My Brave Highlander Page 6

  His mind drifted back to Isobel and her swollen finger, slightly bent at the wrong angle. Damn the man who'd hurt her. "She'll be in pain while I straighten and set her finger bone, have no doubt. You may have to hold her still."

  "My pleasure." Rebbie grinned.

  "'Tis not an opportunity for you to take advantage," Dirk growled. "The lass will be in a lot of pain."

  Rebbie sobered, observing him closely. "You hold her, and I'll set her finger."

  "You've set bones afore?"

  "Of course. Do you not remember the time I set your finger?"

  "Nay. You're mad. When are you imagining this happened?"

  "You were too sotted to remember it. I'm thinking you'd downed a pint of whisky. 'Haps two."

  "I remember breaking a finger, among other, worse injuries. But I thought Lachlan was the one who set it."

  "Nay, 'twas I who performed the miraculous healing that time."

  "I thank you, then. But the lady's fingers are a lot more delicate than mine."

  "I should hope so, considering your paws more resemble a bear's."

  Dirk snorted, glad he'd been blessed with large, strong hands. They'd served him well in battle, and the lasses did not mind his hands being big.

  "Rebbie, in truth, are you certain you can do it without injuring her further?"

  "Aye. I swear it."

  Dirk considered threatening his life if he hurt Isobel, but that would only provoke more nettling from him. Besides, setting the bone would likely hurt; there was no help for it, other than whisky.

  They tramped through the snow back to the cottage and entered. The horses munched on oats in the main room. Inside the smaller room, George and Beitris crouched near the fire while they reheated some bannocks. Her head lying on her folded arms, Isobel sat to the side, against the wall.

  "Did you run into any trouble in the village?" Rebbie asked George.

  "Nay. I did what both of you said. They asked who I worked for and I said the MacKays. They were not so suspicious after that and sold me the supplies."

  Dirk eyed Isobel, who appeared to be sleeping. "Did she drink the whisky?" he asked Beitris, then remembered they'd need a string to bind the splints to her finger. With his sharp knife, he sliced off a strip of his plaid.

  "Aye, sir."

  "All of it?" Rebbie asked, aghast.

  "Nay. About half."

  He nodded.

  "Help me hold her while we set her finger," Dirk said to Beitris, then knelt beside the lass. "Lady Isobel, are you awake?"

  Lifting her head, she smiled up at him dreamily, her dark eyes seduction itself. Her lips looked luscious and inviting. Saints! She was beautiful. His heartbeat sped up, pumping blood hard against his throat, and places much lower. 'Twas only the whisky putting that amorous look on her face, but it spurred the wickedest craving in him.

  She's probably a married woman, you dolt.

  "Your maid and I will help you hold still while Rebbie, with his considerable experience, will set the bone in your finger. He even set my broken finger one time a few years ago and, as you can see, 'tis fine now." He held up his first finger briefly, then motioned Rebbie forward.

  Dirk sat on one side of her and her maid on the other.

  "You hold that arm, Beitris, and I'll hold the one with the broken finger. You must remain perfectly still, m'lady."

  "Will it hurt?" Her words were slurred.

  "'Haps a wee bit, but I'm certain you're strong enough to handle it."

  He held her arm and extended the injured hand to Rebbie. "Have a care now, Rebbie."

  "I shall do my best to be gentle."

  "You wouldn't even know he's an earl, would you?" Dirk asked, trying to distract her.

  "He is… in truth?"

  "Aye. Earl of Rebbinglen."

  "I could tell he was so' sort o' laird." Her words blended together as if her tongue refused to form each individual word. "He has a gold ring and…"

  While she was distracted, Rebbie took her swollen finger, straightened the bone and had it back in alignment in seconds.

  Isobel gave a short scream and jerked, but Dirk held her arm firmly.

  "Nay, you must hold still. Else you'll injure yourself worse."

  Rebbie wrapped the thin strip of plaid around the splints and tied it into place.

  "Ow, ow, ow!" She squeezed her eyes shut. The tears leaking out near broke Dirk's heart.

  "I'm sorry, lass."

  "You said 'twould only hurt a wee bit." She glared up at him through tears.

  "You let it go too long before you had it set."

