Page 7 of Laird of Sighs (His Highland Heart #5)

CHAPTER 7

A few hours after Ailsa finished her morning chores, ate a quick meal with her friend Siobhan, and settled a dispute between two of the maids charged with cleaning in the keep, she nodded to the guard and opened the door to the herbal to check on Anders. He sat on a stool, her favorite book of Highland myths and sagas open on the table before him in a pool of morning light from the herbal’s small window. He’d requested something to read to alleviate his boredom. He’d told her he liked myths, or Makars’ poetry, but he would not be opposed to learning more about Sinclair history. She thought he needed something more diverting than Sinclair history, which bored her to tears, so she’d started with tales of mystical creatures. When he wasn’t reading, he paced the chamber, walking in circles and figure eights around the tables Maighread used for her pots and potions, claiming the movement helped him get stronger. He certainly seemed improved over the day when he came out of the fever.

His concentration on what he read was so deep that he didn’t react to her presence and greet her as he normally would. So, she took advantage of the chance to stand quietly in the doorway for a few moments, look at him and imagine his kiss. He would be gentle and yet persuasive, and he would light a fire in her body that might never go out. She wanted his kisses, his arms around her, his body pressed to hers, his scent filling her nose, making every sense she possessed sing in excitement and longing. For him.

Ailsa couldn’t help letting her imagination run, inspired by the tales Anders now read. She’d grown up with the idea of the fae, both fanciful and frightening, as a mystical part of her world from the lore of the Highlands. She’d learned more on her family’s visits to Orkney. And like most lasses, the desire for magical love in her life had never faded. Looking at Anders, she had to wonder if a man as beautiful as he was a gift from the seelie, or if he could be a selkie. Had he left his sealskin hidden somewhere in the forest above the bay? He’d come from the sea, after all. She couldn’t imagine what she might have done to deserve such a boon. He was the most handsome, funny, and gentle man she’d ever known. He’d been kind to her and to the healer, even when he was in pain and frustrated over his lack of memory. Had he lost it after being touched by the fae rather than because of the wound on his head or his time in the cold sea?

He bore his protective confinement in the herbal with grace, which continued to amaze her. But being free of fever and clean had to have something to do with his improved mood. In the days since he’d arrived, he’d made remarkable progress. He moved as if his leg no longer pained him, and his scraped hands had responded so well to Maighread’s poultice that they were nearly healed.

Ailsa wanted him well and able to care for himself. And in full possession of his memory. There was much about him that she wanted to know. Needed to know if she was ever to act upon the feelings for him that filled her. But she dared not start something she didn’t want to stop. Not when her brother was ready to throw Anders into the dungeon, and getting too close to her would put him in danger from her father. And not when he couldn’t remember whether he had a wife or bairns. Surely he would remember them first—and he hadn’t.

Though she worried what his lack of memory would mean for Anders. And for her. How would he leave Sinclair when he had no idea who he was or where to go home? Would her father let her wed a man with no memory of who he was, where he came from, or whether he was already wed, and a man whose clan he could not name?

Or was her friend Siobhan correct that Anders remembered and was hiding what he knew?

He finally looked up from his book and saw her. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Why are ye standing there, Ailsa? Come. Keep me company.”

Given her earlier thoughts, the steps she took toward him felt like steps through more than distance. What was she approaching? A man? Or one of the fae?

He stood and held out a hand to her and she paused. He looked just as she had dreamed, just as she had told him she hoped to see him reach for her someday. Her heart beat faster, but she gathered her courage and took the remaining steps to reach him and lay her hand in his. He felt warm and real. Here was a man, not one of the sith. A man she cared for, perhaps too much too soon. That was her mind speaking, not her heart. Somehow, though she’d barely noticed it happening, Anders had stolen her heart away.

He hooked the next stool with his foot and pulled it closer to his, then guided her to a seat.

“How are ye today?” She knew the answer before she asked the question, but those were the only words she could summon while he gazed at her with such admiration.

