Highland Groom (21 page)

Despite the quiet horror of the tale, Diarmot almost smiled. He had just been lessoned by Sigimor. Diarmot had the strongest feeling the man probably had dozens of such tales, all true, and all with a message or a moral. Considering the fact that he was nearly of an age with him, Diarmot supposed he ought to be irritated, but he was not. It was quite possible he was coming to like Ilsa's brothers. A little voice in his head warned him to be cautious, but it was beginning to lose its ability to sway him. The more he came to know these men and all he could recall of them from a year ago, told him they would not be a part of any devious scheme. The problem was that no other suspect was coming to light. Nor could he yet recall everything that had happened between him and Ilsa.

"Ye dinnae need fear that madness is in the blood," Sigimor continued. "We kept a close watch on the rest of the lad's family and there wasnae a glimmer of it. He had a different mother than the rest and we decided it might have come from her. She did try to kill the blacksmith once."

"And Aunt Elizabeth," said Tait. "Chased her through the village trying to take her head off with an axe."

"Aye, true enough. She drowned when she attacked poor cousin David."

"She drowned?" asked Diarmot, unable to envision the way that might have occurred.

"Aye," replied Sigimor. "She was running after him, knife in hand, and he jumped into the loch to get away. She jumped in after him. He could swim. She couldnae."

Diarmot wondered how the man could speak of such chilling events with what could only be called a touch of humor. "Aye, I would say the madness came from his mother." He sighed, all amusement fleeing. "About all we have learned from this wretched business, however, is that I really do have an enemy. A mon who hides his face and pays others to try and kill me. He doesnae always come round to watch or make sure tis done right, either."

"Ye still cannae recall why ye were in Dubheidland?"

"Nay, that part remains mostly shadowed. Howbeit, since some of it has returned, I must assume the rest will soon follow. I obviously found some clue or had some suspicion which drew me there. 'Tis a pity I didnae think to confide in anyone. I fear I got some notion into my head and simply acted on it."

"And took none of your men with ye. Where could ye have gotten the idea?"

"I dinnae ken. That, too, will undoubtedly come to me in time. I have only had my memory back for four days now, or what there is of it. I cannae think those memories still trapped just beyond my reach willnae break free soon, too.

The healing has begun, so it must surely continue."

Sigimor nodded. "That makes sense. Tait, Nanty, and I were going to go to Dubheidland and find out if anything has been discovered, nay matter how small.

We will wait here another week now. If ye do remember more, it may save us from riding about blindly whilst there. I grow weary of that game."

Diarmot suddenly tensed. "I think I had been reading my wife's journals. The memory isnae clear to me as to when I was doing it, but since one of those still-shadowed memories comes right after this clearer one, it may be that I found some clue there. Jesu, but I dinnae wish to look at them again." He held up his hand to halt the words Sigimor was ready to utter. "I must. I ken it."

"Are they that bad?" asked Nanty.

"There arenae pleasant reading," replied Diarmot. "Tis probably for the best that I didnae discover them until after I had suffered through several accidents that, e'en then, I thought might be attempts upon my life. Despite kenning they might hold important clues, the urge to hurl them into the fire was almost too strong to resist." He finished his ale and stood up. "I believe I will begin now. Viewing a hanging has probably put me in the proper mood." He strode out of the great hall and hurried toward his ledger room where he kept the journals.

"Tait?" Sigimor said as soon as Diarmot was gone.

"Aye?" Tait glanced at his brother, then returned his attention to spreading a thick layer of dark honey on a piece of bread.

"If I e'er cast my eye upon a woman who seems to be e'en faintly akin to Lady Anabelle, I give ye leave to beat some sense into me."

"Twill be my pleasure."

Diarmot groaned, slumped in his seat, and rubbed his hands over his face. He had been studying Anabelle's writings for most of the day, taking a respite only when something else required his attention. Although reluctant to do so, he had returned to the chore soon after the evening meal. Now he felt only sickened by it all, sickened by Anabelle, and sickened by the fact that he could have been so blinded by her beauty when he married her. Worse, it was beginning to look as if he had suffered for naught for he had found nothing.

