My Brave Highlander (7 page)

George nodded and hastened away.

"Now George works for you. Hmph. I'm astonished," Rebbie said. He liked naught more than to bedevil someone, especially his friends. And now that Lachlan was nowhere about, Rebbie had turned his nettling toward Dirk.

He sent Rebbie a smirk. "I'll help you pay him once we reach Durness. He has been much help in taking care of the horses and running errands for both of us."

"Nonsense. We're along for the rousing adventure." Rebbie rubbed his hands together and blew on them.

Isobel gave a tiny grin, her gaze darting back and forth between them. But she still held her hand in a protected position. Dirk had to find out what was wrong with it and learn her whole story. Why didn't she simply trust him enough to tell him? He would hate having to drag the information from her. Aside from that, he'd never been good at dealing with women. In truth, he was too straightforward to manipulate them with charm, as Rebbie and Lachlan did.

"You said you had some peat?" Dirk asked her.

"Aye." She pulled the two lightweight bricks of dried turf from her
arisaid
.

"'Tis canny of you to think of bringing this." Taking them, he set about creating a mound of straw kindling and peat in the center of the floor where she'd had a fire pit the night before.

After setting flame to the straw, Dirk searched the main part of the cottage, gathering more of the dried thatch. Not much else remained.

"I'll bring the horses in," Rebbie said, bypassing him to venture out into the snow.

Dirk nodded his approval, then returned to the smaller room where he piled his finds next to the fire pit. Isobel hovered near the small fire, her arms folded over her chest.

"Are you freezing?" he asked.

"Not overmuch."

He glanced back at the open doorway where icy air poured in. They'd be hard-pressed to get this room warm unless they could close off the doorway. One of his thick wool blankets might serve to block out most of the air.

Rebbie had brought his horse into the main room of the cottage. Dirk removed his saddle and bedroll which contained the wool blanket he'd use for a makeshift door. Returning to the smaller room where the two women were, he wedged the material into cracks between the rocks above the door. He pounded a couple of smaller rocks in to hold it securely in place.

"There now. That should help us stay warmer."

"A brilliant idea," Isobel said in a lively tone. "I wish we'd had a thick curtain like that last night."

He nodded, irked that she'd almost frozen the night before. 'Twas a pity he hadn't been here to help her then.

He remembered well how Isobel had been a hoity-toity, spoiled lass twelve years ago, and how she had looked down her nose at his clan. But her clothing wasn't so rich and fancy as it used to be. Her wool
arisaid
was riddled with moth holes. Had she fallen on hard times? Or was the clothing part of a disguise so no one would guess she was a high-born lady? He needed to ask her a lot of questions, and he hoped she'd lower her guard enough to answer truthfully.

"M'lady, is your hand injured?"

She lowered her gaze.

"I won't hurt you," he said. "But you must tell me the truth if I'm to help you."

"It is," Isobel said softly.

Stepping closer, Dirk held his hand out to her.

What was he about? Isobel eyed him warily. She placed her uninjured hand in his.

"Let me see your other hand, lass," Dirk said, his voice deep and soothing. "I must know the nature of your injury."

Although Beitris hunched in the corner, resting after their long journey, Isobel almost felt she was alone with Dirk. The intimate atmosphere was strangely thrilling.

He lowered the snow-covered cowl of the mantle, revealing his long, ginger hair in the firelight. The first time she'd seen him, she'd wondered if his temperament matched the flame color of his hair. Although he had been tall for his age at fifteen, he was far more imposing now, his shoulders impressively broad. He used to be lean, near skin and bones. Now, his arms were thick with muscle as was his whole body, surely. She'd heard a rumor that he had died in an accident, but clearly it was no truer than any of the other rumors circulating about.

"I won't hurt you intentionally. Do you believe me?" His pale blue gaze pinioned her to the spot.

"Aye," she said, trying to steady her voice.

His narrowed eyes made her think of shrewd intelligence. She feared he would see through any lies she tried to tell. She but prayed he wouldn't reveal to the MacLeods where she was. Given that he'd told the servant not to mention the women, he likely was trustworthy. Both he and Rebbie appeared to be honorable.

"Let me see." Dirk wiggled his fingers.

Giving in, she placed her aching hand in his large warm one. As he examined it, he gripped a bit too hard, bringing about a sharp pain. She sucked in a hissing breath and jerked back.

"Pray pardon." He loosened his grip but didn't let go. "What did you do to it?"

She bit her lip, the memory of the bastard accosting her replaying through her mind. She'd never imagined she would have to fight off a hulking warrior. If she had, she might have been more prepared to deal with him.

Dirk gently slid the tips of his thumb and index finger along her middle finger. "'Tis swollen. Och. 'Tis broken, aye? How did this happen?" He frowned, his gaze troubled.

She was too tired to think of a convincing lie at the moment. But to tell the truth about Nolan MacLeod would only invite more questions.

Dirk stared hard at the side of her face, his frown of concern turning into a glower. Nudging her chin, he turned her face toward the lantern. "What a bruise on your face, Lady Isobel. Who hit you?" he demanded.

She shook her head. They were not yet out of MacLeod territory. They had not even passed the castle yet in their reverse trek.

"Are you in danger?" He stepped closer, his voice but a low murmur.

She gave a reluctant nod, praying she could trust him.

"From…?"

"You should've left me where you found me," she said. "Now you are pulled into my troubles." The last thing she wanted was for someone to harm him because he'd helped her.

"Nonsense," he growled. "I wouldn't leave any woman out there, lady or no. Do you not ken your father would have me drawn and quartered if I'd not helped you?"

