Fanny refused to let go and looked into her eyes. “In the end, naught good comes o’ hatred, ye ken?”
Isabel swallowed the lump in her throat. “I dinna hate him,” she confessed.
“Aye, lass. That much is obvious.”
*
Darroch used the palm of his good hand to wipe muck off the tiny window and bent to peer out. Venturing across the croft had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He gingerly traced fingertips over the lump on the back of his head. The old woman had put a lot of force behind the blow. Blinking away the dizziness, he leaned his good elbow on the rough sill, bothered when he realized it was raining.
He clenched his jaw when he finally caught sight of Isabel, sitting on a rock, looking woebegone and bedraggled, without her plaid. If ever a lass needed someone to care for her…
“What possessed ye to run out in the rain?” he asked aloud, though he’d an inkling of the answer. Isabel didn’t trust men and no wonder, given that she’d been jilted. A thoughtless brute had broken her heart. It wasn’t surprising she was afraid to admit she was drawn to him. She likely didn’t realize he’d been aware of her staring at him while she thought he slept.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass. How could he take care of a woman when he didn’t even know who he was or what he had to offer?
The crofters claimed he was a sheep-rustling heir to the chieftaincy of a rival clan. Something had apparently prompted him to come to Harris to steal livestock from an enemy tribe. If only he knew why. It didn’t bode well for him and Isabel.
He could only wait and pray his memory returned.
The Privy
Fanny opened the door of the croft and ushered Isabel inside. “Get yerself dry,” she admonished. “I’ll help Cù gather the sheep.”
She obeyed, only to discover Darroch on the steps, blocking her way. She hesitated to sidle past him in the narrow space.
“Where do ye think ye’re off to?” Fanny demanded.
He leaned against the wall and smiled. “If ye insist on plying a mon with tea ye must expect he’ll need to occasionally visit yon privy out back.”
“How can we trust ye’ll nay run?” Fanny asked.
He patted his immobilized arm. “Harris is an island, is it not? Where am I to run when I have no idea how I came to be here? How long do ye think I’d survive without a weapon?”
Fanny capitulated without hesitation. “I’m going that way. Come with me.”
Apparently, her relative also believed his story. Isabel stepped back to allow him to exit, afraid to look at his face as they came within inches of each other. She stared at the plaid draped across most of his chest, alarmingly aware of his height and the seemingly effortless way he moved, despite his injuries. She tried to retreat to the door, but he put his good hand on her shoulder. “Stay out o’ the rain, mo ghràdh,” he said huskily.
A longing swept over her, though she couldn’t say what it was she longed for. No one had ever called her darling. If only it wasn’t Darroch’s seductive voice uttering the endearment; if only the comforting warmth seeping into her chilled skin didn’t come from the massive hand of the man who’d crushed her heart. Her knees threatened to buckle as she broke away, but she succeeded by some miracle in getting to the bottom of the steps.
Determined not to look back, she strode to the fire and jabbed at the peat vigorously with the poker until flames rekindled.
“Yer need for the privy mustna be urgent if ye can stand here gawking at Isabel all day,” Fanny taunted.
He growled and slammed the door as he left.
She knew then he’d stayed to watch her. The certainty chased away the chill. What she craved became all too clear. As she leaned to comb fingers through wet hair the heat of desire spiraled up her thighs and into her womb.
Perhaps if they’d met before the fateful day of the intended nuptials, he would never have jilted her. She’d mithered for a meeting, but Ghalla had been adamantly opposed. Her father had gone along with his wife. Indeed, he’d left every aspect of the betrothal and wedding arrangements to Ghalla who’d insisted on taking care of the entire matter as a duty to her darling stepdaughter.
She straightened, grimacing when hair clung to her nape like a wet rag. Ghalla’s words rang even more hollow now than they had at the time.
Anxious to change into dry clothing before Darroch returned, she retrieved the riding habit Fanny had aired-out and bundled up in a cupboard, then climbed into the box-bed, resisting the urge to inhale the scent of him from the blanket as she pushed it aside.
