"Hell," he muttered. How did he get himself into such a predicament?

Inside the stables, he paused. Inhaling the scents of horse and hay helped him relax. Isobel. Damnation, the lass drove him mad. He craved her every moment, but he couldn't have her again. Not now. He didn't even know whether he could trust her.

Although his memories of last night were fuzzy, he kept recalling how he'd kissed her here in the stables several nights before. How she'd kissed him back with abandon and an eagerness he had never before experienced. Surely that couldn't be feigned.

As he'd consumed her mouth, relishing the sweet female taste of her, he'd yearned to let loose, to rip the clothing from her body, to lay claim to her in every way possible. And now, apparently, he had, but the memories were too vague to appease him. It had been more like a dream. He needed to know, with sharp clarity, how it had felt to be with her.

He'd been her first, and some deep, primal part of him roared that she was his… that she should be his. But she wasn't. Not yet. And a contract somewhere said she belonged to another man.

***

Dirk was angry with her. That was all Isobel could think about. How could he possibly believe she thought him disgusting and brutish?

She slipped up the tiny flight of spiral steps, hoping to find a secluded spot to be alone and think. Beitris had dogged her every step, asking questions about why she'd spent the night alone with Dirk again. She'd pretended to be headed out to walk on the beach, and Beitris had thought her mad for that idea. In truth, Isobel didn't want to go out into the cold wind.

She followed the stairs upward to a conical tower on the southwest corner of one section of Dunnakeil and closed the small door. The rare afternoon sunlight shining in the two tiny windows was just what she needed to perk up her mood.

Since he was now chief, Dirk was busy with clan affairs. He always would be and he'd likely have little time for her. Though she needed to spy on Maighread and find out her plans, she couldn't stand to look at the woman after the lies she'd told Dirk. Nor would Maighread trust her any longer.

Taking a deep breath, Isobel glanced around the diminutive circular stone tower room. At one time, guards must've been stationed here, but after further additions to the castle, it was no longer needed for this purpose.

She squinted out the wavy glass window, unable to see clearly what was below, but at least she could enjoy the sunlight for a few moments without freezing. The rhythmic movement below was waves crashing onto shore and sliding across the sand. It reminded her of the day she'd walked on the beach, then found Dirk at the church. Having seen him little today, she missed him, especially after the intimacy of sharing a bed last night.

He'd said he could barely remember what happened. What annoyed her most was that he suspected her of drugging him. Certainly, she'd wanted to lie with him but she would do naught underhanded to seduce him. How could he not know this?

Should she search him out and assure him of the truth or give him some breathing room? How could he trust such a duplicitous woman's word over her own? After what he'd been through, with the attempts on his life, Isobel could understand that he would find it difficult to trust anyone. Even her.

For most of the day, she'd been unable to think of much beyond their lovemaking. She couldn't believe the profound intimacy they'd shared and how much she'd enjoyed it, craved it again. No one could've ever explained coupling to her sufficiently. 'Twas simply an act she'd had to experience to believe. Although she felt wicked for indulging with a man who wasn't her husband yet.

How pleasant and amazing marriage must be for women who were truly attracted to their husbands… and surely attraction led to love.

She shook her head, trying to put last night from her mind.

Focusing on her surroundings again, she realized this tiny tower room reminded her of the one in the castle where she'd grown up. When she was ten or twelve, she'd daydreamed about being a bride someday, and marrying the handsome man she would fall in love with. Her naïve fantasies were modeled after her parents' happy marriage. And she'd always imagined her favorite love ballad, The Laird o' Logie, being played at her wedding banquet.

When her wedding to Jedwarth came to pass, it had been nothing like she'd imagined. 'Twas naught but a business arrangement. Her husband hadn't been a handsome man her own age, and she certainly wasn't madly in love with him. There were no genuine smiles. Only forced ones. The wedding feast had been grand, but she'd barely known anyone and none of her favorite ballads were played. No one had even asked her what she preferred. It was all arranged. All she had to do was show up and say I do.

She was a grown woman now who knew what reality was. Not a silly child caught up in daydreams. Perhaps her favorite ballad would never be played on her wedding day, but she could play it herself for she'd learned it long ago.

Standing before the window, she took her small flute from the pouch on her belt and placed it against her lower lip. After positioning her fingers, she played scales to warm up. Her splint hampered the movement of one of her fingers but she could play well enough by lifting and lowering the finger and not bending it. After a minute, she paused, then started playing the ballad. She hoped she remembered it all. Years had passed since she'd practiced it. She missed a few notes here and there, but it was a fair rendition since she had no audience.

After a moment, she drifted back many years to when she was a young lass filled with hope for a bright future. Tears burned her eyes and caused her vision to blur. After dashing them away, she played the next verse, the words of the romantic tale streaming through her mind. It was about a young laird who was taken prisoner by the king, but then rescued by his lady love.

A creak sounded behind her. She jumped and turned toward the door, wiping the annoying tears from her eyes.

Chapter Twenty

Isobel was surprised to see Dirk standing in the open doorway of the small, circular tower room. "Lady Isobel? Pray pardon. I thought Aiden was practicing his music up here."

"Nay. 'Tis only me."

"I didn't know you played." His sharp gaze speared her. "Why are you crying?"

"It matters not." Turning away, she wiped her sleeve at the idiotic tears. She hated for anyone to see her cry.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded, coming more fully into the room. "How is your hand?"

"Nay, I'm well. And how is your head?" she asked, hoping to change the subject.

"I have a headache. But I'd have one even if I hadn't taken an oar to the head last night."

"What is wrong?"

"I'd rather not talk about it." He came forward. "Let me see your broken finger."

When she held out her hand, he took it into his large warm ones. She loved the way his strong fingers held hers so gently as if he was afraid he'd injure her.

"The bruise is fading and the swelling has gone down," he observed.

She nodded.

His piercing gaze returned to her face. "So… why are you crying?"

"I'm not now." She grinned slightly, trying to convince him she was fine. In truth, being with him did lift her mood.

"But you were."

She shook her head. "'Twas the ballad I was playing. It makes me think of… Never mind. I'm sure you think I'm silly."

"Nay. Of course not. I'm curious." Considering his rapt attention, he did appear interested.

"Well, when I was a girl, The Laird o' Logie was my favorite. My mother often had the musicians play it after supper. I thought one day the ballad would be played at my wedding feast. I led a sheltered life back then, and I actually believed my dreams would come true. Of course, they didn't."