He had realized a few things about his late wife that he had not seen in the first readings he had done, when his mind and his heart had been clouded by anger and hurt. Anabelle had loathed men. She had seen them as sad, pathetic brutes who could be led around by their privates. The way she wrote about the far-too-numerous sexual romps she had indulged in made them all sound like some battle with her as the victor. In some ways, she sounded akin to the worst of callous seducers, men who used women and found satisfaction in the number of women they could lure into their beds, more than in the women themselves.

The reason he had gone to Dubhleidland, to that area, was in these writings.

Diarmot could not shake the feeling despite the fact that all he had gained so far was a painful headache. That was not quite true, he mused, as he stared at the journals. He had discovered one thing, something that mattered only to him.

It did not hurt anymore.

Anabelle was gone from his heart, her grip on his mind and pride broken. When he read her words, it was as if he read about a stranger. In most ways, she had been a stranger to him. The Anabelle he had married had been only a chimera created by a mind besotted by her beauty and drunk with lust. The scorn she had heaped upon him in her writings no longer stung for he realized it was no more than the scorn she felt for all men. She had not known him any better than he had known her.

A soft rap at the door distracted him and he bade the person to enter. His eyes widened slightly when Ilsa slipped into the room. In the four days since she had overheard his crude words to Nanty he had seen little of her. Diarmot knew he should apologize for that remark, yet he hesitated. He recalled a great deal about their time together a year ago, but still fought against giving her the trust he had given her then. The attack in Muirladen had beaten it out of him and rereading Anabelle's journals had sharply reminded him that his judgment was not always sound.

As she approached him, he knew he was willing to accept one thing about their relationship without hesitation or question, and that was the passion they shared. Now that they had both apparently healed from their ordeal at the ridge, he wanted her back in his arms. Since Ilsa had sought him out, perhaps she was ready to return to his bed. He had missed her at his side and, after reading Anabelle's dark, sordid writings, Diarmot realized he hungered for the clean honesty of Ilsa's passion.

"What has kept ye hiding in here all the day and into the night?" she asked as she reached his side.

"My late wife's writings," he replied. "I cannae shake the feeling that something I read here sent me hieing off to Dubheidland or someplace near there."

"Ye cannae recall the reason yet?"

"Nay, that memory hasnae returned yet. Tis there, but tis just out of my reach." He watched her pale slightly as she read from the journal open on the table. "Ye dinnae wish to see that filth," he said and closed the book.

Ilsa looked at Diarmot as she pushed aside her shock over what she had just read. "Ye didnae find anything?"

He shook his head, curled his arm around her waist, and tugged her down onto his lap. "Naught."

"Should I read them for ye?"

"They arenae easy reading, Ilsa, and are filled with the same sort of sordid ran tings ye just read."

"Nay doubt, but I believe I can endure it. I didnae ken Anabelle, have only heard about her. I was ne'er wronged by her so I can read what she wrote without hurt, anger, or any other emotion. Aye, I suspect I will be shocked, but that will fade. I am also a woman and may see something ye, as a mon, cannae see."

"Words are read the same way by men and women."

"Aye, but the meaning of them can differ, each one who reads the words understanding something different from them. Believe me when I tell ye that a woman can write or say something that will mean one thing to a mon and something verra different to a woman. Howbeit, if ye would rather I didnae--"

"Nay, read them. Ye are right. E'en if there arenae any odd messages that I didnae catch, I am still missing whate'er I saw there before. Ye might find that answer."

"Are these all of them?"

"Nay, there are more, but they are from years past. The woman spent a small fortune on these books to record her ran tings." He kissed her ear, felt her shiver, and nearly grinned.

"Did ye read those, too?" She leaned back against him and murmured her pleasure as he nibbled her ear.

"Aye, when I first found them, but I felt those from later years, from our marriage, held the answers I seek."

"Mayhap, but it may weel be that there was something in those earlier ones that at least made ye curious."

