Page 14 of Beguiled By the Highlander
“No one on Eigg could forget yer Pict foremothers, lass.”
It wasn’t Patric’s familiarity that caused him to give the man a sharp glance. It was the way he said Eigg.
To be sure, Isolde had already told him where they were. But now, incomprehensibly, the name stirred an ember of recognition.
“The Isle of Eigg.” Long ago, the Norse had conquered the Small Isles. And before that, they’d been occupied by the Picts. “The Highlands.”
“Are ye recalling yer past?” Isolde gazed at him, the hope clear in her eyes.
He pushed harder at the fog, but all that did was cause the pain to return, and he exhaled a frustrated breath. “The history of the Highlands is familiar. But I cannot recall what I did before I awoke in the castle’s solar.”
“It will come in time.” She sounded so certain. “After all, ye know more than the last time we spoke.”
It was true. It just wasn’t enough. And although Isolde was sympathetic to his plight, he didn’t want to discuss it with her. The holes in his awareness, of things he should instinctively know, was demeaning, and the truth was, he didn’t want her sympathy, God damn it.
He nodded to the claymore. “’Tis a fine weapon ye wield.”
“It belonged to my father. When I was a child, he always said one day it would be mine, but I didn’t think to inherit it so soon.”
“I’m sorry for yer loss, my lady.” Damn his big mouth.
“Ah.” She brushed aside his condolences. “I thank ye, but ’tis not recent. Ten years ago, my parents were on the mainland when they succumbed to the fever.” Her smile faltered, before she took a great breath and offered him another smile. “It was a shock, I’ll not deny. Sometimes, even now, I still think they will return. I know such sentiments are folly.”
“Not folly.” Briefly, he wondered if he still had parents. Was he close to them in the way it seemed Isolde had been with hers? “Ye must’ve been but a child at the time.”
“We were fortunate. We’ve always lived here in the castle, with our parents and Amma, so at least we didn’t lose our home.”
“Ye have no brothers?”
“We do not.” Her lips twitched, as though she held back a smile. “I know what ye’re thinking. But ye’d be wrong. Even with a brother, Amma would still be the mistress of the castle. It descends through the female line, ye see, from the time of our Pict queen foremother.”
“An illustrious lineage. Ye have royal blood, then.”
“Aye, but she was a warrior too.”
“And that’s more important?”
“One day I might tell ye about that queen.” There was a thread of laughter in her voice now, and despite how he was slowly freezing to the spot, he grinned back. “Ye’d be awestruck, I have no doubt.”
Patric held out his hand to Isolde. “I’ll return the claymore. Ye best take him back to the castle to warm up before Freyja discovers he’s escaped the fireside.”
Isolde looked stricken as she passed the weapon to the older man. “Ye’re right. What was I thinking?” She turned to him. “I should not have kept ye out in the cold. Ye’re scarcely dressed for it. My sister will have my hide if she finds out. She’s of the opinion ye need to rest.”
“I have rested. For most of the day, by the looks of it.” He fell into step beside her, as her dog quit chasing shadows and came to heel. “And missed the tour of the castle ye promised.”
“Never let it be said I don’t keep my promises. How does the morrow sound to ye?”
“It sounds grand.” Anything that involved spending time with Isolde was fine by him.
“Good. Well, let’s see about getting something hot inside ye.”
Chapter Five
Isolde was relievedthe darkening day concealed her burning cheeks. Her words were innocent, and yet they echoed around her head, sounding vaguely indecent. Thankfully, her stranger—Njord—appeared to find nothing untoward about her unthinking response.
He strolled beside her, and she slowed her normal pace to accommodate him. He had suffered a head injury, and, as her sister had reminded her, he needed to take things easy.
But it was hard to recall such things when he cut such a fine figure in her father’s plaid. No one would guess, simply by looking at him, that he wasn’t in the best of health. His shoulders strained against the confines of the linen shirt, and she curled her fingers into fists lest she accidentally stroke his breathtaking biceps.