“I am better every day. Especially when I see ye, Ailsa. Do ye have any news?”

“I wish I did. Naught has happened. My parents have no’ yet returned, but should soon.”

“Perhaps I could be allowed to wander about the castle for a while? I appreciate the books, but I tire of these walls.”

“I ken ye do, but?—”

“Ye fear yer da’s reaction. He will find out about me, lass. Sooner or later, I will have to face him.”

“If ye wander about, Boden will hear about it. Even if he does naught to punish ye—if Maighread keeps him from taking ye from here,” she said and gestured at their surroundings, “I fear he will take Da aside as soon as he arrives. If my brother gets to him first, he will be set against ye before I have a chance to speak. Da will be angry that I let ye in. I dinna want that to happen until I have a chance to prepare him.”

“Prepare him? Why? Have I done aught to make ye think I pose a threat to Sinclair? What will he think one lone man can do?”

“I dinna ken, but Boden thinks ye are a threat. Da may as well.”

“Ah, we’re back to that. Lass, I will leave now if ’twill keep ye from having to bear any punishment for my presence here.”

“’Twillna matter,” Ailsa said. “Ye are here now. Besides, ye have yet to ken where ye are from, or where to go.”

Anders shook his head. “I begin to dislike a man I’ve yet to meet.”

“My da? Or yerself?”

His widened eyes betrayed surprise at her perception. “Both, perhaps.”

She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I would be glad for ye to stay,” she told him, then covered her mouth with one hand as she looked up at him.

The warmth of a blush rose up her throat to her face.

Anders’ gaze turned molten as he admired her. “I’m pleased to hear ye say that. Once I am stronger, I would—” He stopped suddenly, then took a breath. “But nay. I canna promise anything. Do anything.” He traced his fingertips over her face ever so gently. “Ye are so lovely, so tempting. But I dinna ken if I belong to another. I wouldna wish to harm ye. Or her. If there is another.”

Unable to resist, she traced her fingertips over the back of his hand, then pulled away. “Ye are also wise,” she said, but she didn’t meet his gaze. His eyes were as dark as hers must be when her hands lifted toward him again, but she pulled them back without touching him and stepped back. She had to keep her distance. Anders was right.

“I think ye are quite strong enough,” she told him. “I dream of seeing ye well and strong, kenning who ye are, and holding out yer hand to me.”

“Ye dream of me?” He held one hand out to her. “I can do that now, Ailsa.”

His words gave Ailsa an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Hunger, but of a very different kind. And hope?

Her cheeks warmed again. “I’m spending most of my time with ye. ’Tis no’ surprising ye’d remain on my mind even when I try to sleep.”

“So, I keep ye awake, but when ye do sleep, I’m in yer dreams. A lesser man might think ye have come to care for me.”

“Ye mustna say things like that where others can hear. I’m caring for ye every day. If ’twere to get back to my da, I fear ye wouldna like what he did about it. Ye mustna antagonize him, Anders. He is the Sinclair. He could have ye killed.”

“My alternative is to remain hidden away, like the least favored neep in the bottom of a bin in the pantry. Is that it?”

“Or face the consequences before I have a chance to smooth the way.”

He cupped her face and traced his thumb across her lower lip, a frown drawing down his brows. “Then I hope ye are very good at smoothing.” He leaned in, his gaze pinning her in place for endless moments, as if, after he’d promised not to harm her, he fought an overwhelming urge. Or was he giving her time to deny him? She couldn’t. Nor could he. Her lips parted as his touched hers, firm, yet soft, just as she’d imagined. His scent surrounded her, and the feel of his kiss made her want to taste him. She traced his lips with the tip of her tongue, and his answering groan spurred her on.

He slipped his hand behind her head, tightened his grip, holding her mouth to his while his tongue stroked hers. Her body answered with a bloom of heat behind her breasts like a rose bud bursting into full flower. Her nipples tightened as she moved closer to him, and the friction of her clothes shifting over them sent small shocks through her body. The pulsing sensation broke the thrall his kiss had spun within her. They were doing precisely what they’d sworn not to do.

