Page 2

Isle of Eigg

I solde MacDonald stealthily eased herself out of the bed, so as not to wake her two younger sisters, who snuggled beneath the covers with barely their noses showing. She wrapped her thick shawl around her shoulders and shivered, even though the fire still glowed in the grate, staving off the worst of the chill in the air.

Grear, their young serving girl, lay wrapped in a great sheepskin at the foot of the bed, but Isolde did not wake her, either. She was well able to ready herself for the day without help, and besides, Grear’s assistance would inevitably awaken her sisters, and her plan to slip out of the castle unhindered would dissolve.

And despite how much she loved her home, the castle of her foremothers, she dearly needed to escape it this morn. There was nothing she loved more than breathing in the sharp tang of sea and earth after a fierce storm, or marveling at the ancient power of the elements that lingered in the crisp air.

She went to the fire and dipped her finger into the pitcher of water that stood by the hearth. It was cold, but at least it wasn’t covered with a crust of ice, and, bracing herself, she hastily washed before pulling on a fresh woolen kirtle and leine.

Her precious dagger, in its worn leather sheath, lay on the table beside the hearth, and she secured it within the folds of her gown, the way she had for the last five years since her beloved grandmother had given it to her on the seventeenth anniversary of her birth.

With a quick glance at the bed, she picked up her boots and left the chamber.

As soon as she closed the door, three small bodies charged across the antechamber towards her.

“Hush, lads,” she whispered, before any of them could start their barking, and they obediently fell back, tails wagging. She dropped her boots to the floor and gave them each a hug, stifling laughter when they enthusiastically tried to lick her face off. “Enough, now.”

She pulled on her boots, found her gloves and hood, and then eyed the three terriers who gazed at her expectantly. They were littermates, and although each dog belonged to one sister, it was unthinkable that she take sweet Sjor with her and leave the other two behind.

The three dogs were at her heels as she opened the antechamber door and made her way to the stairs that led down to the ground floor. The servants were already at their tasks, and she crossed the great hall to the kitchens to find something to break her fast.

Grabbing a satchel, she gathered some oatcakes and warm bannocks before tossing the dogs three slices of choice, fresh meat.

“Come,” she called to the dogs as she picked up a lantern and left the castle. It was still dark, and the heavy clouds allowed no glimpse of the moon or stars. The air was damp, and as she made her way across the courtyard a dark shadow emerged from the stables and tailed her.

She sighed. Even without turning, she knew who he was. “There’s no need to accompany me, Patric. I’ll only venture as far as Sgur beach.”

“No swordplay this morn, then?” His voice was grim, but she heard the hint of amusement in his voice. After her father’s untimely death ten years ago, his faithful warrior and lifelong friend had stepped in as a surrogate father and continued her unconventional lessons, a fact for which she loved him dearly.

But it didn’t mean she wanted him to shadow her every time she stepped foot outside the castle ramparts.

“Not until after the sun rises. I prefer to see my opponent.”

“Where’s the challenge in that?”

She shook her head. Clearly, he had no intention of allowing her to escape his watchful eye. “I’m ready for any challenge, as ye well know, Patric.” She slung him a glance over her shoulder. “Sundown, then. And I will have ye eat yer words, make no mistake.”

His low laugh warmed her as she picked her way down the mighty hill and headed to the beach with Patric following in her wake. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks grew louder with every passing moment and the scent of salt and seaweed drenched the air.

In the distance, lightning flashed, illuminating the heavy clouds and stormy sea. She paused and held her lantern higher as she gazed at the breathtaking sight. The tempest raged, yet here, on her beloved Isle, an illusory cocoon of calm settled across the land.

Either the storm would blow itself out over the sea or it would sweep around and return to the Isle. As though confirming her thoughts, the wind picked up and pinpricks of frost spattered her face in welcoming familiarity.

With the dogs at her heels, she tramped across the bracken moorlands before reaching the beach and inhaling a deep breath. In truth, winter was her favorite season, when the wind howled and waves lashed as though Njord himself, the powerful Norse god of the sea, had awoken after his timeless slumber.

She smiled at her fanciful thoughts, as she always did. The old gods of her ancestors were only myths, yet how she had loved hearing the stories from her grandmother when she was a bairn.

But her devotion to Eigg went far deeper than simply enjoying the tales from the past, when the Norse had planted their roots in the Small Isles. It was in her blood, a part of her, and how her grandmother could imagine for one moment that she’d give all of this up and wed some Campbell stranger...

Panic churned through her, the way it always did when the specter of leaving Sgur Castle assailed her, and her grip on the lantern tightened.

No . She would not dwell on such thoughts. She had been born on this Isle. And by God, and all the gods of her ancestors, she intended to die here, too.

There was only one way to calm her racing heart and the alarming sensation that the beach was spinning beneath her feet. She sank to her knees, and after placing the lantern to one side, tore off her gloves, and pushed her palms into the chilled sand.

