Текст книги "My brave highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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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.

"Well then, since we're not strangers, tell me what you're doing out here alone in this ghastly weather and so far from home," Dirk said. It wasn't a question. He was demanding an answer. But she was not yet ready to give it to him.

Last she'd heard, the MacKays and the MacLeods were allies. And if that was still the case, she couldn't tell him what she'd done to that MacLeod knave who'd attacked her. Dirk might drag her back to Munrick. After all, he was planning to stay there this night.

Though he'd sheathed his weapon, she was not yet ready to put hers away. Her fingers were almost frozen to the dagger's bone hilt.

Isobel glanced at her maid and then back to him. "'Tis naught for you to worry over. We are used to the Highland weather."

Even through the waning daylight, his pale eyes speared her. They were light blue, but not soft. His gaze could be called nothing but sharp, penetrating… even when he was smiling. She recalled vividly that he had smiled at her once and spoken a few words, but it had been so long ago. At the time, she'd been too shy to utter a response. She'd found his pointed gaze both compelling and intimidating, and he'd had a defensive way about him. Every time she'd glanced at him in the great hall of Teasairg Castle, her clan's home, he'd been silently assessing those around him with intelligent but distrustful eyes. He regarded her the same way now.

"The weather is not improving and I'd like to be arriving at Munrick afore dark," Dirk grumbled. "Surely the MacLeods will give us a place to sleep for the night. Highland hospitality and all. Our clans have ever been friendly."

Saints! Her maid grabbed her elbow, startling her. The last thing she could do was go back there. But how to avoid it—and Dirk—without drawing suspicions?

His frown deepened. "Every time I mention the MacLeods or Munrick you look as if you'd like to flee. What have you neglected to tell me?" he asked, his tone hard.

"We cannot go there. 'Tis north of here. We're headed south."

He narrowed his gaze and studied her for a moment. "That's where you've come from, is it not?" he asked in a calm, almost understanding, tone she hadn't expected. Most men she knew lost patience when she wouldn't do what they wanted or tell them what they wished to know.

Though she was unsure she could trust him, his deep, roughened voice and his intelligent gaze compelled her to do just that. She nodded, praying he would not force her back to Munrick.

"What happened?" he asked.

She shook her head. There was no way in hades she would go into it now. She didn't know what connection he might have to the MacLeods. "'Tis best I not say."

Dirk sighed, then glanced up at the low-hanging clouds and the snow pouring from them. "We have to get out of this weather, Lady Isobel. Gloaming is upon us. The snow is deepening and the wind is picking up. I don't have time to take you all the way to Dornie. I've had a missive. My father is ill and dying. I have to make haste to Durness."

A sinking sensation hit her in the stomach, reminding her of her own father's illness and death three years before. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear this news. I'll not keep you, then." She gave a curtsy though it wasn't so elegant with her legs stiff and sore from the walking and hill-climbing.

He frowned, his astute gaze dropping to her aching and injured hand, which she realized she now held protectively close to her chest. She lowered it to hide it in her skirts again.

"Are you hurt?" Dirk asked.

"Nay." Heavens, he could not find out what had happened to her. What if Nolan MacLeod was one of his friends? They were near the same age. "Why would you think this?"

He took a step toward her. Impulsively, she jumped back and lifted the dagger. "Stay away from me."

He halted and slowly offered his hand. "Lady Isobel, surely you ken I would never hurt you. Put down the dagger and let me see your hand." His tone was still too demanding for her taste.

She shook her head, still not trusting him. Her maid clutched at her arm and together they inched backwards.

He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm not leaving you out here to die in this snowstorm," he growled.

"And we're not going to Munrick with you." She tried to keep her voice from shaking.

Even though he was so big he could toss her over his shoulder and carry her off like a sack of flour if he wished, she would not back down. Not only that, he had reinforcements. His dark-eyed friend who stood beside him was equally broad of shoulder, and almost as tall.

"Well then, we'll go someplace else." Dirk's voice was softer, but no less annoyed.

"Where?" she asked.

"I know not at the moment but we shall find a place. Come."

She glanced again at the man beside him. He too looked the formidable warrior, wearing tall expensive leather boots, brown trews, a plaid, and a wool mantle. Rich as his clothing was, an odd mixture of Highland and Lowland, he might be a chief or member of the nobility. What if he was an ally of the MacLeods? They had connections far and wide.

