Testing the Waters
Indecision plagued Isabel as the shadows lengthened. The box-bed had provided a place of refuge from the confusing feelings swirling in her heart, but there was no getting away from the fact she’d literally boxed herself into a corner. Her shift must be dry by now, but she’d have to venture forth to retrieve it, then return to the cubbyhole to change.
She’d fled to Harris in order to get away from trouble, but here it sat in the middle of the croft in all its potent, masculine glory and she was reluctant to expose herself to his charms again.
The sounds of crockery being laid on the table let her know Fanny was preparing to dish up the potage that had simmered over the fire all day. A knock at the door heralded Hammond’s arrival.
“How’s the patient faring?” the bonesetter asked.
“Fine, thanks to ye,” Darroch replied. “I dinna think a sennight will be necessary for the sling.”
“Aye, weel, I see ye’ve got it tucked away nicely with yon pin.”
Isabel fumed at not being able to see Darroch’s reaction and he said nothing.
“Also,” Hammond said to Fanny, “just so ye ken, we’ve stationed armed patrols along the shore, in case the MacKeegans take a notion to attempt a rescue.”
Giving in to the temptation to observe Darroch’s reaction to this pronouncement, Isabel edged to the opening and peeked. He’d come to his feet, his brow furrowed. “If they do, I’ll tell them there’s to be no violence,” he said, “and no more sheep rustling.”
Hammond shook his head in disbelief, but Isabel heard the sincerity in his voice. She sank back into the box, unable to reconcile her burgeoning feelings for this reasonable man with resentment for the insensitive brute who’d jilted her.
Perhaps the blow to the head had stolen more than his memory.
The enigma of Darroch MacKeegan became more puzzling when he appeared at the opening of the bed with her dry shift and her plaid bunched in his good arm. “Ye’ll be wanting these,” he said with a wink, raking his gaze down the front of her jacket. “Personally, I prefer the outfit ye’re wearing.”
She came to her knees and accepted the garments. “Thank ye,” she whispered, genuinely grateful for his thoughtfulness. “But it’s nay suitable for crofting.”
His seductive smile provoked the insane notion to invite him into the box-bed to help her undress, but then he frowned and said, “Fanny told me earlier she’s a Beaton, but now she’s mentioned the MacRains. Which are ye?”
Instinct warned that Darroch would detect a lie, but she crossed her fingers under the bundle of clothing and didn’t listen. “Isabel Beaton, o’ course,” she fibbed.
He narrowed his eyes then went back to the table.
She was annoyed with herself that she’d denied the clan name of which she was fiercely proud. But she wasn’t ready yet to provide him with her true identity. It might mean nothing to him now, but one day he would remember and hate her for who she was. How had matters become so confused that she craved his good opinion though he was the guilty one?
*
Darroch sipped the tasty broth in silence. Little things had begun to surface in his memory, instilling the hope he would soon recall everything about himself.
Fanny and Isabel stared at their food and didn’t speak, not even to each other. Their reluctance confirmed his suspicion they knew more about him than they were willing to divulge. It was enough to drive a man mad.
He’d accepted their assertion he was the son of the chief of a rival clan. He’d apologized more than once for the stolen sheep and offered to make amends for the burned-out croft. He’d promised not to oppose the ransom demands, though he wasn’t aware of what they were.
What else was it they didn’t want him to know?
He should just bide his time and wait for the ransom, then bid these secretive women farewell and return to his home on Skye. His memories would come flooding back once he was in familiar surroundings.
Why, then, did the notion of leaving Isabel churn his gut? The compulsion to learn more about her prompted him to break his silence. “Tell me about the outfit ye wore earlier,” he cajoled.
She shrugged, but he was pleased to see a hint of pink tinge her cheeks.
“’Tis for riding,” she replied.
“Costly, I’d think,” he ventured.
“Aye, it belonged to my late mother.”
The sadness in her voice told him she’d loved the mother who no longer lived. “And I’ll wager ye look just like her with yon hat atop those lovely curls.”
She smiled smugly, reached over for the hat and pulled it on.
“Looks grand,” he said, though he really wanted to blurt out that the jaunty cap only added to her stunning beauty. “Tell me about yer horse.”