  "'Twill be well soon," she mumbled in a near whisper. She snuggled beneath his mantle and turned her face against the plaid covering his chest. He could not help that his arm went around her shoulder. He wanted to pull her closer and comfort her, try to take away her pain. Even more, he yearned to pull her onto his lap and cradle her there until she stopped crying. He detested the tears glistening on her cheeks.

  "The room is spinning," she whispered and latched her good hand onto his plaid.

  "'Tis the whisky."

  "I ne'er drink pure whisky. Da wouldn't let me drink it without water."

  Dirk nodded. "But you need it now. The whisky will dull the pain and help you sleep."

  "There now. All finished," Rebbie announced. "I predict 'twill be well within a month."

  Drawing her hand close, she examined her splinted finger. "I thank you, sir… my laird."

  "Rebbie will do." He stood and gave a brief bow.

  "You need to eat, m'lady." Beitris stood and moved toward the fire pit.

  "Not hungry." Isobel didn't move away from him and he was unwilling as of yet to push her away.

  "Tell me who hurt you," Dirk said in a low tone, trying not to draw the attention of the others.

  "I'd rather not."

  "Was it a MacLeod?"

  She bit her lip.

  A dark sense of foreboding coming over him, he forced himself to draw away from her, then helped her lean against the wall. "Are you married to a MacLeod?"

  She glanced up at him with a guilty look. Both denial and dread stabbed at him.

  "Nay," she whispered.

  "Do not lie to me." His tone was harsher than he'd intended.

  "I'm not married to anyone," she said firmly. "I'm betrothed to the MacLeod Chief."

  Damnation! Betrothed was as good as married. He should've known. And what did it matter? He'd never be able to trust her anyway, no matter how bonny she was.

  "The chief, is he the one who broke your finger?" Dirk asked.

  "Nay, 'twas his brutish younger brother."

  "Nolan?"

  She eyed him, fear glinting in her eyes. "You know him?"

  "I met him once, many years ago. He's a swine." And Dirk couldn't wait to get his hands around the bastard's throat. Any man who injured a woman was no man, in truth.

  "I'm not going back there. And I'm not marrying a MacLeod. Any of them," she said with finality.

  Dirk was glad she'd reached that decision, but there was still a betrothal contract somewhere, tying her to Torrin MacLeod. Breaking it would have repercussions. Her brother might have to pay the MacLeods a large sum.

  Dirk handed her the flask of whisky. "Drink this and then lie down and sleep. It will help you heal."

  She turned her face away. "I hate that vile liquid."

  "Isobel, do what I say," he murmured. "'Twill help you."

  She let out a long breath. "Very well." She drank another sip of whisky, grimacing, then lay down on the blanket and covered up. "I hope this doesn't cause me to talk in my sleep."

  "'Tis doubtful," Dirk said. "Why did Torrin allow his brother to hurt you?"

  "He is away in Lairg, meeting with another chief. He knows naught of it."

  "Why did Nolan harm you?"

  She was silent a long moment. "I cannot tell you, but I fear if he ever gets his hands on me again, he'll do far more than break my finger."

  "Bastard,"
Dirk muttered.

  Why wouldn't she tell him why Nolan had injured her? Had there been a fight? With his brother away, had Nolan tried to take advantage of her? Isobel was far more bonnie than most lasses and doubtless she turned a lot of heads. Some men wouldn't take nay for an answer. Their carnal lusts overrode common sense, even when the lass belonged to a brother.

  "When is the MacLeod due to return home?" Dirk asked.

  Isobel's breathing was deep and even, and she didn't answer. He watched her for a moment longer, the bruise marring her smooth ivory cheek infuriating him. Something in him yearned to seek revenge for such insult and injury.

  He forced his gaze away. Beitris lay snoring lightly not too far from Isobel. 'Twas time for him to get some sleep as well.

  He rose and moved to sit on a stool by the fire pit.

  "There is some bread and cheese if you want it," Rebbie said, lying on his bedroll nearby.

  Realizing he was hungry, Dirk devoured the food. He wished Isobel had eaten before she'd fallen asleep, but at least she had eaten the two bannocks earlier.

  "Where is George?" Dirk asked.

  "Keeping the first watch."

