My Brave Highlander (3 page)

"What are you about?" He grabbed her hand and pried at her fingers on the hilt. She jerked her hand, trying to free herself from his tight grasp. A crack sounded and pain shot through her middle finger.
Mo chreach!
Was the bone broken?

Gritting her teeth and fighting past the pain, she twisted her hand free, retaining her grip on the knife. He swung and his fist bashed into her face. Pain radiating from her cheekbone, she staggered back but stayed on her feet. Damn him!

Lunging forward, she sliced and stabbed at him in the darkness, connecting once.

"Ow! You whore!" he growled. "I vow you'll pay a steep price for this." He grabbed for her.

Ducking aside, she stabbed again, kicked at him and ran across the small room, dodging her trunks of clothing and the bed. Nolan stumbled and fell with a thump.

"I'll kill you," he seethed in a quiet but deadly tone. And she knew he would if he got the chance. Chills of dread and fear covered her.

Although he was fonder of drinking and whoring than practicing his battle skills, he was still far stronger and larger than she. From the bedside table, she picked up the stoneware jug, still containing a bit of watered down wine. She waited for him to move, her heart thumping in her ears.

Truly, she didn't wish to kill him—she didn't wish to kill anyone. But she wouldn't let him use and abuse her.

In the dim glow from the coals in the tiny hearth, she could only discern the outlines of objects. Growling, Nolan lumbered to his feet and charged for her once again. Using her good hand, she bashed the heavy jug against his head with all her strength. A
thwack
sounded, stoneware connecting with bone. With a groan, he crashed to the floor. Silence filled the room.

Holding her breath, she waited for him to move, to make a sound.

"I've killed him," she whispered, frozen in shock. "Bashed in his skull."

She set the stoneware jug on the floor and, with trembling fingers, lit a candle from the coals in the hearth to see if he truly was dead. And if so, what would she do? Flee? The clan would sentence her to death and drown her in the icy loch outside when they learned of it. Likely, they wouldn't even wait for her future husband to arrive. Or they might throw her in the dungeon until his return, and starve her.

Saints preserve me.

Her arms jittery and weak, she set the candle on the trunk at the foot of her bed and stared at Nolan's unmoving body for several long moments. His chest rose and fell with each breath.

"Not dead," she whispered. That was good, she supposed, but he could wake at any moment and try to kill her.
Again.
She observed him, seeing no movement except for his breathing. He appeared well and truly knocked out, thank the heavens.

Pains shot from her finger. Examining it, she found it was crooked at an odd angle. He had indeed broken it. Damn him! She pressed it between the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. Pain lanced through it. She sucked in a hissing breath.
"Mo chreach!"
She'd never before had a broken bone. What could she do about it? She'd seen her brother have his broken arm set when he was a lad. He'd screamed in utter agony.

The door behind her opened and she jumped. Her maid, Beitris, stood frozen upon the threshold, her round eyes locked on Nolan MacLeod illuminated by the candlelight. Isobel pulled her into the room, closed the door and barred it. Her maid had been with her since she was small and she trusted her above all others.

"Can you set a broken finger?" Isobel asked.

Beitris observed her as if she were mad. "What… M'lady, what is it you've
done
?" She whispered in a shocked tone and motioned toward the man on the floor.

"He is yet alive. You see how his chest rises and falls."

"But… the blood." She pointed at the floor.

For the first time, Isobel noticed candlelight gleaming off a small pool of dark blood spreading from his head. Fear shot through her. Sweet Mother Mary, even if he wasn't dead now, he might be in a short time.

"He tried to force himself on me. The bastard. I will not abide it."

"Doubtless, he will not abide this injury and insult to his pride, either… if he lives."

"I ken it. We'll have to leave, slip away during the night."

Her wide dark eyes troubled, Beitris nodded. "But where will we go? 'Tis late fall and the weather is turning."

"I know not, but I'll be found guilty for attacking him, even if he lives. And if he dies…" She shook her head, fear chilling her bones. "They'll drown me in the loch. You know that."

Indeed, women were not hanged in Scotland for crimes such as murder. Instead, they were drowned. And trials were only a farce in most cases. Many an innocent woman had been drowned. Who knew what Torrin MacLeod would say about it? Rarely did brothers go against each other. Even if he would defend her, he wasn't here at Munrick now and might not return for a week or more.

"We'll make our way back home to Dornie," Isobel said. "My brother would not suffer me to marry into this clan… with a would-be rapist for a brother-in-law."

"But Dornie is many miles south of here."

"Indeed." Her stomach knotted at exactly how far that was, perhaps a hundred miles.

"'Twas not your fault, m'lady."

"That will matter little in their eyes. Hurry. Put on all your clothes." Rushing and trying to ignore the pain in her finger, Isobel sloppily layered most of the clothing she possessed onto her body, choosing her most worn
arisaid
to go over the top of it all. She pulled the upper portion of the tan and green plaid over her head. The thick woolen garment contained a few small holes, but it had been her grandmother's. Isobel always kept it with her. All her small possessions, including silver and gold coins, her jewelry and her small flute went into the pouch at her waist, hidden beneath the layers.

Next, she picked up the dagger she'd dropped—Nolan's dirk—and wiped the blade clean on his plaid. She shouldn't take it, but she needed a weapon if she was setting out over the Highlands with no one but her maid. Thieves and outlaws were plentiful.

Through the narrow window, she saw that it was pitch black outside. With winter approaching, gloaming came early, and dawn would arrive late in the morn. No moon shined through the clouds this night. They'd need light. Bending, she took the candle and lit her small metal and horn lantern, which sat on the trunk. It had been her mother's and Isobel had used it since she was a child.