She leaned away, and he dropped his hand. For a moment, he looked so forlorn she took pity on him. “I’m sorry.”

“Nay, I am. I shouldna have done that, but ye ken I want ye, lass. I must … I will do better controlling myself.”

“What if I dinna want ye to?” Her heart was still pounding, her center felt empty and needy—for him. For Anders and all he could give her. She met his gaze, looking for his reaction and saw only concern, not eagerness in his eyes.

“Dinna say that unless ye mean it—and ye understand the consequences. I dinna ken who I am. Or if there’s a lass waiting for me.”

An uncertain sense of regret filled her, smothering the fire within her. How could she have such strong feelings for a man she barely knew? A man who was in fact, unknowable. She couldn’t fathom the frustration and dismay he must be suffering, wanting her, and not knowing what his life was like before he came here. Her own frustration angered her. What was she thinking? “I’m sorry, Anders. I … I hadn’t considered how ye would feel about that possibility.”

“I dinna ken how to feel, lass. When I see ye, when ye are near me, all I want is ye.”

“Why?”

Her question made him stop and look aside for a moment. When his gaze returned to her, he smiled. “Ye are beautiful. And kind. Ye helped save my life, and when ye could have let others care for me and forgotten I exist, ye continue to come to me, every day. Ye speak of protecting me from yer brother and yer da. From my own worst impulses. Ye are an exceptional woman, Ailsa. How could I no’ have feelings for ye?”

“’Twas never my intention to trap ye?—”

“Ye havena. Ye have shown me who ye are, as beautiful on the inside as ye are on the outside.” He caressed her face again, almost reverently, then smoothed back her hair, his touch warm and gently possessive.

“But even if there isna anyone waiting for ye, becoming involved with the laird’s daughter could put ye at grave risk, and I dinna want to do that. I havena worked hard to see ye heal only to lose ye when my da returns and finds out about ye.”

“What can we do?”

“I have another idea. If ye would like to meet a few more Sinclairs, I have two or three friends ye might enjoy. I trust them. I could bring them here, to ye.” And they might be valuable allies if such were ever needed.

His whole demeanor changed at her words. Straightening, he gave her a wide smile that appeared only a little forced by regret for what they had done—or was it for stopping so soon? “I would appreciate that. I will never turn ye away, lass, but meeting more of yer folk ’twould be welcome.”

While Ailsa was out of the herbal, Anders took care of his private needs. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to distract himself from the desire to sink into the depths of her blue eyes and learn everything there was to know about her, the urge to touch her full lips again and taste her, the memory of the silky feel of her skin on her delicate cheek and the weight of her head in his hand. Anders couldn’t believe he was still alive, and that he was being cared for by such a lush beauty as Ailsa. She entranced him, just like one of the fae in her book, and like the humans they captured, he feared he would never be free of her.

He could barely breathe with wanting her. He needed to touch her, to press her body against his and take her mouth. The thought was sweet torture. His pulse pounded in his throat like the slap of oars on deep water. He wanted more, but he didn’t dare.

He should not have taken such liberties with her. He had vowed not to and had already broken that vow. His lack of control shamed and angered him. That kiss was his fault. He must do better to protect her from himself—and from her own desires. She wanted him. He had no doubt of that. But he would not hurt her—nor ruin her—and leave her. She deserved better of him—or of any man.

What would it mean for him when her father returned? Ailsa’s words reminded Anders that Sinclair seemed to his imperfect memory to be an enemy, or at least not an ally. He could not pursue anything closer with her until he knew more about himself. Despite her objection, Ailsa might be developing feelings for him, but her father wouldn’t care about that. He’d only care that she’d been in danger from an enemy under their roof.

The rest of their conversation disturbed him as much, if not more.

