Sheep shearing day dawned warm and dry. Duncan and Ian had gotten up early and met Fletcher, the twins and the crofters at the meadow where the fank, or stone pen, was standing, waiting for the commotion.
Rosalyn came by in her gig and picked up Isobel; they rode out to the meadow together, baskets of food and jugs of tea stacked in the back. They both knew that ale would flow, but hopefully it would be consumed after the work was done.
“I asked Fletcher how long he’d kept his suspicions about Fiona from me.” Reins in hand, Rosalyn studied the rutted road ahead.
“It wasn’t long. Then Lil—she had to leave for Ayr, so it was better to wait until she returned.”
“I know. And that’s another thing. She’s been Lily for most of her life; I don’t know if I can get used to that.”
“Seems a small matter, wouldn’t you say? Ye can always call her your wee lassie, little dumpling, darlin’ girl, or some such thing,” Isobel suggested, albeit not seriously.
“She’s all of those things to me.” Rosalyn teared up.
“It is such a miracle.” Isobel brushed a wild curl from her face and tucked it under her bonnet. In the bright sky a hawk circled lazily above them.
“Aye, it is that. But all those years…” She inhaled sharply. “I can’t dwell on that, can I? It’s in the past; we have the future together, and I’m so joyful I may shed tears of happiness every day for the rest of my life.”
After her rescue, Lily had caught a terrible chill and fever. Isobel wanted to keep the girl at the house, but she knew better than to argue with Rosalyn, who insisted she be transported to Castle Sheiling so Mrs. Gordon and Dr. Mac could tend to her there. Isobel understood; now that Rosalyn was reunited with her daughter, she would do anything to keep her close. She was still recovering, and although she wanted to join the festivities, both Mrs. Gordon and Rosalyn flatly refused to let her.
The shearing had already started when they arrived at the site. The sheep had been brought to the fank by the collies, which placed themselves at the entrance so none of the imprisoned sheep could escape.
Isobel and Rosalyn joined Fergie the Burn’s wife, Birgit, and Donnie the Digger’s wife, Elizabeth, on a small hillock overlooking the activity. Both Birgit and Elizabeth had young daughters who played together near their mothers. Other children ran about noisily. A long-beaked curlew screeched in the distance, perhaps having found lunch in the marshes below.
“We hear there be a weddin’ soon,” Birgit spoke, all smiles.
Isobel drew in a deep sigh. “Aye, there will be, but don’t ask me when.”
Elizabeth gave her a sly grin. “With a buck like that, and ye haven’t tied him down, yet? Ye best watch out or some lassie will ferry him away to her own bed, believe it.”
Isobel blushed but didn’t respond. She looked for Duncan. He and Fletcher were working side by side, each handling a sheep, deftly working the large, metal shaped shears through the fleece. They were shirtless, and among the healthy-looking yet pale Scotsmen, they looked dangerous and almost feral, their black hair blowing in the breeze, their skin brown and their muscles chiseled in stone.
Isobel’s mouth went dry. She had never imagined Duncan could look so untamed. It thrilled her. She’d seen a few half-dressed men in her day—Hamish for one, who was big, bulky, and so white he was almost blue.
But by the holy, Duncan MacNeil was splendid. Magnificent. Now and then someone said something that made him laugh, and he threw his head back, allowing Isobel a look at his chest and his throat. There was nothing more beautiful to her than his body. Ten years ago she had thought she could look at him every day for the rest of her life and not get tired of it. She still remembered that very moment. And now he was going to marry her. And he promised to leave her alone. She wanted that, didn’t she? Looking at the miracle of his body, she seriously began to wonder.
Rosalyn stepped up beside her. “I know.”
Isobel swallowed, her throat dry, and turned abruptly. “What?”
“I know how it feels to see him this way for the first time. It was the same for me.”
Isobel couldn’t even respond. She just nodded, not taking her eyes off the father of her son. When she finally spoke, her voice was raw. “I had no idea.”
“Aye,” Rosalyn said, putting her arm around Isobel’s shoulders. “And trust me, you’ll never take it for granted, I promise you that.”
She wanted to confide in someone; she needed to. How would she feel when she learned he’d slept elsewhere, and not in her bed? How would she feel when gossiping fishwives snickered and sneaked behind her, telling the stories of where he had spent the night?
