My Brave Highlander Read online

  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.

  In this case, being ignored by one's husband might be a good thing. But that left another problem—the husband's brother who did not ignore her. And now she'd almost killed the bastard, so there was no going back to Munrick. Nolan would surely kill her if he ever laid eyes on her again.

  As Isobel and Beitris rounded the bend, the bitter scent of peat smoke from the village became stronger. Dim firelight showed through the cracks between shutters in a couple of the cottages.

  "Thank the heavens! My feet are near frozen," Beitris said.

  "We can't stay here tonight," Isobel whispered despite the stray droplets of rain that spattered against the plaid covering her head. "This is the first place Nolan and the guards will look for us. The villagers will surely turn us over to them with nary a qualm."

  "Where are we to go then?" her maid asked in a panicked voice. "'Tis starting to rain."

  "I'm well aware." 'Twould be hard to miss the icy rain spitting through the air. They would indeed need shelter soon. "On the way here, I noticed an abandoned croft south of the village." She was unsure why she'd noticed it except that it had looked deserted and sad sitting on such a lovely site a hundred yards or so away from the track.

  "I saw it too. The thatch was half gone!"

  "Aye, but it might serve for shelter tonight. We can build a fire in the center of the floor."

  "If we can find any dry turf to burn." Her maid sounded doubtful.

  Isobel patted the pouch in her arisaid that hung over her hips, making her look several inches wider than she was. "And what are you thinking this is? Rolls of flab?"

  Beitris frowned and looked her up and down.

  "You carry bread in your arisaid, and I carry five bricks of peat in mine," Isobel explained.

  "In truth, m'lady? How canny you are."

  Isobel allowed a brief smile. "I carried off all I could. We'll need things to trade for a night's lodgings and food." She'd save her coins for the galley transport.

  "'Haps we'll eat and stay warm tonight, but what about tomorrow and the next day? And the day after that?"

  "Do you wish to survive this, Beitris?" Isobel asked, weary of her maid's dismal outlook.

  "Aye, of course."

  "Well then, start thinking of ways out of this problem instead of expecting the worst."

  She sighed. "I'm a score years your senior, lass. My old bones ache in the cold."

  "Once we build a fire you will feel better."

  They passed through the village unnoticed. No one was about, and she could see why. The rain was turning to sleet. She was thankful they were facing south, for the tiny bits of ice pelted her back, hurled by the north wind.

  Beitris slipped on a patch of ice or slick mud and Isobel grabbed onto her. "Not much further."

  A half-hour later, they neared the abandoned crofter's hut. The northern half of the roof was still covered with thatch. Isobel entered the open doorway dragging Beitris behind her. Immediately, they were out of the wind.

  "You see? This is a decent shelter." She noticed a darkened doorway leading to what appeared to be another room. Taking her lantern, she ventured inside. This small room would be much warmer than the main room. The roof had a hole or two, but it was much more enclosed.

  Her face tight with worry, Beitris stood in the doorway.

  "We'll sleep here," Isobel told her in what she hoped was an encouraging tone.

  "Aye."

  "Let's build a fire."

  "I must rest first." Beitris found an overturned stool, righted it, and sat upon it. "My hip pains me."

  Some of the thatch from the demolished portion of the roof had blown into a heap in one corner of the main room. Isobel gathered the straw and carried some into the smaller room where she piled it in the center of the dirt floor, then propped a peat brick beside it.

  Next, she poked a dry straw into the lantern and came out with a small flame which she set to the clump of dry thatch. Once that was burning and the peat had started to smoke, she rose and glanced about. They couldn't burn all their peat in one night. They needed other fuel.

  Taking the lantern, she poked among the debris of the cottage. Surely she could find something here that would burn. Aha, an old heather-stuffed mattress abandoned in the corner. It might be flea infested, but at least it would burn. She dragged it forward, then ripped the tattered material off, freeing the dried heather. She put several handfuls on the fire.

  She also discovered half a broken wooden bucket. It would burn just as well as peat. She piled her finds not too far from the fire.

  "Well, at least we have plenty of wool clothing to roll up in for the night," Isobel said.

  "'Twill have to do, I reckon." Beitris rose and hobbled across the floor.

  Watching her slow progress, Isobel frowned and dark fear slid through her. What if Beitris couldn't walk fast enough, or very far? Could she travel the twenty-five miles to Ullapool? And if they were too slow, would the MacLeod guards catch up to them?

  ***

  Gusts of chill wind flung icy snowflakes into Dirk's eyes. After several days travel on galleys up the west coast, he and Rebbie had disembarked at Ullapool. With the strong winds, it had been unsafe to sail further north. Then, they had traveled north on horseback.

  'Twas slow going on a narrow footpath through the rugged countryside. He glanced up at the Assynt Mountains surrounding them, their rocky peaks hidden in the low-hanging clouds. Snow blanketed even the lowest slopes in white.

  "Is the weather always so inviting here?" Rebbie called out several feet behind him.

