Page 8

“S o ye’re the mindless one they saved from the storm.”

They’d returned to the castle, and Colban MacDonald and his men were in the great hall, drinking mead and warming themselves by the fire. He didn’t bother smiling at MacDonald’s jibe. The malicious gleam in the other man’s eye made it clear his remark wasn’t said in jest.

“Being unable to recall a few things hardly makes a man mindless, Colban.” Isolde sent Colban a smile that should’ve frozen the man’s heart in his chest.

“But ye don’t recognize him?” Disappointment threaded through Freyja’s voice as she passed a cup of warm mead to her younger sister.

“Can’t say I do. He’s not from Islay. We don’t breed the weak of mind there.”

Much as it burned, he bit back the caustic retort on his tongue. The man was an uncouth oaf, but he wouldn’t disrespect Lady Helga or her granddaughters by starting a brawl in their home.

Instead, he turned to Isolde, and a spark of amusement flashed through him at the glare of thunder she sent Colban. Not that the man noticed. He appeared unable to drag his gaze from Freyja.

“Ye’re quite wrong,” Freyja said. “Tis only Njord’s strength of mind that pulled him through.”

Isolde caught his eye and a smile tugged at her lips at her sister’s reprimand. While Colban attempted to justify his comment, he was having the hardest time dragging his bewitched gaze from Isolde’s mouth.

God, what had possessed him to kiss her in the woods? Anyone could’ve caught them, and daughter of the castle or not, she was still an unwed maid and the risk to her reputation was only too real.

Yet the fact remained: given the chance, he would do it again.

“Well,” Isolde’s voice was low, for his ears only. “We can celebrate that ye’re not related to Colban, at least.”

He took a swig of mead to hide his grin. “Small mercies,” he agreed, and God help him, it took all his strength not to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close.

The truth was, it was a blow that Colban didn’t know him. How could he ask anything of Isolde before he discovered his birthright?

“How did ye arrive so early? ’Tis a fair stretch from Islay.” Freyja took another long sip of her mead.

“When the storm hit, we took shelter in Muck. We’ve been stranded there the last few days.”

He tried to place the name but couldn’t, and familiar frustration ripped through him. If he hadn’t taken such an instant dislike to Colban, he’d request to accompany him to Skye, in the hope of finding some answers there.

Yet an insistent voice in the back of his mind would not be silent.

Would ye?

If the truth to his identity lay on Skye, and it was unpalatable, he could never return to Eigg.

He’d never see Isolde again.

Isolde leaned in close, pulling him from his wretched thoughts. “’Tis one of the Small Isles, south of us. Ye can see it clearly from here, on a fine day.”

“Another MacDonald Isle?” He was only half jesting. During the last few days, he’d learned a lot about the powerful MacDonald clan.

“The Western Isles are MacDonald territory.” And then her teasing smile faded, and she sighed. “Ah, well, they were at one time. The cursed Campbells claim more of our land with each passing year.”

Just like when she’d told him of the Campbell her grandmother wanted her to wed, a dull flicker of something just out of reach flashed through the darkness clouding his mind. He frowned, trying to hold onto the elusive sense of somehow knowing .

Knowing what?

That he was a Campbell?

Unease slithered through him at the possibility. If he were a Campbell, did he know the man Lady Helga wished her eldest granddaughter to wed?

*

Later that morning, Isolde and her sisters returned to the village, ladened with baskets of provisions for Laoise and her wee ones, while Njord accompanied Patric on his daily inspection of the castle’s fortifications.

It meant the faithful warrior approved of him.

She knew she risked heartache with the gossamer dreams she could not help but weave about him. Of all the men she’d met across the Western Isles since she’d turned fourteen and began to see them in a different light, not one of them had filled her thoughts while she went about her everyday tasks. Or caused her pulse to race simply by recalling their conversation or how his laugh warmed the very core of her soul.

“Good Eir.” Freyja’s exasperated voice, tinged with amusement, filtered through her daydreams, and she tossed her sister a good-natured smile. Frey only ever invoked the name of the ancient Norse goddess of healing when the three of them were alone, and for good reason. Not everyone, even on the Small Isles, was comfortable with reminders of gods long since vanquished in the stream of time.

“What?” she responded, and Roisin laughed as she and Frey exchanged looks.

“Ye’ve not heard a word Roisin and I have said. Which means yer thoughts are far more exciting than overseeing to the castle’s administration.”

“Ye’ve had a glow ever since yer walk with Njord,” Roisin added. “Did he profess undying love for ye?”

