New Experiences
Hammond maneuvered Darroch outside, then ceded to his request to visit the outdoor privy. By the time he got the prisoner in through the front door and down the steps, Fanny had decided he should be installed in the box-bed. “He’s liable to catch cold on the floor or roll over on yon elbow. He can sit up in the bedroom.”
Isabel was relieved by her cousin’s suggestion. She’d been hesitant to admit to even a smidgen of concern for the brute’s comfort. However, one could hardly call the makeshift box a room.
Darroch scanned the cramped cottage. “I’ll nay take the only bed in the place.”
With Hammond’s help, Fanny pushed him towards the box-bed. “I beg to differ. There’ll be no ransom if ye catch a fever and die.”
Isabel had to use a step stool to climb into the box-bed, but Darroch reached the edge without effort and sat in the opening, his feet still touching the floor. “Again ye speak o’ ransom. Who’ll give ye coin for me?”
Fanny lifted his feet and forced him to bend his knees. “Turn and get in. I’m nay some Dunface sheep, laddie. Ye may deny ye’re the future MacKeegan, but I’m wise to yer trickery.”
Cupping his injured elbow with his good hand, he sighed with resignation and shimmied into the box. Isabel gawked at the rippling muscles of his belly as he moved to get comfortable, but she was tempted to laugh when it became evident he was much too big for the tiny bed. Sitting up with his back against the wall was the only way to fit his long legs into the box.
“Cover him with this,” Fanny told Isabel, thrusting a woven blanket into her hands.
She glared at her cousin. Had the woman forgotten this man was the miscreant who’d jilted her? She gritted her teeth and climbed up on the stool, irritated when she peeked into the box to see a hint of an amused smirk on MacKeegan’s face. “I thank ye, Isabel,” he said as she spread the wool over his legs, relieved when he used his good hand to pull it up over his chest. “I wish I could recall where we’ve met,” he whispered. “Even yer name is familiar. Mayhap when I remember my own…”
He sounded so bereft she almost wished she could believe him.
“I’ll get the lads to fetch pallets for ye and the lass,” Hammond told Fanny as he opened the door. “And we’ll fix this door. Ye’re certain ye’ll be able to manage him?”
“Aye. No worries,” she replied. “Take his axe with ye, then I’ll nay worry about it. Ye can leave the sling. I’ll maybe teach Isabel how to use it. Better chance o’ maiming a wolf with two of us to protect the flock.”
Isabel couldn’t picture herself swinging a sling over her head and hurling a rock at a predator. It was more likely she’d run for her life, screaming in terror.
“He’ll sleep like a bairn after a dose o’ valerian tea,” Fanny added, jolting her back to reality. “’Twill help with the pain, too.”
Despite her confusion and resentment, Isabel was glad to hear his discomfort would be eased. She wanted his heart to break, not his body.
*
“Darroch…Darroch…Darroch,” he repeated to himself, but no matter how many times he did so, the name meant nothing.
“Ye say I come from the sky?” he asked Fanny when she brought him a chipped bowl of some steaming hot brew.
“I suppose I’ll play yer game,” she replied. “Ye hail from Skye, a big island. Dun Scaith Castle on the Sleat Peninsula is the family seat o’ the MacKeegans.” She wrapped a corner of his plaid around the bowl and thrust it into his hand. “Drink it all. ’Twill ease the pain and the swelling.”
He braced the bowl against his chest and sipped, pleasantly surprised by the taste, but perplexed that the new information was of no help.
“Did ye think I’d poison ye?” she cackled.
“So, ye’re not a MacKeegan?” he tried.
She glared, squaring her bony shoulders. “Ye insult me, laddie. I’m a Beaton. We’re a proud MacRain sept.”
“And who are the MacRains?”
She narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger under his nose. “Yer sworn enemy, and dinna forget it.”
He shifted his position in an effort to catch a glimpse of Isabel, but the opening of the box-bed was too narrow. A scent he couldn’t name lingered and he was sure she was still in the croft. “And yer granddaughter. She’s a Beaton too?”
“Granddaughter?”
He might not recall his own name but he now knew for certain the lovely young lass wasn’t Fanny’s granddaughter.
“Aye, she’s a Beaton,” the old woman mumbled as she wandered off. “I’ll fetch ye some oatmeal.”