Anders could think of many things one man inside Sinclair’s walls could do. Open a gate to invaders. Dishonor Ailsa, or kill the Sinclair heir. Escape and tell their enemies how to get out—and into the keep. Any of those would cause chaos. The Sinclair would have reason to be concerned about Anders’ presence here. Boden was right, though Anders would never say that to Ailsa. If he did, she might begin to agree with her brother that he belonged in the dungeon. For as long as he could, he must continue to appear and behave as if he was harmless. At least until his memories came back and he knew how truly dangerous he was—and could be.

But Ailsa was no fool. She could think of those same risks. Why did she continue to protect him? What would her father do to her when he found out, especially after her brother blamed his presence on her? If Anders had any idea where his home lay, he’d find a way to leave and remove the jeopardy he presented for her. But in his current state, even if he got outside Sinclair’s walls, he could wander for days, still be picked up by a Sinclair patrol, and wind up right back here.

He shook his head to force himself back to reality. He had no answers and wasn’t likely to get any today. Running made no sense, despite how much he wanted to protect Ailsa. He would have to protect her by his presence rather than his absence. And by keeping his hands off her. Making friends among other Sinclairs was a good way to start.

It felt good to be clean, and if she brought back three lasses, he would want to look the best he could to impress Ailsa’s friends. Alliances worked, even on the personal level. He rubbed a hand over his chin. He needed a shave, but that would have to wait. That or just allow a short beard to grow. He didn’t think he’d ever worn one. He could only hope he would not embarrass Ailsa. She had offered to fetch her friends, so he must look presentable enough. As he was would have to do.

He hadn’t seen Maighread yet today. She seemed content to leave his care to Ailsa, whom he wanted more than any lass he’d ever known, and he’d known quite a few. He had? A brief sliver of memory showed him faces, as if the lasses danced around him and he had only a moment to regard each one. None looked familiar. None spoke their name. There wasn’t time.

The more glimpses of faces he saw, the more convinced he was that he would remember his past. He would know who he truly was and where to go. Where to take Ailsa to make a home and a life with her. If he survived. And if she wanted him after he found out who he was.

Voices in the hall alerted him that he was about to meet more Sinclairs. He took a breath, stood and faced the door. He was in his element around people. He knew that, but not how he knew it. He appreciated that Ailsa would risk so much for him, possibly exposing her friends to their laird’s wrath. He hoped someday to be able to help her make friends among his people, too.

The herbal’s door opened. Ailsa entered first, followed by a shorter, dark blonde lass who took one look at him and paused. One of two men following bumped into her and pushed her forward, followed by another man, before Ailsa entered.

“Everyone, meet Anders. Anders, these are my friends Maesie, Murdo and Tasgall. Maesie works in the kitchen and kitchen garden, and she’s also an herbalist learning from Maighread. Some day, she may become the clan’s healer.”

Maesie stared intently at Ailsa, at him, and then back to Ailsa, as if to communicate something she didn’t want to say out loud. Anders suspected whatever it was would have amused him.

“Murdo is a fisherman and expert at weaving nets,” Ailsa continued, unaware of Maesie’s interest. “Tasgall is a Sinclair guard.”

Anders was enjoying the introductions until Ailsa named Tasgall, the shorter, stockier of the two men, as one of her clan’s guardsmen. Tasgall’s gaze on him was direct, even penetrating, but not hostile. Not yet.

“I’m pleased to meet all of ye. I wish I could tell ye what my skills are, but they are hidden from me for now.”

“Ailsa told us,” Maesie said. “We’re sorry ye canna remember who ye are. I canna imagine what that must feel like.”

“’Tis no’ the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had,” Anders told her. At her surprised expression, eyebrows lifted, he laughed. “No’ that I would ken, I suppose.” Strange, but it actually felt good to jest about what had happened to him.

“What do ye recall?”

Ah, so Tasgall went right to the meat of the matter. He had a guard’s instincts and wasn’t afraid to use them.

“Little enough. A name. Mine, I suppose. I’m using it, at any rate. Odd bits and pieces, a few images of people I canna name, places I dinna recognize. I hope those glimpses mean ’twill all come back to me.”

