Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story)

Six

"Ye have to understand," she explained. "If ye plan to be here, workin' and eatin' with me, I'm going to have a few questions. It's not a usual practice of mine to allow a stranger to move in on my life so easily."

"Why did ye do that?" Will butted in, curiosity getting the better of him. Setting the bowl on the floor in front of him, he laced his fingers together, fully focused on the conversation. "I thought for sure we were going to fight the entire time, but then ye suddenly stopped flinging yer attitude at me."

"I don't have an attitude. I have a sense of self preservation and a caution around strangers, there's a difference." Glaring at him, she folded her arms, as if waiting for him to challenge her on the matter.

Letting the mounting questions he had about what made her act so independent go, he grinned. "Fine, then. What made ye change yer mind about me?"

She paused then, doubt flickering across her features for a second before she responded. "Sheila."

"Who's that?"

"More like what," she stated, nodding toward the door. "That's what I call my hammer."

"Ye named yer hammer?" he asked incredulously. "Why?"

"People name their swords, why is it odd that I named a hammer?"

"Fair point," he mumbled, staring at the weapon with a renewed interest. If she'd taken the time to name the thing, it was more important to her than he'd originally guessed. Still, that wasn't what fascinated him the most about the mallet at the moment. "And Sheila convinced ye to give me a chance, eh? How did she do that?"

Isobel's nose twitched, as if she were amused by something. "Sheila is my ultimate protector. Anyone who means me harm won't be able to take her from me; she's a magic hammer."

Staring at her wide eyed, Will didn't know what to say. Half of him wanted to laugh, while the other suddenly recalled the many sermons and scriptures that spoke out against witchcraft.

Laughing loudly, Isobel shook her head. "It's a joke, MacDonald. I know what they say about me in yer village. They all think I'm a witch—everyone does, no matter where I go. I just wanted to see yer face when I said something about working spells and the like."

"That's not a joke I would make around these parts," he replied seriously. "They hang witches faster than they can cry that they're innocent here. When my Da was my age, he said every week they heard more news of people being put to death for making deals with the Devil. It isn't so bad now, but I wouldn't fan the flames."

"Ye'd be surprised at how closely I know the witch trial system." Bitterness seeped into her tone and she glanced at the floor, a grimace crossing her face as she relived a memory unknown to him.

"Is that what ye meant before," he asked, trying to veer the conversation toward getting some of the answers he wanted out of her. "When ye said that people had tried to get rid of ye? They accused ye of being a witch?"

"Something like that." Her expression was stony now, her fingers curled into fists so tight it made her knuckles white. Combined with the stringy wetness of her hair and the dark cloak still wrapped around her, she looked like some vengeful spirit, waiting for the day of judgement.

"Are ye?" he asked softly, studying her face.

Staring back up at him, her emotions fell flat, her lips forming a thin line. "Would it make a difference to ye if I was?"

Caught off guard, Will realized that it didn't matter to him whether she was a witch or not. She still needed his help and was treating him kindly, despite his own stubbornness and refusal to listen to her. "No, it wouldn't."