The Wrong Question
He awoke with a crick in his neck. The second bowl of valerian tea had helped him sleep, if fitfully, but the box-bed was too cramped for a man his size. He used his good elbow to maneuver into the corner so he might have a chance to see what was going on in the croft. It was still daylight, and he wondered if Isabel was weaving, though he didn’t hear the clickety-clack of the pedals. It seemed the craft was a new pursuit for her. She was definitely an outsider—like him.
He smiled when Blue appeared at the opening and rested his massive jaw on the mattress. Taking a chance, he reached out his good hand to let the dog sniff. To his relief, the hound licked his fingers and allowed him to stroke his ears. “You’re nay vicious at all, are ye?” he said softly, “though I’ll warrant ye’d tear me limb from limb if I did aught to harm yer mistress.”
Not that he would. There was something refined about Isabel that suggested she was more than a simple crofter. The way she spoke, her graciousness in dealing with Fanny’s impatience, her smooth complexion. She had a horse, but it wasn’t here. Where was she from?
Blue nuzzled his hand when he stopped petting. “Ye like that. I ken somebody who’d love ye.”
He sat up straight, regretting it when the spasm arrowed into his neck again. Where had that notion come from? And who was he thinking of? A person who liked dogs?
He closed his eyes but, try as he might, he couldn’t fathom what or who had prompted his remark. “Fyke,” he muttered.
“’Tis a good thing Fanny’s out gathering the sheep.”
Isabel’s voice was calming, though he detected a hint of resentment every time she spoke to him. If they’d never met it must simply be the hatred of one clan for another that caused her to be standoffish. Yet she looked at him as if she couldn’t get her fill. She was drawn to him despite herself.
He opened his eyes, pleased to see she’d climbed up on the stool and squeezed into the opening of the box-bed beside her dog. “Ye seemed restless,” she said.
He itched to sift his fingers through her long, thick tresses, but didn’t want to alarm her. “Yer hair is beautiful,” he said, glad to see her cheeks redden as she smiled and tucked an errant strand behind her ear. Though she shrugged, he sensed she liked the compliment.
However, it wouldn’t be prudent to remark on the other physical attributes he found appealing.
“Are ye married, Isabel?” he asked.
The smile turned to a sneer. He’d obviously posed the wrong question.
“Nay,” she replied, pulling Blue away from the box-bed. “I was supposed to wed, but the coward reneged.”
His heart went out to her. A lass who’d been jilted would have difficulty finding a husband. “Only a fool would do such a thing,” he whispered.
Her reaction was not what he expected. Brown eyes glared at him as if he were the biggest liar in Christendom, though he’d spoken his true feelings. If it turned out he wasn’t a married man, he’d be sorely tempted to woo Isabel.
To add to his consternation, she burst into tears and fled the croft, Blue hard on her heels.
*
Isabel trudged across the moor, annoyed she hadn’t thought to grab her plaid before venturing out into the drizzle. She turned to glower at Blue who trotted along behind her. “Ye’re nay supposed to like him,” she scolded, painfully aware she shouldn’t blame the hound when she herself seemed incapable of summoning hatred for Darroch MacKeegan.
Shivering, she sat down on a rocky outcropping, wrapped her arms around her body and stared at the croft. The man who lay in the box-bed was either an incredibly good liar, or—she hated to admit it—he truly couldn’t remember who he was.
However, that didn’t excuse the fact that he had jilted her. She should despise him. Yet she preened under his gaze, lapped up his compliments, thirsted for him to comb his fingers through the hair he seemed so taken with. She’d even peeked into the box-bed while he slept and stared at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss those full lips.
The shock of being suddenly uprooted from her home had evidently turned her into a lunatic—not to mention eating too much mutton and sleeping in a sheep-fold. And then there was Tremaine Nellis and his scheming mother. Truth be told, they were the real reason for her flight from Dungavin.
Blue pricked up his ears and ran off down the slope. Isabel followed his progress and saw Fanny wending her way home with the flock. Her cousin brandished a walking stick and shouted at Blue to stay away from the sheep. He obeyed and raced back to sit beside Isabel, woofing his agreement when she stroked his head and told him he was a good dog.
“What in the name of heaven are ye doing out here in the rain?” Fanny asked breathlessly when she reached them.
Confident the drizzle had washed away any trace of tears, Isabel shrugged. “I needed fresh air.”
“Getting on yer nerves, is he?” the old woman asked, proffering her hand.
Isabel accepted Fanny’s help to get to her feet. “Aye. Something like that.”
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.