  Dirk spread out his bedroll just as George trotted into the small room. "Someone is coming, two or three riders," he said.

  Chapter Five

  Who the devil would be outside the cottage and why?

  "Damnation," Dirk muttered, drew on his wool mantle and grabbed his broadsword. Rebbie did the same. The approaching riders had to be MacLeods. 'Haps someone from the village who'd gotten suspicious of George and tracked him back here. Although the wind and snow should've covered his tracks by now. Maybe they smelled the smoke of their fire and followed it.

  "Oh heavens." Beitris sat bolt upright on her blanket, but Isobel didn't wake.

  "Watch her," Dirk said. "Both of you stay here."

  Beitris nodded, her eyes wide. "Aye, sir."

  He sheathed his sword and the Highland dirk he was named after so as not to appear too aggressive, then followed George and Rebbie out into the blowing snow. If the riders weren't from the village, then the villagers must have alerted the MacLeods at Munrick that strangers were in the vicinity. Better not be Nolan MacLeod, or Dirk didn't know if he'd be able to control his battle-lust. Especially if Nolan grew insolent and tried to force his way into the cottage. Dirk wouldn't let Nolan anywhere near Isobel, regardless.

  The two men, one carrying a torch, dismounted a few yards away. Squinting through the blowing snow stinging his eyes, Dirk tried to identify them. Both wore plaids, trews and shaggy wool mantles. The second man unsheathed his broadsword.

  "Saints," Dirk muttered, drawing his own weapon. Rebbie did the same, then set down the lantern. One could never tell when things would turn bloody.

  "Who are you and what are you doing here on MacLeod land?" one of the men called out in Gaelic. "You're trespassing."

  "I'm a MacKay, returning to Dunnakeil in Durness. We simply needed a place to stay for the night, out of the storm."

  One man, wearing a metal-studded leather hauberk over his layers of wool plaid brought the torch closer, eying Dirk. Surely they saw his resemblance to many of the MacKays. The men, with their long brown hair and lean, lanky frames, certainly resembled the MacLeods.

  "And who is he?" the man nodded to Rebbie.

  "My friend, Robert MacInnis. The MacKays and MacLeods have ever been allies," Dirk reminded the men who, by the looks of their clothing, were men-at-arms.

  "Indeed. Why did you not ask for lodgings at Munrick?"

  "We would have, but it was late and the weather growing more severe. We saw this cottage and decided to put it to use." Dirk shrugged. He hoped they believed the lie. "We will be leaving and going on to Durness in the morn."

  "Did you happen to run into a lady and her maid on your way here?"

  "Nay. Why?" Dirk asked without hesitation. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  "The chief's future bride ran out into the snowstorm. She's a wee bit daft, I'm thinking." He spat on the ground.

  "Why in blazes would she do that?" Dirk asked, feigning surprise, while in truth he wanted to belt the man for calling Isobel daft.

  "We know not." The man's gaze drifted toward the cottage door.

  Dirk tensed. The bastard had best not even consider it.

  "Who is traveling with you?"

  "My servants," Rebbie said.

  "Then you won't mind if we search inside the cottage for the missing lady." He moved forward.

  Alarm driving through him, Dirk stepped in front of the door, blocking it. "Nay. I wouldn't do that."

  "And why not?" The MacLeod clansman halted, his face tightening dangerously, his sword clasped at the ready.

  "His servant is very ill," Dirk said, hoping the knave believed the lie. Most people were terrified of disease, for it usually meant death. "We know not what it is. Coughing up blood. Might be catching."

  The knave's eyes narrowed. "Neither of you has caught it yet. If you don't let us search, you may as well head south, for you won't be passing Munrick."

  Loud coughing echoed from inside the hovel. "'Tis all right," George called in a raspy, weak voice. "It matters not to me if they search in here." He lapsed into another fit of coughing.

  Why in blazes would George say such a thing?

  "You heard the man. Step aside, MacKay," the man-at-arms demanded, the strong smell of whisky wafting from him on an icy gust of wind. If he was near sotted, his reflexes would be off. He might also have a difficult time recognizing Isobel.

  Dirk glanced at Rebbie, who nodded and darted a fearsome look at one of the men, meaning he would take care of the second guard if need be.