With a ragged breath, she closed her eyes. The cold ate into her fingers and the tiny grains scratched her skin, but an ethereal whisper of calm inched along her arms and into her blood. The erratic thudding of her heart eased, the dark dread that hovered on the edges of her mind receded, and the wailing of the storm wrapped itself around her in a misty caress.

Aye. This was where she belonged. Her Isle was her anchor and her strength and no matter what had possessed her grandmother to make such an agreement with a damn Campbell, they both knew it could never happen. She and her sisters were destined to remain on Eigg, just as their foremothers had.

Somehow, she had to find a way to get through to her grandmother. And soon. Before summer arrived, and with it, the prospect of an Argyll bridegroom.

She opened her eyes and from the dull glow of her lantern watched the dogs as they darted between the bracken and sand, chasing real or imaginary vermin. And then, without warning, the three of them froze, their noses pointed towards the sea.

Frowning, she followed their gaze, but the storm still raged, and lightning still split the sky asunder. It was fierce, to be sure, but it took more than a winter’s tempest to cause the dogs to act in so unnatural a manner.

Before she could call them to heel, they took off, barking wildly, disappearing into the twilight, and she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the lantern, before glancing at Patric.

He shrugged, anticipating her question without the need for her to voice it.

“The storm might have thrown a dolphin ashore.” He sounded skeptical at the notion, but it was always a possibility, and something untoward had certainly set the dogs off.

“Then we’d best return it to the sea,” she said, and Patric fell into step beside her as they trudged towards the shore, following the sound of the dogs.

Once more, lightning rent the cloud-laden heavens, revealing the dogs standing beside an indistinguishable figure sprawled upon the sand. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a shiver raced over Isolde’s arms.

“That doesn’t look like a dolphin.” Her words were whipped away in the wind, but the way Patric stiffened by her side was answer enough that he, also, knew what they were looking at.

“Poor soul.” His voice was grim. “Wait here.”

She followed him as he strode across the sand, since there was no need to protect her from the sight of a dead man, and Patric was well aware of that. But every now and then he recalled his pledged fatherly duty towards her to shield her from the harsher side of life.

It didn’t mean she had to abide by his commands.

Together, they stared at the victim of the storm. The lantern cast a glow around him, creating eerie shadows and the illusion that the man still breathed. Face-down in the sand, his midnight hair was a tangled mass, and it was a miracle he hadn’t merely sunk without trace considering he still wore both mantle and surcoat.

Patric grunted. “I’ll haul him further onto the beach and get the men to take him to the kirk at first light.”

It was a sound plan. And yet . . .

She frowned and crouched, swinging the lantern over the back of his head. “Look.” She pushed aside his hair, and dark blood coated her gloved fingers. “Tis a fresh wound.”

Which meant he hadn’t spent endless hours in the unforgiving sea.

Without waiting for Patric’s reply, she set the lantern down and heaved the man onto his back. At least, that was her intention, but it was harder than she’d anticipated. With a long-suffering sigh, Patric gave her a hand, and she caught sight of the man’s face.

A sharp pain pierced through her breast, which was inexplicably odd, since she didn’t recognize him as a MacDonald from any of the Isles. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t one. Perhaps he came from their clan on the mainland, and it was their shared blood connection with their ancestors that recognized him as kin.

It seemed far-fetched, and she wasn’t prone to making such fantastical leaps of logic, but why else would the glimpse of his admittedly handsome face cause such unfathomable sorrow?

His eyelids flickered.

Shock stabbed through her. Had she imagined it?

She leaned over him, scrutinizing his features, before pulling off one glove and tentatively placing a finger beneath his nose.

The icy weather snaked around her finger. But she scarcely felt it, for a faint whisper of warmth also dusted her skin.

“God’s teeth.” She wiped his hair back from his cheeks. “Can ye hear me, man?”

Patric placed his hand on the man’s chest and uttered a low curse. “Stand back. We need to get him inside the castle.”

This time she did as he bid, and after he pulled off the mantle and surcoat, she picked up the heavy, sodden garments. With obvious effort, Patric, who was one of the strongest warriors she knew, hefted the stranger over his shoulder and staggered across the beach.

There was no way he could get the stranger up to the castle without help. But typical man, he would never admit it. She grabbed his arm and yelled in his ear.

“Wait here before ye crack yer back. I’ll bring help.”

Patric muttered under his breath, but she didn’t wait to hear his inevitable affronted protests. With the dogs chasing circles around her, she hastened back to the castle and hailed the warriors who stood guard. Within moments, three of them left the courtyard to assist Patric.

Still clutching the stranger’s soaking clothes, she hurried to the great hall, where a young serving girl had just finished setting the fire. Isolde set two stools before the hearth and draped the clothes over them. Water pooled over the stone floor, and she sighed. In truth, the garments needed a good wash to rid them of the sea, and she glanced at the serving girl, who was gazing at her in avid curiosity as she petted the dogs.

Isolde peeled off her wet gloves and rubbed her hands together in the heat of the fire. “We have a guest,” she told the girl. “Ensure the fire is set in the solar, and we shall need hot broth.”