"This is Rebbie, a good friend," Dirk said. "He is trustworthy as well."

She hesitated. "Which clan is he from?"

"MacInnis."

She had never met a MacInnis before and had no idea who they were allied with.

"M'lady, 'tis a great pleasure to meet you." The dark-haired man gave a sweeping bow as if they stood in Holyrood Palace instead of a Highland snowstorm. He had to be a laird, but he didn't seem offended that Dirk had introduced him as simply Rebbie.

She attempted an awkward curtsy, but her knees almost gave out. Ashamed of her weakness, she stiffened her legs. They had run out of bread at midday, and she'd been hungrier than usual, what with walking in the cold.

Another man appeared behind Rebbie and she stiffened. How many men traveled with them?

"This is my manservant, George," Rebbie said.

Isobel nodded, then motioned to her companion. "And this is my maid, Beitris."

"Enough with the pleasantries and introductions," Dirk snapped. "Do you wish to die out here?"

"Nay," she said, hoping her tone was equally curt. She didn't enjoy being out in a snowstorm any more than he did. But neither did she wish to die at the hands of Nolan MacLeod or any of his kin.

Dirk waved her forward. "You can ride on my mount. We will not go to Munrick. Are you hungry?"

"M'lady," Beitris whispered. "You do need to eat something."

"As do you. Do you have extra food?" she asked Dirk.

"Aye."

She slid the dagger back into its sheath in the pouch hanging from her belt. Clinging to each other, she and Beitris moved forward, their feet slipping on the wet snow.

"I'll get the horses," George said.

Dirk nodded and offered Isobel his arm. Thankful her good hand was nearest him, she grabbed onto his substantial elbow. Even through the layers of clothing, the hard, flexing muscles of his arm were obvious.

Her feet slipped again.

"Have a care," he murmured, steadying her.

"Aye."

Beitris, clung to her other elbow, jerking this way and that, her leather slippers apparently even slicker than Isobel's.

"I bet your feet are near frozen," Dirk said.

"Very nearly so." She wondered at his concern. Certainly most men did not give her feet a second thought.

"When did you last eat?" he asked.

"A few hours ago, but I'm not famished." The mere thought of food prompted her stomach to growl loudly, negating her words. 'Twas true though that she wouldn't mind eating.

With a raised brow, he glanced down at her. "You started on a long trek with little food?"

"We ran out." The small loaf of sliced bread Beitris had lifted from the kitchen hadn't lasted as long as they'd hoped.

"And when did you start on this journey from Munrick?"

"Last night."

He nodded. "I have some food in my pack."

Once George and Rebbie led the horses forward—two large beasts more resembling war horses and one smaller Highland pony—Dirk released her and dug into his pack. He handed a bannock to her and one to Beitris.

"I thank you," Isobel said then bit into the flat oatcake. Never had anything tasted so good, like hearty oat flour fried in butter. With a lifted brow, he watched her eat. Ashamed of devouring the food as if she were a starving boar, she slowed down and took dainty bites. Although she didn't know why she should care what he thought of her manners.

Once she'd finished, he handed each of them a second bannock.

"Will that tide you over for a short while until we reach our lodgings?"

She nodded, unsure where their lodgings would be. Perhaps the same ruined hut they'd stayed in last night.

Once their second bannocks were but a memory and their stomachs satisfied, Dirk said, "All right then. Ready to mount up?"

"I suppose." She couldn't get far in her slippers without falling. "And again, I thank you for the food."

"You're welcome. If you're thirsty, you'll have to eat snow until we reach a stream."

"Aye, we've had plenty of snow already."

Dirk approached her and lifted her into the saddle. She was thrown off-kilter for a moment, being lifted so swiftly. She caught hold of the horse's mane and steadied herself.

"Mistress," George said to Beitris. "You can ride my pony if you wish."

"You will receive a bonus for your generosity, George," Rebbie said.

The young man grinned. "'Tis not necessary, m'laird."

Aha, so this Rebbie was a laird. Why on earth did they not introduce him as such? What were they hiding?

"Hold to the saddle," Dirk told Isobel.

She nodded and clutched her good hand around the leather. She covered her injured hand with her arisaid. It felt near frozen, but the icy air had diminished the pain somewhat.

