Page 3

H is stomach churned and chest tightened, as though an iron band wrapped around him, crushing his ribs. How could he not know who he was?

A wild rushing filled his head, an unwelcome counterpoint to the incessant throbbing of his brain. God help him. What had happened?

“Try not to worry.” The beautiful, flame-haired lass who kneeled by his side patted his shoulder before snatching her hand back as though his skin burned. “Ye cracked yer head. That’s why ye don’t remember. But ye’ll be right as rain after a good sleep.”

He hoped to God she was right. And yet, as he gazed into her enchanting green eyes, the panic that consumed him ebbed. Of course she was right. Whatever had happened, this was a temporary loss of memory.

“Thank ye.” Christ, was that raspy sound really his voice? Did he always sound as though his throat was flayed raw, or was it a consequence of his accident?

“Well, ye’re more than welcome. ’Tis fortunate we found ye when we did. I doubt ye would’ve survived until daybreak.”

Bemused, he cocked his head. “Lucky me.”

Her smile was like a flash of sunlight in a dank cave. What the hell? Did he usually indulge in such bizarre imaginings, or was it another result of his head injury?

Cautiously, he touched the back of his head. It was a relief not to encounter a gaping hole. As he let out a thankful breath, he caught sight of three terriers sitting beside the hearth, their avid attention fixed on him.

“Aye, ye were lucky indeed, and that’s a fact. If not for the dogs, we may have passed right by ye without even knowing it.”

The dogs thumped their tails, as if in acknowledgement of their part in his rescue.

“Isolde.” The commanding voice caused him to squint up at the older lady who stood beside his unlikely savior. Although her hair had faded with age, there was no mistaking the hint of auburn, and her eyes were the same piercing green as Isolde’s. Neither was there any mistaking her authority. She was the matriarch of this Sgur Castle, wherever that might be. “Our guest must be made comfortable, now.”

Intriguingly, Isolde did not jump to her feet at the implied command. Instead, she once again smiled at him, and despite the alarming blankness that filled his head, he grinned back.

“Can ye stand?” she enquired. “Ye’ll be more comfortable on the bed. And once ye’ve some good hot broth inside ye, maybe yer memory will return.”

The spinning in his head wasn’t too bad. He was certain he could stand. And then realization struck.

Where the hell were his clothes? Gingerly, he lifted the edge of the blanket that draped across the top of his thighs.

He was stark naked.

He cast a wary glance around the chamber. Besides Isolde and her older relative, four grim warriors eyed him with varying degrees of distrust, and three young serving maids huddled by the open door, clearly agog by the proceedings.

Dull heat washed through him. What had possessed him, to imagine he and Isolde had been alone?

Had she been the one to strip him?

Even in his befuddled state, the possibility that she had touched his body in so intimate a manner caused his cock to thicken. At least some things still worked the way they should. Except he’d much rather be in full possession of his senses, so he could recall such a pleasurable interlude.

What in the name of God was he thinking? He resisted the urge to groan and involuntarily tightened his grip on the blanket. He was certain that, in the normal course of his shadowed life, he didn’t care who saw his naked body. But Isolde aside, the prospect of having been in so vulnerable a state before a chamber full of strangers was most disconcerting.

“Oh.” A faint blush swept across her cheeks, and he could not tear his gaze from her. “Maybe Patric could give ye a hand? The bed is just there, behind ye.” Then she waved her finger in the vague direction of his legs and avoided his eyes. “We, uh, had to dry yer clothes, ye see.”

He grunted in acknowledgement, but when one of the burly warriors approached, apparently to make good on Isolde’s offer of assistance, he forced his tongue to work. “I can manage on my own.”

The warrior folded his arms, and Isolde hastily rose from her knees as he attempted to stand without losing whatever slight dignity he retained. Once on his feet, gripping the blanket around him as if his life depended on it, the chamber swayed as though he stood on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

For a hazy moment the sensation was so visceral he staggered. A ship. A storm? Yet when he tried to hold onto the fleeting fragment it dissolved, as if it had never existed.

Isolde gasped and grasped his biceps. “Are ye certain ye can walk?”

The temptation was great to say no, just so she would assist him, but it was more likely her burly warrior would intervene instead. “Aye. I simply stood up too fast.”

She released him, although she appeared reluctant. But that was likely only his own warped perception. A box bed stood against the far wall, and he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until, with barely concealed relief, he reached it and sat down.

As Isolde brought over a small table, the warriors and serving maids left the chamber, although the older lady remained by the fire, her keen gaze never leaving him. And then she spoke.

“Ye have no recollection of how ye washed up on Sgur Beach?” She raised her eyebrows as if she found the notion somewhat unbelievable.

Not that he blamed her. Until this moment, he would never have believed it possible to lose all memory of who one truly was.

“Aye, milady.” The honorific fell automatically from his tongue, even if he did not know who she was. “I wish I could tell ye more, but there’s a dark cloud I cannot shift inside my head.”

“It’s not surprising,” Isolde said. “Ye banged yer head badly on rocks or some such. Tis fortunate ye didn’t drown. Truly, Njord favors ye, and that’s a fact.”

He stared at her blankly. “Njord?” The name was faintly familiar, but he couldn’t fathom why.

“The ancient Norse god of the sea.” She smiled, and he damn near forgot how to breathe at the sight. “How else could ye have survived that storm, if he hadn’t watched over ye?”

“I confess, I know little of this god.” And he had the feeling it wasn’t because of his memory loss, either. Had he washed up on some forgotten foreign shore, where the inhabitants worshipped old, pagan ways? He was sure the prospect should alarm him more than it did.

“Ah, do not fret. We will not sacrifice ye for yer ignorance.”

“That’s gratifying. It’d be a waste, after ye went to so much trouble to save my life.”

“Aye, that’s true. Although it could’ve been worse. At least ye’re awake.”

He acknowledged the truth of that. “Awake, aye. But still no closer to knowing who I am.”

She glanced at the door, where a servant entered with a bowl. “Ye’d best have this broth now, while it’s hot. It might help bring yer memories back.”

He couldn’t see how, but he hoped to God it did.

*

Isolde hovered while the 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 almost feel his 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 believe ye 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.

“I cannot promise that,” Roisin said, and Freyja laughed. “Is he very handsome?”

“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 exactly nothing —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 challenge William 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.