*
Darroch lingered in the privy, hoping the women didn’t suspect what he was about, though the wily Fanny probably guessed. He was grateful for at least one free hand to alleviate the pressing need at his groin. It had taken a good deal of willpower to resist the lure of Isabel’s lips—so close to his own in the narrow stairway. Her tempting breasts, rendered all the more lovely by the wet shift clinging to them, had been only inches from his chest. If he’d leaned forward just a little…
He groaned his frustration. If his unruly tarse turned to granite every time he got near her he’d be spending half his life in the foul-smelling privy. He could hardly bring himself off in the box-bed.
This state of affairs had to come to an end. Living with two women in a cramped croft would drive him out of his wits, especially since he seemed to be in lust with one of them. But what to do about it when he didn’t know who he was? Did he have friends in the vicinity? Surely somebody must be wondering what had become of him.
Straightening his plaid, he tightened the belt as best he could, determined to attempt getting his shirt back on when he returned to the croft.
He emerged from the privy, pleasantly surprised to see bright sunshine had chased away the rain.
He squinted into the distance, awed by the shimmering watery landscape and a land just beyond, glowing golden brown in the sunshine.
The certainty that he’d crossed that sea and visited the place he beheld hit him squarely in the gut. He inhaled the salty air. The water beckoned. “I’m a sailor,” he said aloud, his heart racing at even that small revelation into who he was.
He hurried to the croft, nigh on stumbling down the steps. He paused for a moment as another memory struck. This was where he’d injured his arm.
Almost giddy with excitement, he wanted to tell Isabel, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Fanny was climbing over the half-wall.
“Tell me the name of the land beyond the water,” he demanded.
She harrumphed. “I see ye’ve recovered yer lordly manner o’ speaking to those beneath ye. The island o’ Ywst is likely where ye sailed from to launch yer attack on us poor unsuspecting souls. ’Tis MacKeegan territory.”
He repeated the name over and over, convinced in his heart that someone waited for him there. But who?
“I’ve remembered I’m a sailor,” he declared with a grin.
Isabel appeared at the opening of the box-bed and climbed down by means of the stool. He fixed his gaze on the sway of her tempting bottom, vaguely aware something was different.
Then she turned and asked, “A sailor?”
Damp curls framed her blushing face. He’d been smitten by her beauty when she was clad in simple crofter’s clothing. The fitted jacket she wore now clung to every luscious curve. The long skirt flowed from her shapely hips. The creases in the fabric only emphasized the fine quality of the whole ensemble.
“Yer pardon,” he muttered, bunching his plaid to cover his unwelcome arousal. “Valerian tea evidently doesna agree with me. I’m away back to the privy.”
Sweating, he hurried out, Fanny’s cackling laughter ringing in his ears.
*
“The lad’s smitten with ye,” Fanny declared with a wink after she stopped laughing.
Isabel shook her head, though she couldn’t fail to notice the gobsmacked expression on Darroch’s face when she emerged wearing the riding habit. “He wa
s just surprised, that’s all.”
Fanny wagged a finger. “Ye’ve a choice to make now, lass.”
The truth of it had begun to dawn on Isabel, but she feigned ignorance. “A choice?”
“Ye can use the situation providence has brought about to mend fences and perhaps wed the mon after all…”
Isabel snorted. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because ye like him. Ye dinna wish to, but…”
Isabel pretended to be concerned with smoothing wrinkles out of the skirt. “What’s the other option?”
“Ye can take advantage of his feelings to punish him.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Aye, but take care ye dinna punish yerself in the process.”
Thawing the Ice
Darroch paced back and forth outside the croft, not surprised when the weather changed again and clouds rolled in. He felt accustomed to such changes, which confirmed his growing conviction that he was a son of these unpredictable island climes. He decided that constantly retreating to the privy wasn’t the answer to his problem. Inhaling cooler air might clear his head and help calm the need raging in his loins.
