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.