Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story)

Nine

The hammer struck against the wood over and over again, sweat dripping down Will's shirtless back. At the moment, he wouldn't have really cared if it rained again, despite the fact that there was absolutely no roof on Isobel's house.

Everything the Irishwoman owned had been covered or moved out of the space to avoid being broken during the construction of the new ceiling. The old one had been torn down, the pieces that had been able to be salvaged reworked back into the new frame. The timber that Isobel had gathered herself was used as well, all the other pieces coming from a fallen tree that Will had spent one whole day finding, wandering all over the mountain until he came across it.

"Will."

Anchoring himself against the support beam, he turned, looking at Isobel as she appeared at the top of the ladder he'd lashed together. In her hands, she held a cup of water, the glass held out to him as an offering.

Hot and thirsty, he hung the small hammer on one of the beams and took it from her, gulping the cool liquid down eagerly.

"Would ye like some more?" She sounded tired, but her eyes were as bright as ever, watching as he nodded.

"Aye. I'll come down and get it myself, though, so ye don't have to carry it up for me again."

"I don't mind."

"I ken."

Grimacing at the strain in their conversation, he waited for her to climb back down, wiping his face with his hand. In an attempt to distract himself, he looked across the space, thinking. The frame work was almost done, which meant by tomorrow they should be able to start laying the thatch out. Ten days had passed since he arrived. The roof would be done in another two or three, and then it would be time to go home.

Checking to make sure the ladder was clear, he wiped his sweaty palms on his kilt and climbed down, hopping off the third rung up. All around him, heather and reeds were laid out, soaking up all the sun they could get before being tacked into the roof. Isobel had been working on making sure they were all dry in time.

Glancing over at the water trough, he saw her sitting beside it, murmuring to Arth as she stroked his face. Her brown dress was looking more tattered than usual, various pieces of dried plant sticking out of her hair. Her face shone with sweat, but she was still as beautiful as ever.

Scolding himself for thinking such a thing, Will shook his head and strode over to her, filling the cup and gulping down more water. He'd been doing his best to keep his distance ever since he realized his feelings were leaning toward the romantic side. Instead of helping him keep a clear head, though, the action had the opposite effect. All he could think about was Isobel and how it had felt to hold her in his arms. He was plagued by the scent of her hair, the sound of her voice, the image of her in the twilight. A desire to run his fingers through her curly locks filled him, to press her against him, to kiss her lips and know what it felt like to be completely claimed by her.

Every day, she would smile at him and he would hate himself for looking away, for not smiling back, for distancing himself from the one person he wanted to spend time with. The actions were driving him mad. Every thought he had of her physically hurt, his body seeming to reject the idea that he belonged to someone else.

To make it even worse, he knew he was hurting her. He could see her withdrawing, wondering what she had done wrong, questioning why he was suddenly so short with her. She'd gone from being carefree and joyous to angry and work-minded, choosing, like him, to focus on the task at hand instead of talking all the time. The only difference was, she was still trying. She would ask him questions about his family and tell stories of her own. Her voice grew quieter every day, an emptiness filling the air around them.