She didn’t answer. She was barely conscious. Her skin was so white it was almost blue. She had minutes at most before it would be too late.
“Inside and get changed noo or ah’ll tear them things off you ma self.”
She scrambled away from him, fear flaring in her eyes. In her rush to get inside she banged her head on the top of the doorframe, staggering back. He caught her before she could fall, helping her upright.
She looked at his hand on her shoulder, the other one on her waist, a dazed look across her face. He let go at once. No doubt she’d heard the stories about him and was terrified of what he might do. Was it worth correcting her? Probably not. No one ever believed the truth. Why should she be any different?
“The fire’s lit,” he said as she vanished inside. “Top it up with some of the peat while you’re in there.”
He shoved the door closed before leaving her to it, walking over to sit on the worn oak stump. He dug the knife out from his pocket. Soaked by the loch, it was already so rusty the water could do no more damage. Picking up the end of the fishing rod, he began to carve. One day he would carve a decent hook. How long had it been since he’d been able to get hold of proper metal?
He looked across at the line of stones in the grass in front of him. The nearest ones were almost swallowed by weeds. The more recent was scored with upright lines, a tally of weeks. He tried to add them up but he soon lost count. There was at least eight years worth, maybe ten. A long time to spend in exile.
The first year, he’d almost gone mad. All he could think about was the injustice of it all, being accused and convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, the entire clan despising him. Told to be thankful for banishment instead of execution.
He thought about that and managed a bitter smile. The laird knew exactly what he was doing. Banishment meant living with knowing his father was in the dungeon. Execution meant release from the pain of the injustice. He’d have taken execution any day given the choice. But he wasn’t given the choice.
He’d come to terms with it over time. He thought about suicide often in the first days and weeks but something always stopped him. A whispering voice that said one day something would come along that he could use to free his father.
He learned to survive while he waited. There was just him and his hidden corner of the world. In the last couple of years, he’d almost begun to enjoy it.
So why had he decided to help her? He retraced his steps. He’d been sitting by the shore looking out at the water, waiting for a bite. It had been three days since he’d caught a fish, the last of his knives too blunt to carve decent hooks anymore.
He was hungry and worn out, having not slept yet again.
Then she just appeared out of the mist in the middle of the loch. He must have been more tired than he thought. He hadn’t seen her row out there but all of a sudden there she was, falling into the water, her boat splitting apart around her.
He was diving in before he even knew he was doing it.
The time in exile had honed his waistline which helped with the rescue. He’d gone from fairly strong as laird in waiting to nothing but muscle, not a trace of fat on him.
His arms had swelled beyond all recognition, the result of years of chopping and carrying wood to keep warm at night. His limbs pushed effortlessly through the water and he reached the spot where she’d gone under in less than a minute.
Taking a deep breath, he dived down, not knowing if he was too late. The light above the surface penetrated no more than a couple of feet. She was nowhere to be seen. He came up, took another breath, and then went under again, groping in the murk.
Just when he was sure he was too late, his fingertips caught something. He grabbed hold and didn’t let go. It was her hand. He hauled her up to the surface, dragging her with him as he kicked back for the shore, one arm hooked under her armpit, holding her tight as he lay on his back, his other arm sweeping through the waves.
It took no more than a couple of minutes to get her to dry land. He dragged her unconscious body over the silty shoreline to the heather, laying her down and moving quickly to get her wet things off. He was certain he was too late, that she was dead or dying, that it was all a pointless endeavor.
Then she was fighting him off even while he tried to save her. He smiled as he thought of it. He was trying to save her life and she was so stubborn she tried to stop him. She had some spirit, he had to give her that.
As he waited for her to change, he found himself thinking about her clothes. They were like nothing he’d ever seen on a woman before. She wore blue hose of the coarsest fabric that clung to her skin in the most scandalous manner. Her boots were of several colors, all held together by loops of thick white string.
Her top half was almost naked, her arms uncovered, her neck on show, the only clothing a single chemise of floral cloth. The whole ensemble was utterly bizarre but also intriguing. She had to be a jongleur. It was the only possible explanation.
She’d had long enough. He walked over to the hut in time to hear a thud.
“Help, I can’t get the door open,”
Her accent intrigued him as much as her clothes. What was an English lass doing so far north of the border?
“Haud on,” he said, grabbing the door and yanking it open, the wood groaning in protest. Setting it down, he walked inside.
“Don’t mind me,” she said.
“Wait outside,” he said, pulling his hose from his legs. Did she think she was the only one to get wet from their swim?
He glanced behind him, but she was nowhere to be seen. Good. Hopefully, she’d gone back to wherever she came from.
