The final time he'd tried to get his father to listen, to tell him that his stepmother wished him dead, his father had turned a deaf ear. Da could not believe anything so evil about the woman he loved. Even so, Dirk knew his father had loved him. And he still loved his father. He only wished he could see him alive one last time.
***
The only thing Dirk was aware of when he awoke was that someone landed a sharp knee to his stomach. An attack? He quickly grabbed the squirming assailant's arms and pinned the person beneath him. A female screamed. The room was so dark, he could barely see a thing beyond a few dying orange coals where a fire had been earlier.
What the hell was going on? Where was his dagger?
"Rebbie?" he yelled. Rebbie had been lying nearby, hadn't he?
"Aye?" he said in a groggy voice.
"Unhand me!" a woman yelled beneath him.
A woman? He was pinning a woman to the floor? Isobel.
Releasing her, Dirk muttered several Gaelic curses and drew back. "Why did you slam your knee into my stomach?" he demanded.
"I did naught! I was asleep. Next thing I know, you are tackling me to the floor as if you're wrestling a wild boar. I'll have a huge lump on my head where you bashed it."
Annoyance and confusion crawled through him. "I was lying here asleep and your knee drove into my stomach. I'm not a madman," he growled.
"Nor am I… a madwoman."
"You attacked me." Even as he said the words to a wee lass like Isobel, he felt daft.
Rebbie snickered and lit the lantern.
"Your bedroll is over there." Now that Dirk could see in the dim light, he pointed to her abandoned blanket near the wall. "Clearly, you've moved and I haven't, except to protect my vitals."
She struggled to her feet and dusted off her clothing, the dark flush staining her pale skin obvious. "Well… perhaps I was trying to walk across the floor, and you lay in my way. 'Twas dark!"
"I'm sure that must be it." While his heart rate calmed and his body unwound, he shoved his hand through his hair. No attack. No battle. 'Twas no doubt time to awaken and start on their journey anyway. Dawn came late this time of year.
Rising and throwing the mantle over his other layers of clothing, he went outside behind the cottage to relieve himself. Despite the darkness, the blanket of snow reflected meager moonlight and he was glad to see the icy flakes were no longer falling.
Good thing Isobel's knee hadn't landed a foot lower or he might yet be doubled over in agony. What had gotten into her?
"What was that about?" Rebbie asked, relieving himself a few yards away.
"One minute I'm dreaming about eating roasted rabbit, and the next, a woman's bony knee is shoving violently into my stomach. You figure it out."
"So… mayhap she simply wished to come outside to relieve herself but was embarrassed to say so. She couldn't see you lying there on the floor, and she tripped and fell."
"I hope that's it. My next guess is that she's an assassin."
Rebbie snorted. "Now wouldn't that make things interesting?"
They adjusted their clothing.
"She told me about her situation. She's betrothed to the MacLeod chief. In his absence, his younger brother injured her for some reason. She wouldn't tell me why. We'll have to be extra careful as we pass Munrick. They cannot see her face or know who she is."
"Is there no way to avoid the area?"
"Nay, the only safe path through these craggy mountains goes by the castle and the loch."
***
"Oh dear heavens," Isobel muttered, unable to believe what she'd done. Injuring Dirk? She shook her head and Beitris, now adding straw to the fire, sent her a sheepish look. Her maid was supposed to prevent Isobel's sleepwalking disasters whenever possible, but clearly she'd been asleep too.
Isobel had no memory of getting up off her blanket or venturing across the room. All she'd been aware of was Dirk grabbing her and rolling her beneath his large hard body, slamming her to the packed earth floor. Her head hadn't hit as hard as she'd implied, but it definitely had a tender spot on it. Unsure where she was at first, she'd been too terrified to form words, but had finally gotten them out. A heartbeat after Dirk had said Rebbie's name, she remembered. Apparently, she'd simply tripped over him. She had no reason to attack him or hurt him in any way. Surely he knew that.
