A soft rap at the door distracted him and he bade the person to enter. His eyes widened slightly when Ilsa slipped into the room. In the four days since she had overheard his crude words to Nanty he had seen little of her. Diarmot knew he should apologize for that remark, yet he hesitated. He recalled a great deal about their time together a year ago, but still fought against giving her the trust he had given her then. The attack in Muirladen had beaten it out of him and rereading Anabelle's journals had sharply reminded him that his judgment was not always sound.
As she approached him, he knew he was willing to accept one thing about their relationship without hesitation or question, and that was the passion they shared. Now that they had both apparently healed from their ordeal at the ridge, he wanted her back in his arms. Since Ilsa had sought him out, perhaps she was ready to return to his bed. He had missed her at his side and, after reading Anabelle's dark, sordid writings, Diarmot realized he hungered for the clean honesty of Ilsa's passion.
"What has kept ye hiding in here all the day and into the night?" she asked as she reached his side.
"My late wife's writings," he replied. "I cannae shake the feeling that something I read here sent me hieing off to Dubheidland or someplace near there."
"Ye cannae recall the reason yet?"
"Nay, that memory hasnae returned yet. Tis there, but tis just out of my reach." He watched her pale slightly as she read from the journal open on the table. "Ye dinnae wish to see that filth," he said and closed the book.
Ilsa looked at Diarmot as she pushed aside her shock over what she had just read. "Ye didnae find anything?"
He shook his head, curled his arm around her waist, and tugged her down onto his lap. "Naught."
"Should I read them for ye?"
"They arenae easy reading, Ilsa, and are filled with the same sort of sordid ran tings ye just read."
"Nay doubt, but I believe I can endure it. I didnae ken Anabelle, have only heard about her. I was ne'er wronged by her so I can read what she wrote without hurt, anger, or any other emotion. Aye, I suspect I will be shocked, but that will fade. I am also a woman and may see something ye, as a mon, cannae see."
"Words are read the same way by men and women."
"Aye, but the meaning of them can differ, each one who reads the words understanding something different from them. Believe me when I tell ye that a woman can write or say something that will mean one thing to a mon and something verra different to a woman. Howbeit, if ye would rather I didnae--"
"Nay, read them. Ye are right. E'en if there arenae any odd messages that I didnae catch, I am still missing whate'er I saw there before. Ye might find that answer."
"Are these all of them?"
"Nay, there are more, but they are from years past. The woman spent a small fortune on these books to record her ran tings." He kissed her ear, felt her shiver, and nearly grinned.
"Did ye read those, too?" She leaned back against him and murmured her pleasure as he nibbled her ear.
"Aye, when I first found them, but I felt those from later years, from our marriage, held the answers I seek."
"Mayhap, but it may weel be that there was something in those earlier ones that at least made ye curious."
Diarmot softly cursed, set her on her feet, and moved to fetch those early journals from the shelf where he had stored them. He briefly thought he should read them, that he might find the answer he sought and save Ilsa from having to read Anabelle's rantings, then shook his head. Ilsa was right in saying a woman, one who had never met or been wronged by Anabelle, could read the journals with the cold eye of a stranger. He set the older journals on top of the newer ones, picked up the whole pile, and looked at Ilsa.
"Is this why ye sought me out?" he asked, hoping it was not.
"Nay, I came to tell ye that I have moved back into your bedchamber."
She sounded almost martyred, he mused, and nearly grinned. "Our bedchamber.
Good, tis where ye belong," he said as he turned and headed out of the room.
"Snuff the candles and bank the fire ere ye leave."
Ilsa wished he had not taken the journals because she would like to toss a few at his head. She sighed and began to do as he had ordered. After she had sulked for a day or two, she had sternly lectured herself. Diarmot had begun to remember their time together. Wariness still lingered for there had been two attempts to kill him since their handfasting, and her mind could accept that as reasonable even as her heart ached. That wariness would never be banished if she avoided him, however. He remembered that they had handfasted, remembered they had been lovers, and it was up to her to try to make him remember why. She could not be certain he had loved her, but she knew she had made him happy, that he had felt at peace with her. It would be impossible to remind him of all that from across the hall.