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I solde was relieved the darkening day concealed her burning cheeks. Her words were innocent, and yet they echoed around her head, sounding vaguely indecent. Thankfully, her stranger—Njord—appeared to find nothing untoward about her unthinking response.

He strolled beside her, and she slowed her normal pace to accommodate him. He had suffered a head injury, and, as her sister had reminded her, he needed to take things easy.

But it was hard to recall such things when he cut such a fine figure in her father’s plaid. No one would guess, simply by looking at him, that he wasn’t in the best of health. His shoulders strained against the confines of the linen shirt, and she curled her fingers into fists lest she accidentally stroke his breathtaking biceps.

As they approached the castle entrance, he paused. “That,” he said, “is an impressive rock.”

And so was his profile. Especially in the twilight, which threw shades of purple across his beautiful bone structure. Without following his gaze—after all, she knew exactly what had captured his attention—she said,

“Aye. Tis An Sgurr, the great ridge of Eigg. The views from the castle are exceptional, but from the peak of An Sgurr, ye feel ye’re on top of the world. As soon as ye are able, when the weather is fine, I’ll take ye up there and ye’ll see for yerself.”

They entered the castle and made their way to the fire. Guilt ate through her at how he rubbed his hands together in the heat. She should’ve brought him straight back here when she’d finished her session with Patric, instead of standing in the cold air flirting with him.

Although, in her defense, she hadn’t flirted, had she? They’d simply been talking. But still. The result was the same. The poor man was almost blue.

“There ye are.” Freyja’s voice, only slightly censorious, cut through her thoughts. “Amma wishes to know if our guest is joining us for supper.”

“I should be honored,” he said and bowed his head.

Entranced by his bearing, Isolde gazed at him as he responded to her sister’s questions on his wellbeing. The mystery of his identity enthralled her. He was certainly the son of a laird, at the very least, which should make finding his kin easier than if he were a serf.

It was bad luck to wish such things, but it didn’t stop her from hoping the storm on the sea might rage for just a few days longer, so she could spend more time with her enigmatic Njord.

*

That night, as she and her sisters readied for bed, Roisin sat before the fire, hugging her knees. “The stranger is quite smitten with ye, Izzie.”

An illicit thrill raced through her, even though it was foolish to suppose it was true. “His manners are very pretty, and that’s a fact.”

“I’m not speaking of his manners.” Roisin gave a silent laugh. “He is most polite to Amma, but I’d not suggest anything more. Do ye not see the way he looks at ye? Like,” she gave a great sigh, and a faraway look glazed her eyes. “Like he cannot believe the truth of his eyes.”

Freyja snorted. “Let’s not forget the man has a head injury and cannot even recall his own name. It would be foolish to read anything into anything he says or does until his memory returns.”

Isolde knew her sister was right. But sometimes, Roisin’s view of the world was far more exciting.

“No one is doing that, Frey,” she told her sister, even if it wasn’t quite the truth. Because, for sure, she had noticed the way he looked at her. With admiration.

And something more.

Heat bloomed between her thighs, and as she combed her hair, she averted her burning face from Freyja. It was odd how deeply he affected her when they scarcely knew anything about each other. Certainly, no other man caused the blood to fire in her veins or breath stall in her throat the way he did. Even when they weren’t in the same chamber. And she’d met plenty of MacDonald men from the Isles who were easy on the eye.

“Suppose he never regains his memory?” Roisin rested her cheek on her knees and regarded Freyja. “What will we do with him then?”

“Word will spread among the Isles and to the mainland. Someone will claim him.”

“Ye make him sound like a lost puppy.” Isolde wasn’t sure why Freyja’s flippant dismissal of Njord’s fate irked her so.

“He is lost,” Freyja reminded her. “And if he cannot recall his life, what else can we do but try and find his kin for him?”

It was a perfectly reasonable response. But it still rubbed her the wrong way.

Yet what was the alternative? He couldn’t remain here on Eigg, in the castle, forever, could he?

*

For three days the storm howled across the Isle, making all but essential forays beyond the castle walls folly. On the fourth morning after her stranger had washed up on the beach, the skies finally cleared, and Isolde heaved a sigh of relief as she stood by the window in the bedchamber, the shutters open, breathing in the fresh, cold air.

Being confined within the castle for days on end always made her restless. Although, admittedly, the company of Njord had livened things up considerably. But they had never been alone, and she had the sneaking suspicion her grandmother was behind that.

Which was somewhat insulting. Didn’t Amma trust her alone with Njord?

Well, it didn’t matter. The weather was fine, and she would show him her beloved Isle. A leisurely walk, to blow away the cobwebs. Even Freyja would approve of that, now the wound on his head had healed so beautifully.

