All she did was rest wearily against his shoulder as if holding her head up was just too much for her.
“I need to get you somewhere warm and dry.”
She never opened her eyes, just murmured, “Slowly. Please walk slowly.”
He was extra careful when he stepped down onto the dock. He tried to keep her in the same position without making any quick or jerking motions. He was walking down the dock when she opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“I can’t fight you.” Her voice was so small he almost thought he had imagined hearing it. Her body was limp again as if she had given up.
But he recognized the look in her eyes. It was fear. Pure unadulterated fear. She actually thought he would harm her. She knew she was powerless to do anything to stop him.
From out of nowhere the sudden need to protect her hit him hard, as if a giant hand had just reached out and slapped him in the face.
He stayed clear of women, except those he could meet on his own terms. The virtuous ones that Fergus brought chased him or scared the bloody hell out of him.
But this woman wasn’t chasing him. She was afraid of him. That was a hard thing for him to comprehend. He had never inspired fear in a woman and couldn’t imagine it even now.
He kept walking, his conscience and something personal eating at him, some tie or bond or elusive connection that was as strong as the bond he felt with his brother.
To care for a woman? No. He’d long ago vowed that he was happy with things just as they were. No wife. No woman. No confusion. Just his own routine, no one else’s.
She was staring up at him.
“I need to get you inside.”
She didn’t respond, but her body felt suddenly stiffer in his arms; the fright was still there in her wide eyes. He pulled her a little tighter against him, a small comfort he justified by then ignoring her for a minute or two.
He could feel her watching him. Her breaths were quick and sharp, and he listened to them with the thought that they sounded like a woman in the midst of passion. A strong passion.
He walked on in silence, silence that grew until it was more nerve-racking than noise. He took a deep breath and searched for something to say. “What’s your name, lass?”
She didn’t respond. Not that he blamed her. But she continued to watch him, closely, seriously.
He could feel her gaze on him almost as if her hand had touched his cheek. He stared straight ahead for a few more steps, then said gruffly, “I won’t hurt you.”
Again she said nothing, and when he looked at her, her suspicious expression told him she still didn’t believe him.
“I give you my word as the MacLachlan of MacLachlan.”
She stared at him from curious but wary eyes as he walked along in the wet fog. The only sounds were those of the throbbing surf behind them, the crackle and crunch of his boots on the rocks that were scattered along the path, her short quiet breaths, and some pounding in his ears that felt suspiciously like his heart.
“What is the MacLachlan of MacLachlan?” Her voice was different when it didn’t have a moan to it. Quiet, curious, yet bright. Quite a contrast to the she-devil Eachann had slung over his shoulder.
“I am the MacLachlan of MacLachlan. The last laird of the ancient clan of MacLachlan.”
“You’re Scottish.”
“Scots, lass. I’m Scots.”
“The disappearing island,” she whispered, as if she thought she were in the arms of a ghost.
“You’re not believing that rubbish, now are you? The island doesn’t disappear. It’s only the fog that makes it look so.”
“No... no,” she said, but she didn’t sound certain. She was eyeing him again. “You don’t sound Scottish.” It was almost like she was saying, “You don’t look like a ghost.”
“I’m Scots, not Scottish.”
“You don’t sound like a Scot.”
