When the giant man came lumbering toward the house, Anne was certain she had now seen everything.

He had come to her attention before, for how could she avoid seeing him? The man was the size of a barn, so large she wondered how his legs held him up.

Yet they did, pushing his body forward as he approached while she drew water. The crank was a tricky thing, refusing to budge at times, no matter how much she strained. Her hands ached, her arms throbbed.

“Allow me,” the giant said in a deep, rumbling voice. When she stepped away from the well, he took the crank in one massive hand and turned it with no more difficulty than a child playing with a toy.

Had she not already heard the bairns speak of Clyde with affection, she might have been terribly frightened—frozen to the spot, in fact. His was a face that had seen many fights, with a scar running down one side and many smaller, thinner scars like a spider’s web along the back of his bald head. He was fearsome, to be sure, the sort she would not wish to run into while on a raid.

Yet he smiled as he took the bucket from its hook, and his smile was that of a man with a warm, pleasant nature. “Where shall I leave it?” he asked.

She lost her voice for a moment, still awed at the sheer size of him. His hands could easily have crushed her skull. “Erm. That is. Ye dinna need to do the carrying.”

“Nonsense.” Without waiting for her response, he carried the sloshing bucket to the house and inside. What was there to do but follow as he nearly doubled over to fit through the doorway?

“Ye must be Clyde,” she said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Aye. And ye are Anne.” He stretched his hands out toward the fire, then rubbed them together.

“I am.” She bit her tongue against the impulse to ask just what he’d heard of her.

“Where are the bairns?” He looked about with what she thought might be a hopeful expression, as though he had wished to see them.

She offered a shy smile. “They are sleeping—still getting over their grippe, I suppose, a bit easier to tire than usual. Would ye like a cup of tea? Perhaps biscuits? I baked them myself.”

He could not sit at one of the small chairs, that was clear. He would smash them to bits. Rather than take their tea at the table, then, they sat outside with steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits between them.

“Verra good,” he managed to mumble around a mouthful.

“They were my brother’s favorite,” she replied. “I would always bake them whenever he needed a bit of cheering. Or on special days.”

He chewed thoughtfully, a man of few words. She assumed his size did much of the speaking for him. How strange, knowing she would have avoided this man had she crossed his path without knowing anything other than his intimidating appearance.

“Is today a special day?” he asked finally, looking her way from the corner of his eye.

Somehow, the question did not surprise her. In fact, it seemed the man understood a great deal without being told. “How did ye guess?”

“The way ye sounded when ye spoke of him.”

“Ye are quite right. It is my brother’s birthday. He was born eleven years ago.” And she could not even wish him a happy year. He would not receive biscuits and kisses from Malcolm or the rest. They would not mark the day for him or make wishes for his coming year.

If anything, she supposed the lad would be fortunate if they ignored him. Better that than ridicule—or worse.

“To your brother.” Clyde raised his mug, which looked more like a thimble in his hand, and she smiled as she raised her own. She hadn’t understood until just then how much she longed to tell someone, anyone, of what the day meant to her.

“It must seem daft to ye,” she chuckled, catching a tear which threatened to overspill her eyelashes. “Thinking of one so far away, who I will not have the chance to see or speak to. I suppose it would be different if this were my birthday instead of his.”

He frowned, his broad forehead creasing in numerous folds. “Not daft to remember.”

The door swung open, and out tumbled Owen. “Clyde!” His shining eyes and beaming smile told Anne all she wished to know about whether or not they were friends.

“Runnin’ about with no cloak and nothing on your feet, and just getting over the grippe,” she grumbled, removing her cloak and wrapping it around him. “Do ye wish to catch your death?”

“I heard Clyde’s voice outside,” Owen grinned. “Come! Let me ride on your back!”

“Och, Owen,” Anne tsked, shaking her head. “Clyde is not here for ye to ride as if he were a horse.”

And yet this did not keep the man from swinging Owen over his shoulder, that the lad might wrap his arms about Clyde’s thick neck—so thick, in fact, that he could just clasp his hands together. “Go on!” Owen cried, then burst into helpless giggles as Clyde bounced up and down while performing an ungraceful, lumbering gallop.

