"Well then, since we're not strangers, tell me what you're doing out here alone in this ghastly weather and so far from home," Dirk said. It wasn't a question. He was demanding an answer. But she was not yet ready to give it to him.
Last she'd heard, the MacKays and the MacLeods were allies. And if that was still the case, she couldn't tell him what she'd done to that MacLeod knave who'd attacked her. Dirk might drag her back to Munrick. After all, he was planning to stay there this night.
Though he'd sheathed his weapon, she was not yet ready to put hers away. Her fingers were almost frozen to the dagger's bone hilt.
Isobel glanced at her maid and then back to him. "'Tis naught for you to worry over. We are used to the Highland weather."
Even through the waning daylight, his pale eyes speared her. They were light blue, but not soft. His gaze could be called nothing but sharp, penetrating… even when he was smiling. She recalled vividly that he had smiled at her once and spoken a few words, but it had been so long ago. At the time, she'd been too shy to utter a response. She'd found his pointed gaze both compelling and intimidating, and he'd had a defensive way about him. Every time she'd glanced at him in the great hall of Teasairg Castle, her clan's home, he'd been silently assessing those around him with intelligent but distrustful eyes. He regarded her the same way now.
"The weather is not improving and I'd like to be arriving at Munrick afore dark," Dirk grumbled. "Surely the MacLeods will give us a place to sleep for the night. Highland hospitality and all. Our clans have ever been friendly."
Saints! Her maid grabbed her elbow, startling her. The last thing she could do was go back there. But how to avoid it—and Dirk—without drawing suspicions?
His frown deepened. "Every time I mention the MacLeods or Munrick you look as if you'd like to flee. What have you neglected to tell me?" he asked, his tone hard.
"We cannot go there. 'Tis north of here. We're headed south."
He narrowed his gaze and studied her for a moment. "That's where you've come from, is it not?" he asked in a calm, almost understanding, tone she hadn't expected. Most men she knew lost patience when she wouldn't do what they wanted or tell them what they wished to know.
Though she was unsure she could trust him, his deep, roughened voice and his intelligent gaze compelled her to do just that. She nodded, praying he would not force her back to Munrick.
"What happened?" he asked.
She shook her head. There was no way in hades she would go into it now. She didn't know what connection he might have to the MacLeods. "'Tis best I not say."
Dirk sighed, then glanced up at the low-hanging clouds and the snow pouring from them. "We have to get out of this weather, Lady Isobel. Gloaming is upon us. The snow is deepening and the wind is picking up. I don't have time to take you all the way to Dornie. I've had a missive. My father is ill and dying. I have to make haste to Durness."
A sinking sensation hit her in the stomach, reminding her of her own father's illness and death three years before. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear this news. I'll not keep you, then." She gave a curtsy though it wasn't so elegant with her legs stiff and sore from the walking and hill-climbing.
He frowned, his astute gaze dropping to her aching and injured hand, which she realized she now held protectively close to her chest. She lowered it to hide it in her skirts again.
"Are you hurt?" Dirk asked.
"Nay." Heavens, he could not find out what had happened to her. What if Nolan MacLeod was one of his friends? They were near the same age. "Why would you think this?"
He took a step toward her. Impulsively, she jumped back and lifted the dagger. "Stay away from me."
He halted and slowly offered his hand. "Lady Isobel, surely you ken I would never hurt you. Put down the dagger and let me see your hand." His tone was still too demanding for her taste.
She shook her head, still not trusting him. Her maid clutched at her arm and together they inched backwards.
He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm not leaving you out here to die in this snowstorm," he growled.
"And we're not going to Munrick with you." She tried to keep her voice from shaking.
Even though he was so big he could toss her over his shoulder and carry her off like a sack of flour if he wished, she would not back down. Not only that, he had reinforcements. His dark-eyed friend who stood beside him was equally broad of shoulder, and almost as tall.
"Well then, we'll go someplace else." Dirk's voice was softer, but no less annoyed.
