Kneeling in the dirt, the skirt of her dress pooled out around her, the thick, brown fabric seeming to meld into the earth, they matched so closely in color. Her hair was bundled at the base of her head, which he’d come to recognize as her regular style, the red tendrils curling every which way, some sticking to her neck and the side of her face. Despite the amount of time she spent outside, her skin was somewhat pale, giving her the appearance of a lady who didn’t work much. Still, he knew she was almost never inside. Isobel had a heart that beat for nature and a respect for all things living. When she worked, she did so reverently, with thanks on her lips. At this moment, he could see the tiny smile she wore, her hands spotted with mud, working through the earth with a small spade, a woven basket of trimmings from her young plants resting at her side. Halting for a moment, she sat up, stretching her back as she dragged her forearm across her forehead, wiping away the sweat on her brow.
Will knew well enough what her chores were now, after watching her for the past couple days. The garden was the last thing she tackled every day, and she took very good care of it. Each morning, she started by gathered supplies for the hut, then washed clothes, and even had a few small game traps that were checked daily. The only thing he hadn’t figured out was what she did at dawn. There was never enough heather to suggest she’d been doing just the gathering, but he didn’t want to pry and ask her about it.
Glancing over, she saw Will staring and grinned, waving lightly.
Embarrassed to have been caught, he held his hand up in greeting, clearing his throat. “The wall is finished, if ye wanted to see it.”
“I would love to,” she replied enthusiastically. “I’m almost finished here. Give me a couple minutes and I’ll be right over, aye?”
Nodding, he turned away, face flaming. She hadn’t appeared to be bothered he’d been watching her, but he felt like he’d invaded her privacy somehow. Rubbing his hands on his kilt, he went back over to the other side of the house. Being around Isobel sometimes made him feel a strange nervousness. He realized he cared what she thought of him; her opinion mattered very much in the grand scheme of things, to him at least. When he woke each day, he felt the desire to make her proud and do something good for her. The fact that she didn’t need his help made him all the more determined to offer it, to show that he was capable of doing what she so obviously could accomplish on her own. It wasn’t that he thought himself better or didn’t want her to do the work—he didn’t think she should have to. In his mind, Isobel deserved to be treated like the wonderful woman she was, and that didn’t include doing back breaking work like constructing houses.
Leaning against the newly finished side of the house, Will watched Arth nosing around the trees, untethered and free to wander. The horse hadn’t been used for much since they’d arrived, so it didn’t make sense to keep him saddled and roped. The animal seemed much happier to explore, never going too far from the hut. In the event that he left Will’s sight, he would come straight back on the first call. Will had the impression that the beast enjoyed his freedom away from the farm.
Footsteps drew Will’s attention and he straightened, watching as Isobel came around the corner. She’d dusted herself off some and wiped her hands and face clean. The smile she gave him as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear made his chest do a strange flop, like his heart had suddenly skipped a beat for some reason.
“It looks like it was never broken in the first place.” Studying the wall, she reached out and touched it lightly, obviously pleased with how it had come together. “I don’t think I ever could have repaired it this well, Will. Thank ye, truly.”
“It was my pleasure,” he replied warmly, happy that she was so approving of the construction. “Of course, we have a way to go yet, but at least ye have four solid walls now.”
“That I do. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help ye with this part. However, I do plan on doing a significant amount of work on the roof with ye. That’s why I’ve been doing so many chores now; I’ve been trying to get ahead of myself so I wouldn’t feel pressured to do everything at once.”
“Ye dinna have to do that,” he answered quickly, worries of her getting hurt flashing through his mind. There was also the issue of time—if he finished early, he’d have no excuse to stay with her for the full two weeks.
“I want to.” Her tone was kind, but the determination in her eyes instantly told him there would be no negotiation on this point. She would be helping with the roof, whether he wanted her to or not.
Grinning tightly, he nodded, conceding. “I’ll be happy to have yer assistance.” Looking up at the sky, noting the blue, cloudless hue, an idea formed quickly. “It’s too late in the day to really get started on anything now,” he stated. “What say ye to a bit of a celebration for how far we’ve come so far?”
“What do you mean?” Confused, she looked at him with curiosity. “A party?”
“Something like that.”
****
Pulling the bowstring back some, Isobel tried not to laugh, afraid of spooking the bird sitting in the heather ahead of them.
“Ye’re doing good,” Will whispered, smothering his own chuckles at watching her try to draw the whole string. It was a heavy bow, one that even he had trouble with when he’d first obtained it. Over time, his muscles had grown accustomed to the motion of nocking, pulling back, and releasing, though. Isobel was just trying it for the first time.
“Don’t make fun of me, William MacDonald.” Her form bent over as she silently giggled, the bow having bested her.
“I would never,” he swore, grinning widely. Glancing out at the moor, he noted that the birds were still there, either blind to their presence, or uncaring. “Here.”