He returned to the croft when his ardor abated and gooseflesh marched across his skin.
“Saints alive,” Fanny exclaimed when she saw him. “Get his shirt, Isabel.”
He’d previously noted the auld woman’s capacity to foresee needs and events. He supposed such a skill was a necessity for folk living in a harsh, unpredictable land.
She shoved his plaid off his shoulder, made him sit on a rickety chair and beckoned Isabel who stood nearby pouting, his remarkably clean shirt in her hands. “Start with his good arm.”
He gritted his teeth, determined not to become aroused, but the notion of this elegantly clad lass touching him…
He arched a brow at Fanny, wondering about the slight upturn of her thin lips. Was she deliberately forcing the two of them together? A chief’s son would be quite a catch for a crofter’s cousin. Why then did he get the feeling he’d be the lucky one if he and Isabel…?
He tried to think of things to ward off lusty thoughts. Beaked toads popped into his head for some strange reason.
Isabel gathered the sleeve and slipped it over his wrist, then eased it up his arm to his shoulder. He looked to the rafters and began counting the number of crosspieces and trusses.
She leaned closer to pass the shirt across his back, then hesitated, clearly uncertain how to proceed with his arm in the sling. He inhaled her scent, then realized his mistake when the aroma of female arousal teased his nostrils.
Fanny came to her rescue. “Drape it across his arm, then fasten the ties at the front and secure it with his plaid.”
His second mistake was to look at her face as she did Fanny’s bidding. Their eyes met. She seemed unable or unwilling to look away.
“I thank ye, Isabel,” he rasped, finally dragging his gaze to the tempting breasts inches from his nose—his third mistake.
*
Isabel had seen maidservants at Dungavin flutter their eyelashes at handsome squires and even occasionally at knights. She’d agreed with Coira that it was wanton behavior, but cursed now that she couldn’t seem to stop doing it herself. She had no doubt her face was as red as a winter beetroot. Sleeping with sheep must have filled her lungs with some noxious ailment; how else to explain why she seemed to have difficulty catching her breath.
She was doing a fine job of making Darroch believe she was attracted to him. Perhaps it was a natural reaction to touching a man’s body while he was aware she was doing so. She hadn’t known soft hair dusted their torsos, arms, and legs or that heat radiated from their skin. That same heat seemed to have stoked a tingling in her nipples and caused a peculiar warmth to spiral in a very private place.
She tried valiantly to convince herself she’d likely react the same way towards any handsome young man, but her heart recognized the lie for what it was. Dungavin teemed with fit warriors in whom she’d never taken the slightest interest, especially after her betrothal to Darroch MacKeegan.
She had complained to anyone willing to listen about being betrothed to a man she’d never met. It was a painful reality that, deep down, she’d been proud and content to save herself and her affections for her husband-to-be—the feckless man whose masculinity was now turning her into a drooling twit.
Frustrated when tears welled, she turned away from his insistent gaze searching for something to secure his plaid. She grasped the muffin hat from the edge of the mattress and pulled out the hatpin.
A tear trickled unbidden down her cheek as she threaded the pin through the wool with shaky hands.
“Dinna cry,” Darroch whispered, tracing a thumb across her wet cheek. “I ken now why I thought we’d met before.”
*
The memory of Isabel’s terrified beauty as she knelt beneath the loom pleading for her dog’s life was so sharp Darroch couldn’t grasp why it hadn’t resurfaced before. At the height of rampaging bloodlust his eyes had fallen on a frightened young woman brandishing a stickpin, and his only thought had been to erase the fear from her pale face.
He recognized at that moment he had, indeed, come to wreak havoc on this community. But why?
He took hold of Isabel’s wrist and pulled her onto his lap, thankful the plaid protected his bare thighs from the rich fabric of her outfit. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into the incredible curls as she nestled into the crook of his good arm. “I understand yer reluctance to trust me. But I’ll ne’er hurt ye.”
