Page 8 of Much Ado About a Scot

Isobel dashed the tears from her cheeks with her hands before looking up. “It’s nothing. I am simply tired.”

“I can understand why. You should have at least ten workers to help with the harvest.” He scooted back from the table then stood. “Doing all this by yourself is a herculean task.”

At the unexpected recognition of her efforts, new tears sprang forth. Furiously, she batted them away as she stood. “Every moment we delay, we risk losing more of the crop. We should get started in the field. I have tools in a shed out back.”

He came to stand beside her and placed a hand on her arm. “Isobel,” he said softly.

Her muscles tensed beneath his touch. She tried to shrug off his hand, but he curled his fingers around her arm.

“I know what it’s like to always have to be strong for everyone else.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“That’s true, but I know that look of despair. I’ve seen it before on the battlefield after the fighting was over—after the dying were left behind. I do know what it feels like when you believe all hope is gone.”

Isobel heard the hint of pain in his voice that matched her own. Did he really know what it was like to hide what you felt from those around you? To never give in to the fear and anxiety that threatened her daily? Despite her efforts to control herself, she started to tremble.

In the next moment, Xander pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He simply waited for her to give in. Finally, she crumpled against him, unable to resist the comfort he offered. Never had she been allowed to grieve for Rory, or to admit her relief when Ezra died and his abuse had ended.

Trembling, her tears broke free. She closed her eyes and let them fall as the warmth of Xander’s body seeped into her very soul. It had been a long time since anyone had held her in such a caring way. How had he done it? In only a few hours of knowing him, he had pierced all of her defenses. She’d spent the last few years guarding herself, trying to keep anyone from getting too close, and yet here she was in his arms, crying like a child.

And suddenly, an emotion different from sorrow crept over her, that of humiliation. Isobel opened her eyes to stare at the wet linen of his shirt as her breathing slowed and her tears stopped. What had she done?

“Feeling better?” he asked, pulling back slightly but not releasing her.

She couldn’t bring her gaze to his as she slipped out of his arms. This man, this stranger, had seen her at her most vulnerable. And yet, while he’d held her, it was as if he understood her pain. As if he had shared it.

“Isobel?” His brogue accentuated the soft vowels of her name, bringing a warmth to her core at the sound of his voice.

“I’m fine now,” she said, fighting the sensation. She stepped further away, needing more distance between them. Lifting her chin, she finally brought her gaze to his. “I can promise that won’t happen again.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What won’t happen? Me touching you, or you willingly falling into my arms?”

A lump filled her throat until Isobel could hardly breathe. He was right. She had gone willingly into his arms. She had needed his comfort to force her pain away. Need was not something she allowed herself to feel, not after Rory had died. But in Xander’s presence, she had succumbed to her grief. Why? She knew almost nothing about him, and if truth be told, she cared about him even less.

He was a means to an end.

She needed to stay focused on that—her ultimate goal of bringing in the harvest, selling the grain, and paying off her debts to David Graham. Isobel brushed the remnants of her tears from her cheeks and straightened. “I apologize. Crying never solved any problem before. I doubt it will help me now.”

Turning toward the door she moved to leave, but he blocked the way. His body filled the doorway. “We’re not going anywhere.”

She frowned up at him. “We should go outside and walk the fields. We need to create a plan.”

Xander returned her steady gaze. “You are going to go upstairs and see your son while I go outside and take a look at the harvest situation.”

“But—”

“Upstairs.”

Isobel stared at him disbelievingly. “You have no right to tell me what to do on my farm.”

“You mean our farm, don’t you?” He moved until he was merely inches from her. She smelled the whisky that lingered on his clothing and the musky scent of his sweat. His eyes were dark, cold stones in his face, and it was all Isobel could do to keep from backing away. “And aye, I’ll tell you what to do if it’s the right thing. Go see your son. If you are feeling overwhelmed and raw by all that has happened, consider how he must be feeling.”

Jamie was a child. How could he possibly know the pressure she was under to make certain Gladmuir Hall remained intact for him to inherit? He didn’t know anything about her struggles, did he? Isobel clenched her fists at her sides as anger flashed through her. Xander was right. She needed to at least check on her son. “Just because you are right this one time, doesn’t mean you can tell me how to run this farm for the next two months. Understand?”

Xander’s face hardened. “Perfectly.” He stepped around her and made his way out the door, leaving her alone in the sudden silence of the kitchen.

That one word had been filled with not anger, but disdain. She wanted to ignore the curl the thought brought to the pit of her stomach, but could not. Why did it suddenly matter to her what the man thought about her? He’d come here to help her. What more did she want from him?