Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Read online

  “He’s an unusual breed, from Denmark,” she allowed, climbing back into the box-bed. “My uncle…”

  She closed her mouth abruptly, glad to hear Fanny return with Hammond through the back door before she said too much.

  “Let’s see,” the old crofter mumbled. “Aye. Summat amiss. Sorry, laddie, we’ll hafta take off yer shirt to get a proper look.”

  Isabel clenched her jaw at the sound of the manacles being removed. She hated Darroch MacKeegan, and he would rue the day he’d jilted her, but Hammond’s softly spoken reassurances and his patient’s labored breathing as they removed his clothing spoke of pain she wouldn’t wish on anybody.

  Even Blue whimpered.

  She slid out of the box-bed and tiptoed to the half-wall. Darroch’s eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. Sweat beaded his brow. The top half of his plaid lay across his thighs. Hammond held his wrist and elbow.

  But it was his bare torso that drew Isabel’s gaze.

  Upon his return from a tour of France and Italy, Uncle Boyd had shown her and her mother a book of sketches he’d wrought of famous works of art in Florence. “Dinna tell yer father,” her mother had warned conspiratorially. “He doesna appreciate the finer things in life.”

  She blinked. Michelangelo’s David sat in Fanny’s sheep-fold. The same broad chest, chiseled muscles, tight belly. And something the marble David didn’t have—a dusting of golden hair across his chest.

  He gritted his teeth when Hammond lifted his wrist above his head.

  “I dinna think ye’ve broken a bone, laddie,” Hammond declared. “Just the elbow out o’ the socket. This is likely to pain ye.”

  MacKeegan peeled open one eye and gripped the wall with his free hand. “Do yer worst, auld mon,” he rasped.

  Hammond cupped the stricken elbow with one massive hand and yanked the wrist hard.

  An involuntary shout of agony rent the air.

  Blue howled.

  Without thinking, Isabel filled the dipper and climbed over the fence. MacKeegan opened his eyes when she held the metal to his lips, then smiled before slurping the water. “Ye’re a gift from God,” he muttered, his glittering green gaze fixed on her face.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. No one had paid her such a compliment since her mother’s death. Rory MacRain certainly didn’t think having a daughter was a gift from God—more like a curse.

  Or mayhap pain had put clever words into her enemy’s mouth.

  Hammond produced strips of linen from a hefty pouch belted around his waist and proceeded to bandage the elbow tightly. “Ye canna move the arm for a sennight at least,” he declared, “lest the bone pop out again.”

  He fashioned a sling for the splinted elbow and tied it tight around MacKeegan’s neck, forcing his wrist almost to his chin. “Keep this on.”

  Color had returned to the prisoner’s face, but now he frowned. “A mon canna remain in a sheep-fold for a sennight.”

  Isabel was reluctant to admit it, but he was right. “Perhaps he can sleep by the hearth,” she suggested to Fanny.

  Hammond nodded his agreement, then put an arm under his patient’s and braced himself to help lift the giant. “Might be less than a sennight before the ransom arrives and ye can return to Skye.”

  Isabel hung back, not sure whether to help a scowling Fanny take the weight on the other side. MacKeegan swayed unsteadily once they got him to his feet. “I’m like a bairn learning to walk,” he admitted, “but what’s this talk o’ ransom? Now ye’re saying I came from the sky?”

  New Experiences

  Hammond maneuvered Darroch outside, then ceded to his request to visit the outdoor privy. By the time he got the prisoner in through the front door and down the steps, Fanny had decided he should be installed in the box-bed. “He’s liable to catch cold on the floor or roll over on yon elbow. He can sit up in the bedroom.”

  Isabel was relieved by her cousin’s suggestion. She’d been hesitant to admit to even a smidgen of concern for the brute’s comfort. However, one could hardly call the makeshift box a room.

  Darroch scanned the cramped cottage. “I’ll nay take the only bed in the place.”

  With Hammond’s help, Fanny pushed him towards the box-bed. “I beg to differ. There’ll be no ransom if ye catch a fever and die.”

  Isabel had to use a step stool to climb into the box-bed, but Darroch reached the edge without effort and sat in the opening, his feet still touching the floor. “Again ye speak o’ ransom. Who’ll give ye coin for me?”