Fuzzy memories of earlier events came to her. The pain in her broken finger when Rebbie had set it, and how she'd snuggled up next to Dirk as he was holding her firmly in place. He was cozy… strong but gentle, like a big, gruff bear. There was no cushion on his body anywhere. He was all solid warrior muscle. A hidden, instinctive part of her appreciated that a great deal.
And to have him lying on top of her when he'd pinned her to the floor, well… 'twas frightening at first. But thinking back on it now… there was no one she'd rather be pinned beneath. She had always hated and feared men's aggressive, forceful ways, but she didn't fear Dirk. She found the confident way he moved and the firm but tender way he touched her to be spellbinding.
Leaning forward, she noticed one of her oiled leather boots had come untied during the night. Forming the leather strings into the beginnings of a bow, she struggled to retie them. Blast! Pains shot through her broken finger with even the slightest movement of her hand. Still, she attempted to use her first finger for tying but the stiff strips of leather were not cooperating.
The wool curtain flicked aside as Dirk and Rebbie entered the room. Dirk's intense gaze met hers immediately. A strange, feverish heat covered her. What on earth was wrong with her? He made her uncomfortable, but at the same time, she wished she could do naught but study him at length. Instead, she focused on her boots again.
"M'lady, 'haps we should excuse ourselves," Beitris moved toward her.
"Aye, as soon as I tie this."
"I'll help." Beitris started to kneel. "Och." Flinching, she froze and grabbed her back.
"Beitris, are you well?" She worried about her maid and feared this journey through the snow was too much for her.
"Aye, 'tis only that the cold has seeped into my joints and stiffened them."
"Allow me," Dirk said. "It appears you're in much pain, mistress."
"My bones are not as young as they used to be. And I thank you, kind sir."
Isobel's face burned hot as the peat coals. "I'll manage."
"Nonsense." Dirk knelt by her feet and gently pushed her hands away. "The last thing you want to do is bump that broken finger." He quickly tied the leather strings and rose to his feet to tower over her once more. Very efficient. Everything he did was efficient, but this only served as a façade hiding his caring and concern.
"I thank you," she said.
He gave a brief bow. "We must hurry. We need to pass by Munrick Castle before daybreak, and before most of the men are awake. At all costs, they must not recognize who you are."
Aye, but what would happen if they did?
***
Just before dawn, they neared Munrick Castle. Isobel sat atop Dirk's massive black horse while he led the animal and carried a lantern. Rebbie, George and Beitris followed on horseback.
Her stomach aching, she wished they didn't have to pass the castle, but they couldn't avoid it. The immense granite Assynt Mountains stood tall and forbidding against the dark blue predawn sky. The rippling, dark loch reflected a few stars that peeped through the clouds. Between the mountains and the water lay Munrick Castle and the narrow trail.
The torches at the castle gates loomed ahead, the flames flickering wildly in the wind, their reflections dancing in the water. Isobel had hoped to never see this hellish place again. She pulled her cowl and the extra plaid blanket Dirk had provided more securely over her head, hoping none of the MacLeods would recognize her or her maid. Beitris knew to hide her face as well.
"Say naught," Dirk murmured back to her. "I'll take care of it."
She nodded, thankful she could trust him.
Closer and closer, Dirk led them a
ll to the shadowy castle. They would not enter, she reminded herself.
Breathe.
Dark figures moved near the gates. Three guards were watching them. Their swords gleamed in the torchlight.
"Halt there! Who are you?" a man called out in Gaelic, approaching along the trail leading from the castle.
Oh dear heaven, the same guard she'd seen when she'd left here. If he saw her face or the worn plaid arisaid she'd been wearing when she'd left, he would surely recognize her. At least he wasn't one of the guards who'd searched the cottage the night before.
"I'm a MacKay," Dirk said in a commanding voice. Halting, he faced the guard. "Just passing through on the way to MacKay Country."
"Who is this?" The guard motioned toward Isobel.
Her breath stopped. She feared she'd pass out and topple from the saddle.
"My wife," Dirk said without any hesitation.
His wife? Isobel flushed with heat from her head to her toes, despite the frigid weather and being near frozen with fear.