Slowly moving over to her, he motioned for her to raise the bow again. “Notch the arrow. Don’t hold it too tight.” Closing the space between them, her back lightly brushing against him, he touched her fingers as they wrapped around the cresting point of the arrow, testing the strength of her grasp. “That’s good. Ye don’t want yer hand on the grip to be too tight either.” Putting his other hand around hers on the grip, he took a deep breath, suddenly aware of how close they were.
“Is this right?” she asked, her voice quivering slightly as she flexed her fingers under his.
“Aye. Now, yer going to pull the string back and raise the bow at the same time. Dinna be afraid to go slow if ye need to. Sometimes it helps to do it fast, though.”
She nodded, her hair tickling his neck as it pressed into his beard, the top of her head just under his chin. As she pulled the bow back, he let his hand slide up her arm, adjusting her elbow position and helping her to draw it to its full extent.
“Rest yer fingers against the corner of yer mouth,” he whispered, one hand still covering hers on the grip and the other resting on her shoulder. “And keep both eyes open. Aim for the bird, but dinna shoot yet.”
“Are my feet in the right spot?” she asked suddenly, uncertainty apparent in her voice.
“Dinna fash yerself about yer feet,” he instructed. “Just look at the bird. When ye feel ready, take a breath and let the arrow fly.”
He felt a barely perceptible nod, her shoulder twitching under his touch as she worked at keeping the string pulled back. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the scent of her, basking in the feeling of her skin on his. Until he’d actually touched her, he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to. Her energy and nervousness was so strong, he felt that it was practically radiating from her, filling him with a strange, buzzing happiness. It was as if all was right in the world, so long as her hand was in his.
Quietly, he heard Isobel mutter something in her native language. He recognized it as a prayer of thanks, much like the one he uttered whenever he killed an animal. Opening his eyes, he smiled, feeling the breath she took.
With a snap, the arrow shot forward, soaring through the sky, and striking the ground several feet away from the birds. Upon the landing of the missed shot, the air became
a rushing of wings, their proposed dinner taking off into the fading light.
Laughing loudly, Will threw his head back, highly entertained that she had missed so badly. Releasing his hold on the grip, he put his hands around her waist without even thinking about it.
“Oh dear.” Chuckling as well, she shook her head, lowering the bow and leaning against him for a second. “That was awful.”
“Aye. Ye’re a worse shot than Rowan.”
Turning in his embrace, she glared up at him over her shoulder, giggling all the same. “I’ve shot a bow maybe twice in my life before. I tried to tell ye I wouldn’t make it.”
“Ye did fine, lass. At the very least, it was entertaining.” Smiling, he matched her stare, exploring the depths of her eyes, wondering what she was thinking.
Suddenly, he realized that he was still holding onto her, drawing her against him. Clearing his throat, he released her, crossing his arms and taking a step back. “Do ye want to try again?” His voice sounded shaky to him, betraying how off guard he felt. It had been so natural to hold her like that, to feel like she was his to keep close. She didn’t belong to him, though, and he was already spoken for.
The thought felt like a stab to the heart.
“No, I don’t think I do.” She sounded flustered as well, her face somewhat reddened. “So much for our celebratory dinner, eh?”
“We can still have the bonfire,” he suggested. “Burn some of that old thatch off and the branches I trimmed.”
The conversation felt too forced to him now, like he was grasping at straws to try and keep her around, all while desperately wanting to just disappear for a moment. He felt unhinged and angry at himself for getting so caught up. Isobel didn’t know anything about Fiona, but he did. What did it say about his honor that he was here with another woman, entertaining ideas about her skin against his?
At the same time, he wanted to explore what he was feeling. Isobel made him experience emotions he’d never realized before. It was hard to understand all of them, or why they felt so good, but he didn’t want them to stop. Fiona had never made him feel this way. What if this was the only time he got to experience something of this magnitude? What if the next week and a half of his life was the only time he’d ever truly feel like he was where he belonged?
“Actually,” he started again before she could reply. “It might be better to save the thatch, in case it rains again and we need more cover. The branches can be cut up for the roof, too.”
“I suppose so.” Did he imagine that she sounded disappointed?
“There’s a lot to do tomorrow,” he continued. “Perhaps it would be better if we turned in for the night instead of celebrating.” The words felt like dust in his mouth. He didn’t want the night to end. Staying up would mean more conversations, more stories, more time with Isobel.
“Ye’re right,” she agreed, sighing. “Let’s go back. We’ll need all our strength tomorrow.”
Will’s heart hurt. He could tell that she was upset. All of this had been his idea in the first place, to get out and relax. An afternoon of fun had sounded like a gift from heaven, after all the work they’d been doing. Instead, it had turned into a night of regrets. There was nothing he could do to fix it, either. He’d come to help her, as was the honorable thing to do, and he would return home to marry Fiona, as his morals dictated.
Nine
The hammer struck against the wood over and over again, sweat dripping down Will’s shirtless back. At the moment, he wouldn’t have really cared if it rained again, despite the fact that there was absolutely no roof on Isobel’s house.