"Nay. My father passed three years ago." Though it had been a long while, sinking grief and sadness constricted her throat when she thought of him.

Dirk frowned. "I'm sorry to hear of it. My condolences." His voice softened to a rough whisper. And she truly felt he must understand.

"I thank you. And I'm sorry to hear your father is ill. I'm slowing your progress."

"Nay. We'll sleep a few hours and continue on to Dunnakeil."

She remembered the name of his clan's castle, but she'd never been there. Nor did she wish to travel further north now. Instead, she needed to return to Dornie, to the home where she'd grown up… and now her brother's household. He would be irate to hear Nolan MacLeod had attacked her and that she'd run away. Surely, he would understand she couldn't stay there. Cyrus, five years her senior, was a tough warrior and demanding chief who expected others to obey him. But he protected his own.

"We must set your finger," Dirk said, releasing her hand. "When was it broken?"

"Last night."

He gave a brief nod. "I've set broken bones in the past. But all of them were much larger than your finger."

She held her hand defensively close to her chest, imagining the pain he'd have to inflict on her to set the bone. But she knew it had to be done if she wanted a straight finger. Her maid had tried late last night but was unable to continue when Isobel cried out in pain. In truth, she'd gotten little sleep because of the aching.

Dirk stepped to the doorway. "Have you any whisky left?" he asked Rebbie in the other room.

"Indeed."

Dirk returned and offered her an expensive silver flask.

She shook her head. "I do not care for whisky."

"'Tis for the pain. Your finger is swollen and will be more difficult to set now than it would've been last night right after you broke it. Why did your maid not set it right away?"

"She tried, but she has no healing knowledge. She's a lady's maid."

"I'll need a splint to hold the bone in place once I straighten it. While I make one, you drink the whisky. Trust me, it will help with the pain." He turned to her maid. "Make her drink it."

Beitris nodded and stood to do his bidding as Dirk left. How easily her allegiances were swayed by a handsome face and a commanding tone.

"I don't need you to force it down my throat, Beitris. I'm fully capable of drinking whisky." Although to her, the taste was the most intolerable of any drink, even watered down. She much preferred mulled wine.

"You'd best listen to the good sir. He knows of what he speaks. You can't even imagine the terrible pain when he straightens that bone."

A surge of fear and dread near made her lightheaded. "I thank you for the calming words. You truly ken how to soothe a person," Isobel said dryly, then took the first fiery sip. It blazed a path from her mouth to her stomach and she gasped for air. Mayhap it would warm her blood too.

If she consumed too much of it, no telling what she might do or say. She could not tolerate strong drink.

***

Carrying the lantern, Dirk exited the cottage, and Rebbie followed.

Dirk squinted against the swirling snow, then called back to his friend. "Help me find two small but strong pieces of wood for a splint."

One thing was a certainty, wood was scarce in these parts. Dirk noticed a stand of gorse and other bushes near a small stream and headed in that direction.

Rebbie moved into step beside him and pulled the woolen cowl over his head. "How well do you know her?"

"As well as I want to. Isobel's mother and my stepmother were best friends."

"The same stepmother who tried to have you killed?"

"Aye, the one and only."

"That doesn't mean Isobel and your stepmother are friends," Rebbie said.

"Nay, but I trust her not even a wee bit." He was concerned for her safety and wanted to know who'd harmed her, but that didn't mean he trusted her.

"But you must admit, she is lovely." Rebbie's wide, toothy grin was obvious, even in the low light of the lantern reflecting off the snow covering the ground.

Dirk snorted, annoyance driving through him. Was Rebbie enticed by her? Of course he was. And he generally netted the women he wanted. He'd best keep his hands off Isobel.

"Well," Rebbie drew the word out. "She
is
lovely. I speak the truth."

"I have eyes," Dirk snapped. "But beauty does not equal honor or goodness."

"You think she is not honorable and good?" Rebbie questioned as if he truly wanted to know.

Dirk rolled his eyes. "I have no notion. But she is thick with Maighraid Gordon, the devil's spawn."

"Your stepmother?"

"Aye!"

"I did not remember her name," Rebbie grumbled. "You are even more grouchy than usual, worse than a lass before her monthly. Does this have aught to do with Isobel?"

"Nay! Look at us." Dirk flung his arms out. "Searching for sticks in the wind-driven snow. 'Tis dark as midnight. My father is on his deathbed. We have two more days travel ahead of us and two female companions who are on the run from the MacLeods for some unknown reason. What have I to be grouchy about?"

"Very well. You have a right to your ill-temper… this time. I'm sorry about your father's illness. As for the rest, it could be worse. We could be starving, injured and soaked to the skin without a stitch of wool or hint of shelter, as we were in France that time."

"I need no reminders. Hold this." He handed the lantern to his friend. At the edge of a small group of bushes, Dirk took out his small
sgian dubh
and searched for a twig thick enough to split.

"As for the female companionship we find ourselves with, 'tis not a hardship," Rebbie said. "Surely you must agree with that, given how Isobel was plastered against your back for a couple of hours this eve."

Dirk ground his teeth, because… damnation… Rebbie was right. He had enjoyed Isobel riding behind him, and it had naught to do with her keeping his back warm. He had grown warm in other places as well. Places he refused to think about right now.

Crouching, he severed a thick twig from the base of a bush, then straightened to cut it to length.

"Isobel must be… what… five-and-twenty now?" Rebbie asked. "Is she not married?"

"How the blazing hell do I know?" Dirk frowned. "I don't go about asking women if they are married."

"You should. Some irate husband, 'haps even a laird or chief, may come chasing after us."

A sinking feeling settled into Dirk's gut, realization dawning. "That could be who bruised her face and broke her finger."