Dirk motioned back to Rebbie. "And that is my friend, Robert MacInnis, and our two servants."
As the guard paced by her and moved toward Rebbie, she swallowed hard and prayed he would not drag her from the horse.
"We must make great haste," Dirk called. "My father is on his deathbed."
'Twas a pity that was not a lie too.
She forced herself to draw in air as she listened to the footsteps crunching in the snow, the minute clanks of weapons and bridles. One of the horses snorted. The chill, wet air seeped into her bones.
Dirk's wife? The thought would not leave her. Good heavens, to be his wife in truth. Although he was the most fearsome man she'd ever met, the thought of being his wife did not fill her with dread as her first husband did. Nor like the MacLeod she was now betrothed to.
Returning, the guard passed her again. "Well then. Godspeed, MacKay." He motioned them along and headed back toward Munrick.
A breath of relief rushed out, leaving Isobel shaky, weak and cold. Dirk led the horse forward at a brisk pace while he sent the occasional glance back toward the guards.
Even though it would be far more pleasant to daydream about being Dirk's wife, she'd best remain in reality and stay attentive. If Dirk's father was indeed on his deathbed, or had already passed, he would experience great emotional pain and grief, just as she had when she'd lost her parents. She shivered, praying his father was alive and well by the time they reached Durness. She remembered the older man when he'd been hale and hearty, a huge bear of a man with auburn hair flecked with gray. She even remembered how he'd laughed louder than anyone else.
What would Dirk's laugh sound like? She barely remembered one smile from him. Back then, he'd been rather quiet, watching everyone else with suspicion. His sharp gaze never missing a tiny detail. He was ever serious, as he was now.
He had even observed her more than she was comfortable with, his pale eyes assessing her.
She knew not why he unnerved her. Clearly, he was trustworthy. He had just saved her from the MacLeods.
She must think of a way to thank him properly.
***
Isobel's toes were numb with cold by the time they arrived at a place Dirk called Scourie that evening. They'd not even stopped to eat their midday meal and had instead eaten while moving forward. The wind through the passes and glens was brutal at times. Once they'd moved from the treacherous mountains to flat moorland that wasn't too soggy, Dirk had again ridden in front of her so they could make better time.
She was ashamed to even think of it, but she enjoyed riding behind him and holding onto him. He was so vital, strong and protective, he made her almost giddy. She found herself wanting to smile at the oddest times, when she really had naught to smile over. Her finger ached and her feet were near frozen, but what did that matter? The man in front of her made her more disoriented than the whisky he'd forced her to drink the night before.
With the cowl of his mantle lying on his back, she observed the rich luster of his copper hair and found herself wanting to comb the fingers of her good hand through it. But that would not be acceptable.
Dirk guided the horse to the largest cottage in the village, stopped and dismounted. He handed her the reins and glanced up at her. The blue of his eyes was different somehow, darker. Maybe it was because gloaming was already upon them and the sky had become heavily overcast again.
"I used to know the man who lives here. I'll be right back." He strode to the door and knocked.
A man with a bushy gray beard opened the door and stared at Dirk for a moment as they exchanged words.
"Dirk? Is that truly you, lad?" The man laughed then shook his hand heartily. "I thought you were dead."
"'Tis a long story I'll be glad to tell you sometime."
"Well, bring your friends inside out of the cold. I'll have Mattie bake a few more oatcakes." He disappeared inside the house, yelling for Mattie.
When Dirk returned to help her dismount, Isobel carefully laid her injured hand on his shoulder as he lifted her down.
"His name is Lewis MacLeod," Dirk murmured.
"What!" A MacLeod? Claws of ice seized her.
"Shh. He's a good friend of my father, and as you can see, he's far removed from most of the other MacLeods, but some of them do occupy this village."
"He might turn me over to the clan," she whispered, trying to keep her voice from shaking but unsure she'd succeeded.
"We're not going to tell him your real name," Dirk assured her.
"What name am I going by?"
He shrugged. "How about Liz MacDonald?"
