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“A nd I’m telling ye,” Freyja said, as the sisters made their way to their grandmother’s private chamber, “the man needs to rest.”

Irritated that her sister appeared to be implying she gave no heed to Njord’s recent injury, Isolde gave her an aggrieved glance. “I know that. I don’t intend to drag him about the castle until he’s fully recovered. I simply thought he might like the distraction.”

“I believe it’s distraction enough that he’s lost his memories,” her sister retorted.

“Aye, and maybe he’ll recover them faster if he strolls in the courtyard. The fresh air might blow aside the fog in his mind.”

Good Lord, could she not just shut up? She wasn’t even fooling herself as to why she wanted to spend more time with her enigmatic stranger, so there was no surprise she wasn’t fooling Freyja.

Her sister rolled her eyes. “Aye. I’m not denying fresh air will do him good. But not today. If ye wish to coddle him, ye’ll need to do so in the solar.”

“I have no wish to coddle him.” Kiss him, aye. Curses. Why did she keep thinking of his delectable mouth?

“I do not think he’d object, if ye offered.” Roisin gave a sweet smile when Isolde turned to her, startled that her sister appeared to have heard her unwary thoughts. “And he is very handsome, after all.”

“What?” she blurted. It was one thing to find him unaccountably irresistible. It was quite another for her sisters to guess how constantly he’d been on her mind since the moment she’d found him upon the beach.

“Handsome,” Roisin repeated. “Although not in the way of the Tuatha de Danann. But ’tis obvious he finds yer company agreeable, Izzie. I’m certain he’d have no objection to ye keeping him company while he recovers.”

Ah. Roisin spoke of coddling. Not kissing.

What a relief.

Thankfully, she didn’t need to answer since they had arrived at their grandmother’s chamber, and after they entered, they sat on their usual stools before the fire.

Their grandmother regarded them in silence from her carved chair behind her desk. The same desk that had been passed down through generations of Sgur MacDonalds and would, one day far in the future, pass into her own safekeeping.

“There’s something I cannot fathom about this mysterious visitor of ours.”

“There’s nothing to fathom, Amma,” Isolde assured her. “He’s a lost soul, nothing more.”

“That I do not deny.” Their grandmother drew in a great breath, but a frown marred her brow. “Yet still, something feels amiss.”

Isolde kept a placid smile upon her face. Like Roisin, their grandmother often saw far more than anyone would wish. And the last thing Isolde wanted was for her beloved amma to suspect she held anything more than conventional concern for the stranger from the sea.

“Do ye think he feigns his memory loss?” Freyja sounded curious, and Isolde gave her an incredulous glance at the accusation.

“Why would he feign such a thing?” She looked back at their grandmother, but it was impossible to guess her thoughts. “Amma, surely ye cannot believe this of him?”

Their grandmother focused on Freyja. “What is yer view?”

Isolde pressed her lips together. Generally, her grandmother’s deference to Freyja in such matters wouldn’t bother her. Frey was, after all, an esteemed healer and midwife. But this concerned the stranger. Her stranger. And she did not care for how his honor was being questioned.

“Certainly, his injury could cause his memory to fragment.” Freyja paused, as though considering the matter. “I believe his story is genuine. I cannot imagine why anyone should fabricate such a tale, especially when the circumstances put their own life in such peril.”

Isolde let out a disbelieving huh . “Aye, for if Patric and I hadn’t ventured onto the beach this morn, the poor man would’ve died of exposure. A fine plan that would be if he was truly a spy or—or whatever it is ye’re insinuating.”

“Why would a spy come to Eigg?” Roisin sounded flummoxed by the notion. “And a spy from where?”

“Child, spies are everywhere.” Their grandmother sighed and gazed into space, as Isolde and her sisters exchanged startled glances.

Spies were everywhere? Certainly, she’d made the accusation, but she hadn’t really meant it. To be sure, one always had to be wary when dealing with other clans, but the Isles were predominately MacDonald, and suspicious behavior by others was never a secret for long.

She shook her head, as if that might clarify things. Of course, she couldn’t know for sure that her stranger was of Clan MacDonald, but would she feel such an affinity for him, if he were not?

