Page 16 of Beguiled By the Highlander
“Aye.” Isolde leaned through the narrow window and peered out to sea. While the windows on the ground floor had been glazed when her grandmother had been a young woman, such extravagance had not been deemed necessary for the bedchambers. “I believe it’s finally blown itself out.”
Which meant word could be sent to the other Isles. She tried to tell herself she was glad for it, but that was a lie. Because as soon as Njord’s kin knew where he was, he would leave.
Freyja flung back the bedcovers, grabbed her shawl, and rushed to the fire. “I must visit Laoise. Her time is almost upon her, poor wee lass.”
Isolde closed the shutters and went over to her sister. “’Tis a pity ye cannot geld her brute of a husband.”
Freyja sighed. “After her last babe, I went through all the ancient remedies with her. But I fear she simply cannot remember to take the teas as often as she needs to.”
“’Tis not teas she needs. ’Tis a sharp dagger. That’d solve the problem of his unfettered lust well enough.”
“I don’t disagree with the sentiment, Izzie. But I can scarcely prescribe that remedy, can I? He’s not a horse.”
Isolde shook her head. Laoise, wife of one of their farmers, was barely twenty, and this was her fourth confinement in as many years. But it wasn’t the frequency of her pregnancies that raised her ire. She knew many women across the Isles who reveled in displaying their fecundity and ability to regain their health after confinement.
It was how her husband treated her. As though she were beneath him and her only worth lay in her capability to produce bairns.
Whether she wanted to or not.
“I know what ye’re thinking.” Freyja eyed her as she pulled on her boots. “But even if the worse thing happens, and ye end up wedded to the Campbell, ye know well enough how to regulate yer moon cycles. Ye’ll not be a brood mare, Izzie.”
No, she certainly would not. Not for any man. And besides, she hadn’t yet abandoned hope that their grandmother would come to her senses about the whole distasteful matter. But even if she didn’t, she still did not intend to wed the cursed Campbell.
*
He opened theshutters on the windows. It was still dark, but the roar of the storm that had raged for the last three days had died during the night. Had it also calmed over the sea?
The notion was oddly unsettling. Once it was safe to sail, ships would come to the Isle. And with them came the chance of discovering his identity.
God knew, he wanted to find out who he was. And yet he couldn’t dismiss the lingering disquiet that, once the truth was revealed, nothing would be the same between him and Isolde.
His nights were filled with scorching fantasies of her climbing into the box bed with him. Enveloping them in their own sensual cocoon.
Of how she would look, by the flickering light of the fire, her hair unbound across his pillows, as he made her his.
He swallowed a groan as the image burned through his mind. It was madness, to want her so, when he had no idea if he had anything worth offering her. Just because she teased him constantly that he had to be the son of a great laird, did not make it so.
She had noble blood in her veins. Hell, royal blood, even.
Distractedly, he raked his fingers through his hair. Even if his lineage was as noble as hers, for all he knew he could be wed.
It no longer hurt his head when he pressed the fog for answers, but the answers he sought were still as elusive as ever. There was nothing he could do about his missing memories. But maybe there was something he could do to help regain a sense of who he was.
Maybe, with a sword in his hand, the fog would recede.
As on the previous mornings, they broke their fast in the great hall, and after Lady Helga left, he turned to Isolde. “I need to assess my skill with the sword. Do ye have a practice target I might use?”
And a spare sword, God damn it. It went against the grain to ask for everything he needed, but there was no help for it if he wanted to discover the level of his abilities.
She gave him an assessing look, a small smile playing on her lips.
Don’t think about her lips.Inevitably, he could do nothing else, considering what he had fantasized about her doing with her mouth last night. Somehow, he managed to swallow his frustrated groan.
“We do,” she confirmed. “But ye’d be far better practicing against a flesh and blood opponent.”
“Aye. But I doubt Patric has the time nor inclination to assist in this matter.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Patric.”
