Page 13 of Beguiled By the Highlander
Luckily, a serving maid was approaching with a basket filled with peat slabs. He offered her a friendly nod, which caused her to stop dead in her tracks and stare at him as though he possessed two heads.
He cleared his throat. “I’m searching for Lady Isolde. Do ye know where I might find her?”
“In the courtyard.” She jerked her head in the direction from which she’d come. “Do ye want someone to give milady a message?”
“’Tis fine. I’ll find her.”
He made his way along the dimly lit corridor, which led to the great hall. A fire burned in the large hearth and splendid tapestries adorned the walls, which reinforced his notion that the MacDonalds of Sgur Castle were wealthy indeed. Servants were at their daily tasks, and he felt their sideways glances as he headed towards the far end of the hall.
He pulled open one of the double doors, and the chilled air of twilight hit him. He puffed out a breath and stepped outside. The courtyard spread out before him, but he couldn’t spy Isolde among the castle inhabitants who went about their business.
A walk in the brisk air would do him good. He set off, although his pace wasn’t as swift as he’d like. Maybe there was no need to march, after all, and he slowed down, taking his time, and the throb in his head receded.
The sky was gray, heavy with clouds, but it wasn’t raining, for which he was thankful, although the mighty crashing of waves echoed across the land and the scent of salt permeated the air. He glanced back at the castle and then paused in his tracks as he took in the sight of the massive rocky outcrop beyond the castle. It towered high above the entire keep on the mountain upon which the castle was constructed, a magnificent backdrop that stalled the air in his lungs.
It was unlike anything he’d seen before.
And inevitably, a mocking whisper brushed through his mind.
Is it, though?
As he passed by the dovecote, he caught sight of Isolde. She was on the far side of the stables in what looked like asmaller, self-contained courtyard, and he smothered a grin as anticipation fired his blood.
Even the wind didn’t feel as bitterly cold.
To his left was the farrier, and to his right the stables, creating a wide alley that led to where Isolde stood in the distance, her back to him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure emerge from the shadows of the courtyard, a blade glinting in his hands.
What the hell? Acidic shock spiked through his blood. Christ, the man was about to assassinate her. A woman. An unarmed woman. In herown goddamn castle.
He broke into a run, even though he was too far away to save her from injury. Or worse. He’d never reach her in time, but that bastard would never crawl out of here alive. Where was his sword? His dagger? For God’s sake, there had to be something—
Isolde swung about, and he came to a skidding halt. She gripped a claymore, and in a flawless arc of beauty, the blade clashed against the man’s, sending him reeling back.
She took immediate advantage, following through with another forceful sweep of the weapon. The man recovered instantly, and he watched, staggered to the depths of his soul, as Isolde held her own against the warrior.
Through his stunned brain, comprehension belatedly dawned.
This was a training ground. And Lady Isolde was no mere novice.
He couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman with such excellent swordsmanship, and this time he didn’t qualify his thought to take account of his faulty memories.
Noblewomen didn’t take the sword. Nevertheless, Isolde was magnificent.
Finally, she and the warrior clasped each other’s arms, and he stepped forward. Isolde turned to him, and her smile warmedhim deep inside. As he drew closer, he recognized the other man as Patric, who, according to Isolde, had helped save his life.
“Ye’re looking well,” she said, casting her warm gaze over him. Her cheeks were flushed by her exertions, and wisps of fiery hair had become loosened from their bindings and whipped across her face. He had never witnessed a more enchanting vision.
“Aye. And I have ye both to thank for that.” He nodded at Patric, who grunted in response. He returned his attention to Isolde. “Yer skill is admirable, my lady. My fear for yer life was unfounded.”
She laughed. Even Patric cracked a grin. “’Tis my passion. Patric is a good teacher, and that’s a fact.”
“Are all noblewomen as skilled with the sword on this isle?”
“They are not.” Pride threaded through Patric’s response. “Lady Isolde has the blood of her Norse forefathers in her veins.”
“Aye,” she said, her mesmerizing green eyes sparkling with mirth. “But don’t ye forget my formidable Pict foremothers, Patric, lest ye draw their curses upon yer head.”
He knew of the Norse. Hell, he knew of the Picts. Why then could he not recall the simple matter of whohewas?