“The people ye see might be family or close friends,” Maesie suggested.

“Aye, I’ve thought about that. ’Twould make sense, but so far, they havena introduced themselves.”

Maesie gave him a quick grin.

Tasgall continued his interrogation. “Can ye describe the places ye’ve seen?”

Anders shrugged. “Forests, hills, a stretch of coastline on a bay that might be yers. Naught distinctive.”

“But important enough to come back to ye,” Murdo said, the last to speak up.

The fisherman was tall with long, well-developed muscles from hauling nets, Anders supposed. “Or common enough.” He shrugged again. “I’m sorry but I dinna have the answers to yer questions. So, tell me, what is life like at Sinclair for ye?”

The conversation went on long enough that Maesie left to fetch cider and ale for them, as well as cheese and bread. While she was gone, the conversation lagged until Tasgall asked Murdo about his last trip to visit a lass he was sweet on.

“’Twas a wild ride,” Murdo told them. “The Pentland firth was in a foul mood, and the tide was against us, but we were determined no’ to have to walk from an easterly landing all the way to Thurso.”

“Ye have a lass in Thurso? A MacKay?”

Tasgall’s question made something tingle on the back of Anders’ neck. There was something buried in his memory about MacKay.

“Aye, she’s in Thurso, but no’ a MacKay. A Lamont. Her da came down from Orkney.”

What about MacKay and the Pentland? It seemed important, but like many things, it remained just out of reach.

“We took nets and such to sell in the market there. And Cook asked for some herbs she thought I’d find in one of the stalls.”

Ice slithered down Anders’ spine. He almost had it. Sailing the Pentland to MacKay territory. And something about herbs for a healer.

“Did ye find them?” Maesie asked.

“Aye.”

“Did ye see yer lass?” Anders had to ask to cover the struggle going on in his head.

“Aye,” Murdo answered, coloring a little. “I did.”

“A good visit, then. How was the firth on yer return?” Anders hesitated to ask, but there was something about that body of water than meant something to him.

“As rough as ever. We had to wait for the storm a few nights ago to pass before we could come home.” He paused and frowned. “Once we turned south, we chased a birlinn also headed south but closer to the coast. It might have come through the firth ahead of us or down from Orkney. The odd thing was how slowly they traveled, but they were seaworthy and didna signal for help, so we passed them by. Now that I think about it, I saw the same birlinn south of Sinclair bay headed north again as we were unloading our ship.”

Anders fought not to let his reaction show on his face. Tasgall was watching him while he listened to Murdo’s story. To him, it sounded as if the crew of the birlinn was searching the coast for something. Or someone. Him? The sense of secrets about to be revealed within himself held Anders still. He couldn’t have moved if Tasgall had come at him swinging a claymore.

Maesie’s sudden chatter with the guard outside the door ripped the edge of elusive memory away. Anders blinked away his dismay as the guard opened the door and she came in carrying a tray. Some revelation had been close. So close he could almost touch it. But it was gone.

Still, her timing saved Anders from Tasgall’s inspection, his attention stolen by the kitchen maid.

“This should help any dry throats among us,” she announced as the guard closed the door behind her. She passed out cups.

Anders took his with thanks and sipped. Cider. Sweet and restorative. Probably the perfect thing to settle the blades pricking at this belly. So many hints, but nothing that built a complete story. Not even a single complete picture.

“What did I miss?”

Maesie’s question pulled Anders out of his thoughts on a flash of annoyance. Perhaps he’d just missed the reason he was here. That edge of memory had felt that important.

“Murdo has a Lamont lass in Thurso,” Ailsa announced.

“I dinna have her,” Murdo corrected, “but I hope someday she will be mine.”

“How did ye meet her? And why have ye never mentioned her to us?”

Ailsa’s questions sent the conversation into safer territory, letting Anders set aside his emotions and relax enough to enjoy the cider Maesie brought—and to enjoy looking at Ailsa. He never tired of the way light played on her bright tresses. Not quite a Norse blonde, nor a Highland red, but something in between—a beautiful blend of her heritage.

