Chapter 11
“That should do quite nicely.”
Robert straightened after tying up the last bundle of saplings, an annoying little pain zinging through his chest as he did so. He must have pulled a muscle somehow last night.
Looking over his handiwork for the day and, thinking of those bundles he’d left waiting all along his path down the mountain, he felt sure he had more than enough to finish the entire wattle fence.
If he could only be equally sure he’d worked his way through the little problem plaguing him. The little problem of his unaccountable infatuation with the woman he was supposed to be protecting.
Hours ago, he’d given up on trying to figure out the whys of his situation, concentrating instead on how to deal with all these unexpected and inconvenient feelings. The cause wasn’t important. Only controlling his reaction to Isabella mattered.
From the time Robert had passed outside the protective walls of MacQuarrie Keep bound for his first battle, he’d determined to present an impassionate face to those around him. As his father had often counseled both him and his brother, the best way to avoid having the world poke fingers in your hurts was to prevent their seeing your soft spots.
Robert’s soft spot had always been his emotions. After Elizabeth’s betrayal, he’d spent a lifetime pretending to be the aloof observer, building walls between himself and the world. In spite of his efforts, he knew better than anyone how easily those walls could be breached over time.
The odd thing with Isabella was that it had taken no time at all. Whether it stemmed from his guilt over abandoning her or his surprise at her not being what he expected, one evening spent sharing stories in her company and he found himself completely infatuated.
And infatuation it had to be.
The sort of fleeting, false emotion a schoolboy might have for his first teacher, or a patient for his nurse.
Or perhaps a Guardian for his charge?
That was the case and nothing more. It had to be. He only hoped it would pass quickly.
Not even this latest rationalization could erase his concern. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, wincing when an errant breeze brushed past him.
No wonder Isa had taken her distance of him. He smelled like a ditch digger in the desert who’d never heard of soap and water.
The sun was moving lower in the sky and he still had work to do. There were too many bundles for him to carry back. He should have brought his horse along, but that would have required his having used logic and sense when he set out from Isa’s cottage, and logic and sense were nowhere to be found in his emotional arsenal at that moment. Base lust had pushed everything else aside.
He was none too sure his arsenal was back to normal even now.
Remembering the small waterfall and pool he’d spotted in the distance farther up the mountain, he decided on a short detour in that direction. If the setting sun did catch him, he’d only need to follow the stream that ran from the pool straight back to Isa’s cottage to find his way even in the dark.
Without the weight of any saplings or his axe, he covered the distance quickly. In no time at all, he’d chucked his plaid and shirt and plunged into the deep, dark pool.
Once the shock of the cold had passed, the water enveloped his body, soothing his aches and pains. He ran his hands across his chest, looking down quickly as his fingers brushed over a sensitive spot.
His scar. Odd. It had been almost ten years since he’d taken a sword to his chest saving Connor MacKiernan’s life, but the scar looked much newer. Pink and sensitive to his touch.
He didn’t think Isa’s elbow to his chest last night could have somehow caused new damage, but he had felt a sharp pain with her blow.
What foolishness! Surely it was a trick of the fading light and nothing more that caused the scar to look strange. No time to go blaming Isa.
Even if shewasa redhead.
He glanced to another jagged silver line, this one on his forearm near his elbow. There had definitely been a redhead to blame for that one.
It was the summer he’d turned fifteen. He’d gone to Inverness with his father and Richard to sell the flock of sheep his father had given him the year before. The silver he made from the sale was the first money he had been able to call his own. He’d invested months into dreaming of how he would spend that silver.
And then he’d met Marie.
Robert and his brother had waited until their father was meeting with a group of merchants. They’d hastened off to one of the seamier local taverns, though they’d been strictly forbidden to go there.
Marie had struck his eye the moment they’d entered, and a short while later, emboldened by the heat of forbidden whisky burning in his chest and Richard’s goading, he’d approached her table.
It had seemed like a dream when she’d invited him to her room in the back of the tavern, where she’d given him another tankard of drink, promising him a trip to heaven when he finished it down.
