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 was 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.”