Everything the Irishwoman owned had been covered or moved out of the space to avoid being broken during the construction of the new ceiling. The old one had been torn down, the pieces that had been able to be salvaged reworked back into the new frame. The timber that Isobel had gathered herself was used as well, all the other pieces coming from a fallen tree that Will had spent one whole day finding, wandering all over the mountain until he came across it.
“Will.”
Anchoring himself against the support beam, he turned, looking at Isobel as she appeared at the top of the ladder he’d lashed together. In her hands, she held a cup of water, the glass held out to him as an offering.
Hot and thirsty, he hung the small hammer on one of the beams and took it from her, gulping the cool liquid down eagerly.
“Would ye like some more?” She sounded tired, but her eyes were as bright as ever, watching as he nodded.
“Aye. I’ll come down and get it myself, though, so ye don’t have to carry it up for me again.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I ken.”
Grimacing at the strain in their conversation, he waited for her to climb back down, wiping his face with his hand. In an attempt to distract himself, he looked across the space, thinking. The frame work was almost done, which meant by tomorrow they should be able to start laying the thatch out. Ten days had passed since he arrived. The roof would be done in another two or three, and then it would be time to go home.
Checking to make sure the ladder was clear, he wiped his sweaty palms on his kilt and climbed down, hopping off the third rung up. All around him, heather and reeds were laid out, soaking up all the sun they could get before being tacked into the roof. Isobel had been working on making sure they were all dry in time.
Glancing over at the water trough, he saw her sitting beside it, murmuring to Arth as she stroked his face. Her brown dress was looking more tattered than usual, various pieces of dried plant sticking out of her hair. Her face shone with sweat, but she was still as beautiful as ever.
Scolding himself for thinking such a thing, Will shook his head and strode over to her, filling the cup and gulping down more water. He’d been doing his best to keep his distance ever since he realized his feelings were leaning toward the romantic side. Instead of helping him keep a clear head, though, the action had the opposite effect. All he could think about was Isobel and how it had felt to hold her in his arms. He was plagued by the scent of her hair, the sound of her voice, the image of her in the twilight. A desire to run his fingers through her curly locks filled him, to press her against him, to kiss her lips and know what it felt like to be completely claimed by her.
Every day, she would smile at him and he would hate himself for looking away, for not smiling back, for distancing himself from the one person he wanted to spend time with. The actions were driving him mad. Every thought he had of her physically hurt, his body seeming to reject the idea that he belonged to someone else.
To make it even worse, he knew he was hurting her. He could see her withdrawing, wondering what she had done wrong, questioning why he was suddenly so short with her. She’d gone from being carefree and joyous to angry and work-minded, choosing, like him, to focus on the task at hand instead of talking all the time. The only difference was, she was still trying. She would ask him questions about his family and tell stories of her own. Her voice grew quieter every day, an emptiness filling the air around them.
“Are ye feeing well, Will?”
Her voice washed over him and he felt a sense of joy, immediately followed by sadness. “Aye,” he responded, looking over at her.
Her expression plainly stated she didn’t believe him. One eyebrow raised, the spitfire inside her was surfacing, her fingers balling into fists. “Why don’t ye talk to me anymore? I thought we were friends and now ye’re treatin’ me like I’m the witch everyone says I am.”
Realizing that this question had been building in her for the past couple days, Will steeled himself. She was finally going to be angry and try to fight with him. Good. He needed her to be, so he wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving her in a few days’ time.
“I think we should just focus on the repairs here. I’ll be leaving soon and ye’ve made it clear that ye don’t want to take part in the harvest or anything in the village. It makes sense to not get attached.” Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, f
eeling a touch of fear as he saw the spark light in her eyes.
“Attached?” Rising to her feet, she put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “What do ye mean, attached?”
“It would be better if we weren’t . . . involved in any way. For both of us.” Swallowing hard, he watched her with apologetic eyes, feeling like kicking himself for being such an arse to her.
“Involved?” Her confusion was melting away to pure fury, her nose twitching as she stood her ground, back straight as a board while she stared him down. “Attached? Will, if ye’re trying to tell me to bugger off, just come out and say it! What do ye think I am, some woman who follows men around like a lost puppy? Or are ye worried I’ll hurt yer reputation, because I’m the witch that came to town? That’s it, isn’t it? Ye’re worried that everyone will judge ye, or accuse ye of doin’ the Devil’s work, too, so ye’re shovin’ me to the side!”
“What? No!” Shocked that she would even think such a thing, he shook his head, stepping toward her. “I dinna think any of those things! If anyone even tried to do anything to ye on the grounds of witchcraft, I’d flog them myself!”
“Then why are ye so worried about people knowing we’re friends?” She was shouting now, eyes flashing. “What is it that’s so horrible, ye can’t even look at me anymore?”
Torn, Will glanced around, as if there was someone nearby who could help him. His emotions battled inside him, fear at making the wrong decision and everything he felt for Isobel urging him forward.
“What is it, Will?” she demanded again. “What?”
Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story): A Scottish Highlander Romance (The Swept Away Saga) Page 6