"Where?" she asked.
"I know not at the moment but we shall find a place. Come."
She glanced again at the man beside him. He too looked the formidable warrior, wearing tall expensive leather boots, brown trews, a plaid, and a wool mantle. Rich as his clothing was, an odd mixture of Highland and Lowland, he might be a chief or member of the nobility. What if he was an ally of the MacLeods? They had connections far and wide.
"This is Rebbie, a good friend," Dirk said. "He is trustworthy as well."
She hesitated. "Which clan is he from?"
"MacInnis."
She had never met a MacInnis before and had no idea who they were allied with.
"M'lady, 'tis a great pleasure to meet you." The dark-haired man gave a sweeping bow as if they stood in Holyrood Palace instead of a Highland snowstorm. He had to be a laird, but he didn't seem offended that Dirk had introduced him as simply Rebbie.
She attempted an awkward curtsy, but her knees almost gave out. Ashamed of her weakness, she stiffened her legs. They had run out of bread at midday, and she'd been hungrier than usual, what with walking in the cold.
Another man appeared behind Rebbie and she stiffened. How many men traveled with them?
"This is my manservant, George," Rebbie said.
Isobel nodded, then motioned to her companion. "And this is my maid, Beitris."
"Enough with the pleasantries and introductions," Dirk snapped. "Do you wish to die out here?"
"Nay," she said, hoping her tone was equally curt. She didn't enjoy being out in a snowstorm any more than he did. But neither did she wish to die at the hands of Nolan MacLeod or any of his kin.
Dirk waved her forward. "You can ride on my mount. We will not go to Munrick. Are you hungry?"
"M'lady," Beitris whispered. "You do need to eat something."
"As do you. Do you have extra food?" she asked Dirk.
"Aye."
She slid the dagger back into its sheath in the pouch hanging from her belt. Clinging to each other, she and Beitris moved forward, their feet slipping on the wet snow.
"I'll get the horses," George said.
Dirk nodded and offered Isobel his arm. Thankful her good hand was nearest him, she grabbed onto his substantial elbow. Even through the layers of clothing, the hard, flexing muscles of his arm were obvious.
Her feet slipped again.
"Have a care," he murmured, steadying her.
"Aye."
Beitris, clung to her other elbow, jerking this way and that, her leather slippers apparently even slicker than Isobel's.
"I bet your feet are near frozen," Dirk said.
"Very nearly so." She wondered at his concern. Certainly most men did not give her feet a second thought.
"When did you last eat?" he asked.
"A few hours ago, but I'm not famished." The mere thought of food prompted her stomach to growl loudly, negating her words. 'Twas true though that she wouldn't mind eating.
With a raised brow, he glanced down at her. "You started on a long trek with little food?"
"We ran out." The small loaf of sliced bread Beitris had lifted from the kitchen hadn't lasted as long as they'd hoped.
"And when did you start on this journey from Munrick?"
"Last night."
He nodded. "I have some food in my pack."
Once George and Rebbie led the horses forward—two large beasts more resembling war horses and one smaller Highland pony—Dirk released her and dug into his
pack. He handed a bannock to her and one to Beitris.
"I thank you," Isobel said then bit into the flat oatcake. Never had anything tasted so good, like hearty oat flour fried in butter. With a lifted brow, he watched her eat. Ashamed of devouring the food as if she were a starving boar, she slowed down and took dainty bites. Although she didn't know why she should care what he thought of her manners.
Once she'd finished, he handed each of them a second bannock.
"Will that tide you over for a short while until we reach our lodgings?"
She nodded, unsure where their lodgings would be. Perhaps the same ruined hut they'd stayed in last night.
Once their second bannocks were but a memory and their stomachs satisfied, Dirk said, "All right then. Ready to mount up?"
"I suppose." She couldn't get far in her slippers without falling. "And again, I thank you for the food."
"You're welcome. If you're thirsty, you'll have to eat snow until we reach a stream."
"Aye, we've had plenty of snow already."