Again he sensed he’d said the wrong thing when Fanny snorted and Isabel tried to get away. “What is it ye’re nay telling me?” he asked, gripping her forearm, determined to hold on, though her squirming was playing havoc with his control. He smiled, hoping a little levity might thaw the ice between them. “Ye canna deny ye like me, so why can we nay be friends?”
She yanked her arm from his grip and stood. “We can ne’er be friends,” she hissed, retreating once again to the box-bed.
The hint of regret in her voice caused him to look to Fanny. “Why is that?”
The old woman shrugged, but avoided his gaze. “MacKeegans and MacRains are enemies.”
She went off to tend the flock, leaving him with the distinct feeling there was more to it than that.
Testing the Waters
Indecision plagued Isabel as the shadows lengthened. The box-bed had provided a place of refuge from the confusing feelings swirling in her heart, but there was no getting away from the fact she’d literally boxed herself into a corner. Her shift must be dry by now, but she’d have to venture forth to retrieve it, then return to the cubbyhole to change.
She’d fled to Harris in order to get away from trouble, but here it sat in the middle of the croft in all its potent, masculine glory and she was reluctant to expose herself to his charms again.
The sounds of crockery being laid on the table let her know Fanny was preparing to dish up the potage that had simmered over the fire all day. A knock at the door heralded Hammond’s arrival.
“How’s the patient faring?” the bonesetter asked.
“Fine, thanks to ye,” Darroch replied. “I dinna think a sennight will be necessary for the sling.”
“Aye, weel, I see ye’ve got it tucked away nicely with yon pin.”
Isabel fumed at not being able to see Darroch’s reaction and he said nothing.
“Also,” Hammond said to Fanny, “just so ye ken, we’ve stationed armed patrols along the shore, in case the MacKeegans take a notion to attempt a rescue.”
Giving in to the temptation to observe Darroch’s reaction to this pronouncement, Isabel edged to the opening and peeked. He’d come to his feet, his brow furrowed. “If they do, I’ll tell them there’s to be no violence,” he said, “and no more sheep rustling.”
Hammond shook his head in disbelief, but Isabel heard the sincerity in his voice. She sank back into the box, unable to reconcile her burgeoning feelings for
this reasonable man with resentment for the insensitive brute who’d jilted her.
Perhaps the blow to the head had stolen more than his memory.
The enigma of Darroch MacKeegan became more puzzling when he appeared at the opening of the bed with her dry shift and her plaid bunched in his good arm. “Ye’ll be wanting these,” he said with a wink, raking his gaze down the front of her jacket. “Personally, I prefer the outfit ye’re wearing.”
She came to her knees and accepted the garments. “Thank ye,” she whispered, genuinely grateful for his thoughtfulness. “But it’s nay suitable for crofting.”
His seductive smile provoked the insane notion to invite him into the box-bed to help her undress, but then he frowned and said, “Fanny told me earlier she’s a Beaton, but now she’s mentioned the MacRains. Which are ye?”
Instinct warned that Darroch would detect a lie, but she crossed her fingers under the bundle of clothing and didn’t listen. “Isabel Beaton, o’ course,” she fibbed.
He narrowed his eyes then went back to the table.
She was annoyed with herself that she’d denied the clan name of which she was fiercely proud. But she wasn’t ready yet to provide him with her true identity. It might mean nothing to him now, but one day he would remember and hate her for who she was. How had matters become so confused that she craved his good opinion though he was the guilty one?
*
Darroch sipped the tasty broth in silence. Little things had begun to surface in his memory, instilling the hope he would soon recall everything about himself.
Fanny and Isabel stared at their food and didn’t speak, not even to each other. Their reluctance confirmed his suspicion they knew more about him than they were willing to divulge. It was enough to drive a man mad.
He’d accepted their assertion he was the son of the chief of a rival clan. He’d apologized more than once for the stolen sheep and offered to make amends for the burned-out croft. He’d promised not to oppose the ransom demands, though he wasn’t aware of what they were.
Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Page 7