  Fanny lifted his feet and forced him to bend his knees. “Turn and get in. I’m nay some Dunface sheep, laddie. Ye may deny ye’re the future MacKeegan, but I’m wise to yer trickery.”

  Cupping his injured elbow with his good hand, he sighed with resignation and shimmied into the box. Isabel gawked at the rippling muscles of his belly as he moved to get comfortable, but she was tempted to laugh when it became evident he was much too big for the tiny bed. Sitting up with his back against the wall was the only way to fit his long legs into the box.

  “Cover him with this,” Fanny told Isabel, thrusting a woven blanket into her hands.

  She glared at her cousin. Had the woman forgotten this man was the miscreant who’d jilted her? She gritted her teeth and climbed up on the stool, irritated when she peeked into the box to see a hint of an amused smirk on MacKeegan’s face. “I thank ye, Isabel,” he said as she spread the wool over his legs, relieved when he used his good hand to pull it up over his chest. “I wish I could recall where we’ve met,” he whispered. “Even yer name is familiar. Mayhap when I remember my own…”

  He sounded so bereft she almost wished she could believe him.

  “I’ll get the lads to fetch pallets for ye and the lass,” Hammond told Fanny as he opened the door. “And we’ll fix this door. Ye’re certain ye’ll be able to manage him?”

  “Aye. No worries,” she replied. “Take his axe with ye, then I’ll nay worry about it. Ye can leave the sling. I’ll maybe teach Isabel how to use it. Better chance o’ maiming a wolf with two of us to protect the flock.”

  Isabel couldn’t picture herself swinging a sling over her head and hurling a rock at a predator. It was more likely she’d run for her life, screaming in terror.

  “He’ll sleep like a bairn after a dose o’ valerian tea,” Fanny added, jolting her back to reality. “’Twill help with the pain, too.”

  Despite her confusion and resentment, Isabel was glad to hear his discomfort would be eased. She wanted his heart to break, not his body.

  *

  “Darroch…Darroch…Darroch,” he repeated to himself, but no matter how many times he did so, the name meant nothing.

  “Ye say I come from the sky?” he asked Fanny when she brought him a chipped bowl of some steaming hot brew.

  “I suppose I’ll play yer game,” she replied. “Ye hail from Skye, a big island. Dun Scaith Castle on the Sleat Peninsula is the family seat o’ the MacKeegans.” She wrapped a corner of his plaid around the bowl and thrust it into his hand. “Drink it all. ’Twill ease the pain and the swelling.”

  He braced the bowl against his chest and sipped, pleasantly surprised by the taste, but perplexed that the new information was of no help.

  “Did ye think I’d poison ye?” she cackled.

  “So, ye’re not a MacKeegan?” he tried.

  She glared, squaring her bony shoulders. “Ye insult me, laddie. I’m a Beaton. We’re a proud MacRain sept.”

  “And who are the MacRains?”

  She narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger under his nose. “Yer sworn enemy, and dinna forget it.”

  He shifted his position in an effort to catch a glimpse of Isabel, but the opening of the box-bed was too narrow. A scent he couldn’t name lingered and he was sure she was still in the croft. “And yer granddaughter. She’s a Beaton too?”

  “Granddaughter?”

  He might not recall his own name but he now knew for certain the lovely young lass wasn’t Fanny’s gran
ddaughter.

  “Aye, she’s a Beaton,” the old woman mumbled as she wandered off. “I’ll fetch ye some oatmeal.”

  He sipped the tea, appreciating its warmth. He was evidently in enemy territory, caught stealing their sheep, though he couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. His injuries had been tended. The crone might protest it was because he was valuable, but he sensed an inner kindness in her. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was an alchemy between him and Isabel. His tarse thickened just thinking about the dark glory that crowned her head. For a man to awaken each morn wrapped in those long, long tresses…

  The notion gave him pause. Mayhap he already had a wife on this Isle of Skye, wherever it was. He hoped not.

  *

  Fanny insisted this was a good time for weaving lessons. “’Twill take yer mind off yon mon,” she whispered.