He sipped the tea, appreciating its warmth. He was evidently in enemy territory, caught stealing their sheep, though he couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. His injuries had been tended. The crone might protest it was because he was valuable, but he sensed an inner kindness in her. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was an alchemy between him and Isabel. His tarse thickened just thinking about the dark glory that crowned her head. For a man to awaken each morn wrapped in those long, long tresses…
The notion gave him pause. Mayhap he already had a wife on this Isle of Skye, wherever it was. He hoped not.
*
Fanny insisted this was a good time for weaving lessons. “’Twill take yer mind off yon mon,” she whispered.
Isabel supposed she was right, though how she was to ignore Darroch MacKeegan lying a few feet away in the cramped cottage…
Fanny perched on the stool and pressed one pedal after another. “Now, ye press this pedal to lift this frame,” she explained. “Then this one, then this one. Do ye see?”
The frames rose and fell with such rapidity, Isabel wasn’t certain which pedal lifted which frame. She settled onto the stool in front of the enormous loom, intimidated by the complicated multitude of strands of wool, hoping Fanny was a patient teacher.
It turned out not to be the case.
“Nay, lass, ’tis the wrong foot pedal ye’ve pressed. Pay attention.”
“Sorry, my legs dinna seem to be long enough to reach.”
“Send the shuttle through the space. Nay, wrong pedal again.”
It took an hour or two of constant badgering, but Isabel gradually got the hang of the craft. The old woman finally cackled her gleeful approval, though Isabel would have to work ten times as fast to come close to matching Fanny’s speed.
The spinning wheel proved to be an even greater challenge and she was relieved when her frustrated cousin called a halt. “Ye’re tired. We’ll try again after a slice or two o’ cold mutton. That’ll put a spring back in yer step.”
She was, indeed, exhausted but it was more as a result of worrying that Darroch MacKeegan was listening to everything that was going on. His wife was probably an expert weaver and he must think Isabel a slow-learning lackwit, given Fanny’s testy shrieks. The incessant hammering of Hammond’s sons repairing the door and the click-clack of the loom likely hadn’t improved his headache. Why she cared about these things was beyond her comprehension.
At least the sheep were out on the moor, grazing under Cù’s watchful eye.
Mutton was frequently served at Dungavin. She’d lost her appetite for the stuff now that she shared living space with the woolly creatures. Perhaps if Fanny boiled up the flavorful gravies and sauces the cook at Dungavin was famous for, the meat might be more palatable. A long ride atop Storm was what she needed to revive her spirits, not barely chewable pieces of mutton.
“I expect ye’re missing yer horse,” Fanny called from the hearth.
Isabel got up from the spinning stool and bent over backwards to stretch the aching muscles in her back. Shaking her head once again at the old woman’s insights, she turned towards the box-bed. Tiny winged creatures fluttered in her belly at the sight of Darroch sitting in the opening, legs dangling. He yawned and ran his good hand through tousled hair. Surely he hadn’t slept amid the din?
She straightened quickly, suddenly aware he was staring at her outthrust breasts.
“I think I have a horse,” he said, “but I canna recall his name.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, bringing the plaid across her body in an effort to calm tingling nipples. “Mine’s called Storm,” she replied, earning a scowl from Fanny who plonked a plate of meat on Darroch’s lap.
“A good name for a horse,” he said, poking a finger at the food he’d been given. “What is this?”
“Just be grateful we’re feeding ye,” Fanny retorted, handing Isabel her portion.
It was tempting to laugh at Fanny’s pouting indignation, but she took her place at the small wooden table, composed her features and said, “’Tis mutton.”
He picked up a fatty piece from his plate and sniffed it. “Truly?”
Hammond’s lads, loitering by the repaired door, made the mistake of chuckling at his remark.
Fanny glared at them. “Are ye nay finished yet?”
“Aye,” they mumbled sheepishly, gathering up their tools before leaving.
Isabel watched them go then looked back at Darroch. His plaid had slipped to bunch around his waist. He’d made short work of the meat and was licking grease from his fingers. A wave of heat swept from her toes to her face as the insane urge to suck those long fingers into her mouth took hold.
“I think ye should cover up that chest o’ yers, MacKeegan,” Fanny hissed. “There’s women present.”
Darroch obliged. Isabel tried and failed to avert her gaze from his insistent stare and the same hint of a smile that had knocked her off balance before.