  Turning in his saddle, Dirk glanced back and smirked. Rebbie had become spoiled in the temperate Scottish Lowlands and England. Snowflakes littered his friend's dark hair. Breath fogged from his mount's nose.

  Of course, Rebbie had insisted on bringing his manservant, George Sweeny. He'd wanted to bring two servants but Dirk had to say no. It would've been more difficult for a large entourage to secure passage on a galley.

  "I was thinking you were a Highlander," Dirk called.

  "I am, indeed. But from much further south."

  "Use the mantle's cowl." The plaids and mantles Lachlan had given them had come in handy. The wool over his head would catch the water from the melting snow and hold in the warmth from his body heat. Beneath that, Dirk wore a piece of metal-studded leather armor—because one couldn't be too careful in the Highlands—and a belted wool plaid over his trews.

  Rebbie generally dressed like a Lowlander. But now they both had on several layers of clothing, both Highland and Lowland.

  Evening was upon them and the temperature was dropping. They needed to reach Munrick Castle before nightfall. The MacKays and MacLeods had ever been allies, most of the time, anyway. He hoped the chief would provide them shelter for the night.

  No doubt word ha
d circulated through neighboring clans that the MacKay heir had died several years ago and a younger brother was set to inherit. Dirk wasn't yet sure how he would explain that he was indeed alive.

  During his twelve year absence, he'd forgotten exactly how forbidding the weather in the Assynt region could be. If anything, MacKay Country, on the north coast was even harsher.

  The trail through the Highlands only handled single file horses and foot traffic. He inhaled the bitter peat smoke trailing from nearby crofters' cottages. What he wouldn't give right now to be sitting beside one of those smoldering fires. The smoke scent blended with the damp air off the nearby bog and frost-bitten plants created a scent that reminded Dirk of his childhood.

  When he was a lad, he had visited this area a few times with his father as they had dealings with the MacLeods. Generally, they got on well, but most Highland clans were canny enough not to trust another clan with one hundred percent conviction.

  A movement out ahead caught Dirk's attention. What was that? Not a red deer. He thought he'd seen a flash of plaid. The trail turned uphill and passed through low-growing gorse bushes. Someone was hiding behind that boulder.

  Dirk stopped and turned. "Rebbie," he said low. "Someone's lurking up ahead."

  Rebbie nodded. They both quietly dismounted and withdrew their swords.

  "Hold the horses," Rebbie murmured to George. "But if they come out fighting, give us a hand."

  George nodded. "Aye, m'laird."

  With the wind blowing constantly, Dirk could hear naught above it.

  "Who's there?" he called out. "I'm a MacKay, just passing through."

  No response. The knave was still hiding. Might be more than one of them. Was this an ambush by highwaymen or desperate outlaws?

  Gripping his sword, Dirk sneaked along the trail, trying to avoid kicking loose stones. Rebbie followed a few feet behind.

  The wind picked up, whistling through the gorse branches and stinging his face. Good. This would cover any sounds they made, especially since they were downwind of whoever lay in wait between the bushes and rocks. If he could sneak up on them, he could gain the upper hand.

  If they were members of the MacLeod Clan, he'd have to assure them he was a MacKay ally. He prayed there hadn't been any clan feuds since he'd last been here. His uncle hadn't mentioned any in his missive, but then his message had been brief and to the point.

  Each step took Dirk closer and closer to their hiding place. He held his basket-hilt broadsword at the ready, fully aware two or more men could leap out at any moment.

  At last, he reached their hidey-hole and stole around the side of the boulder. Naught but snow-covered heather and low-growing plants greeted him.

  Damnation, where had they gone?

  He crept forward, down an incline and around a bush. There, two forms in drab plaid huddled, one standing upright, back pressed against a giant boulder, and the other crouched.

  Dirk froze, as did the two strangers.

  A lass? Dark fierce eyes met his from beneath a cowl, but the face was definitely female and so was the clothing—a long arisaid. Despite her bulky and voluminous clothes, he could tell her shoulders were slender. Her eyes narrowed, and her stance was defensive. He glanced down at her hands, partially hidden in the folds of her skirts, but he did not miss the glint of a dagger clutched in one fist.

  His gaze darted to the other figure. Also a woman, but a few years older.

  "What the devil?" Rebbie muttered, coming up beside him.

  "What are the two of you doing out in this weather?" Dirk asked in Gaelic, his tone harsher than he'd intended. Were they mad? Gloaming was approaching, and the snow and wind would only worsen.

  "Leave us be," the lass said, her voice strong.

  He exchanged a confused glance with Rebbie. He was surely wondering the same thing Dirk was. Why were they here, far from the nearest village, croft or castle?

  "'Tis not safe for two women to be wandering about. Do you not ken of the outlaws and thieves in these parts?" At least there had been twelve years ago, and he doubted things had changed much.

  "We're not troubling you, and we have no need of your help. Not much further and we'll reach our destination." The glint of her dagger taunted and irritated him. Undoubtedly, she was afraid of them.