An image of himself with a dark-haired lass suddenly rose before his eyes as if he looked at them from only a few feet away. As the conversation continued around him, he couldn’t shake one question. How could he see himself as if he was outside his body? Or two questions. Was the birlinn Murdo saw searching for a missing man? Him? And third, was the dark-haired lass in his visions his wife?

At midday, Raghnall, the Sinclair guard captain sent Tasgall to fetch Ailsa to the bailey. “We caught this lot in the woods above the bay,” he told her when she arrived, gesturing to nearly a dozen men standing clustered together and surrounded by Sinclair guards.

“Who are they?” They looked tired. Worn, bedraggled, and hungry. But they stood straight, with shoulders back, determined to put on a brave front.

“There’s a birlinn beached down the coast a ways,” he told her. “They willna say much, but I believe they’re the crew.”

More strange men? Ailsa’s belly quailed as she imagined how her da would react to this. Anders’ situation had just become more complicated, especially if they came from the birlinn Murdo had seen sailing their coastline.

“What are we to do with them?”

“The only place to keep them safe and ensure they dinna cause trouble is?—”

Ailsa held up one hand to stop him. “I ken what ye are going to say. The dungeon.”

“Aye.” Raghnall’s tone told her he wasn’t eager to do it either, but they couldn’t allow that many strangers to run freely within their walls.

She didn’t want to put them down there.

“Who speaks for them?”

Raghnall pointed. “That one. The eldest, Tomas, seems to be their spokesman, if not their captain. They refuse to say why they are on Sinclair land except that the recent storm forced them ashore, but that was days ago. They should have gone on their way by now, unless their birlinn is damaged.”

“Tomas,” Ailsa said as she moved closer to them and introduced herself, “is yer birlinn seaworthy?”

He shrugged and nodded.

“So, ’tis? Or ye are no’ sure?” Had they come through the Pentland Firth in the storm? If so, they were lucky to be alive.

Tomas shook his head. “We havena tried to float her.”

“Were ye looking for someone?”

His head came up at that, but he didn’t answer.

“My guard chief insists ye go into the dungeon,” Ailsa continued, hating to say the words. “I would object, but ye havena identified yourselves to him.” At least until her father got home and decided what to do with them, Raghnall was right. There was no place else to put them. “But ye will be well cared for. I give ye my word ye will have food and drink and warm blankets.”

“Fer how long, lady?” Tomas traded a glance with another of his men. They both looked concerned, but she supposed in their position, she would, too.

“Until the laird decides what to do with ye.”

“Let us go, lady, and we willna be any trouble to ye.”

“What’s this?”

Ailsa fought not to cringe at Boden’s bellow. Raghnall frowned, telling her he had not sent for her brother, despite him being, as he’d insisted to her over Anders’ fevered form days ago, in charge. Raghnall knew Boden’s temper could be trouble. She took a breath, turned to face her brother and calmly told him what they knew.

“A dozen men, roaming Sinclair land?” He glared at the men. “Already ye are trouble. I willna allow ye to leave. Ye must wait for the laird’s decision.”

Tomas looked as though he wanted to say more, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Still reluctant, Ailsa nodded to the guard captain. Raghnall and several of his men escorted their prisoners down the stairs that led to the dungeon, Boden nipping at their heels. He could brag to their father that he had done his duty and confined them in the dungeon. Maybe he’d be satisfied with tormenting them and forget about Anders. Watching them go, Ailsa crossed her arms and fretted. Who were they? Did they have any connection to Anders? Tomas wouldn’t say, but it seemed clear to her that they had stayed on land looking for someone. Murdo had mentioned a birlinn sailing up and down the coast. Theirs? The coincidence was too compelling. Would Anders remember Tomas if she mentioned that name? Another thought made her gasp. She and Maighread had assumed Anders was injured in the storm, but what if he’d been attacked by these men? If they were his enemies rather than his friends, how could she find out without betraying him?