She frowned, wondering how he'd come up with that. He must have been planning this for hours.
"Very well." She was afraid to ask him if he planned to continue the pretense of being her husband. If he did, she was fine with it. More than fine, actually. When he'd said she was his wife earlier, a wicked little thrill had spun through her.
Dirk motioned her ahead of him while he spoke to Rebbie and George… about her false name, without doubt.
"Since this man is a MacLeod, you are to call me Liz MacDonald," she whispered to Beitris.
"Ah. Good thinking," she said.
The door of the cottage opened. "Come in, come in, bonnie lasses, and warm your toes." The gray-haired man's jovial mood seemed genuine as he motioned them forward.
Isobel smiled and proceeded inside. "I thank you for your hospitality."
"'Tis my pleasure." Though the fireplace contained only glowing coals, 'twas much warmer in the room than outside. MacLeod added peat to the fire, then lit a candle to brighten the dim room.
Isobel stood before the small hearth warming her hands, while Beitris occupied a cushioned chair nearby. Dirk and Rebbie entered, depositing their bedrolls by the door.
"I thank you for allowing us to stay the night," Dirk said.
"'Tis the least I can do. Make yourselves at home. I'll show your man where to stable the horses," Lewis MacLeod said, then closed the door on his way out.
So as not to stare at Dirk, Isobel allowed her gaze to wander over the room. The cottage appeared to be a small manor house. The slate floors and the worn but good quality furniture proclaimed this owner was likely a landowner, though probably not a chief.
"Are you certain he won't mind all of us staying here?" Isobel asked.
"Nay. He's a good man," Dirk said. "I remember a time when I was just a lad that ten or twelve of us stayed here. We slept right here on the floor."
Isobel was certain they'd have to do the same. Though she was not accustomed to sleeping on the floor, she'd practiced it without complaint for the past two nights. 'Twas far better than being kept hostage by a barbarous clan of abusive men, even if they did have beds and straw mattresses.
She wiggled her toes, glad they were thawing out, although they did sting with the return of feeling.
Lewis returned inside with a gust of cold air and a friendly grin directed at Dirk. "It does my heart good to se
e you alive and well, Dirk MacKay, and newly married besides." He chuckled. "I can tell you've not been married long."
Heat rushed over her and she could think of naught to say. Why had he assumed this? Or had Dirk told him earlier?
"Um, aye," Dirk said. "I mean, nay. We've not been married six months yet."
"I could tell!"
She wasn't sure whether that was a lie or not. They indeed had not been married six months. She was unaccustomed to lying and unsure if she could keep up the farce. But perhaps pretending marriage to Dirk would be good practice. Where had that thought come from? Did that mean she wanted to be married to Dirk?
"Well, lad, you got yourself a beauty," Lewis proclaimed, eying her. He quirked a brow. "Is that a bruise on her face?"
"I fell from my husband's monstrous horse," she blurted. "And broke a finger in the process." She held up her hand to show him, hoping he believed her poorly thought out story.
"Och. You will have to be more careful. Which clan are you from?"
"MacDonald of Glencoe," Dirk said. "And this is my good friend, Robert MacInnis, Earl of Rebbinglen."
Lewis's eyes widened and he bowed. "'Tis my great honor to meet you, m'laird. I did not ken I had the privilege of hosting a man of such elevated rank."
"The pleasure is all mine. And I thank you for your generous hospitality."
The older man waved a hand through the air. "I only hope you are able to eat our humble food. I must say though, Mattie's Highland pie is tasty."
"I'm certain 'tis far better than the day old bannocks we've been eating."
"'Haps."
Isobel's stomach growled loudly in the moment of silence. She placed her hand against it, cringing.
"I'm thinking the lass is famished. Have you not been feeding her, lad?"
"Aye, when she's willing to eat," Dirk said, his face a bit flushed.
Was he blushing? Isobel could not imagine it.
Lewis laughed and motioned them toward a separate dining room. "I smell those Highland pies."
Isobel did too. The combined scents of baked venison, onions and other vegetables made her mouth water.
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