“There seems to be a lot of touching,” she said uncomfortably, squirming a little.
The discomfort was probably a good sign. He managed a wry smile, although in his shirtsleeves, he was as cold as a naked Eskimo stuck in a Greenland blizzard. Despite wearing his coat, the girl must be freezing, too.
“I beg your pardon.” He clicked his tongue to urge Sigurn to walk toward the dunes. “Actually, madam, I’d like to know whose pardon I’m begging. Will ye nae tell me your name?”
She wriggled weakly until she could see him. Once again, he found himself transfixed by those striking eyes. She looked pale and tense and afraid.
“Mr. Mactavish…”
His grip tightened, before he recognized that clutching her closer wasn’t likely to soothe her uncertainty. He loosened his hold and lowered his voice, hoping sincerity might overcome her trepidation. “I ken I’m a stranger, and you have nae reason to trust me, but I’m only trying to help. Surely there can be nae danger in telling me who ye are. I’d like to be able to call ye something, and if I know your name, I can contact your family and arrange for them to come and fetch you. Ye have my word as a gentleman that I mean you nae harm.”
She stared searchingly at him, as if trying to pierce through his skin to his soul. To his dismay, the fear he read in her eyes didn’t ease. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for being hesitant to confide in him—they’d known each other less than an hour after all, and she’d been through a hell of an ordeal before he found her.
After a charged silence, those thick eyelashes fluttered down and she bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mactavish,” she said in a broken rush. “I wish I could tell you my name. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is.”
Chapter 2
Fiona Grant closed her eyes and rested her aching head against the laird’s broad shoulder. His solid strength made her feel protected, even though she’d heard all her life that anyone named Mactavish was lower than a mangy gutter cur.
She sucked in a shuddering breath, wincing as her bruised ribs expanded. For a mangy gutter cur, Mr. Mactavish smelled delicious. Her clan’s enemy smelled of fresh air, horses, leather, and vigorous healthy male.
Fiona had a thousand reasons to fear all men, not just those called Mactavish, but so far, this particular man had been kind to her. The care mightn’t last, but in spite of the despised blood in his veins, she was inclined to believe that he might turn out to be that rarest of beasts—a man of honor.
Lying to him felt bad, when he took such trouble with her, even giving up his coat in this biting wind. She felt even worse to disclaim all knowledge of old Colin Smith, who had been a man of honor, too.
Tears too dangerous to shed gathered behind her eyes, as she struggled to hide her sorrow over the fisherman’s death. How she hated that she couldn’t give him his name or his due. If his spirit hovered near, she prayed that he understood and forgave her. When they’d embarked on their reckless voyage down the coast, he certainly knew what was at stake.
Now Colin was gone, she felt more alone than ever. That knowledge didn’t alter her purpose, just added another layer of risk to her dangerous quest.
“Did ye hit your head when you fell out of the boat, lassie?” Mr. Mactavish asked.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled. She was sore all over, as though she’d endured a brutal beating. Bitter experience made that comparison more than a matter of mere imagination.
“So what do ye remember?”
Was that a note of skepticism in his voice? “I remember you finding me on the beach.”
They were amidst the dunes now. Beneath her, the beautiful white horse moved easily. The man’s arms were strong and sure, holding her close against his powerful chest.
She’d never imagined she’d accept a man’s touch so easily, but instincts developed over the last ten years persuaded her that her rescuer meant her no harm. At least so far, when he didn’t know she was a Grant.
Anyway, even if he did mean her harm, what in heaven’s name could she do about it? She was weak and exhausted and sick. If she tried to run, she wouldn’t make ten yards. Better to accept Mr. Mactavish’s help, whatever it cost, and regain her strength as best she could before she went on.
She was freezing in her wet clothes, although the man’s thick coat kept out the worst of the wind. Mr Mactavish must be suffering from the cold, wearing only his shirtsleeves, but the body behind hers was as warm as a furnace. It was a silly fancy, but those powerful arms shielded her from the wind better than his thick coat did. A thick coat that smelled most pleasantly of him, so she felt cocooned in Mr. Mactavish as the mare picked her way across the sand.
“I’ve heard of such things happening after a head injury,” he said thoughtfully.
So had she, although only in books. But as long as she continued to deny any knowledge of her past or her identity, he could hardly call her a liar to her face.
“I wish I could tell you who I am.”
“Aye, so do I,” he said with a hint of grimness. They left the dunes and rode through a grove of Scots pines that provided some respite from the wind. “Perhaps once you’ve rested and recovered your strength, the details will come back to ye.”
“Perhaps.”
And perhaps not.
The horse’s neat hooves thudded softly upon the carpet of pine needles, and the soughing of the branches above lulled her into a doze. The drowsiness wasn’t peaceful. The moment she closed her eyes, her sensitive stomach heaved as a chaos of disconnected images from the wreck invaded her mind.