  Dirk didn't want to have to kill a MacLeod, but if the men figured out who Isobel was, he might have to.

  Stepping aside, he allowed the MacLeod guards to enter the cottage and followed, Rebbie behind him. After a brief bit of silence, George feigned another coughing fit, then moaned and bent forward to spit on the ground, clasping at his stomach for good measure.

  "Stay over there," one of the guards warned George, eying him with disgust.

  Holding the lantern aloft, the two men scrutinized the horses, then noticed the doorway leading to the side room. They headed toward it and shoved the wool blanket aside to enter. Dirk's breath halted for the men would find Isobel and her maid within seconds. His fist tightened within the basket-hilt of his sword. He would protect Isobel at all costs, even if it meant killing two MacLeods.

  Dirk entered the room behind them. His eyes searched the dimness of the smoky room as the men moved their lantern this way and that. Where were Isobel and her maid? Dirk could see them nowhere near the bedrolls or the tiny smoldering fire. Not in the corners either.

  What the devil?

  "No one else is here," one of the guards said. "I thought he said his servants were traveling with you."

  "Servant," Dirk corrected.

  "Very well, MacKay," the other said, his voice slurred. "We'll leave you to your sleep. If you see the lady and her maid, let us know."

  "I will."

  "She's a bonny lass with dark eyes. Her name is Isobel MacKenzie."

  Dirk nodded, his shoulders so tense the muscles ached. Where the hell was Isobel? Was she hiding in this room someplace? There was no window here she could've crawled out.

  "Well then, a good eve to you." The MacLeod man yawned.

  Dirk followed them out. One of the men turned up his whisky flask and took a long swallow, then they both mounted, before riding back the way they'd come.

  Rebbie stood silently at his side while they observed the men's progress through the snow, their torch moving further and further away.

  "Where the devil did Isobel and her maid go?" Dirk growled low.

  "I know not."

  "Will you watch the men while I search for her?"

  "Aye," Rebbie said.

  Dirk strode into the cottage. "Isobel?" He tried to keep his voice down.
"Where did they go, George?"

  "There's a wee window opening behind where the horses are tied. The shutters were closed, but I pushed them open and helped the women out."

  "Very canny of you. That couldn't have been easy for Beitris," Dirk said, taking the lantern and hastening out the door and around the side of the stone cottage to the back.

  Isobel and her maid huddled there behind a prickly gorse bush.

  "God's teeth, Lady Isobel," Dirk muttered. "You scared the life out of me." He drew her to her feet, then helped her maid. Beitris groaned.

  "Couldn't be helped." Isobel brushed snow off her clothing. "After Beitris woke me, I heard them talking, and I knew they'd want to search. I remembered the battened off window from the night before."

  "I thank you, sir," Beitris said, holding on tightly to his elbow as they rounded the cottage. "I wasn't made to contort in such positions and shimmy through windows."

  "You both did well to slip out afore they searched. I didn't want to have to kill a MacLeod."

  "Would you truly have done that for us?" Isobel asked, her voice still a bit groggy and slurred from the whisky as she clung to his other elbow and unsteadily moved along beside him.

  "I wouldn't have let them take you back to Munrick."

  "You are a true gentleman and a hero," she gushed.

  Damnation, 'haps he shouldn't have given her so much whisky.

  He escorted the two women inside and went back out to keep watch with George and Rebbie. After a half hour with no more movement outside, other than the whipping snow, Dirk had relaxed enough to go inside and try to get some sleep. Rebbie accompanied him.

  A quarter hour later, everyone appeared asleep. Rebbie was snoring lightly. But sleep proved elusive for Dirk. Turning on his side, he watched Isobel's slumbering face in the dim firelight. How could she be betrothed and promised to another? That irked him. 'Twas an atrocity that she was bound to a clan that didn't treat her right.

  He punched at the rolled up mantle he used as a pillow. Damnation, he didn't want her anyway.

  Something within him ached. He did not understand it. Maybe 'twas only a nostalgic yearning for his lost youth and the clan he'd loved. Or maybe it was worry for his father. If he was not dead yet, he might be soon. Dirk's stomach knotted and his chest grew heavy with regret.