Chapter 8 #3
Perhaps it was the leftover effects of the Faerie Magic that had sent him hurtling through time. That must be it. He could think of no other logical reason for his bizarre responses.
“MacQuarrie?”
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but he jumped and whirled around as if she’d yelled at him.
Not a foot away, her eyes rounded again, and she took a step backward before lifting her chin and offering him the bundle she held.
“I’ve no shirt that will fit you, but yer welcome to this plaid. Though it’s old, it’s clean and dry.”
“Old?” he heard himself echo lamely. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth as he stared at her.
“Aye. It belonged to my father,” she answered almost apologetically before she retraced her steps to the other end of the room, bowing her head and facing the wall.
His fingers fumbled clumsily with his belt as he turned his back to her. Behind him, she coughed when he began to unwrap his soggy plaid, and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering whether or not she fought the need as he had to steal a quick look.
“Damn fool,” he muttered as he twined Thomas’s plaid about his body and refastened his belt.
He turned to find Isabella’s rigid back still to him, her hands knotted in the soft material of the shift she’d donned earlier.
“I’m finished,” he called, ashamed of his thoughts when she turned, her face red with her embarrassment.
Some fine Guardian he was turning out to be, lusting after the innocent woman he was sworn to protect.
Isabella fought the need to fan herself as she brushed past her visitor. The Fates themselves would surely strike her down for her audacity, but she didn’t care. Whatever happened would be a small price to pay for the quick peek she’d had of MacQuarrie’s fine, strong arse.
Lo, but the man was a beauty, with legs as sturdy as tree trunks. Though she’d stolen only the briefest of glimpses, his magnificent body had fair taken her breath away, and she’d been forced to cover her inadvertent gasp with a false cough.
Did he have any idea what she’d done?
She pushed past him, busying her shaking hands by filling two mugs with hot broth.
What if he’d caught her looking? The possibility sent a fresh wave of humiliation cascading over her, and she offered the broth to him without being able to make eye contact.
“Thank you.”
His voice brushed against her mind like the finest cloth against sensitive skin, and she shivered as she sat on one of the little stools near the hearth.
She chose a spot close to where he leaned his back against the stone wall. Close to him. But not too close. Not so close that their arms might accidentally touch.
At the moment, she wished for nothing so much as to hear him speak again. She had only to say a word or two of her own and she’d be rewarded with the sound of his deep voice, lulling her as a cool breeze on a warm day might.
But her tongue was as heavy and her senses as dulled as if she’d overindulged in spirits, and she could think of nothing to say to start a conversation with the man.
“Why the disguise at yer grandfather’s castle? Why pretend to be what you are not?”
Isa jumped when he broke the silence, her free hand flying up to her hair. The Fates certainly hadn’t waited long to take their vengeance. She’d been careless and now she was caught.
“I ask only to be left alone. No one bothers a witless scold living deep in the woods lest she curse them.” She allowed her eyes to travel up from her mug only to feel the breath catch in her throat when she saw the blisters on his big hands.
“Yer burned! You should have spoken of it. I have a salve for that.”
“You’ve no a need to disguise yerself any longer, Isabella. I’m here to see to it that yer left alone until I can convince you there’s a safer place to be.”
She didn’t respond and he said nothing else as she fetched her herbals and gently fussed over his palm, finishing by wrapping strips of clean, soft cloth around his hand.
He might think of himself as here to see to her privacy, but who would give her privacy from him?
She shook off her concerns as she finished with his hand.
“It’s no so bad, MacQuarrie. If you’ll but use some caution . . .”
“Robert,” he interrupted, flinching as she rubbed her hand over the back of his. “My given name is Robert.”
She looked up into his eyes and froze. “No.” The name didn’t feel right. Besides, it was already hard enough to keep from thinking inappropriate thoughts about this man without allowing herself to become too familiar.
“Robbie, then,” he countered, his gaze holding hers. “That’s what yer father called me.”
“Robbie,” she heard herself murmur, as if she spoke against her own will. “Tell me of my father. Tell me how you came to give him yer oath.”
“Thomas saved my life,” he began.
She sank to the hearth and leaned closer, staring into the warm depths of his eyes as he continued to speak. This time she gave no thought as to whether or not their arms might touch or even to the words he spoke. She was lost in the music of his voice.
Robbie.
Now that felt right.