Diarmot softly cursed, set her on her feet, and moved to fetch those early journals from the shelf where he had stored them. He briefly thought he should read them, that he might find the answer he sought and save Ilsa from having to read Anabelle's rantings, then shook his head. Ilsa was right in saying a woman, one who had never met or been wronged by Anabelle, could read the journals with the cold eye of a stranger. He set the older journals on top of the newer ones, picked up the whole pile, and looked at Ilsa.

"Is this why ye sought me out?" he asked, hoping it was not.

"Nay, I came to tell ye that I have moved back into your bedchamber."

She sounded almost martyred, he mused, and nearly grinned. "Our bedchamber.

Good, tis where ye belong," he said as he turned and headed out of the room.

"Snuff the candles and bank the fire ere ye leave."

Ilsa wished he had not taken the journals because she would like to toss a few at his head. She sighed and began to do as he had ordered. After she had sulked for a day or two, she had sternly lectured herself. Diarmot had begun to remember their time together. Wariness still lingered for there had been two attempts to kill him since their handfasting, and her mind could accept that as reasonable even as her heart ached. That wariness would never be banished if she avoided him, however. He remembered that they had handfasted, remembered they had been lovers, and it was up to her to try to make him remember why. She could not be certain he had loved her, but she knew she had made him happy, that he had felt at peace with her. It would be impossible to remind him of all that from across the hall.

The man was a basketful of contradictions, she decided as she headed toward their bedchamber. He held her at some distance, yet obviously wanted her in his bed. He wondered if she might be a threat to him, yet held her close at night and accepted her as mother to his children. He was suspicious of her brothers, yet let them run tame over Clachthrom and appeared to accept their hunt for his enemy as genuine. As she opened the door to their bedchamber, Ilsa wondered if the man was aware of just how confused he was, then she stepped into the bedchamber and lost all track of her thoughts.

Diarmot was sprawled upon their bed wearing nothing more than a smile. She could see the lingering bruises and small, mostly healed, wounds he had suffered. She could also see the stout proof that he was healed enough to feel very randy indeed, Ilsa closed the bedchamber door and walked over to the bed.

"Impressive," she murmured.

"Thank ye, m'dear." He scowled when she turned and walked away. "Where are ye going?"

"Did ye expect me to start tearing my clothes off in a fit of unbridled lust?" she asked as she stepped behind the privacy screen and finally gave in to the urge to grin.

"That would have been satisfactory."

"For ye, nay doubt, but I am rather fond of this gown. And I have seen it all before, after all."

She struggled to muffle her giggle when he grunted in response to that idle disregard of his charms. In the smile he had given her as she had entered their bedchamber Ilsa had seen the ghost of the playful Diarmot she had once known.

That made her feel even more certain of her decision. This time there might be only a glimpse of the man she had loved, only a brief return to the joy she had once known, but she was sure there would be other times, that little by little the Diarmot who had so beguiled her a year ago would return.

Ilsa hurried to shed her clothes and wash. She brushed out her hair then donned the lace-trimmed night shift she had made from the fine blue linen she had bought. The way Diarmot watched her as she walked back toward the bed told her she had not been foolishly vain to think it flattered her.

"Verra fetching," Diarmot murmured. "In truth, there is only one thing I might suggest to make it look even more fetching."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"Drop it on the floor."

She could tell by the challenge in his gaze that he did not think she would do it. A pinch of the modesty she could not fully shake free of caused her to hesitate, but she pushed it aside. This would be their first night together since his memory had begun to return. It was the perfect time to be bold, Ilsa gave him a faint smile and slowly removed her night shift. Still smiling, she held it out at arm's length and dropped it.

"There. Ye think it looks more fetching now?" She noticed he was not looking at her night shift.

"Oh, aye." Diarmot reached for her and cursed softly when she eluded his grasp. "Now where are ye going?"

"Nay to the great hall to pour wine, that is for certain. I thought I had best bank the fire."

"Tis fine. Come back here and tend to this fire instead."