“What are ye suggesting we do, Amma?” Isolde said. “We cannot turn him out into the storm, can we?”

Her grandmother caught her gaze. “I’m suggesting ye be wary, Isolde. That is all. Remember, ye are promised to the son of Bruce Campbell, baron of Dunstrunage.”

And just like that, her mood plummeted. Why did her grandmother have to bring that up now? Why did she need to bring it up at all?

So many times during the last ten years she’d questioned her on the vexatious subject, and not once had she received a satisfactory explanation. Well, she deserved one, and if Amma wished to drag Bruce Campbell’s son into this conversation, then so would she.

“I’ve never consented to the match with the Campbell, and I cannot fathom why ye ever agreed to it. All the Campbells want is to strengthen their foothold in the Isles, and why ye seem eager to assist them by sacrificing me into their barbarous clutches is beyond my ken.”

Her grandmother’s jaw tightened, but it was the only indication Isolde’s words had affected her. Until she spoke.

“Ye misunderstand, Isolde. This match isn’t for the benefit of Clan Campbell. It is to keep ye safe.”

Keep her safe? Of anything she’d imagined her grandmother might say, this wasn’t it. It did not even make any sense. The only way to remain safe, to ensure Eigg was protected and prospered, was to stay on the Isle.

“How am I in danger in Eigg? Our foremothers have lived on this Isle for generations without number.”

“Truly, Amma,” Freyja sounded troubled. “Ye are the one who taught us all how Eigg was known in ancient times as the island of the powerful women, right up until ye were a girl. It’s our destiny to protect Eigg and strengthen alliances within our own clan from the other Isles.”

“Aye. But we cannot always live in the past.”

Something akin to alarm threaded through Isolde’s breast. If danger threatened their Isle, why hadn’t she shared it with them—or at least, with her, as the eldest?

“But what of the Deep Knowing?” Roisin’s voice was hushed, and instinctively Isolde took her hand and gave her fingers a comforting squeeze. Both their mother, before she’d died, and Amma, had often shared the old stories of their ancestors, and the origin of the creed they lived by.

The bloodline of the Isle must prevail beyond quietus.

The meaning was plain. Their bloodline could not leave the Isle.

“I cannot explain it to ye, child.” Their grandmother gave Roisin a sad smile. “All I know is the path for Isolde does not lie on the Small Isles.”

And what kind of answer was that? Isolde pressed her lips together, to keep her retort locked inside. No good would come of it should she tell her grandmother what she thought of such airy-fae nonsense.

But a kernel of disquiet lingered, all the same. For her grandmother was a pragmatic, canny woman, respected throughout the Isles, and not given to flights of fancy. To be sure, an outsider might consider the Deep Knowing, that had been passed from mother to daughter for the last nine hundred years, to be a little strange.

But it was a secret known only to the MacDonald women of Sgur Castle. And there was nothing fantastical about it. It was simply the essence of who they were, and how they were inextricably entwined within the fabric of Eigg herself.

No. She wouldn’t let her grandmother’s odd insistence that the reason she had to wed the Campbell was to keep herself safe sway her view.

She belonged in Eigg, and nothing would change her mind.

*

He stirred, groaned, and opened his eyes. The unfamiliar timber ceiling was uncommonly low, disorienting him, and alarm flashed through him.

Why am I in a box?

It took but a moment for realization to seep through his fogged brain, and he turned his head, where the doors to the box bed were open, revealing the solar.

He frowned and pushed himself upright. His eyes were gritty, but his head wasn’t too bad. Although light streamed into the solar, it wasn’t as bright as when he’d discarded the blanket for the borrowed clothes. It seemed his few moments of resting his eyes had turned into something far longer.

Instinctively, he glanced at the door, but it remained shut. Had Isolde returned to take him on the promised tour, only to find him passed out on the bed?

It wasn’t a pleasing notion. She’d already seen him at his worst, which was bad enough. He didn’t want her thinking he’d lost all his strength to the sea.

The boots were a little tight, but they would do until his own had dried out. Dizziness no longer assailed him as he strode to the door, opened it, and eyed the dark corridor that greeted him.

Now what?