Roisin groaned and pulled the wool coverlet over her head. Freyja sat up, blinking in the light from the lamps. “Is the storm passed?”

“Aye.” Isolde leaned through the narrow window and peered out to sea. While the windows on the ground floor had been glazed when her grandmother had been a young woman, such extravagance had not been deemed necessary for the bedchambers. “I believe it’s finally blown itself out.”

Which meant word could be sent to the other Isles. She tried to tell herself she was glad for it, but that was a lie. Because as soon as Njord’s kin knew where he was, he would leave.

Freyja flung back the bedcovers, grabbed her shawl, and rushed to the fire. “I must visit Laoise. Her time is almost upon her, poor wee lass.”

Isolde closed the shutters and went over to her sister. “’Tis a pity ye cannot geld her brute of a husband.”

Freyja sighed. “After her last babe, I went through all the ancient remedies with her. But I fear she simply cannot remember to take the teas as often as she needs to.”

“’Tis not teas she needs. ’Tis a sharp dagger. That’d solve the problem of his unfettered lust well enough.”

“I don’t disagree with the sentiment, Izzie. But I can scarcely prescribe that remedy, can I? He’s not a horse.”

Isolde shook her head. Laoise, wife of one of their farmers, was barely twenty, and this was her fourth confinement in as many years. But it wasn’t the frequency of her pregnancies that raised her ire. She knew many women across the Isles who reveled in displaying their fecundity and ability to regain their health after confinement.

It was how her husband treated her. As though she were beneath him and her only worth lay in her capability to produce bairns.

Whether she wanted to or not.

“I know what ye’re thinking.” Freyja eyed her as she pulled on her boots. “But even if the worse thing happens, and ye end up wedded to the Campbell, ye know well enough how to regulate yer moon cycles. Ye’ll not be a brood mare, Izzie.”

No, she certainly would not. Not for any man. And besides, she hadn’t yet abandoned hope that their grandmother would come to her senses about the whole distasteful matter. But even if she didn’t, she still did not intend to wed the cursed Campbell.

*

He opened the shutters on the windows. It was still dark, but the roar of the storm that had raged for the last three days had died during the night. Had it also calmed over the sea?

The notion was oddly unsettling. Once it was safe to sail, ships would come to the Isle. And with them came the chance of discovering his identity.

God knew, he wanted to find out who he was. And yet he couldn’t dismiss the lingering disquiet that, once the truth was revealed, nothing would be the same between him and Isolde.

His nights were filled with scorching fantasies of her climbing into the box bed with him. Enveloping them in their own sensual cocoon.

Of how she would look, by the flickering light of the fire, her hair unbound across his pillows, as he made her his.

He swallowed a groan as the image burned through his mind. It was madness, to want her so, when he had no idea if he had anything worth offering her. Just because she teased him constantly that he had to be the son of a great laird, did not make it so.

She had noble blood in her veins. Hell, royal blood, even.

Distractedly, he raked his fingers through his hair. Even if his lineage was as noble as hers, for all he knew he could be wed.

It no longer hurt his head when he pressed the fog for answers, but the answers he sought were still as elusive as ever. There was nothing he could do about his missing memories. But maybe there was something he could do to help regain a sense of who he was.

Maybe, with a sword in his hand, the fog would recede.

As on the previous mornings, they broke their fast in the great hall, and after Lady Helga left, he turned to Isolde. “I need to assess my skill with the sword. Do ye have a practice target I might use?”

And a spare sword, God damn it. It went against the grain to ask for everything he needed, but there was no help for it if he wanted to discover the level of his abilities.

She gave him an assessing look, a small smile playing on her lips.

Don’t think about her lips. Inevitably, he could do nothing else, considering what he had fantasized about her doing with her mouth last night. Somehow, he managed to swallow his frustrated groan.

“We do,” she confirmed. “But ye’d be far better practicing against a flesh and blood opponent.”

“Aye. But I doubt Patric has the time nor inclination to assist in this matter.”

“I wasn’t thinking about Patric.”

It took a moment for him to understand her meaning. “Lady Isolde, are ye offering yerself as my opponent?”

“Why not? I won’t go easy on ye, if that’s what ye’re afraid of.”

She was laughing at him. He was still too taken aback by her offer to fully appreciate the way her beautiful eyes sparkled in mirth at him.

“I’d never raise a blade against a woman.”

“Ah.” She waved her hand at him in mock disgust. “’Tis simply a training session, nothing more. We’ll use wooden swords, so I don’t injure ye too terribly.”

He wasn’t in the least concerned that she might injure him, terribly or otherwise. “’Tis still a weapon. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt ye.”

She laughed and turned to Roisin. “Hear that? Njord has a high opinion of his swordsmanship.”

“Then ye are equally matched,” her sister said in her soft voice, but mischief lurked in her eyes, and he laughed when Isolde gasped in mock outrage.