She laughed. “He did not. Nor would I expect him to.”

But how I wish he would.

“Undying love, indeed.” Frey threw their younger sister an indulgent glance. “I suspect he stole a kiss. Or tried to, at least. Am I right?”

She tried to hide her smile at the recollection but failed. “No stealing was involved, I assure ye.”

Roisin expelled a great sigh. “I knew it. If only he could recall his past, he could challenge the Campbell for yer hand.”

“Those barbarous days are long gone, Roisin,” Freyja said. “Besides, if any challenging is to be had, Izzie will undertake it herself, I’m sure.”

“I hear he bested ye, Izzie.” Roisin shook her head, as though in wonder. “He’s a fine champion, which can only mean he’s a worthy opponent for any Campbell.”

Isolde felt compelled to defend herself. “He’s a grand warrior, and that’s a fact. I’ll be ready for him the next time we fight.”

“Do ye think he’ll leave with Colban in the morn?” Freyja glanced at her. “’Tis possible John MacDonald of Fincaith might know who our Njord really is. Skye sees far more travelers than we do here.”

“I doubt it. Did ye not hear the disrespect Colban displayed?” Isolde shook her head in disbelief that Freyja had missed Colban’s bad manners.

Freyja shrugged. “That’s just his way. I cannot see that would stop Njord from requesting passage, if it means he might discover his missing memories.”

“Well, I can’t speak for him and his plans.” Isolde flashed her sister a bright smile to hide her uneasy thoughts. Because although it was clear Njord found Colban disagreeable, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t ask for passage.

She’d simply assumed he wouldn’t.

*

On account of Colban and his men’s arrival, dinner was a more lavish affair than usual, with three courses instead of the customary two. An extra table had been added to their high table in the great hall to accommodate the additional guests, and in the presence of their grandmother, Colban was on his best behavior.

Njord who, as usual, she had managed to seat beside her, raised his tankard, but instead of taking a swig of ale, he said under his breath, “Does Colban think to win Lady Freyja’s hand by sweet talking Lady Helga?”

“He can try. But unless Frey changes her mind about seeing him as nothing more than a neighbor, he’s wasting his time.”

“Lady Helga wouldn’t insist on a match between them? I’ve heard he’s well respected in Islay.”

Maybe Patric had mentioned it to Njord while she and her sisters were in the village earlier. And considering Patric’s view of Colban wasn’t far from her own, she could imagine how that conversation had gone.

“He is. But I’m certain Amma wouldn’t force the match if Frey is unwilling.”

“Yet Lady Helga is determined for ye to wed against yer wishes.”

Her mood deflated at the reminder. “I cannot understand her insistence.”

Beneath the table, out of sight of everyone, he threaded his fingers through hers, and lightning streaked through her. Hastily, she grabbed her goblet to occupy her free hand so no one might wonder why she’d stopped eating.

“Is it possible,” he began, his voice dropping even lower, and she stealthily leaned closer so she might not miss a word. What a hardship. His scent of soap and fresh woodland filled her head, and it was hard to concentrate, especially when his thumb stroked a mesmeric circle over her hand. “That the Campbell from Argyll is forcing Lady Helga’s acceptance by outside means?”

She risked looking at him. And could not tear her gaze away. Concern filled his stormy blue-gray eyes, and with his black hair tamed by a length of velvet, he was breathtakingly dashing.

Somehow, she forced herself to answer. “The women of Sgur Castle are not easily pressured by outside forces. I cannot imagine the Campbell is forcing this match.” And then, as Njord’s frown deepened, the ugly possibility that he might be right snaked through her mind. “What could he threaten that is so bad she would agree to this match?”

Before he could respond, her grandmother spoke. “Ye must be greatly relieved, Njord, that the weather has turned. We have a ship leaving for Oban—on the mainland—at the end of the week. God willing, someone there will know of ye.”

Greatly irked, Isolde could not hold her tongue. “Ye cannot expect Njord to travel to Oban when there’s no guarantee he’ll discover his origins there. What will he do if his kin don’t just happen to be at the docks waiting for news of him?”

“I’m not suggesting he should be on the ship, Isolde. Unless he wishes to be.”

Curses. She took a sip of her ale, but thankfully it seemed the entire table had not taken note of the exchange between her grandmother and herself. Carefully, she replaced the goblet on the table and tried not to react when Njord gave her fingers a comforting squeeze.

