Glancing down at the ground, he saw some knives among the items that had been grabbed in the attempted burglary. Had the thieves cut her, or was her injury a result of her own daring defense?
Looking back up at the woman, he met her gaze as she stopped a few feet in front of him. It was full of trepidation and caution, green eyes not even bothering to mask her distrust, a frown covering her face as she stared him down.
“What do ye want?” she demanded, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders.
Still somewhat in shock, Will continued to simply stare at her, his mouth hanging open some.
“Well?” she prompted again.
“Er, sorry.” Shaking his head, he blinked, hard, and looked back at her. “I heard fighting and came to see if I could be of any assistance.”
“I don’t need yer help.” Her reply was gruff and final sounding as she bent down, picking up the scattered items.
“Clearly,” Will muttered. All the same, he dropped his sword and began helping her gather the small belongings. Rising, he handed over what he’d collected, trying his best to smile warmly.
The woman, holding her few possessions close, turned to go inside, seemingly unbothered with leaving him out in the mud without another word.
“I’m William MacDonald,” he offered, hoping to get her to share more about herself.
Looking over her shoulder, she gave him a somewhat appraising stare. “Isobel Delaney.” And with that, she went inside and shut the door tight behind her.
Sighing, Will picked up his blade and turned to leave, knowing when he wasn’t wanted. Arth had finally caught up, his panic attack apparently caused by the fight he’d overheard. Now, the horse stood in the trees just behind Will, nibbling on some fresh grass. While nothing had really been learned about this Isobel Delaney—besides the fact that one should not get on her bad side—it was clear she wanted nothing to do with anyone else.
A faint glimmer caught his eye as he moved away and he looked down, noticing the emerald broach once more. It had been pressed further into the mud, escaping the notice of its owner when she’d been gathering her things.
Pulling it out of the earth, Will rubbed it clean with his tartan, admiring the handiwork of whoever had made it. Why a woman who lived alone in the highlands would have such a piece of jewelry was a mystery to him, but it was beautiful, all the same.
Walking over to Arth, he retrieved the honey he’d brought as well, taking the two items over to the door of the cottage and knocking lightly.
“Go away,” Isobel called from inside.
“I found yer broach.”
The entryway opened at once, her green eyes staring at him in surprise as she partially hid herself behind the door.
“It got buried in the mud,” he explained, holding it out to her. “It looks mighty fine. Would be a shame to lose it, don’t ye think?”
“Thank ye.” Taking it from him carefully, she quickly tucked it into the sleeve of her dress. Eyeing the jar of honey, she nodded toward it. “What’s that?”
“A gift from my mother, to welcome ye to the clan lands.”
“A gift?” Her eyes widened even more at that.
Holding it out to her, he nodded in encouragement, smiling. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what ye’re thinking.”
Chuckling, he watched her expressions carefully. The lass couldn’t have been any older than he was. Clearly, she was on her own, for whatever reason. It was also apparent that she was feeding herself somehow, though she eyed the meager offering he held with interest.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was,” she stated softly, taking the jar from him. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to get rid of me.”
“What do ye mean?” Will asked, surprised by her candidness.
“Nothing. Thank you, for this.” Smiling hesitantly, she tapped her fingers on the door, obviously not knowing what else to say.
“Well, should ye need any help, we’re just down the mountain. Ye’re welcome to take part in the planting and harvest this year, should ye want. MacDonalds are a hospitable bunch; we’d be happy to have ye.”
“I don’t need any help,” she stated again, the hard expression of stubbornness covering her face once more. “I thank ye for the honey, but I’ll be fine on my own.”
She closed the door again, leaving him standing at the entrance, confused.
Shaking his head, he walked back to Arth, feeling as if he had more questions about the Irishwoman than answers now. Why was she here? What made her so determined to be left alone? Where had she learned to defend herself in such a manner? She was so short in her replies, too. Why?
The questions swirled in his mind as he followed the path home, the face of Isobel Delaney lodged firmly in his memory.