“My honor has been slighted,” she said, returning her gaze to him. “Twice over. What will ye do about it?”

“I won’t fight ye.”

“Why not?”

Was she serious? He’d already told her why not. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

Her laughter vanished. “Ye object to a woman learning how to defend herself and her castle?”

What? He hadn’t said that at all. “Ye’re putting words in my mouth. I’m not attacking ye or yer castle.” He recalled the training session he’d witnessed the day he’d arrived at Sgur. “And before ye ask, I think ye’d defend both admirably.”

“Aye, but only because I practice .”

He saw the trap she was setting but with a sense of inevitability, seemed unable to avoid it. “With Patric.”

“Not every warrior fights the same. I need variety. Are ye denying me the opportunity to improve my skills?”

“Will ye never let this go unless I pick up a sword against ye?”

“It would show appropriate gratitude for me having saved yer life, don’t ye think?”

He shook his head, fairly flummoxed by her. “Ye save my life and want me to attack ye for it. I’m certain I’ve never met a woman like ye, my lady.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, even if ye didn’t mean it as such.”

“It was a compliment,” he admitted. “How could it be otherwise?”

Her smile damn near took his breath away. She looked soft and sweet, as though there wasn’t a fierce thought in her head, nor sharp word on her tongue. But he knew different, and thank God for that. A meek and biddable lass would never fire his blood the way Isolde of Sgur Castle did.

“Then we must choose our weapons. The challenge will be set at sunrise.”

He could scarcely believe he’d agreed to this madness.

“Wooden swords,” he reminded her. At least then the worst he could inflict upon her was bruises, rather than an unwary cut from a blade.

“Indeed. I shouldn’t wish to scar yer handsome face, now would I?”

“Don’t think to put me off my stride with pretty words, my lady.”

She laughed, before dropping a kiss on Roisin’s cheek. “Best not to let Amma know of my challenge,” she said to her sister, who shook her head in what appeared to be resigned agreement. As though she were well used to Isolde’s unlikely escapades. Isolde straightened and looked him in the eye. “Come. I’ll take ye to the armory.”

The armory was situated next to the farrier’s, and when Isolde unlocked the door and showed him inside, he inhaled an appreciative breath at the impressive display of weapons. Sgur Castle was well fortified, and that was a fact.

“Here. See how this suits ye.” She handed him a wooden sword, a mocking smile on her face, and he gave a few practice thrusts. He’d far rather use a real weapon, so he could properly judge his skill, but there was no way on God’s earth he’d let her know that. She’d likely be only too pleased to exchange the wood for steel.

“It suits me well enough,” he told her, but the way she rolled her eyes told him plainly she knew exactly what he really thought.

When they left the armory, the sun had risen, and glimpses of pale blue sky could be seen between the gray clouds. He was glad of his surcoat as they made their way to the smaller courtyard where he’d seen Isolde and Patric the other day, for although the rain had stopped, the temperature had plummeted.

She turned to face him. The morning sunlight glinted on her hair, enhancing the fiery curls that escaped her plait and danced in the brisk wind that whirled about them.

“Are ye ready?” she enquired, and he scarcely had time to confirm before she attacked him.

Her swift assault sent him reeling, and just as swiftly, she backed off, giving him a moment to recalibrate, which didn’t exactly soothe his wounded pride at having been so woefully unprepared.

He blocked her next thrust, but she didn’t stumble when his momentum shoved her back. Instead, she danced out of reach, a wild gleam in her eyes, and damn if it wasn’t the most arousing thing he’d ever seen.

Brutally, he pulled his senses back into line. Isolde wasn’t playacting, and if his mind wandered, she would have him. Her next strike hit its target, and the air whooshed from his lungs.

God’s blood. In the edges of his mind, he’d assumed Patric had tempered his swordplay with Isolde. That he’d pandered to her whims, and ensured she appeared excellent to onlookers. But as he parried another well aimed thrust, he realized the folly of that assumption.

Isolde was not merely quick on her feet, nor able to give an admirable show of competence. She truly was good. Better than he’d anticipated. Far from allowing her latitude so she might presume they fought on a fair footing, he needed all his innate skill to keep up with her.

Whatever she lacked in brute strength, she made up for with agility. Admiration clawed through him, even while his pride recoiled at the notion of losing to a woman.

Strange. In the armory, he’d harbored the vague notion of yielding beneath her attack. But now, actively defending his position, it struck him as dishonorable.

Besides, he had the strongest suspicion that if she suspected, for even a moment, that he’d allowed her to best him, she’d never forgive him.

He surged forward, catching her off guard. She staggered back under the force of his attack, and he didn’t hesitate to take advantage.

He pressed the blunt tip of his sword to her throat. “Do ye yield?”