Have We Met before?
Too agitated to sleep, Isabel lay awake the rest of the night, rehearsing the vitriol she planned to unleash on Darroch MacKeegan’s aching head.
Hammond and Innes had secured his hands to the wall of the sheep-fold and she listened in the darkness for sounds of him stirring. No doubt he’d be furious. On the one hand, she relished his anger but, on the other, he looked strong enough to demolish the makeshift partition if he’d a mind to.
As the night dragged on and she heard nothing but the occasional bleat and the soughing of the wind in the rafters, she began to worry Fanny had knocked him completely senseless. Perhaps he would never awaken. That might be the best thing. But then she’d never know why he’d jilted her.
*
He peeled open one eye, dismayed to discover that the noise he’d heard was, indeed, the bleating of sheep—and he seemed to be sitting among them.
He hadn’t thought sheep ate people, but one of them was gnawing his arm and he couldn’t seem to dislodge the creature.
He closed his eye and leaned his aching head back against something hard, convinced he was in the throes of the worst nightmare he’d ever had.
Certainly the most foul-smelling.
If he could just get a drink of water.
There was a strange clinking sound when he tried to move his hand. Like chains. He groaned in frustration.
A dog barked somewhere not far off.
“What the fyke?” he rasped.
*
Fanny leaned on the half-wall and peered over. “He’s stirrin’,” she declared. “Keep out o’ sight.”
There was no telling what a mon might do when he woke to find himself chained to a fence in a sheep-fold, so Isabel used the step-stool to climb back into the safety of the box-bed she’d just left.
The chain clinked.
Their captive groaned.
Cù barked outside.
“What the fyke?” MacKeegan muttered.
“No swearin’ in my abode,” Fanny said sternly. “If ye’ll control yer mouth, I’ll let the sheep out.”
“Who the hell are ye, and why am I chained up in a sheep pen?”
Fanny harrumphed. “So ye’d prefer to stay among the woolly creatures.”
Isabel wished she could see the wretch’s face. He was no doubt angry. Served him right for jilting her. When he remained silent, Fanny left the croft and moments later opened the back door to let out the flock. Isabel heard the door close, but realized the plucky woman had remained in the pen with their captive. “Nay doot ye’ve a bump on yer noggin from the bashing I gave ye.”
There was a long pause before he replied. “Ye’re naught but a scrawny auld woman. Where am I anyway and why did ye hit me?”
“Ye dinna recall ye came to Harris to steal my sheep?”
“Harris? Why would I do that?” he asked wearily.
“That’s what thieving MacKeegans do.”
“I’ve no notion what ye’re bletherin’ on about,” he replied. “And what the fyke have ye done to my arm?”
Isabel held her breath. The knave sounded like he was in pain. They’d expected a headache, but did he have other injuries?
Fanny tutted. “Swearin’ again. What’s amiss with yer arm?”
“I dinna ken, but a hundred sharp-toothed creatures are chewing at it…and my fyking fingers are turning blue.”
Evidently thinking his name had been mentioned, Blue loped over to the partition, put his paws on the top of the half-wall and looked over.
“Bluidy hell,” MacKeegan shouted over the noise of the chain clinking. “’Tis the faerie hound from Hades. He’s blue!”
Blue woofed.
Fanny laughed, apparently no longer bothered by the cursing. “Calm down, laddie, ’tis just our Isabel’s dog.”
“Isabel?”
Fanny must have thought better of revealing the name because, within minutes, the back door slammed and the old woman returned to the croft. “My mouth got the better o’ me,” she whispered, peering into the box-bed. “Sorry.”
“We willna reveal my clan,” Isabel reassured her, “but what’s wrong with his arm?”
“I dinna ken, but his fingers are mottled, right enough. Mayhap he broke a bone when he tumbled down yon steps. Folk hereabouts depend on me for healing, but I’ll fetch Hammond. He’s the bonesetter.”
Suddenly, Isabel once again found herself alone with the man who’d betrayed her. There was no reason to be afraid. He was chained and hurt, and Blue was keeping an eye on him.
“Are ye there…Isabel?” he asked hoarsely. “I’ve a ragin’ thirst.”
Ye can die o’ thirst as far as I’m concerned, wretched mon.
“Are ye the auld woman’s daughter?”
She gritted her teeth and climbed down from the box-bed. It was against the teachings of Our Lord to deny a thirsty man a drink of water.
“Nay,” she hissed, filling the dipper from the bucket of well water. She carried it to the wall, dismayed at the sight that greeted her. The hostage was too pale and the fingers of one hand were an alarming purple color. “Ye look awful,” she murmured, holding out the dipper.
He stared at her for a moment, then licked his lips and made an effort to raise his hands to reach for the water. “I canna seem to make my arm work, lassie,” he rasped.
She stiffened her spine. “Ye surely dinna expect me to climb into the pen?”
He leaned his head back against the rough wood and closed his eyes. “Do I look like a mon who can do aught to harm ye?”
Ye’ve already done me more harm that ye can imagine.
She could be in and out of the pen in a trice. Blue would defend her if MacKeegan became belligerent. Holding the dipper steady, she climbed over the fence and hunkered down a little way from the prisoner. Her throat constricted when she realized he was again staring at her. She became fascinated with his unusual green eyes and had to force herself to look away.
“Have I met ye before?” he asked. “Ye seem familiar.”
*
Isabel shook her head. “Nay, we’ve ne’er met.”
A vague memory tugged at the back of his brain and her reluctance to meet his gaze roused an uneasy feeling she wasn’t being entirely truthful. However, she didn’t look like a conniving lass who would tell lies. Indeed, she was surprisingly bonnie, and certainly too young to be the crone’s daughter. The incredibly long dark hair reminded him of someone, but who?
