Page 8 of Lost with a Scot
“Ye also seemed to ken me,” Aiden said as he sat on the edge of her bed, close to her.
Rather than be frightened by his proximity, she was comforted. “Ken?”
“Know,” he enunciated.
“Did I?”
“Aye, ye did. Ye said, ‘You—it’s you.’” He spoke the words in a more English accent than his own.
Anna twisted her fingers in the covers, crumpling them in her lap.
“It’s strange, but I feel as if I do know you,” she said after a moment. “Not that I could say how.” The fire crackled, and her skin felt too warm now.
Aiden studied her face, and the intensity of his eyes on her only heated her more. The familiarity, that connection to him she couldn’t explain, tugged at her mind again—as if she should know this man anywhere. He swallowed and shifted closer on the bed, his lips parting as he continued to look upon her. His male beauty took her breath away. It was as though his features had been carved by angels.
Someone knocked on the door. He went to answer it. A woman stood there with a worried look on her face as she peered around Aiden to look at Anna. She was middle-aged and had a fierce expression on her face that softened slightly as she saw Anna sitting up.
“I hate to bother ye, but ye’d best come out and check on that horse with the bad leg. That fool McPherson said he wants it back now. I can watch over yer lassie.”
Aiden’s eyes darkened. He looked back at Anna. “Dinna move from this bed, lass. I must go, but ye need your rest. I’ll be back with food.” And just like that, the tall Scottish stranger was gone. That was something she’d recognized in the last few minutes. His accent wasScottish, as well as the woman’s who had knocked at the door.
Was she lost in Scotland?
CHAPTER3
“How is the lass?” Molly asked Aiden as he stepped into the hallway.
Aiden was still trying to come to terms with the situation of having found a beautiful half-drowned woman whom he’d seen in his dreams almost all his life, and he didn’t hear Molly’s question at first until she repeated it.
“Weary, but awake.” He followed the innkeeper back down the stairs. “She says her name is Anna, but she seems to have no memory of anything but her first name. She speaks English, but she also speaks... Danish, I think, if I recognized it correctly.”
“What?” Molly blinked as they reached the bottom of the stairs. The taproom was full of customers, mostly men who worked on the docks, along with the occasional traveler who stayed at the inn. Her exclamation drew a few curious looks, and Aiden kept his voice down as he responded.
“Dr. MacDonald found a wound on her head. I suspect she’s lost a bit of her memory until the injury heals itself.” He had seen something like this once with an old collie he’d had as a wee lad. His father had struck the dog’s head with a cane in a moment of anger, and for three weeks the dog hadn’t seemed to know Aiden at all. It got lost in the castle more than once, whereas before it had always known its way about. Aiden had to win the dog’s trust all over again. Eventually the wound on its skull healed, and the dog, over time, reverted back to its old habits and mannerisms. Perhaps it would be the same with his mystery woman.
“The poor dear,” Molly said with surprising sweetness. “I’ll check on her while you handle that bastard McPherson.”
Aiden crossed the taproom and exited the front of the inn toward the stables. The stable lad who had fetched the doctor for him before was shouting at a rotund man wearing a top hat whom Aiden recognized.
“McPherson,” he growled at the man an instant before McPherson raised a hand to cuff the boy. Aiden caught the man’s arm, easily holding it away from the child’s face.
“Manners, McPherson, or else people will start to think ye hit wee bairns rather than men your own size.”
“Take yer hands off me, Kincade! The whelp deserves to have his ears boxed.” McPherson brushed imaginary dust off his coat sleeves and scowled.
“Does he, now?” Aiden shot the boy a pretend scowl, and the boy caught on, looking down at the ground bashfully.
“Off with ye,” Aiden barked at the boy, who took the hint and fled from sight. Aiden turned his attention back to the man. “Now, what’s this I hear about ye wanting yer horse back?”
McPherson’s mustache twitched and his beady dark eyes narrowed as he seemed to anticipate Aiden’s displeasure at his next words.
“I want my horse back; I’ve sold it to the butcher down the street. He pays handsomely for horseflesh.”
Aiden’s blood boiled with sudden rage, but he held in the flames.
“The butcher?Ye mean to sell it to be slaughtered? Have ye lost yer mind?”
McPherson bristled. “It’s my horse. I can do as I wish with it.”
