"Ye make them sound like cursed saints, as if I blaspheme by e'en considering them liars or, worse, my enemies."
"Ill tempered for a mon who spent last night in the arms of a fair lass, arenae ye?"
"The woman appears at my wedding, claims things I cannae remember and none of ye ken aught about, waves some papers I dinnae recall signing under the priest's nose, and, next I ken, I am married to her. Aye, I feel certain she and I once made love. That isnae any reason to trust in her or her kinsmen. Neither is a kindness to children or a poor abused lass." He walked away from the window, tired of watching Ilsa and her brother act in a way more befitting Nanty's opinion of them than his own.
"Ye cling to your doubts and suspicions then," said Nanty as he turned to face Diarmot. "I may nay agree with them, but I can understand why ye have them.
Ye go ahead and try to prove the Camerons your enemies. I will work to prove ye are wrong."
"Why?"
"Because I believe their tale. I trust in Gillyanne's feelings about them.
When ye made your suspicions about them so clear, I saw only righteous anger in the men and hurt in the lass. And, when ye presented her with your brood, only one of whom is legitimate, I didnae see calm, sweet acceptance. Nay, I saw the anger any woman with wit and a spine would feel. The lass didnae seem to then forget ye had all those bairns, either, but has taken on the care of them. She didnae refuse ye her bed, either, despite how poorly ye behaved and I would wager she warmed it most satisfactorily. What I think," Nanty said as he walked toward the door, "is that one year ago ye finally pulled yourself free of the misery Anabelle had drowned ye in and found yourself a fine little wife. My intention is to see that ye keep her."
"Weel, ye best work fast then as ye will only be here for a few more days."
"Oh, didnae I say?" Nanty paused in the open doorway to smile sweetly at Diarmot. "I have decided to bless ye with my fine company for a wee while."
Diarmot stared at the door that Nanty shut behind him as he left. He told himself it would be childish to throw something at that door. A heartbeat later, he picked up a heavy tankard from his writing table and hurled it at the door.
That was not satisfying enough so he pulled his dagger and threw that at the door as well. He then moved to slouch in the chair facing his worktable and glared at the knife stuck in the thick door.
It was foolish to feel somewhat betrayed by his family who obviously believed Ilsa. That was their right. They also understood why he did not, could not.
Unfortunately, that understanding felt a little too much like pity or sympathy for an injured man. That was difficult to tolerate.
He sighed, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the high back of the chair. It was difficult to admit it, but his family was right. A man with such large holes in his memory was injured. His abysmal marriage had left him wounded in many ways as well. He did not want to trust Ilsa because he was afraid to, an admission that made him wince. Anabelle had shown him that he could not trust in his own judgments about people, especially women he lusted after. This time a bad judgment could do more than tear at his heart; it could kill him.
There were a few faint similarities between Ilsa and Anabelle. Ilsa was emotional, as had been Anabelle, yet he had only seen temper, passion, and humor. He thought he had seen pain as well, but dared not make any assumptions upon the truth of that or the cause. When he tried to think of other similarities between his late wife and his new one, he found none, but stoutly told himself they would appear as time passed.
Despite their short acquaintance, the differences between Anabelle and Ilsa were far more distinct. He only had to look out into the garden to see one clearly and that was Ilsa's open acceptance of his children. Anabelle had not even paid attention to Alice, her own child. Ilsa's temper had been hot, but not the screaming rage Anabelle had often displayed. Even Diarmot had to admit that Ilsa had had a good reason to be angry. Anabelle had never needed a reason. Ilsa was a passionate woman, but that passion lacked the darker emotions that had tainted Anabelle's passion. Even his wary heart and mind could not foresee that happening with Ilsa, either.