How could she have known that such simple words would affect him so? He was used to people being afraid of him, wary of his size and strength. But Isabelle? This woman from the future who had fallen into his life like a star plummeting from the heavens? She saw him differently.
He made his way down the village’s single street, towards the paddock where Able had turned out the horse Magnus had stolen yesterday. As he walked, he studied the scene, etching every burned-out house and ransacked building into his memory, making sure he forgot nothing. He would bring the perpetrators to justice, and when he did, he’d remember, and make suretheyremembered everything they’d done here.
In the dew-touched morning, villagers were already up and about, beginning the onerous task of rebuilding their lives and restoring their homes. A group of men were hoisting a new wooden beam into place on one of the gutted houses, while women, young and old, were busy gathering the discarded belongings from the rubble and washing them clean in large wooden tubs. Children ran about, some haulingwater buckets or carrying firewood, and some playing amongst themselves—a semblance of joy amidst the chaos around.
Life went on, despite what had happened yesterday. After all, what choice was there?
Reaching the paddock, he spotted the gray mare he’d stolen from the outlaws grazing by the rails. The creature raised her head, eyeing him closely. Magnus approached cautiously, hands outstretched, whispering calming phrases in Gaelic. The horse trotted over and nuzzled her nose into his hand, clearly recognizing him.
“That’s a good lass,” Magnus said, patting the horse’s shoulder. “I owe ye quite the debt, my friend, yet I’m afraid I have to ask even more of ye.”
He slipped a halter over the mare’s nose and led her out of the paddock and back to the stable yard behind Morwenna and Able’s house. The yard was empty as he arrived but a moment later, a sable streak shot out of the stable and cannoned into him, knocking him back a few paces.
Snaffles, paws on Magnus’s chest, licked him excitedly, tail whipping in a blur.
“God’s blood, lad!” Magnus laughed. “I was gone less than an hour!”
He pushed the excited hound off then led the disgruntled mare over to a byre full of hay where the donkeys were already eating their breakfast. They gave the horse a doleful glare then moved over to give her room.
Leaving the animals to eat, he walked toward the barn, Snaffles trotting at his side.
“Isabelle?” he called. “Are ye there?”
“Just a minute!” came the reply. “I just need to tie this dratted pair of laces. Honestly! How the bloody hell is anyone supposed to get dressed with so many fiddly bits?” There was silence followed by an exasperated sigh. “Could you come and help me?”
Magnus hesitated a moment, then breathed deeply to quiet the sudden burst of nerves. He strode into the barn to find Isabelle struggling with a bodice that wasn’t lacing up properly.
“Of all the convoluted, impractical...” she muttered, her fingers fumbling over the fastenings. Noticing him at the entrance, she looked up, her cheeks turning a rosy hue.
“Sorry,” Magnus said, trying to keep his gaze from straying and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face. “I can...ah...I can go back and...”
“No!” Isabelle exclaimed, perhaps louder than she had intended. She caught herself with a soft cough. “Please.” She gestured behind her. “I need your help.”
Magnus nodded, walking over steadily, trying not to let his gaze wander over her exposed collarbones and the stray curls framing her flushed face. He stood behind her, his fingers lightly brushing against her waist as he reached for the stubborn laces. She stiffened under his touch, but didn’t pull away.
“Sorry,” he said again, aware of the intimacy of their position and feeling a warmth spread across his own face. “I’ll try to be quick.”
The room filled with a heavy silence punctuated only by Isabelle’s soft breathing and the rustle of fabric as Magnus attempted to tame the rebellious laces. His fingers were largeand rough, more used to handling a sword than delicate laces but finally, he got them tied.
He stepped back. “All done, lass.”
Isabelle turned to face him. She was dressed in a simple green woolen gown. It was too large on her, but she’d cinched it tightly with an old leather belt. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, slightly damp from washing. Despite the circumstances—or perhaps because of them—she looked beautiful.
“Well? Will I do?”
What was he supposed to say to that? His tongue suddenly felt thick and swollen. “Um...aye, I suppose so.”
He strode quickly away, knelt in the straw, and began stuffing their belongings—including Isabelle’s twenty-first century clothes—into a saddlebag.
Behind him, Isabelle stretched and fidgeted, grumbling to herself “How can anyone wear this? I can barely move.”
Magnus said nothing. He wasn’t about to tell her how much the dress suited her, or how much it brought out the color of her hazel eyes and highlighted the soft swell of her breasts and hips.
“Are ye ready?” he asked without turning. “If so, we’d best be getting on.”
Without waiting for an answer, he slung the bag over his shoulder and strode outside to the horse, grabbing the halter and leading her into the middle of the yard.
Isabelle followed him out, hands behind her head as she tied her hair back into a rough braid. “I’m ready,” she announced. “Well, as ready as I’ll ever be.”