Four
“What’s troubling ye, Willy?”
Da didn’t look at him as they worked, checking the crop of potatoes that had yet to emerge from the soil they’d been stuck in. Hopefully, if recent days were to be trusted, the frost was over and they wouldn’t have to worry about the food dying out in the freezing cold when the sprouts did appear.
Crossing his arms, Will gave a non-committed grunt as a reply, his brow furrowed and mouth turned down. Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze seemed to travel up the mountain, his thoughts lost in whatever current he’d let them loose in. Then, he refocused, sighing, his stance relaxing. Scratching his thigh through the fabric of his kilt, he shook his head, moving to examine the row closest to him.
“Ye’ve been tormented since ye returned from the Irishwoman’s hut, boy. Did she curse ye, or did Arth simply drop ye on yer head?” Grinning ruefully, Da chuckled, straightening and brushing his hands off on his shirt. “Tell me, lad. Yer mother’s been worried sick since ye came home three days ago and I canna stand the sound of her any longer. What’s troublin’ ye?”
The joke did its job; Will laughed, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “I dinna ken if it’s my place to say something on the matter, but I have been troubled since I returned.”
Motioning for Will to follow, Da headed out of the rows, making a line for the stand of trees nearby. Settling down beneath the branches, he opened his sporran, pulling out a few pieces of cheese and smoked fish. “Here,” he said, offering Will half. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t seem right, leaving her up there alone.” Staring at the food in his hands, Will pursed his lips, as if choosing his words carefully. “Even if the Campbells hadn’t attacked her—which, I’m not saying she canna defend herself, she most certainly can—she’s living in a ruin, Da. Half the house is crumbled. I think she was working on a small garden, but the lass isn’t going to be able to grow enough food to last, especially when winter comes again. She’ll freeze to death, even if she has enough meat to feed an army.”
Nodding, Da slowly chewed on his bite of fish, thinking. After swallowing, he looked over at his son, raising an eyebrow. “What do ye propose be done about it? The woman says she dinna want our help. Would you force her to accept it?”
“Coax her, more like. She’s scared, Da. She doesn’t want anyone up there, asking her questions.” Breaking off a small piece of cheese, Will popped it in his mouth, savoring the taste, and fell silent.
“She told ye was scared?”
Shaking his head, Will swallowed and cleared his throat. “No. There was a feeling about her, though. Ye ken? Something in the way she held herself as I tried to talk with her, and what she said when I joked about the honey being poisoned. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to get rid of me.’ Any person who says something like that is hiding from something.” Pausing for a moment, Will thought over his conversation with the stranger again. “I only want to do the right thing, Da. Ignoring another person in need isn’t something I ever pictured myself doing.”
Da remained silent, looking over the field, watching the other tenants of their tiny homestead working in their own plots. The air was almost peaceful, the warmth of
the sun causing sweat to form on the back of Will’s neck. Spring was coming in quickly, bringing with it all the new changes and life that it always did.
Breaking the lull that had formed between them, Da rose, grabbing Will by the hand and hauling him to his feet as well. Their eyes met, an accepting expression on Da’s face. “I suppose, if ye feel that strongly about it, ye should probably get up there and coax her, then.”
Surprised, Will felt himself at a loss for words, having not expected Da to so easily agree with him. “But, what about the planting? The ceilidh?”
“We’ll manage the fields just fine without ye for a time. As for the ceilidh, it’s not for another two weeks. Ye can work on the hut until then, assuming ye can convince the Irishwoman to let ye help. That will be more than enough time for ye to at least get her in a home that isn’t going to blow over if she sneezes. If all goes well, ye might even be able to convince her to come down for the party and meet the other neighbors.”
“It’s possible.” Despite Will going and meeting Isobel, everyone besides his family still seemed convinced that she was a witch. It didn’t help that he’d returned with a tale of a hammer wielding, flaming haired, sharp tongued creature. The only thing he’d been able to get everyone to see as a good omen was the two Campbells she’d sent home with their tails between their legs.