“Aye, milady.” She bobbed a curtsey before leaving the hall, and Isolde ineffectually tried drying her damp skirt in front of the fire before abandoning the task. Instead, she went back outside and peered anxiously into the darkness, although she had no idea why all her senses were on edge.

To be sure, it was unnerving to rescue an insensible stranger washed up on the beach, but there was no earthly reason why she was now standing in the cold, waiting for his safe arrival. Especially when he was in no fit state to appreciate her consideration.

In the distance, a pinprick of light came into view as the men, with a single lantern held aloft, returned. Quickly, she directed them to take him to the solar, since it was on the ground floor and easily accessible, unlike the bedchambers upstairs.

As she followed the men across the great hall, her grandmother appeared and came to her side. Clearly, her grandmother’s serving woman had informed her of events. “A stranger?” she said by way of greeting, before kissing Isolde’s cheek. “Still alive?”

“Tis a miracle, and that’s for sure. But perhaps ye’ll recognize him, Amma.”

They entered the solar, where he was lying on the floor before the fire. Several oil lamps lit the chamber, and for the first time she got a good look at her stranger from the sea.

The breath caught in her chest, an inexplicable constriction, as she gazed, entranced, at the vision before her. Even battered and grazed from the savagery of the storm-tossed sea, his starkly chiseled features were utterly compelling.

His torn shirt revealed tantalizing glimpses of his broad shoulders, and the drenched linen molded his impressive biceps like a second skin. Her mouth dried and she took a hasty step back, lest anyone—her grandmother, in particular—noticed her indefensible reaction to an unconscious man.

Heat blasted through her, burning her cheeks, but thankfully everyone was focused on their unexpected guest. She swung about and threw another slab of peat onto the fire, but the reprieve did little to calm her racing heart.

She took a deep breath. Whatever foolishness was gripping her, she would not allow it to distract her from her duty. She was the eldest daughter of Sgur Castle, and she would never give cause for anyone to question her integrity.

Carefully, she folded her cloak over a stool before placing her hood on top.

“I’ve never seen this man before,” her grandmother pronounced, and Isolde gave a silent sigh. She could procrastinate no longer.

“Whoever he is, we must tend the wound on his head,” she said, as she returned to her grandmother, who was on her knees beside the man. “And ensure he has no other injuries.”

“No bones appear to be broken.” Her grandmother stood and gave Isolde an inscrutable look. “Have the maids dry him while ye attend to his head.”

One of the maids brought warm water, and Isolde steadfastly kept her eyes on her task of cleaning the gash on his head, and not at his expanse of naked chest as the maids vigorously rubbed life back into his chilled body.

The wound did not look too bad and fortunately was no longer bleeding. Likely they could thank the sea water for that, otherwise the poor man would’ve been at the mercy of her sewing skills as she stitched his head together.

She rolled back on her knees and focused on his face as the maids finished their task and wrapped thick blankets around him. Now he was dry, they could move him into the box bed, but she had to confess she was a little concerned he was still insensible.

“Can ye hear me?” She leaned closer and frowned when her whisper elicited no response. Trepidation licked through her. Certainly, he wasn’t dead, but suppose he never awoke again?

It was foolish to think she could wake him from oblivion when the journey from the beach, and the less than gentle ministrations of the maids, hadn’t evoked even a groan from him. But she had to try.

She grasped his shoulder through the blanket and gave him a good shake. “Wake up. Ye’re safe now, but ye must open yer eyes.”

His impossibly long black lashes flickered, and for a reason she could not fathom, she held her breath, as he slowly did as she had bid him.

His eyes were a captivating swirl of blue and gray. Like a stormy sea.

How apt.

She scarcely had the wits to chide herself for such a fanciful notion.

Instead, she smiled at him. A comforting smile, to assure him all was well.

At least, she hoped it conveyed comfort, and not a scandalous lack of sense due to his enchanting eyes.

“Where am I?” His voice was hoarse. There was no reason for the sound of it to send delicious shivers along her arms.

“Sgur Castle. We found ye on the beach. Tis lucky ye’re alive.”

Confusion clouded his eyes. “The beach?” he echoed, as though he had never encountered the word before.

“Aye. We can only guess ye went overboard during the storm. Although we found no shipwreck,” she added hastily, but now the thought had occurred to her, they would need to search at daybreak for any wreckage.

He gazed at her as though he was unaware of anyone else in the chamber. It was a novel sensation and undeniably thrilling. “Who are ye?” he whispered.

“Isolde MacDonald.” She refrained from giving him her full title. Besides, she’d already told him he was at Sgur Castle. “What is yer name?”

His lips parted, and then an expression of disbelief, no, horror rippled over his face, and he struggled to sit up, the blanket falling to his lap, revealing his breathtaking chest. By sheer force of will, she refused to look and instead gave him an encouraging smile.

“I can’t... I cannot recall.” The words sounded as though he’d ripped them from the bowels of hell itself.

Her smile slipped. “What?”

He sucked in a jagged breath, his fierce gaze never leaving hers. “I don’t know who I am.”