  Isabel supposed she was right, though how she was to ignore Darroch MacKeegan lying a few feet away in the cramped cottage…

  Fanny perched on the stool and pressed one pedal after another. “Now, ye press this pedal to lift this frame,” she explained. “Then this one, then this one. Do ye see?”

  The frames rose and fell with such rapidity, Isabel wasn’t certain which pedal lifted which frame. She settled onto the stool in front of the enormous loom, intimidated by the complicated multitude of strands of wool, hoping Fanny was a patient teacher.

  It turned out not to be the case.

  “Nay, lass, ’tis the wrong foot pedal ye’ve pressed. Pay attention.”

  “Sorry, my legs dinna seem to be long enough to reach.”

  “Send the shuttle through the space. Nay, wrong pedal again.”

  It took an hour or two of constant badgering, but Isabel gradually got the hang of the craft. The old woman finally cackled her gleeful approval, though Isabel would have to work ten times as fast to come close to matching Fanny’s speed.

  The spinning wheel proved to be an even greater challenge and she was relieved when her frustrated cousin called a halt. “Ye’re tired. We’ll try again after a slice or two o’ cold mutton. That’ll put a spring back in yer step.”

  She was, indeed, exhausted but it was more as a result of worrying that Darroch MacKeegan was listening to everything that was going on. His wife was probably an expert weaver and he must think Isabel a slow-learning lackwit, given Fanny’s testy shrieks. The incessant hammering of Hammond’s sons repairing the door and the click-clack of the loom likely hadn’t improved his headache. Why she cared about these things was beyond her comprehension.

  At least the sheep were out on the moor, grazing under Cù’s watchful eye.

  Mutton was frequently served at Dungavin. She’d lost her appetite for the stuff now that she shared living space with the woolly creatures. Perhaps if Fanny boiled up the flavorful gravies and sauces the cook at Dungavin was famous for, the meat might be more palatable. A long ride atop Storm was what she needed to revive her spirits, not barely chewable pieces of mutton.

  “I expect ye’re missing yer horse,” Fanny called from the hearth.

  Isabel got up from the spinning stool and bent over backwards to stretch the aching muscles in her back. Shaking her head once again at the old woman’s insights, she turned towards the box-bed. Tiny winged creatures fluttered in her belly at the sight of Darroch sitting in the opening, legs dangling. He yawned and ran his good hand through tousled hair. Surely he hadn’t slept amid the din?

  She straightened quickly, suddenly aware he was staring at her outthrust breasts.

  “I think I have a horse,” he said, “but I canna recall his name.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, bringing the plaid across her body in an effort to calm tingling nipples. “Mine’s called Storm,” she replied, earning a scowl from Fanny who plonked a plate of meat on Darroch’s lap.

  “A good name for a horse,” he said, poking a finger at the food he’d been given. “What is this?”

  “Just be grateful we’re feeding ye,” Fanny retorted, handing Isabel her portion.

  It was tempting to laugh at Fanny’s pouting indignation, but she took her place at the small wooden table, composed her features and said, “’Tis mutton.”

  He picked up a fatty piece from his plate and sniffed it. “Truly?”

  Hammond’s lads, loitering by the repaired door, made the mistake of chuckling at his remark.

  Fanny glared at them. “Are ye nay finished yet?”

  “Aye,” they mumbled sheepishly, gathering up their tools before leaving.

  Isabel watched them go then looked back at Darroch. His plaid had slipped to bunch around his waist. He’d made short work of the meat and was licking grease from his fingers. A wave of heat swept from her toes to her face as the insane urge to suck those long fingers into her mouth took hold.

  “I think ye should cover up that chest o’ yers, MacKeegan,” Fanny hissed. “There’s women present.”

  Darroch obliged. Isabel tried and failed to avert her gaze from his insistent stare and the same hint of a smile that had knocked her off balance before.

  The Wrong Question

  He awoke with a crick in his neck. The second bowl of valerian tea had helped him sleep, if fitfully, but the box-bed was too cramped for a man his size. He used his good elbow to maneuver into the corner so he might have a chance to see what was going on in the croft. It was still daylight, and he wondered if Isabel was weaving, though he didn’t hear the clickety-clack of the pedals. It seemed the craft was a new pursuit for her. She was definitely an outsider—like him.