“Ye’ll leave in the morning.” It wasn’t a question; Da clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled, an understanding to his gaze. “Go ahead and get back home now and tell Maw. Pack yer things and make yer plans for how ye intend to convince Miss Delaney. There’s not much left to do up here, anyway.”
****
“Here, take another blanket.” Adding the bundle to the already overbearing pile of things packed onto Arth’s back, Laoghaire patted the stack uncertainly, doubt written all over her features.
“Ye’re goin’ to give the man more than he can carry.” Chuckling, Da stroked the snout of the horse, murmuring something to him in Gaelic.
“I don’t want him cold up there, without a roof over his head!” She looked at her husband with a stare that practically dared him to argue with her about it.
“I’ll be fine, Maw. I’ve camped in worse conditions before.” Stifling a yawn, Will tightened his hold on the reins. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to walking instead of riding, but there had been no room for him on the horse once his mother started helping him pack.
“Did ye get the bread I made for ye last night, Willy? I canna remember.”
“It’s there. I can hunt, too, if needed.”
“Let the boy go.” Da’s voice cut over the worried tone of Laoghaire’s as he moved around Arth and took her hand. “He knows how to take care of himself.”
“It’s just so close to the border,” she stated, obviously worried. Her free fingers twisted in the skirt of her dress, her face pale in the early morning light.
“He’ll be fine. He has a woman with a hammer to protect him.” Smirking, Da flinched away as she reached up to swat him. Laughing, he took both her hands in his, pulling her close. “He’s doing a good thing, Laoghaire. The Lord will protect him.”
This seemed to calm her more than everything else and she nodded, taking a deep breath. Removing one of her hand’s from Da’s grasp, she held it out to Will, smiling softly. “Pray with me before ye go, Willy. We’ll ask Saint Christopher to watch over ye in yer travels. It’ll help me feel better about ye being so close to the Campbells.”
“We are at peace,” Da reminded her softly, extending his hand to his son all the same. “But a prayer canna do any harm.”
Joining together, they bowed their heads for a brief moment, listening as Laoghaire quickly uttered the words she felt necessary. When it was all said and done, an air of finality settled around them.
“I’ll be back in two weeks,” Will stated, smiling warmly. Facing the mountain, he turned his back on them and started off, pulling on the reins.
“Take care, son.” Da patted Arth on the side, nudging him forward, his arm wrapped around Maw’s shoulders.
“I will.”
He didn’t need to look back to know they were watching him as he disappeared over the hill and up the path on the mountain. While he’d been away for weeks at a time before, this trip felt different. Perhaps it was because this was something he’d petitioned to do for himself, or because he was so close to setting out on his own for good. Maybe it really was that fact that a rival clan would be a stone’s throw away. Whatever the case, his parents had obviously felt it as well; Will had never been sent off with such ceremony before.
The trail to the hut seemed to pass quickly this time, where it had felt like days before. As the late morning sun shone down on him, he found himself just on the edge of the clearing the cottage rested in, boots sticking in the road that was still a little muddy and marred with the signs of the scuffle he’d witness just days before. Smoke hung in the air, the scent warm and inviting, bringing to mind late nights by the fire, reading and listening to Da’s stories. There was no sign of the house’s inhabitant, silence the only sound that greeted him.
“Hallo,” he called loudly, not wanting to be on the receiving end of a hammer’s strike by accidentally startling the woman. When his salutation was not returned, he tethered Arth to a nearby tree, making his way over to the door of the shack. Knocking three time, he waited for an answer that did not come.
“Isobel Delaney?” His voice carried through the space—there was no way she could have not heard him, if she truly was in the vicinity.
“What do ye want?”
Turning, he caught sight of her in the trees. She was wearing the light, white dress he’d seen drying last time, the hem of which was brown and muddy. Bare feet peeked out from under the fabric, her toes curled in the mud, as if holding onto the earth for balance. In her arms, several stalks of heather rested, her long, unbound curls sitting in the fresh blooms. Curiosity and caution shone in her eyes, her lips forming an open “o,” as if she were about to continue questioning him, her head tilted to the side.
