Stinks to High Heaven
Dawn’s grey light pried open Isabel’s eyes to the inevitable truth—she wasn’t likely to enjoy another night of restful sleep until she confronted Darroch. He might not remember jilting her, but she would never forget it, and revealing the reason for her anger would ease the burden. She could forget the episode and get on with life—once she and Uncle Boyd devised a way to thwart Ghalla.
The outer door opened and closed. Probably Fanny off to the privy.
She turned over, ready to spew her resentment. The sight that greeted her caused tears to well, choking off the bitter words. Darroch lay on his back, snoring softly, with Blue stretched alongside the injured elbow, as if to protect it. The dog’s massive back paws rested atop still-booted feet. Her hound stared at her, tongue lolling, obviously pleased with himself. He’d made sure Darroch couldn’t roll over and injure the arm further.
Yawning, she sat up and combed both hands through her hair. “How is it ye care for him?” she whispered. “Ye’re normally a good judge o’ character.”
She scrambled to her feet when Darroch stirred. He opened his eyes and rubbed Blue’s ear with his good hand. “I think yer dog likes me,” he said with a sleepy smile.
She looked down at him. If they’d married, she’d be waking up every morning in his bed, gazing into those emerald eyes, running her hand through disheveled auburn curls. She swallowed the lump in her throat, dismayed that deep regret rather than anger had given rise to her renewed grief.
She admitted inwardly Blue wasn’t the only one who liked him, and resigned herself to another day of stoic silence.
*
Feigning sleep, Darroch admired the curves of Isabel’s breasts as she combed the glorious tresses off her face. His body responded fiercely, convincing him once and for all he wanted to wake up every day next to this beautiful young woman. But before then, he’d kiss away the fear that haunted her gaze. She stared at him with a confusing mixture of longing and resentment. He hadn’t yet regained his memory, and knew almost nothing about himself, but he thirsted to know more about her.
Perhaps she was annoyed Blue had lain with him. He pushed the dog away gently. “Go. Ye’ve taken care of me, now yer mistress needs ye.”
Blue scarpered to the door and ran out as Fanny returned, mumbling something that might have been a greeting, and began pumping water into the kettle.
Isabel went to help her lift it onto the chain over the hearth. Darroch got up and assisted them. “I think the sling can come off today,” he suggested hopefully, cupping the injured elbow.
Fanny poked the fire and piled on more peat. “Depends on Hammond,” she replied gruffly. “Oatmeal for breakfast.”
It seemed an unnecessary announcement, since it was unlikely the auld woman boiled up anything else at the start of the day. Taking the twinkle of amusement in Isabel’s brown eyes as a good omen, he reached for her hand. “I need fresh air,” he said softly. “Walk with me.”
She didn’t pull away—another good sign—but shook her head. “I must help Fanny.”
“Nay,” the auld woman retorted, brandishing bowls she’d taken from the cupboard. “I can manage. Let the sheep out while ye’re around back.”
He squeezed Isabel’s hand and pulled her gently to the steps before she could voice an objection.
Outside, she raised her face to the weak morning sun.
“Ye’re beautiful, Isabel,” he murmured. “What are ye doing here in Harris? Ye dinna belong with a crusty auld woman and a flock o’ sheep.”
She pulled her hand from his, avoiding his gaze. “Ye ken naught about me.”
He took a risk. “I ken a stupid mon jilted ye.”
She clenched her jaw and glared at him, as if he’d done the dastardly deed. She seemed about to say something in reply, but then closed her mouth.
He sensed he should leave matters there, but couldn’t stop. “Is that why ye came to Harris? To get away from him?”
She sat down on a weathered bench beside the wall of the croft, pulled her plaid tight around her shoulders and folded her arms across her chest. “Nay,” she replied wearily, staring into the distance.
He sat beside her. “Then who is it ye’re avoiding?”
She shivered as a tear trickled down her cheek. “My stepmother,” she confessed.
Her answer wasn’t what he’d expected, but at least she’d allowed him a peek inside her life. He took another chance and leaned into her. “’Tis hard to lose a mother,” he began, then stopped abruptly as a chilling certainty crept up his spine. His own mother was dead. He studied his feet, trying to conjure an image of her. Had she loved him? Did he grieve her? Was his father still alive?
He startled when Isabel put her hand to his cheek. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost,” she whispered.
He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m nay sure,” he admitted. “I think my mother’s dead too.”
She interlaced her fingers with his, as if needing something to cling to. “I loved my mother dearly, but Ghalla is a harridan.”
The name seemed vaguely familiar, but repeating it didn’t clear the fog. “Ghalla is yer stepmother?”
“Aye,” she sighed, “and she schemes to wed me to her obnoxious son.”
He chuckled. “Let me guess. Her reasoning is that ye’ve been jilted therefore no one else’ll want ye for wife. Sounds like the insult worked in her favor.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in her laughter. “Exactly.”
He unlaced their fingers and tilted her chin to his gaze, hoping she would see the sincerity of what he was about to say. “I’d gladly take ye to wife, Isabel.”