She shifted her weight on the creaky chair, glanced at Fanny, then said, “As I told ye, his name is Storm.”
He chuckled. “Temperamental, is he?”
“Aye, but I can handle him,” she asserted proudly.
“Where is he now?”
She glanced at Fanny again before responding. He wondered why they were being careful about what they revealed.
“I left him behind on Skye,” she said sadly.
He gritted his teeth. “Skye! The selfsame island I hail from?”
“More broth?” Fanny asked, reaching for his bowl as she got up hurriedly from the table.
He held on to the empty bowl, trying hard to keep a rein on his rising frustration. “I dinna understand. We live on the same island but we’re nay friends. We both like to ride, but we’ve ne’er met.”
“’Tis a big island, cleaved in two by mountains,” the old woman shouted, apparently equally exasperated that she wasn’t winning the tug-o-war with the bowl. “Ye can ride for miles and ne’er meet a single person.”
Her words opened a window into Darroch’s soul. “I’ve remembered,” he exclaimed as he let go. Fanny toppled backwards into her chair, bowl in hand. The spoon flew across the croft. Within seconds Blue was licking it clean.
“My horse’s name is Barra,” Darroch yelled with a triumphant grin.
*
Apprehension thudded in Isabel’s ears. For a moment, she thought Darroch had remembered everything. That was all to the good. She wanted to confront him for his desertion, for forcing her to abandon the only home she’d ever known to evade her stepmother’s nefarious schemes. So why did she feel relieved when it turned out he’d simply recalled the name of his horse?
She couldn’t fault the grinning elation on his face as he hurried to retrieve the spoon, apologizing to Fanny.
“Barra, is it?” the old woman muttered, wiping splatters of broth off her face with her apron. “Godforsaken place.”
Darroch frowned, clearly unaware that Barra was another Hebridean island to the south.
Isabel deemed it amusing that a woman who lived on Harris would consider Barra godforsaken.
Darroch took his bowl to the cauldron, evidently intending to refill it, but then realized it would be impossible with only one hand. Without thinking, Isabel hurried to help him, aware of his gaze on her as she filled his bowl.
“Are ye still hungry?” he asked softly.
His husky voice wound tendrils of desire around her treacherous heart. Words refused to form. She hungered, but not for food. However, the need to hear the explanation for his cruelty gnawed at her innards. She thirsted to understand how such an appealing man could have humiliated her so thoroughly.
Perhaps Ghalla was right that he’d heard of her vitriolic protests against marrying a MacKeegan. She regretted those outbursts now, born of frustration with her father and a burning need to thwart Ghalla’s obvious desire that the marriage take place. She’d assumed her stepmother simply wanted to be rid of her.
She shook her head, filled her lungs to steady her breathing and decided to test the waters. “Have ye recalled aught of yer home, at Dun Scaith?”
He returned to the table and continued to eat heartily. “Nay. Tell me of it. Mayhap I’ll remember.”
A chill raced across her nape. “I’ve ne’er been there.”
She wished she hadn’t mentioned the MacKeegan stronghold, but Fanny sank her teeth into the topic. “They say the eerie place is built on a huge rock offshore. A stone bridge connects the keep to the mainland, but men have been lured to their deaths glancing down at the angry sea foaming below their horses’ hooves. Legend has it the Irish hero Cú Chulainn traveled to Skye from his home across the waters.”
Darroch stopped eating, his gaze fixed on Fanny. “Go on.”
Isabel sat across from the auld woman and glared but she seemed determined to continue. “He wanted to learn how to become a warrior.”
Darroch put down his spoon.
“His teacher was Sgathaich, the warrior queen. Faeries built the castle for her in one night, for ’tis weel accepted no human hand could have constructed a fortress in such a place. She gifted Cú Chulainn with her deadly spear.
“They called it the Fortress of Shadows and protected it with a pit of snakes and beaked toads.”
Darroch frowned. “That’s strange. I was thinking of toads not long ago—when Isabel was helping me don my shirt.”
Any fanciful notion that Darroch found her attractive fled. Her presence evidently filled his head with thoughts of toads. She stood, gathered up the bowls and spoons and took them to the pump.