  He smiled when Blue appeared at the opening and rested his massive jaw on the mattress. Taking a chance, he reached out his good hand to let the dog sniff. To his relief, the hound licked his fingers and allowed him to stroke his ears. “You’re nay vicious at all, are ye?” he said softly, “though I’ll warrant ye’d tear me limb from limb if I did aught to harm yer mistress.”

  Not that he would. There was something refined about Isabel that suggested she was more than a simple crofter. The way she spoke, her graciousness in dealing with Fanny’s impatience, her smooth complexion. She had a horse, but it wasn’t here. Where was she from?

  Blue nuzzled his hand when he stopped petting. “Ye like that. I ken somebody who’d love ye.”

  He sat up straight, regretting it when the spasm arrowed into his neck again. Where had that notion come from? And who was he thinking of? A person who liked dogs?

  He closed his eyes but, try as he might, he couldn’t fathom what or who had prompted his remark. “Fyke,” he muttered.

  “’Tis a good thing Fanny’s out gathering the sheep.”

  Isabel’s voice was calming, though he detected a hint of resentment every time she spoke to him. If they’d never met it must simply be the hatred of one clan for another that caused her to be standoffish. Yet she looked at him as if she couldn’t get her fill. She was drawn to him despite herself.

  He opened his eyes, pleased to see she’d climbed up on the stool and squeezed into the opening of the box-bed beside her dog. “Ye seemed restless,” she said.

  He itched to sift his fingers through her long, thick tresses, but didn’t want to alarm her. “Yer hair is beautiful,” he said, glad to see her cheeks redden as she smiled and tucked an errant strand behind her ear. Though she shrugged, he sensed she liked the compliment.

  However, it wouldn’t be prudent to remark on the other physical attributes he found appealing.

  “Are ye married, Isabel?” he asked.

  The smile turned to a sneer. He’d obviously posed the wrong question.

  “Nay,” she replied, pulling Blue away from the box-bed. “I was supposed to wed, but the coward reneged.”

  His heart went out to her. A lass who’d been jilted would have difficulty finding a husband. “Only a fool would do such a thing,” he whispered.

  Her reaction was not what he expected. Brown eyes glared at him as if he were the biggest liar in Christendom, though he’d spoken his
true feelings. If it turned out he wasn’t a married man, he’d be sorely tempted to woo Isabel.

  To add to his consternation, she burst into tears and fled the croft, Blue hard on her heels.

  *

  Isabel trudged across the moor, annoyed she hadn’t thought to grab her plaid before venturing out into the drizzle. She turned to glower at Blue who trotted along behind her. “Ye’re nay supposed to like him,” she scolded, painfully aware she shouldn’t blame the hound when she herself seemed incapable of summoning hatred for Darroch MacKeegan.

  Shivering, she sat down on a rocky outcropping, wrapped her arms around her body and stared at the croft. The man who lay in the box-bed was either an incredibly good liar, or—she hated to admit it—he truly couldn’t remember who he was.

  However, that didn’t excuse the fact that he had jilted her. She should despise him. Yet she preened under his gaze, lapped up his compliments, thirsted for him to comb his fingers through the hair he seemed so taken with. She’d even peeked into the box-bed while he slept and stared at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss those full lips.

  The shock of being suddenly uprooted from her home had evidently turned her into a lunatic—not to mention eating too much mutton and sleeping in a sheep-fold. And then there was Tremaine Nellis and his scheming mother. Truth be told, they were the real reason for her flight from Dungavin.

  Blue pricked up his ears and ran off down the slope. Isabel followed his progress and saw Fanny wending her way home with the flock. Her cousin brandished a walking stick and shouted at Blue to stay away from the sheep. He obeyed and raced back to sit beside Isabel, woofing his agreement when she stroked his head and told him he was a good dog.

  “What in the name of heaven are ye doing out here in the rain?” Fanny asked breathlessly when she reached them.

  Confident the drizzle had washed away any trace of tears, Isabel shrugged. “I needed fresh air.”

  “Getting on yer nerves, is he?” the old woman asked, proffering her hand.

  Isabel accepted Fanny’s help to get to her feet. “Aye. Something like that.”