What else might they need? She had no food or drink here in her chamber. She glanced around the room and spotted bricks of peat lying by the hearth. They were lightweight and could be exchanged for a night's lodging or burned for heat if necessary. She crammed five into the large pouch that the bulky material of her
arisaid
made when it bunched out over her belt and took the two extra candles lying on the mantel.

"We must slip out during the
céilidh
. Come," Isobel whispered, picking up the lantern and heading toward the door.

In the corridor, Nolan's bearded, wiry manservant approached in his worn, belted plaid. Isobel's heart rate spiked. Once Beitris had exited the room, Isobel closed the door and stood before it. She prayed Nolan made no sound inside.

"M'lady, have you seen Master MacLeod?" the servant asked. "His wife is wondering where he got off to."

Chapter Two

Her heart beating frantically, Isobel tried to slow her rapid pulse by taking in another deep breath before she had to meet the wary gaze of Nolan's manservant in the dimly lit stone corridor.

"Nay, I know not where Master MacLeod is," Isobel said, hoping her voice was steady enough to make the lie convincing.

The servant gave a brief bow and continued along the corridor.

"I knew someone would soon notice the knave missing from the great hall and come looking for him," Isobel whispered to her maid as she led the way down the narrow turnpike back stairs.

"I'm praying he believed you, m'lady," Beitris said. "And that he doesn't look into your chamber."

They emerged in the overheated kitchen on the ground floor. The sweating servants working there were too busy to notice them… until one pushed a platter of sliced bread into Beitris's hands. "Make yourself useful and take that to the hall," she ordered in a grouchy tone.

"Aye."

The kitchen servant went back to her chores.

Beitris turned slowly, then set the empty platter on the worktable opposite. She dragged Isobel hastily toward the exit.

"Where did the bread go?" Isobel whispered, hoping to pilfer it for their next meal.

"Shh." Beitris opened the door. Once outside in the blustery air, she said, "In my
arisaid
. We'll need food, will we not?"

"Ah. A wise move." Thank goodness they wouldn't have to starve, at least not for a while. Chills raced down Isobel's spine just the same. Was it fear or the nippy wind?

Even if they managed to slip past the guards… what then? She knew naught about this part of the Highlands near Assynt. Indeed, a wee village lay south of here, not too far away. But would it be safe to stop there?

She tried to recall the path her brother and his party had taken when they brought Isobel and her maid here a fortnight ago. She only remembered a few villages here and there, several isolated crofts, and many tall, rugged mountains, interspersed with moors, fields and lochs. Beautiful but forbidding, especially with winter approaching.

Isobel prayed they could find enough crofters willing to give them a warm place to sleep each night until they reached Dornie. She remembered her brother Cyrus saying 'twas over a hundred miles and difficult travel by land. But if they had enough coins to pay the fare, they could take a galley part of the way, as they had on the journey here. The port at Ullapool was not so far, perhaps twenty-five miles.

Outside in the brisk air, full night had fallen. The sparkling frosted grass crunched beneath her leather slippers as they descended a sloping knoll on the small island where the castle sat. They proceeded across the stone paved courtyard and carefully toward the gate. Isobel pulled the plaid of her
arisaid
more securely over her head like a cowl to conceal the upper part of her face. The guard could
not
recognize her as a lady or his chief's future bride, else he'd detain her for a certainty.

Isobel held her breath, but the guard barely gave her bulky, ratty clothing a second glance before he opened the gate. Thankfully, he viewed two maids traveling back to the village as nothing unusual. Isobel breathed a sigh of relief as she and Beitris proceeded through and across the narrow bridge over a small arm of the loch.

A hard gust of icy north wind whipped at their clothing.

"Walk faster. We must hurry," Isobel said, tugging her maid along the muddy trail. "They could find him at any moment and give chase."

"Oh, m'lady, 'tis growing colder and the wind harsher. We must find a place to spend the night afore long."

"Aye, we will."

"I'm glad you're certain of that. I'm not."

Isobel always believed things would turn out well. She'd gotten that outlook from her mother. But in the end, things had not turned out well for her mother when she'd died of a fever six years ago. Isobel's throat closed and the wind near froze the tears welling in her eyes.

Sometimes she would imagine that she heard her mother's encouraging words, the same words she'd often spoken when Isobel was a young lass. Her mother had always wanted the best for her. She'd believed Isobel would have a good life with a man she loved. Isobel had not seen this come to pass as of yet… and she was five-and-twenty. At times she was uncertain whether it would ever happen. But she refused to give up hope.

She would settle for no less than a husband who treated her well. 'Twas not too much to ask. Of course, this carried over to the man's clan as well. The MacLeod was not the husband for her. He might be a decent man, but his brother was not. Cyrus would simply have to renegotiate and find a more agreeable clan for her to marry into.

Though she knew it was near impossible, Isobel still yearned for the same things she'd dreamed of as a young lass… what her parents had, a love match. Her brother scoffed at that, but her father before him had not. Of course, most chiefs' daughters or sisters were married off to whoever would benefit the clan most. She'd endured an unsuitable match with her first husband. Thankfully, he hadn't been a mean or evil man. He had been tolerable, despite his advanced age.

She had met her current betrothed, Torrin, once. He was younger than her first husband, at least—around thirty summers—and much better looking, but he didn't appeal to her greatly. He had an arrogant, cocky way about him. The MacLeod had glanced at her, then ignored her. Now, she knew why. As Nolan had said, he was devoted to another woman and had been for years. Obviously, she was a woman beneath his station that the clan discouraged him from marrying.