Looking away, he blushed, feeling as if he’d caught her in only her shift. He’d never seen a woman so simply dressed in all his life, with no stays, over skirts, or anything that would be considered proper dress for company. Then again, he had shown up unannounced. It was a small blessing that the dress hadn’t been see through, as far as he was concerned.
“I’ve come to offer my help with yer house.” He’d intended to recite a whole speech for her, detailing the many reasons why she should let him fix it, ranging from her own personal needs to his own sense of honor and duty. Instead, he found himself at a loss of explanation, only able to express the basic intention of his arriving at her home without any forewarning.
“I told ye, I don’t need any help,” she growled, moving out of the tree line and storming toward the house. “I’m just fine on my own.”
For some reason, her reply sparked an ember of anger inside him. Couldn’t she see the conditions around her? Any decent man would have felt the urge to assist her. “Ye’re living in a half standing ruin.” Raising an eyebrow, he folded his arms and watched as she floundered for a reply, her expression so clearly enraged now.
“Who do ye think ye are, coming up here with yer beard and kilt, actin’ like I can’t take care of myself? Ye don’t know a single thing about me! Now, I said I don’t need ye around. Go back to yer farm and leave me be, Scot.” Glaring at him, she shoved the front door open, going inside and slamming it shut behind her.
Huffing, split between anger and frustration, he stared at the entrance, pursing his lips. What was wrong with his beard and kilt? Throwing the fact that he didn’t know anything about her in his face—she didn’t know anything about him! All he was trying to do was help the daft woman, and he’d be damned if he let her attitude stop him from doing it.
“One thing ye may not know about Scots, lassie,” he yelled back to her, almost growling in contempt. “We’re as stubborn as an ox
! I will be fixin’ this place, whether ye want me to or not!”
“Like hell ye will!” The door flew open once more, the angry spitfire looking like she was about to claw his eyes out. “This is my house and I demand ye leave at once!”
“This ‘house’ is on MacDonald clan lands, and has been from since before ye were born. I have more claim to it than ye do!” Refusing to budge, he stared her down, using the same expression he employed when trying to get Rowan to tell the truth about something.
Stammering, she balled her hands into fists, so angry she was shaking. “Get out of here or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
“Ye’ll what? Bludgeon me with a hammer?” He couldn’t help the smile then, remembering the way she’d beaten the robbers mercilessly. It wouldn’t be so funny if she did the same to him, but it was still entertaining to think of.
Freezing, her features slowly turned into a smirk. “Something like that.”
Her tone had gone very cool, causing a ripple of unease to wash over him. She very well could smash him over the head with that hammer. Why had he chosen that to pick fun at?
“I’m not leaving until it’s done.” Pleased with how final and unmoving he had sounded, he turned, heading back toward Arth. There was no time like the present to prove he was serious about getting the job done.
“We’ll see,” Isobel replied softly.
Five
Sweat rolled down William’s face, beads of moisture gathering on his back and chest as well. Pausing in his labor, he wiped his sleeve across his forehead, taking a deep breath. The wall had collapsed in a V-shape, taking out one corner of the house with it. Around him, the rocks of the fallen barrier sat, scattered and covered in moss. Sorting through the gray stones was proving to be more arduous than expected, and that was supposed to be the easy part of it all. There was still the roof to fix, which would require harvesting new lumber, reconstructing the frame, gathering fresh thatch, and trimming back the branches of the trees surrounding the blackhouse. On top of all that, he would have to search for an already felled tree that would yield enough material for the job, or risk using wood that was too wet and might warp or crack over time. Of course, the hardest task at hand was going to be convincing Isobel to let him reconstruct her entire ceiling.
Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story): A Scottish Highlander Romance (The Swept Away Saga) Page 3