Dirk approached her and lifted her into the saddle. She was thrown off-kilter for a moment, being lifted so swiftly. She caught hold of the horse's mane and steadied herself.
"Mistress," George said to Beitris. "You can ride my pony if you wish."
"You will receive a bonus for your generosity, George," Rebbie said.
The young man grinned. "'Tis not necessary, m'laird."
Aha, so this Rebbie was a laird. Why on earth did they not introduce him as such? What were they hiding?
"Hold to the saddle," Dirk told Isobel.
She nodded and clutched her good hand around the leather. She covered her injured hand with her arisaid. It felt near frozen, but the icy air had diminished the pain somewhat.
On foot, Dirk led the horse forward along the snowy trail.
"I did not intend to take your mount," Isobel said, raising her voice to be heard over the gust of wind.
"You didn't," he called back.
She observed him from the back, an imposing and fearsome warrior. Though she had not recognized him at first because he'd changed so profoundly, now she remembered with clarity how she'd felt the first time she'd looked into his blue eyes, so fierce and intense. He had even appeared annoyed then.
At fifteen, he had intrigued her, yet frightened her at the same time. Now, since his muscular frame had filled out into that of a man, he was even more intimidating. But she didn't think he meant her harm. Clearly, his soul was not as icy as his eyes or he would've left her out in the snow to freeze to death.
"Do you have a suggestion where we might find lodgings for the night, south of Munrick?" he asked.
"There is an abandoned crofter's hut."
He turned, frowning at her. "You jest."
She shook her head. Was he surprised that a lady, the daughter and sister of chiefs, could lower her standards so much? 'Haps he, like a lot of others, thought she was a cosseted lady who would throw a tantrum if she couldn't stay in the most elegant of lodgings.
"Is that where you stayed last night?" he asked.
She did not wish him to know anything more about her, but every time she opened her mouth, she revealed another bit of information he could use against her. In addition, he was astute and canny. Even if she didn't tell him everything, he might surmise the rest.
Still, they had to find somewhere to stay the night. Outside of Munrick Castle, or a cottage in the village, there was nowhere else to stay. She could not show her face in the village. Surely the MacLeods had searched every cottage by now, and their inhabitants would be more than happy to turn her over to their laird's brother. No matter his attempted crime, she was the outsider.
"The crofter's hut was not so bad. We built a fire in the smaller room which was more enclosed against the wind."
"Ah. If it was so cozy, why does no one live there?"
"Well, there is the small matter of the half-missing roof."
"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered. "And how much further back to this crofter's hut?"
"I'm not certain. We left early this morn." But they'd also gotten lost before dawn and followed the wrong trail for a long while. Once she'd realized they were traveling east instead of south, they'd had to backtrack. Besides, it was slow going with Beitris's bad knees and hip.
Dirk led his sure-footed horse up an incline, a hill-pass between gigantic granite mountains. The snow fell thicker at the top and the wind buffeted them with more biting force. Once they'd descended the other side, Dirk paused. "We can make better time if we all ride," he called back to George.
"Do you think you can ride pillion, sitting on my bedroll?" he asked her.
She nodded, momentarily unsettled by the thought of him sitting so close in front of her, between her legs. She had no choice but to ride astride if she wished to keep her seat. But this was his horse, and he was generous for allowing her to ride it. Trying not to further injure her hand, she awkwardly scooted back onto the soft roll of wool blankets behind the saddle.
"If you could lean back slightly, I'll be able to mount without kicking you," Dirk said. When she did, he threw his leg over and gracefully hoisted himself into the saddle.
Once George and Beitris were mounted similarly, they all increased their pace across the flatter ground. The trotting horse jiggled her about but with her good hand she held on to Dirk's rock solid shoulder.
A moment of panic seized her at the thought of riding north again, closer to the MacLeods, but the truth was she and Beitris needed help. She'd had no inkling where they would've stayed tonight if Dirk and his companions hadn't happened along.
