Dubh, it had been like he donned an extra layer of armor against her. When she’d asked him why he wore the mud, he’d simply barked, “Protection.” As if she was supposed to know what that meant. She’d tried to pry it out of him as he stored his satchel of fish in the frigid river, but he paid her no heed.
When he’d gathered shamrocks from the loch and dressed his wound with herbs, he’d been strangely modest, hiding most of his action beneath his robes.
He’d been so bloody adamant about wanting the truth, hadn’t he? Well she’d been honest with him. What did she have to lose by the admission? More to the point, why would he be disturbed by it? She didn’t particularly like the idea that the only thing to break the bleak apathy surrounding her this past year was a miserly old Druid with an infuriating air of superiority. But there it was. He awakened sensation inside of her. Evoked her natural curiosities. Fascinated and distressed her.
Made her forget…
Most men would have welcomed her questions, taking any occasion to impress her with ceaseless conversation on their favorite topics. Namely themselves. But nay, not he, not Daroch mud-face McLeod. What did he do when he’d garnered her interest? Ordered her to leave! Thrown things at her—well—through her, but even so. Treated her as though her company was undesirable.
And yet the question remained: Why!?
“Yes, brighten yer glow until I can get these bricks started.” He stacked them in his arms.
Kylah made a sound of irritation which he either didn’t recognize or ignored.
“This is all new and fine material. If ye lost everything in the fire, where did ye get it?” he asked.
“Laird MacKay had it delivered to my mother as we resided here until recently.”
He turned to her then, the surprise on his face evident, even through the mask. “She remained… here?” He looked around as though seeing the place for the first time.
The large circular room had accommodated the smithy’s waiting customers and, later, the washhouse. Blackened stones, earth, charred beams and ash covered the ground. The once vaulted ceilings were non-existent but for one corner which had been where her mother had stacked the cot upon which she’d slept. A wall of stone lay where the arch to the small room that housed her father’s forge had been. That room remained mostly intact, though the bricks were now black instead of earth and all that remained of the ceiling was a fine layer of ash over everything.
Kylah never ventured into that room.
“How did she survive?”
The corner closest to the burned-out entry had become Kylah’s by edict of the amount of time she spent there. Kylah lurked there now, feeling on edge as she considered the Druid’s question.
“The Laird sent food, bread, cheese, potatoes, jerky, things that didn’t need to be cooked. Animal furs, and that.” She gestured to the makings for a long-lasting fire.
“There’s a year’s worth of fire here, she never lit one? Even in the winter?” His skeptical voice grated on her already raw nerves.
“Never.” She cast a pointed look at the state of the building. “She had somewhat of an aversion to fire.”
His brows lifted, but he wisely remained silent as he maneuvered through the rubble with his arms full of coal and disappeared into the back. “The bellows are not too damaged,” he called to her. “I’ll need to go into town for the textiles to repair it. ‘Tis a fine forge yer father built.”
“Aye,” she agreed, still unable to look at it.
He appeared in the entry, returning for another load for the fire. “If I’m lucky, yer father will have a safe place in the fireclay where a few of his tools would be kept untouched by rust and such.”
Kylah searched her memory. “Behind the row of anvils, beneath the slack tub.” At least he was speaking to her now.
He disappeared into the room again with another armful of coal. “Show me,” he ordered.
“Nay.” Her refusal was instantaneous.
His head reappeared in the entry. “Nay? What do ye mean, ‘Nay?’”
“Have you never heard the word before?” she asked, stunning them both with the ire in her voice.
His hazel eyes turned stormy and he stood atop the rubble, glowering down at her from across the wide ashen floor. “What’s gotten into ye, woman?”
“Me? What’s gotten into me, you ask?” Kylah watched her green glow crawl across the ashes, though she didn’t move from where she stood. “You’ve been naught but churlish and ill-tempered