  Dirk returned his broadsword to its scabbard. "And where would that destination be? It's been a long while since we passed through a village." And even longer since they'd left the keep they'd stayed in the night before.

  "'Tis none of your concern."

  Ah. So the lass had an impertinent mouth on her. Even more interesting, she had the speech of the Highland aristocracy, the dialect of somewhere south of here, but Western Highlands for a certainty. He nodded. "Well, I cannot leave you out here in the elements. I'll take you and your companion to Munrick Castle. The MacLeods will help you."

  "Nay," she snapped and turned about, helping her friend—or her maid—rise to her feet. "Leave us. We are well."

  "We mean you no harm, m'lady." He watched for her reaction to the title.

  "I thank you for the offer of assistance, but we have no need of it."

  She didn't notice the title, so clearly she was used to being called lady. Aside from that, her speech spoke volumes about her social station. And her status meant he definitely couldn't leave her unprotected in a snowstorm. She would not be as accustomed to the elements as a hardier crofter maid might be. Was she some chief's daughter who'd run away?

  "Which clan are you from?" he asked.

  "Does that matter?"

  "Aye." He always liked to know who he was dealing with. Helping her would no doubt have repercussions.

  The shape of her lips and the curve of her jaw line gave Dirk a sense of déjà vu. Though he could tell her eyes were dark, he could not see the shape clearly beneath the cowl and curtain of her dark brown hair. Had he seen her somewhere before?

  "Are you a MacLeod? A MacKay?" he asked. Those were the two main clans in the area. But if she was from somewhere further south, as her dialect indicated, no telling which clan she'd come from.

  "Nay," she said. Why the devil wouldn't she reveal her clan name at least?

  "Are you running from someone?"

  She froze, staring at him wide-eyed. That was it. Who was she running from and why?

  A sharp gust of wind grabbed her cowl and flung it back, revealing more of her face and long dark hair.

  Indeed, she was familiar. Was she someone he'd met during his youth? The familiarity niggled at the back of his mind, tormenting him.

  "I've seen you before," he said.

  She yanked the cowl over her head, concealing most of her face once more. "Nay. I think not. You're mistaking me for someone else."

  A name sprang to his mind. "Isobel?" he asked.

  She backed up a few steps, her suspicious wide-eyed gaze searching his face. "Who are you?"

  Damnation, now he remembered. "You are Isobel MacKenzie, daughter of the MacKenzie chief."

  In the late spring of his fifteenth year, he had gone with his da and several members of the clan to Dornie. He'd met her then. The other lads had been silly in their attempts to gain her attention. But she'd turned her nose up at all of them. She'd barely said a word or two to him when they'd been formally introduced.

  Although he had to admit she was lovely, even then, she'd been much too young to catch his interest. Besides, she and her mother had been close to Dirk's stepmother. They'd laughed and talked for hours, and he'd learned Isobel's mother and his stepmother had been friends from the time they were young lasses. The same stepmother who'd tried to kill him. He didn't understand how Maighread could have two such opposite sides, or how people could trust her.

  Later that summer, he'd been forced to leave his clan.

  Though beautiful she might be, Isobel, given her association with Maighread, was as trustworthy as a viper.

  "Who are you?" Isobel repeated, her voice more demanding this time.

  "My na
me is Dirk MacKay. We met many years ago at your home in Dornie."

  She frowned, her gaze searching his face.

  "Do you remember?" he asked, knowing she wouldn't. But some part of him hoped she would.

  "You've grown," she said.

  Isobel remembered him? Stunned, he frowned. And though he was likely daft, he felt flattered and humbled. He supposed he'd gotten it into his mind that everyone from his past had forgotten him. Almost as if he'd truly died twelve years ago and been reborn a different person when he'd relocated and changed his name.

  And she was right, he had grown. At fifteen, he'd been a tall, thin stripling of a lad, his frame much different from the large one he possessed now. Had Isobel known of Maighread's evil plot against him? Had she heard of his "death?"

  Chapter Three

  Isobel studied the tall, broad-shouldered man before her. He had the fearsome look of a Norseman, especially with that frown. Who could've guessed when she and Beitris had left the hovel that morn, they'd run into Dirk MacKay by gloaming?

  His head was now protected with a snow-covered mantle's cowl, but she recalled his hair was reddish-blond like his invading ancestors… if he truly was Dirk MacKay. She remembered the lad well, but she thought he'd died years ago, not long after she'd met him.

  How could a person change so much? His shoulders were twice as wide as they'd been back then. He looked to be a well-trained warrior, certain sure. He even wore metal-studded leather armor beneath his wool mantle. His sword's basket hilt gleamed in the scabbard by his side. When he'd approached her earlier with that deadly weapon drawn, fear had near choked her. A well-polished dagger hilt and pistol grip also protruded from his belt and shimmered in the approaching twilight. Only the wealthy possessed such impressive weapons. Of course, being a chief's eldest son, he certainly had everything he needed.

  Even if she had met him long ago, how did she know he was trustworthy now? Mayhap he had become an outlaw since then.