“Thank ye, my lady,” he said to her grandmother. “I should be greatly obliged if I might remain in Eigg for a little longer, until my memories return. I’m willing to move from the castle and find lodging elsewhere.”

Isolde let out a frustrated huff, but her grandmother merely smiled.

“There’s no need for that,” she said. “My granddaughter saved yer life, and for that we are obliged to do all we can to return ye to full health. Ye may stay in the castle until we’ve exhausted all possible means of discovering who ye might be. After that, we will consider further.”

*

Later that afternoon, as twilight settled across the horizon, he stood on the beach where Isolde had told him she’d found him, and breathed in deep as he gazed at the waves that broke on the shore.

Disquiet gnawed his gut, a relentless reminder that, despite being on solid land, in truth, he remained lost at sea, tossed by the uncaring winds of fate.

His senses prickled, a familiar sensation, although he couldn’t recall ever feeling it before. But danger spiced the air, and instinctively he swung about.

Colban MacDonald was striding across the sand towards him.

The man stopped short a sword’s length from him and regarded him with hostile eyes. “Who are ye?”

Irritation clawed through his chest at what Colban implied. “If I knew the answer to that, so would ye.”

Colban’s lip curled into a sneer. “Ye might fool the ladies of Sgur Castle, but ye cannot fool me. What do ye hope to gain by this deception?”

Ever since meeting the man, he’d put up with the unsubtle jibes and insults. But they were no longer under Lady Helga’s roof, and he’d be damned if he’d let this oaf disparage his word without consequence.

He took a step towards Colban, and the other man visibly stiffened as if the action had taken him aback.

“Are ye calling me a liar, MacDonald?” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His intent was plain.

Colban stood his ground. It was obvious the sword on his hip gave him a sense of invulnerability, considering he possessed nothing more than a basic dagger.

Borrowed, at that.

The knowledge didn’t improve his mood.

“I’ve seen the way ye look at Lady Isolde. I won’t stand by and allow a transient opportunist to take advantage of Lady Helga’s good nature. So, I’ll ask ye again. Who the hell are ye?”

White rage burned through him at the implication he sought to entrap Isolde by dishonorable means. “If ye have issues with me, fine. But keep Lady Isolde out of it.”

“Keep her out of it, when ’tis clear ye’ve set yer sights on her?”

He inhaled a long breath, striving for calm. The man was determined to provoke him for his own twisted reasons, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. “We’re done.”

“No. Ye’re done with yer lying. Since when does a bump on the head cause a man to lose his mind? Are ye here to spy for the Crown?”

The Crown ? “Ye’re the one out of his mind, MacDonald. I’m no spy.”

How could he be so sure? Yet in his bones, he knew it was the truth. Nothing would persuade him otherwise.

“Ye know that for certain?” There was a lick of triumph in the man’s voice, as though Colban believed he’d caught him in a lie. “When ye cannot recall yer own name?”

“I don’t answer to ye.” He loaded each word with the scorn the other man deserved, even though, in a discordant corner of his mind, he found it hard to dispute the logic of Colban’s accusation. Why was he so sure of some things, yet still in the dark as ever about others?

“There’re other ways to make ye talk.”

It happened so fast. He reacted on pure instinct, and MacDonald had scarcely gripped the hilt of his sword before his palm slammed onto MacDonald’s knuckles, pinning his hand to his hilt, while his fist smashed into the underside of the man’s jaw. Colban staggered back, lost his balance, and fell on his arse.

He stepped back, flexing his fingers, as Colban spat blood onto the sand and sent him a glare of loathing. Without another word he turned on his heel and made his way across the beach. From the gathering shadows a figure appeared from the moorland and raised his arm.

“Colban,” Patric said, and he couldn’t work out whether it was said in greeting or as a warning.

He glanced over his shoulder, but the other man was striding along the beach in the opposite direction. Patric came to his side.

“Watch yer back,” he said. “I don’t interfere between men’s disagreements, but there’s no honor attacking an unarmed opponent, whatever the provocation.”

He shot Patric a sharp glance, but it was too dark to see his expression. Not that he needed to. For the second time, it seemed Patric had been instrumental in saving his life.

“Aye.” His voice was gruff. It hadn’t occurred to him Colban wouldn’t hesitate to run him through when his back was turned, yet here they were.

God damn it, he needed to regain his memories. Even if the truth wasn’t as he hoped, at least he’d know whether he was worthy to fight for Isolde’s hand against the faceless Campbell.

When the ship left for Oban at the end of the week, he would be on it.