Page 8 of Beguiled By the Highlander
“I cannot promise that,” Roisin said, and Freyja laughed. “Is heveryhandsome?”
“Handsome like the fantastical Tuatha de Danann ye love so well?” Freyja gave their youngest sister a teasing smile. Roisin was entranced by the legends of the mythical folk from Eire. “Alas, no mortal man can live up to such perfection.”
“He’s no immortal,” Isolde said. “Another hour at most, and his body would be in the kirk, awaiting burial.”
“’Tis very romantic, ye must admit.”
Freyja groaned. “Nearly drowning is romantic? I’m certain Isolde’s stranger would think differently.”
“But he didn’t drown,” Roisin pointed out. “That would’ve been a tragedy. Perhaps he is yer soulmate, sent here to save ye from a disastrous match with the Campbell.”
At the reminder of the unwelcome understanding her grandmother had brokered with Clan Campbell—which as far as she was concerned meant exactlynothing—her mood deflated. And she wasn’t best pleased by Roisin’s assumption that she needed a man to save her from an arranged marriage, either.
“I don’t believe in soulmates. And I can save myself, thank ye very much.”
“If ye shared yer plans with us, we could help.” There was no longer any hint of amusement in Freyja’s voice. “Ye cannot leave the Isle. None of us can.”
If she actually had a solid plan, she’d be only too happy to share it with her sisters. Unfortunately, despite having had ten years to scheme, the best she’d come up with was to challengeWilliam Campbell. The chances were high he’d refuse, for a single reason.
No Campbell would want to risk being bested in a sword fight by a woman.
When the prospect of this cursed marriage had been little more than a specter in her future, her plan had seemed good enough. But lately, she saw nothing but flaws in it.
Suppose William Campbell didn’t give a damn about her challenge? The prospect of him gaining a foothold on Eigg through her might well prove too enticing to care what sort of wife she’d make.
One thing was certain, though. If they wed, he’d expect her to leave her beloved Isle, and that simply couldn’t happen.
Once again, the panic coiled deep in her gut, and this time there was no comforting Sgur Beach where she could sink her hands into the sand and ground herself. Instead, she grasped her skirt tight, willing the insidious fear to slither back to the dark crevices in her soul.
Roisin came to her side and slid her fingers through hers. For a moment she said nothing, and slowly, slowly, the panic ebbed. Her youngest sister was fanciful, and half the time lived in her own imagined world, but sometimes, like now, she saw far too much.
“All will be well,” Roisin said. “Don’t fret, Izzie. I knew ye and Frey laugh at me, but I feel this in my heart. There’s a reason ye found this stranger, a man with no past. How could it be otherwise?”
Isolde squeezed her sister’s fingers. She knew what Roisin was hinting at. But her sister was a dreamer and believed in old tales brought to the Isles long ago from France, of chivalry and how love conquered all.
It wasn’t real. And her stranger from the sea, her Njord, hadn’t washed up on her beach because he was her destiny. He was just a fortunate man who hadn’t drowned.
Chapter Three
He finished thebroth and exhaled a long sigh. Finally, the last remnants of ice melted from his veins and his stomach was full. But his mind was as dark as ever.
Not that he’d truly believed anything as simple as food would help regain his memories, but Isolde’s optimism had been hard to resist.
Lady Isolde of Sgur Castle. He probed the fog that swallowed the essence of who he was, but nothing was forthcoming. And yet the unassailable certainty hovered on the edges of his mind that he should know of her.
That he should know of Eigg.
Christ, would he ever recover knowledge of his past?
He pressed his fingers to his temples, but it didn’t help ease the fire eating through his brain. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t as fierce as when he’d first regained his senses. All he wanted to do was fall back on the bed and welcome oblivion, but that luxury would need to wait. He needed to find out as much as he could about where he was, and where he might have come from.
But first, he needed his clothes.
With a pained grunt, he pushed himself from the bed and, gripping the blanket around himself, made his way to the hearth. The chamber wasn’t large, with thick rugs on the floor and tapestries on the walls to keep out the damp. One of the shutters was partially open, revealing a glazed window, through whichshards of dawn illuminated the chamber. The elusive master of Sgur Castle, it appeared, was prosperous.
Thank God, the chamber no longer spun around him.
It didn’t stop him from propping his shoulder against the wall beside the hearth for additional support. He might no longer feel dizzy, but the short walk had made his surroundings oddly disconnected. Almost as though he wasn’t standing here, on solid ground, but instead floating just outside his body.