“Isobel, if you ever need to talk, I’m always ready to listen. I may not be in your exact situation, but I also had many, many issues marrying a man I barely knew.”
Oh, Isobel thought, it would be so good to just let it all out! But something still held her back. The only confidants she had ever had were her aunt and Delilah. Even Hamish didn’t know her deepest, darkest secrets and desires, and now he never would.
“When can we expect you to come stay with us?” Rosalyn’s question broke into Isobel’s thoughts, but she was grateful for the disruption.
“Oh, Rosalyn, that’s such a wonderful invitation, but how can we possibly impose on you? We have no idea how long this entire situation will go on. It could be months, maybe even a year.”
Rosalyn squeezed Isobel’s shoulders. “Then we’ll really get to know one another, won’t we?”
A shout alerted them to company. “Ah, Duncan,” Fletcher said, wiping his face with his forearm, “there are our maidens now, ready to give us food and drink and whatever else we deserve for all our hard work.”
“Ocht, you rascal,” Rosalyn said with a wide smile. “You’ll get your food and drink and nothing more.” She tossed him a large bath sheet so he could wipe himself down.
Duncan’s gaze fell on Isobel, and she managed a smile, although inside she was all aflutter. She handed him a bath sheet as well, and he began to dry himself. Sweat ran in rivulets down his hard, wide, brown chest, saturating the already-wet work pants he wore. His skin was smooth, his nipples dark brown. A puckered scar up toward his left shoulder was the only thing that marred the beauty of his skin. There was a small strip of black hair that ran from his navel and disappeared beneath his clothes. There were times, like now, when the evening she spent with him all those years ago came back crystal clear. She remembered the hard length of him as he’d held her close; she remembered vividly cupping it through his clothing. She still remembered the brief bite of pain when he entered her and the pleasure he brought her…
She shook herself and went to help Rosalyn with the food.
The brothers settled beneath a tree, allowing the women to wait on them. Fergie and Donnie climbed to the rise, their wives having settled by a nearby oak.
Suddenly the twins and Ian came rushing toward them, dirty and greasy from handling the fleece, demanding nourishment, and quickly Isobel was once again in her comfort zone.
The conversation turned to poaching, for unlike the land, Fletcher still owned all of the wildlife. “Is there much problem with poachers on the island?” Duncan asked.
Fletcher took long, deep gulps from the jug of tea. He wiped his mouth and handed the jug to Duncan. “Now and then, but I usually turn a blind eye to it.”
“Why would you do that?” Duncan took a meat pie from Isobel, giving her a quick smile as he did so.
So this is what it would be like, she thought. Companionable. Comfortable with one another.
“It’s a give and take thing,” Fletcher explained. “For instance, last winter I learned that Red Forest, the crofter who works the land nearest the woods, had felled a deer, so his family was well fed through the winter.”
“Why let it go?”
“Because, Red is an excellent blacksmith, better than the one in the village, and when I need a little work done, all I have to do is ask and he’s on the job immediately.”
“So, he knows you know about the poaching.”
“Yes, and if any of them were to take terrible advantage of it, I’d do something about it, but so far, we’re all quid pro quo.” He polished off a meat pie and then took another from the basket nearby. “Isobel,” he said. “When are you and Duncan going to decide what kind of cottage to build?”
Duncan answered, “A cottage? No sir, brother. We’re going to have a house with a second story, a garden, and a beautiful view of the ocean. Maybe it will be a mansion.”
Isobel gave him a sharp look. “You don’t mean that.”
Duncan gave her a puzzled look. “You don’t want a mansion, my Izzy? With servants and gardeners and a butler, maybe a maid or two to help you dress in the morning?”
She reached over and gave him a gentle punch on the arm. “You are a big tease.”
“I’m sure you’ll probably need more than two bedrooms,” his brother suggested.
Once again Duncan’s gaze landed on Isobel. “Indeed we might.”
Isobel could barely breathe. Her insides shook like leaves in the wind. It was one thing to speak of the house, quite another for them to banter back and forth about such an intimate thing.
“And, because I want you to be happy,” he said to Isobel, “I want it to be a home where you will be comfortable. That’s most important.”
Isobel looked off into the distance, still anxious about her future. “It all sounds lovely.”
Duncan came and stood in front of her. Once again, she noticed the rucked-up scar on his shoulder and suddenly felt a pang of anxiety for what may have happened to him. “It will be everything you want it to be.”