With awhoosh,Isa’s cloak floated past his head and down onto the fire, suffocating the flames and leaving them both in total darkness.
“Are you hurt?”
Robert ignored her question as he staggered to the door, flinging it open to the howling wind and rain. Fresh air washed over him and into the enclosure and he gulped it in, steadying himself before he spoke.
“What the hell did you hit me with?” he demanded, the memory of the unexpected pain still fresh.
“I... nothing,” she stammered. “I jabbed you with my elbow and nothing more. Did I hurt you?”
He snorted his disbelief and reached out to where he knew she stood from the sound of her voice. Grasping her arm, he pulled her along with him, toward the door.
“You belong inside yer cottage, behind a bolted door, where you’ll be safe.” Inside, where in spite of her claims he could see for himself whether or not she carried any weapons.
“Wait. I’ve a need to...” She pulled her arm from his loose grasp and leaned down before finishing. “I canna move with any speed wearing these pattens.”
She darted out into the driving rain ahead of him, leading the way to her front door. This time when they reached it she held it open, allowing him to follow her inside. Not that he would have settled for any attempt on her part to keep him out as he had earlier.
In three steps he reached the hearth, and pulled his shirt up and over his head as he did so. He took only the barest notice of his blistered hands as he ran them over his chest, searching, amazed to find nothing there. Nothing but the familiar thin silver trail, a reminder of the wound that would have taken his life almost a decade past.
As he turned, Isabella gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. When he met her gaze, he realized it was the scar that had captured her attention, but it was Isabella herself that captured his.
The woman standing before him now bore no resemblance at all to the one he’d seen earlier today.
Her hair hung over her shoulder, captured in a neat braid that easily reached below her waist. Wet tendrils curled around her face, framing eyes so intensely green he’d swear she wore colored contacts if he were home.
Though the nightdress she wore would be relegated to the oldest of grannies in the time he considered his own, it occurred to him the clothing was seriously underrated. The heavy wet cloth clung to her body, outlining her curves in a manner more enticing than anything he’d ever seen.
She seemed to come to her senses first. Her hands flew to her hair and her eyes rounded, as if she’d just realized she stood in front of him without her disguise. It was obvious when she also realized she wore only her nightdress, dropping her arms to cross them protectively in front of her.
To Robert’s way of thinking, the gesture did more to highlight than to conceal.
When she looked to her feet self-consciously, he forced himself back to business, to deal with the situation at hand.
“You should get yerself into some dry things.”
“And you as well,” she responded, glancing up first at him and then to the door. “I’d ask you to turn yer back so that I might change in privacy.”
“I can wait outside,” he offered, strangely relieved when she shook her head no.
He turned his back and moved closer to the fire, locking his gaze into the dancing flames. Behind him, the slap of wet cloth hitting the stone floor jolted him hard enough he had to close his eyes to keep from looking around.
What was wrong with him? She was a woman under his protection, not someone he’d picked up in a bar. Everything about him felt off-center tonight, from the pain he’d experienced when Isabella had jabbed him with her elbow right up to the unusually strong attraction he experienced when he was near her.
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.