“Weel, I’m pleased to see a friendly face, Isabel, though yer hospitality leaves much to be desired. I’m…er…my name’s…” Perhaps if he had a drink his muddled thoughts might clear. “I’m so thirsty I canna think.”
She held out the dipper, but it was painful to move one arm and his wrists were manacled. “Ye’ll have to tend me like a bairn,” he said.
She frowned. “Do ye swear to keep yer hands in yer lap? I’ll loose Blue on ye.”
“I promise,” he replied, deeming it better not to mention he’d have a difficult time keeping his hands off her long legs and tempting curves if he wasn’t wounded and bound.
She didn’t look happy about trusting him, but inched forward to hold the dipper to his lips. He closed his eyes and guzzled every drop, then leaned his head back against the wood. “My thanks,” he murmured.
He drifted, trying once more to recall his name, then opened his eyes. “Are ye sure we’ve ne’er met?”
She stumbled backwards and fell on her bottom, dropping the dipper. An endearing blush reddened her cheeks and he was tempted to laugh despite his discomfort, but her next words chilled him.
“I’m sure I’d have remembered meeting the great Darroch MacKeegan, future chief o’ the most cursed clan in all o’ the Isles.”
His gut clenched. The hatred in her voice bothered him, and surely he’d know if he was a chief’s son. “I think ye’ve mistaken me for another,” he replied. “That name means naught to me.”
*
Isabel struggled to her feet, picked up the dipper and climbed back to safety, embarrassingly aware of the heat in her face. She’d allowed MacKeegan’s emerald eyes to lull her into momentarily trusting him, but his claim that he wasn’t the chief’s son demonstrated the depths of his deviousness. She inhaled to steady her nerves. He mustn’t know his presence affected her. “As I said, I’ve ne’er met ye, but local folk are certain ye’re Darroch MacKeegan.”
His insistence on staring was unnerving. “So ye’re nay from these parts?” he asked.
She itched to reveal her true identity but sensed it might be better to keep him wondering. He evidently didn’t know who she was. “I’m a visitor,” she replied. “I’ve come to help my cousin.”
He remained silent for a while, then said, “Ye brought yer hound with ye. I admit I’ve ne’er seen a blue dog afore.”
“He’s an unusual breed, from Denmark,” she allowed, climbing back into the box-bed. “My uncle…”
She closed her mouth abruptly, glad to hear Fanny return with Hammond through the back door before she said too much.
“Let’s see,” the old crofter mumbled. “Aye. Summat amiss. Sorry, laddie, we’ll hafta take off yer shirt to get a proper look.”
Isabel clenched her jaw at the sound of the manacles being removed. She hated Darroch MacKeegan, and he would rue the day he’d jilted her, but Hammond’s softly spoken reassurances and his patient’s labored breathing as they removed his clothing spoke of pain she wouldn’t wish on anybody.
Even Blue whimpered.
She slid out of the box-bed and tiptoed to the half-wall. Darroch’s eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. Sweat beaded his brow. The top half of his plaid lay across his thighs. Hammond held his wrist and elbow.
But it was his bare torso that drew Isabel’s gaze.
Upon his return from a tour of France and Italy, Uncle Boyd had shown her and her mother a book of sketches he’d wrought of famous works of art in Florence. “Dinna tell yer father,” her mother had warned conspiratorially. “He doesna appreciate the finer things in life.”
She blinked. Michelangelo’s David sat in Fanny’s sheep-fold. The same broad chest, chiseled muscles, tight belly. And something the marble David didn’t have—a dusting of golden hair across his chest.
He gritted his teeth when Hammond lifted his wrist above his head.
“I dinna think ye’ve broken a bone, laddie,” Hammond declared. “Just the elbow out o’ the socket. This is likely to pain ye.”
MacKeegan peeled open one eye and gripped the wall with his free hand. “Do yer worst, auld mon,” he rasped.
Hammond cupped the stricken elbow with one massive hand and yanked the wrist hard.
An involuntary shout of agony rent the air.
Blue howled.
Without thinking, Isabel filled the dipper and climbed over the fence. MacKeegan opened his eyes when she held the metal to his lips, then smiled before slurping the water. “Ye’re a gift from God,” he muttered, his glittering green gaze fixed on her face.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. No one had paid her such a compliment since her mother’s death. Rory MacRain certainly didn’t think having a daughter was a gift from God—more like a curse.
Or mayhap pain had put clever words into her enemy’s mouth.
Hammond produced strips of linen from a hefty pouch belted around his waist and proceeded to bandage the elbow tightly. “Ye canna move the arm for a sennight at least,” he declared, “lest the bone pop out again.”
He fashioned a sling for the splinted elbow and tied it tight around MacKeegan’s neck, forcing his wrist almost to his chin. “Keep this on.”
Color had returned to the prisoner’s face, but now he frowned. “A mon canna remain in a sheep-fold for a sennight.”
Isabel was reluctant to admit it, but he was right. “Perhaps he can sleep by the hearth,” she suggested to Fanny.
Hammond nodded his agreement, then put an arm under his patient’s and braced himself to help lift the giant. “Might be less than a sennight before the ransom arrives and ye can return to Skye.”
Isabel hung back, not sure whether to help a scowling Fanny take the weight on the other side. MacKeegan swayed unsteadily once they got him to his feet. “I’m like a bairn learning to walk,” he admitted, “but what’s this talk o’ ransom? Now ye’re saying I came from the sky?”