Traitor
Once again Darroch had said something to upset Isabel, though he’d no notion what it was. And he wasn’t going to reveal he’d conjured an image of toads to take his mind off bedding her.
Fanny was almost as prickly as Isabel. She was drying the bowls Isabel had washed, her wrinkled brow furrowed.
His instinct was to stride up the stone steps and disappear from their lives. But that wasn’t an option. He had no weapon and one unreliable arm. Hammond’s men would track him down quickly and truss him up. If they thought the women couldn’t handle the situation they might throw him into some dank pit while they waited for the ransom.
The box-bed was cramped, but at least it was out of the weather and sheep-free.
In any case, the secret to his identity lay in this croft, with these women. They knew more about him than where he’d come from. Perhaps honey would be more effective than vinegar in prying out the answers. He pasted a smile on his face and took the drying cloth from Fanny.
She stared at him as if she’d never seen a man dry crockery before, then shrugged and moved to heft the cooking pot from the chain. He hurried to help her. “I may have just the one good hand, but I’ll do that.”
She eyed him suspiciously, then beamed a toothless grin. “I reckon ye’ll come in useful after all,” she chortled.
He easily lifted the pot and carried it to the shelf she indicated. “In case yon dog gets his nose in it.”
When he turned and caught Isabel watching him, she averted her eyes.
Fanny’s mood seemed to have improved, so he risked another gambit. “The box-bed is too small for me,” he said. “I cede it to ye ladies. I’ll kip on one of the pallets.”
To his surprise, the old woman agreed. “These aching bones thank ye for it,” she said. “But my tossin’ and turnin’ would keep the devil himself awake.” She raised a brow at Isabel. “Ye dinna mind sleeping on yon pallet, do ye? Closer to the heat o’ the fire?”
*
“O’ course,” Isabel replied, struggling to keep the annoyance out of her voice even as she wondered what Fanny was thinking as the old woman left the croft, presumably headed for the privy.
She wouldn’t need any more heat with the fiery furnace that was Darroch MacKeegan asleep on a pallet a few feet away.
He said nothing, but his delight was evident as he enthusiastically retrieved the pallets stacked against the wall and moved them into place near the hearth—much too close together. Even one-handed he lifted things with ease.
She hefted the straw mattresses, threw his down on his pallet and knelt to arrange hers, straining to shove the makeshift bed further from the hearth.
Fanny returned to the croft and handed him two blankets retrieved from a cupboard. He smiled as he passed the one he’d used in the box-bed on to Isabel. She thought to protest but then he might guess she was aware the wool held his scent.
She accepted it with a feigned smile, wrapped it around her shoulders and headed out the door to the privy.
“Aye,” he said, “best ye go now while there’s still a wee bit o’ light. Dinna forget yer hound.”
She slapped her thigh, irritated Blue hadn’t followed, evidently preferring to stay with Darroch. And how did the infuriating man know she was terrified of venturing out in the dark?
Blue’s momentary reluctance to obey until Darroch growled, “Go, boy,” only added to her frustration.
“Traitor,” she muttered to the dog as she made her way round back.
She saw to her needs as quickly as possible, finding comfort despite herself in inhaling his scent from the blanket. “Ye’re in a fine mess, Isabel MacRain,” she muttered as she retraced her steps to the door.
She stopped abruptly when she became aware Darroch lounged against the outer doorframe, watching her. Had he heard?
“Just making sure ye’re all right,” he explained as their paths crossed.
Perched in the opening of the box-bed, Fanny held the lone remaining candle high. Isabel navigated the steps and curled up on her pallet, wrinkling her nose against the smell of wick in the tallow. They’d used only expensive beeswax candles at Dungavin since Ghalla’s advent on the scene. It was a change Isabel had benefitted from, yet it galled just the same. Tallow hadn’t been good enough for the likes of Ghalla Nellis. “Won’t he need the light when he returns?” she asked, hoping to take her mind off the annoying memory.
“I reckon the fire will be enough,” Fanny replied. “He kens to be wary on yon steps.”
Isabel curled up in the blanket with her back to Darroch’s pallet. Blue yawned and slumped down beside her. She told herself she didn’t care if the perplexing man returned safely or not, but breathed more easily when she heard the click of the latch and the squeak of the newly repaired hinges.
*
Darroch descended the steps carefully and peered into the smoky gloom of the darkened croft.
The fire in the hearth provided sufficient light for him to see his pallet—and Isabel curled up on hers with the faithful dog, probably pretending to sleep.
He stretched out on his back, his good hand behind his head. The pain in the injured elbow was lessening, but he’d no intention of letting the women know it still bothered him.
He turned his head when the dog whimpered, his eyes glowing blue. The beast had definitely taken a liking to him. He suspected it wouldn’t take much to lure the hound to his side of the hearth. His prickly mistress was a different matter. She’d even lied about her name for some reason. Getting her to trust him was a bigger challenge, but he knew deep in his heart he had to try, not only for his sake, but for…
Someone else needs a woman like Isabel.
Once again, the memory proved frustratingly elusive.
The croft was strangely quiet. The sheep had settled. Only Fanny’s soft snoring and the occasional hiss of the fire disturbed the silence.
Blinking the sting of smoke from his eyes, he drifted into sleep, remembering his grin of satisfaction when Isabel’s efforts at weaving finally pleased Fanny. There was something about wanting to learn how to weave…