Page 7 of Beguiled By the Highlander
*
Isolde hovered whilethe stranger took a spoonful of broth. She knew she ought to leave him in peace to eat since, aside from the wound on his head and lack of memory, there didn’t appear to be anything else afflicting him, and yet here she was.
Hovering, like a besotted scullery maid.
“Isolde.” Her grandmother’s voice was an unwelcome intrusion, especially as she’d forgotten she was still in the solar with them. “Ye’ll catch yer death.”
Curses. Surreptitiously, she patted her skirt, which was soaked due to carrying the man’s mantle and surcoat. Alas, her grandmother was right. She would need to change into dry clothes if she wanted to avoid catching a chill.
Her stormy-eyed stranger glanced up at her and consternation flashed across his face. “My apologies, Lady Isolde. I confess I don’t recall how, but it’s certain I’m the cause for yer discomfort.”
Charmed by his concern, she shook her head. “’Tis nothing. And don’t tell Patric, for his pride will never recover, but if I hadn’t taken yer outer garments, the poor man would never have managed to hike ye over his shoulder, never mind taken a single step forward.”
“Then I’m in Patric’s debt, also.”
“I’m sure we’ll think of some way ye can repay us, once ye’re fighting fit again.”
Without warning, the vivid image of her stranger from the sea cradling her face in his hands flooded through her mind. And if that wasn’t disgraceful enough, she could almostfeelhis lips brushing hers, and a strangled gulp lodged in her throat.
To be sure, she wouldn’t in the least bit mind if he decided to kiss her. But not as repayment for having saved him from death.
“Ye have my word, my lady.”
Was there a thread of amusement in his tone? Had he somehow guessed her thoughts?
She released an exasperated huff. What a fanciful notion. “Good. There’s always work to be done maintaining the castle.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw her grandmother arrow a piercing look her way, from where she now stood at the door. Isolde smothered a sigh. Much as she wanted to continue conversing with this enigmatic stranger, her legs were slowly freezing beneath the weight of her sodden skirts.
And that reminded her. “We cannot keep calling ye the stranger from the sea.” Wait. Maybe she was the only one who thought of him that way? Before he had the chance to question her about it, she hurried on. “So, until yer memory returns”—after he’d finished his broth, good Lord, what nonsense was she spouting here? Yet somehow, she could not stop her unruly tongue. “How do ye feel about me calling ye Njord?”
His beautiful mouth twitched, as though he held in laughter. “After the god of the sea? Are ye sure he won’t rescind his benevolence and find another way to claim my soul?”
“Not at all. It’s a token of reverence for how he looked over ye while ye were in peril in his domain.”
“I’ll take yer word for it. God knows, I’m thankful however I ended up here.” And then a frown creased his admirable brow. “Ye mention Sgur Castle. But where is this place?”
“We are on the Isle of Eigg.” When no flicker of recognition lit his features, a shaft of sorrow pierced her breast. Poor man, to have no recollection of the Small Isles. For wherever he came from, he was a Scot, and all Scots knew of the Isles. She couldn’t even begin to fathom how adrift he must feel, unable to remember even the most basic facts of his life.
With a small smile, she left him to his thoughts.
*
“I cannot believeye didn’t wake us.” Isolde’s younger sister, Freyja, shot her a vexed glance as she pulled on her boots in their bedchamber. “I should’ve at least examined him for further injury.”
“By all means, offer to examine him if ye wish.” Isolde took a fresh gown from Grear. “But Amma examined him and found nothing. Besides, there wasn’t time to tell ye. It’s not my fault the pair of ye like to laze abed until all hours.”
“But how thrilling.” Her youngest sister, Roisin, gave a great sigh as Grear began to braid her hair. “A mysterious stranger who cannot recall a thing about himself. It’s sure to be a sign, Isolde.”
“Aye, a sign that it’s foolish to sail in a tempest.” Freyja planted her hands on her hips. “Let’s hope he soon regains his senses, so he can return to his kin.”
“The weather may have been calm when they set sail,” Isolde pointed out. “The storm was sudden, Frey.”
“And washed him right onto our beach. What are the chances? I know it means something.”
Isolde shook her head in mock despair at Roisin, even though, in a hidden corner of her mind, she couldn’t help wondering the very same thing. “All it means is he was damn fortunate not to drown. Don’t go losing yer senses over him, Roisin.”
Even if she was perilously close to losing her own.