He nigh on fell off the bench when she tore away from him, howling like a wounded beast, and hurried up the slope towards the privy.
Stunned, he let his hand fall to his lap, noticing for the first time a faint but discernible stain on the skin of his palm. He thought it was leftover grime from the window, but it refused to rub off on his plaid. Margaret had told him the gypsies believed a man’s future was written in the lines of his palm. He stared at the strange mark, but it gave no hint as to who he was or why Isabel seemed so intent on rejecting him.
And who the fyke was Margaret?
*
Isabel wished there was room to pace in the privy. She was gnawing the very knuckles Darroch had just kissed, as if some solution lay embedded in her skin from his lips. Caught up in the humiliating aftermath of the jilting, she’d never clearly seen what he had immediately recognized. If Ghalla intended her to marry Tremaine, why had she put so much effort into the betrothal arrangements with an enemy clan?
Something stank to high heaven.
She chuckled. The privy was the perfect place for such an epiphany. The resentments weighing her down should be heaped on her stepmother, not Darroch.
Uncle Boyd would help ferret out the truth. Perhaps he had already embarked on an investigation, but she had no notion where he might be.
It wouldn’t take much to convince Fanny of Ghalla’s possible treachery, but what could an auld woman do?
Hammond and the other men who dwelt in this isolated corner of Harris were simple crofters with no influence.
Her father was probably still in the Trotternish and, in any case, would never believe a word uttered against his wife. Tears welled as she pondered again what power allowed Ghalla to hold Rory MacRain completely in her thrall. The man was besotted.
Just as she herself was with Darroch MacKeegan, no matter that she should hate him. Or was he the one person who could help her get to the bottom of why he’d jilted her?
Perhaps it was time to jog his memory.
She hurried out of the privy and down the hill, frustrated when she discovered Darroch was no longer sitting on the bench. She stormed into the croft and glared at Fanny. “Where is he?”
Stretched out under the loom, Blue opened one eye.
Her cousin kept the spinning wheel going and didn’t even glance her way. “I dinna ken. He left with ye.”
“’Tis time to confront him,” Isabel shouted over the irritating whirr of the wheel.
“If ye think so,” came the reply.
Blue went back to dozing.
“Aye,” Isabel insisted, though Fanny had sown a seed of doubt.
“Will ye give him a chance to explain?”
“Explain what? He jilted me. That’s all there is to it.”
“If ye’re certain, then, go ahead.”
Isabel didn’t want to argue with her protector, but what was the woman trying to say? “Ye believe a mon might have a good reason for humiliating a woman?”
Fanny stopped spinning and looked her in the eye. “In my experience, lassie, there’s often two sides to any story. Have ye stopped to wonder why MacKeegan came raiding MacRain lands?”
Isabel clenched her fists, too distraught to think. Instead she spluttered, “Aaargh.”
Blue was quickly on his feet, howling.
Desperate to be back in the fresh air where she might be better able to think, Isabel nigh on flew up the steps and out the door. Her dog followed, but she didn’t want any distractions when she found Darroch. “Keep him here,” she shouted over her shoulder, relieved to see Fanny had also come outside.
She followed her cousin’s gaze up the hill. Darroch stood near the top looking down. It was now or never.
*
More confused than ever by Isabel’s flight, Darroch made his way to the back door where he greeted the faithful Cù and let the sheep out into the dog’s care. He noticed one or two ewes with swollen udders—not long to lambing time. Evidently that was something else he was familiar with.
He climbed the hill behind the croft, irritated that a thin strip of linen tied around his neck and wrist still kept one arm immobile. “Some chieftain,” he muttered, wiggling his fingers to ward off the tingling numbness.
Sweating despite the early morning chill, he sat down on a rock. He resisted the urge to call out to Isabel when she exited the privy a few minutes later and hurried down to the croft, Blue not far behind.
The woman was a mystery, and he sorrowed for the predicament her stepmother had brought about. Battling a pigheaded father was something he could understand.
The world seemed to tilt and he was glad he was sitting down. Was he at odds with his father?
Inhaling deeply, he looked left to the squat tower of Tur Chliamainn then south to the island Fanny said was called Ywst. The narrow strip of water between the islands shimmered like liquid gold as the sun rose higher in the sky. The auld woman was right—he’d been there—but it wasn’t the island that pulled him. Someone he cared about was on Ywst, calling him.
He closed his eyes, desperately seeking the answer. Was it Margaret?
He gritted his teeth. The name still meant nothing.
Surely if he was married to a lass on Ywst she would fill his thoughts, as Isabel did. But apparently, his home was on Skye. Was that where his father lived?
He needed answers. Resolved to confront the women in the croft below, he clenched his jaw and got to his feet, just as Isabel came round the corner of the cottage, Fanny and Blue in pursuit. Judging by the scowls on both women’s faces, they’d been arguing, but Isabel seemed determined to outpace her relative.
The auld woman looked up and stopped abruptly when she saw him. Shaking her head, she retreated to the croft, pulling a whining Blue with her. A pulse thudded in his ears as Isabel continued to climb towards him. Clearly, he was the subject of the argument and Isabel too had reached a decision.