Luckily, a serving maid was approaching with a basket filled with peat slabs. He offered her a friendly nod, which caused her to stop dead in her tracks and stare at him as though he possessed two heads.

He cleared his throat. “I’m searching for Lady Isolde. Do ye know where I might find her?”

“In the courtyard.” She jerked her head in the direction from which she’d come. “Do ye want someone to give milady a message?”

“’Tis fine. I’ll find her.”

He made his way along the dimly lit corridor, which led to the great hall. A fire burned in the large hearth and splendid tapestries adorned the walls, which reinforced his notion that the MacDonalds of Sgur Castle were wealthy indeed. Servants were at their daily tasks, and he felt their sideways glances as he headed towards the far end of the hall.

He pulled open one of the double doors, and the chilled air of twilight hit him. He puffed out a breath and stepped outside. The courtyard spread out before him, but he couldn’t spy Isolde among the castle inhabitants who went about their business.

A walk in the brisk air would do him good. He set off, although his pace wasn’t as swift as he’d like. Maybe there was no need to march, after all, and he slowed down, taking his time, and the throb in his head receded.

The sky was gray, heavy with clouds, but it wasn’t raining, for which he was thankful, although the mighty crashing of waves echoed across the land and the scent of salt permeated the air. He glanced back at the castle and then paused in his tracks as he took in the sight of the massive rocky outcrop beyond the castle. It towered high above the entire keep on the mountain upon which the castle was constructed, a magnificent backdrop that stalled the air in his lungs.

It was unlike anything he’d seen before.

And inevitably, a mocking whisper brushed through his mind.

Is it, though?

As he passed by the dovecote, he caught sight of Isolde. She was on the far side of the stables in what looked like a smaller, self-contained courtyard, and he smothered a grin as anticipation fired his blood.

Even the wind didn’t feel as bitterly cold.

To his left was the farrier, and to his right the stables, creating a wide alley that led to where Isolde stood in the distance, her back to him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure emerge from the shadows of the courtyard, a blade glinting in his hands.

What the hell? Acidic shock spiked through his blood. Christ, the man was about to assassinate her. A woman. An unarmed woman. In her own goddamn castle .

He broke into a run, even though he was too far away to save her from injury. Or worse. He’d never reach her in time, but that bastard would never crawl out of here alive. Where was his sword? His dagger? For God’s sake, there had to be something—

Isolde swung about, and he came to a skidding halt. She gripped a claymore, and in a flawless arc of beauty, the blade clashed against the man’s, sending him reeling back.

She took immediate advantage, following through with another forceful sweep of the weapon. The man recovered instantly, and he watched, staggered to the depths of his soul, as Isolde held her own against the warrior.

Through his stunned brain, comprehension belatedly dawned.

This was a training ground. And Lady Isolde was no mere novice.

He couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman with such excellent swordsmanship, and this time he didn’t qualify his thought to take account of his faulty memories.

Noblewomen didn’t take the sword. Nevertheless, Isolde was magnificent.

Finally, she and the warrior clasped each other’s arms, and he stepped forward. Isolde turned to him, and her smile warmed him deep inside. As he drew closer, he recognized the other man as Patric, who, according to Isolde, had helped save his life.

“Ye’re looking well,” she said, casting her warm gaze over him. Her cheeks were flushed by her exertions, and wisps of fiery hair had become loosened from their bindings and whipped across her face. He had never witnessed a more enchanting vision.

“Aye. And I have ye both to thank for that.” He nodded at Patric, who grunted in response. He returned his attention to Isolde. “Yer skill is admirable, my lady. My fear for yer life was unfounded.”

She laughed. Even Patric cracked a grin. “’Tis my passion. Patric is a good teacher, and that’s a fact.”

“Are all noblewomen as skilled with the sword on this isle?”

“They are not.” Pride threaded through Patric’s response. “Lady Isolde has the blood of her Norse forefathers in her veins.”

“Aye,” she said, her mesmerizing green eyes sparkling with mirth. “But don’t ye forget my formidable Pict foremothers, Patric, lest ye draw their curses upon yer head.”

He knew of the Norse. Hell, he knew of the Picts. Why then could he not recall the simple matter of who he was?

“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.”