Anne giggled as well, try as she might to conceal it. She did not wish to appear rude or cruel, but it was an amusing sight. Never would she have guessed a man of Clyde’s size and imposing appearance could so thrill a child—nor would she have imagined he would enjoy it so, but there was no mistaking the joy on his scarred countenance as he and the wee lad galloped together.

Moira emerged next and begged for a ride, but Anne put her foot down at this. “Inside the house, I believe. ‘Tis far too chill for ye to be running about, so soon after your illness.” She thrust a finger toward the door, and even Clyde seemed to drag his feet as he entered. It was all she could do to keep from bursting out in gales of laughter.

They spent a lovely afternoon, much lovelier than she would have imagined, with Clyde keeping the bairns occupied all the while. Anne had little more to do than sit in a chair and watch, drinking cup after cup of fragrant tea while they played games the children had apparently made up on the spot.

He did not seem to mind, and was endlessly patient when they asked their many questions. It seemed their curiosity was never satisfied.

It was enough to make her wonder whether he’d ever had a family of his own, for nothing they did seemed to surprise or vex him in the slightest. “Do ye have a wife and bairns, Clyde?” she asked as Moira taught Clyde to weave straw into a crown. His thick fingers fumbled hopelessly, but Moira was patient and assured him he was doing well.

When he did not offer an answer straightaway, she knew she’d ventured where she ought not. It was too late to take it back. She told herself not to pursue the matter if he did not respond.

Yet he did. “I once had a wife and bairns of my own,” he explained, gaze fixed on the mass of straw in his hands. “Two wee lassies.”

She was not going to ask for anything more. He had already said quite enough—too much, really, and she wished she had not mentioned it.

Moira, however, was unable to understand this. “Where are they?”

Anne opened her mouth to shush the child, but Clyde was too quick. “They had to go away. Far away. As your mam and da did.”

Her throat tightened. So that was the reason he seemed naturally comfortable with children. He’d had his own, and he had lost them. How? Certainly not the sort of thing she would dare ask. It would be better if she bit off her own tongue, and she would sooner do just that, but curiosity plagued her just the same. There was a sadness about him. She caught Moira’s eye and shook her head. Just once, but firmly enough that it was understood this was not something to continue speaking of unless he spoke first.

Moira only patted his shoulder. “Ye are making a bonny crown,” she offered with a sunny smile.

Anne’s heart all but shattered at the sweetness of the moment. Clyde’s eyes shone as he smiled in return, and they both laughed when he plopped the crown on her head. It was a bit of a mess, with bits sticking out in all directions, but Moira spun in circles and danced with arms spread wide, and Anne applauded and assured her she looked every bit a queen.

To her surprise, when she glanced out the window, she found the light warm and low, as if it were nearly time for her to begin supper preparations. “I canna tell ye how much it means to have ye here today, but I’m certain ye must be busy elsewhere. Ye have spent most of the afternoon with us.”

He lifted his thick shoulders—not a simple task, as Owen hung from them, swinging to and fro against Clyde’s back. “Ye needed a bit of rest, to sit and drink your tea. I am ever pleased to have a reason to visit.”

“How did ye know I needed to rest?” And she had needed it, quite badly. Not until then did she realize just how much in need of a few hours’ rest she’d been.

He became shy of a sudden, as if he’d spoken out of turn and did not wish to continue. She would not allow him to wriggle off her hook no matter how fond she’d become. Her gaze was unflinching, and he seemed to shrink a bit beneath it.

“He asked me to pay ye a call,” he eventually admitted, brushing straw from his tunic. “I went to the village this morning in his stead, as he had things to attend to, and he performed my chores this afternoon while I came here to allow ye a rest. We arranged it between ourselves, but dinna tell him I told ye.”

“Why not?”

A crooked smile. “He told me not to and will have my hide."

If she lived a hundred years, never would she be able to understand the man. He was nearly callously cruel at times, unthinking and clumsy, yet at other times he anticipated her needs and saw to their fulfillment.

Such as that morning, when he had prepared porridge and poured her a cup of tea. The memory of it, the sweet surprise that he’d imagined her in need of a few minutes of sleep while he did the work, sent a strange, fluttery sort of feeling through her middle.

And even after he’d laughed himself half to death at the suggestion of marriage and wounded her pride in no small measure, he’d seen to her comfort by asking Clyde to occupy the bairns.

“I will not give you away,” she winked. “It will be our secret.”