"You are friends with the MacLeods, are you not?" she asked.
He lifted one huge shoulder and let it drop. "Our clans were allies last I heard, but I haven't been in these parts in several years."
She relaxed a wee bit after that. If he wasn't a close friend of the chief and his brother, maybe he wouldn't force her to go back to that hellish place.
"The MacKenzies and the MacLeods, are they allies now?" he asked.
"I suppose." That was part of the marriage agreement, some land switching hands, along with peace. But since she'd run away, she knew not what problems that might cause. Once her brother learned of the abuse, he would be furious. She would beg him not to retaliate. It wasn't worth the loss of life.
She also prayed Cyrus wouldn't force her to go back. He cared about her, but he was not as compassionate or indulgent as their father had been. He wanted her to grow up and accept her responsibilities, and that meant marrying whichever chief he told her to.
The wind whipped by them harder and harder. Dirk turned aside. "Are you warm enough?"
"Aye." With him sitting so near, he blocked most of the north wind. She wondered what it would be like to snuggle underneath the shaggy wool mantle with him. Toasty warm from his body heat, she was certain. Simply imagining it, she tingled. She had not been comfortably warm for a long time. Never had she snuggled close to a man for warmth, and never had such a thought been so appealing as it was now with Dirk.
Just before nightfall stole the last of the light, the ruined crofter's hut came into view.
"The abandoned cottage is there." She pointed.
"Ah. I can see now why it is abandoned," Dirk said dryly.
'Twas true the roof looked a ramshackle mess, but she now held a strange fondness for the old structure. "It provided decent shelter for the night, and no one knew we were there."
"You were hiding out, then?"
A chill of warning coursed through her. "In a manner of speaking," she said carefully. "We didn't wish to draw the attention of outlaws." Or anyone who knows the MacLeods.
***
Nolan MacLeod gently stroked his fingertips over the huge swollen lump on his head that the MacKenzie bitch had given him. The night before, he'd awakened in a sticky pool of his own blood. Damn her.
Fortunately, he'd been able to leave her bedchamber before anyone had found him knocked out. The last
thing he needed was for his clingy, irritating wife or his brother to suspect what he'd been after. Isobel MacKenzie was one tasty morsel he'd like to sink his teeth into. Not only that, but she thought she was better than everyone else, including him. He'd wanted to show her she wasn't so high and mighty. Sure, she was a countess, but only because she'd been married to an old, decrepit earl.
The servants who'd found the blood in her room assumed it was hers and that she'd disappeared under mysterious circumstances. They'd raised the alarm and the guards had gone out looking for her. No one had found her as of yet. Some thought she'd staggered out injured and drowned in the loch. Others said they'd wager their last bottle of Scotch that someone had slipped in, knocked her on the head and kidnapped her, given her beauty.
Where had she gone? She must have run away during the night.
Nolan had made them think he'd drunk too much whisky the night before and passed out in his brother's empty chamber.
Once Nolan had come to his senses and washed the blood from his hair, he'd sent some additional clansmen out looking for her and her maid. No one in the village had seen them last night or this morn. How could they simply vanish?
What did it matter? A snowstorm had moved in soon after and the wind had blown colder. He hoped the wee witch froze to death. 'Twould serve her right after she'd left him for dead.
He'd never before seen a woman fight back as she had. His wife certainly wouldn't or he would knock her flat. But this Isobel thought she was a queen. She believed she had the right to do whatever she wanted. Clearly, her father and brother had never kept her in line.
If she showed up here again, she'd cause all sorts of trouble for him. She might tell Torrin he'd tried to force her. Not that his brother would believe her.
Still, Torrin wouldn't be happy that his intended bride was gone. What would he do? And when would he be home?
Tomorrow, he would send one of Torrin's men to him at Lairg and let him know what happened. If he didn't, he would look suspicious.
Nolan certainly wasn't braving a snowstorm to look for her. And she'd never show her face here again, unless her brother forced her back.
My Brave Highlander Page 4