done the dastardly deed. She seemed about to say something in reply, but then closed her mouth.
He sensed he should leave matters there, but couldn’t stop. “Is that why ye came to Harris? To get away from him?”
She sat down on a weathered bench beside the wall of the croft, pulled her plaid tight around her shoulders and folded her arms across her chest. “Nay,” she replied wearily, staring into the distance.
He sat beside her. “Then who is it ye’re avoiding?”
She shivered as a tear trickled down her cheek. “My stepmother,” she confessed.
Her answer wasn’t what he’d expected, but at least she’d allowed him a peek inside her life. He took another chance and leaned into her. “’Tis hard to lose a mother,” he began, then stopped abruptly as a chilling certainty crept up his spine. His own mother was dead. He studied his feet, trying to conjure an image of her. Had she loved him? Did he grieve her? Was his father still alive?
He startled when Isabel put her hand to his cheek. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost,” she whispered.
He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m nay sure,” he admitted. “I think my mother’s dead too.”
She interlaced her fingers with his, as if needing something to cling to. “I loved my mother dearly, but Ghalla is a harridan.”
The name seemed vaguely familiar, but repeating it didn’t clear the fog. “Ghalla is yer stepmother?”
“Aye,” she sighed, “and she schemes to wed me to her obnoxious son.”
He chuckled. “Let me guess. Her reasoning is that ye’ve been jilted therefore no one else’ll want ye for wife. Sounds like the insult worked in her favor.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in her laughter. “Exactly.”
He unlaced their fingers and tilted her chin to his gaze, hoping she would see the sincerity of what he was about to say. “I’d gladly take ye to wife, Isabel.”
He nigh on fell off the bench when she tore away from him, howling like a wounded beast, and hurried up the slope towards the privy.
Stunned, he let his hand fall to his lap, noticing for the first time a faint but discernible stain on the skin of his palm. He thought it was leftover grime from the window, but it refused to rub off on his plaid. Margaret had told him the gypsies believed a man’s future was written in the lines of his palm. He stared at the strange mark, but it gave no hint as to who he was or why Isabel seemed so intent on rejecting him.
Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Page 8