On foot, Dirk led the horse forward along the snowy trail.

"I did not intend to take your mount," Isobel said, raising her voice to be heard over the gust of wind.

"You didn't," he called back.

She observed him from the back, an imposing and fearsome warrior. Though she had not recognized him at first because he'd changed so profoundly, now she remembered with clarity how she'd felt the first time she'd looked into his blue eyes, so fierce and intense. He had even appeared annoyed then.

At fifteen, he had intrigued her, yet frightened her at the same time. Now, since his muscular frame had filled out into that of a man, he was even more intimidating. But she didn't think he meant her harm. Clearly, his soul was not as icy as his eyes or he would've left her out in the snow to freeze to death.

"Do you have a suggestion where we might find lodgings for the night, south of Munrick?" he asked.

"There is an abandoned crofter's hut."

He turned, frowning at her. "You jest."

She shook her head. Was he surprised that a lady, the daughter and sister of chiefs, could lower her standards so much? 'Haps he, like a lot of others, thought she was a cosseted lady who would throw a tantrum if she couldn't stay in the most elegant of lodgings.

"Is that where you stayed last night?" he asked.

She did not wish him to know anything more about her, but every time she opened her mouth, she revealed another bit of information he could use against her. In addition, he was astute and canny. Even if she didn't tell him everything, he might surmise the rest.

Still, they had to find somewhere to stay the night. Outside of Munrick Castle, or a cottage in the village, there was nowhere else to stay. She could not show her face in the village. Surely the MacLeods had searched every cottage by now, and their inhabitants would be more than happy to turn her over to their laird's brother. No matter his attempted crime, she was the outsider.

"The crofter's hut was not so bad. We built a fire in the smaller room which was more enclosed against the wind."

"Ah. If it was so cozy, why does no one live there?"

"Well, there is the small matter of the half-missing roof."

"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered. "And how much further back to this crofter's hut?"

"I'm not certain. We left early this morn." But they'd also gotten lost before dawn and followed the wrong trail for a long while. Once she'd realized they were traveling east instead of south, they'd had to backtrack. Besides, it was slow going with Beitris's bad knees and hip.

Dirk led his sure-footed horse up an incline, a hill-pass between gigantic granite mountains. The snow fell thicker at the top and the wind buffeted them with more biting force. Once they'd descended the other side, Dirk paused. "We can make better time if we all ride," he called back to George.

"Do you think you can ride pillion, sitting on my bedroll?" he asked her.

She nodded, momentarily unsettled by the thought of him sitting so close in front of her, between her legs. She had no choice but to ride astride if she wished to keep her seat. But this was his horse, and he was generous for allowing her to ride it. Trying not to further injure her hand, she awkwardly scooted back onto the soft roll of wool blankets behind the saddle.

"If you could lean back slightly, I'll be able to mount without kicking you," Dirk said. When she did, he threw his leg over and gracefully hoisted himself into the saddle.

Once George and Beitris were mounted similarly, they all increased their pace across the flatter ground. The trotting horse jiggled her about but with her good hand she held on to Dirk's rock solid shoulder.

A moment of panic seized her at the thought of riding north again, closer to the MacLeods, but the truth was she and Beitris needed help. She'd had no inkling where they would've stayed tonight if Dirk and his companions hadn't happened along.

"You are friends with the MacLeods, are you not?" she asked.

He lifted one huge shoulder and let it drop. "Our clans were allies last I heard, but I haven't been in these parts in several years."

She relaxed a wee bit after that. If he wasn't a close friend of the chief and his brother, maybe he wouldn't force her to go back to that hellish place.

"The MacKenzies and the MacLeods, are they allies now?" he asked.

"I suppose." That was part of the marriage agreement, some land switching hands, along with peace. But since she'd run away, she knew not what problems that might cause. Once her brother learned of the abuse, he would be furious. She would beg him not to retaliate. It wasn't worth the loss of life.

She also prayed Cyrus wouldn't force her to go back. He cared about her, but he was not as compassionate or indulgent as their father had been. He wanted her to grow up and accept her responsibilities, and that meant marrying whichever chief he told her to.

The wind whipped by them harder and harder. Dirk turned aside. "Are you warm enough?"

"Aye." With him sitting so near, he blocked most of the north wind. She wondered what it would be like to snuggle underneath the shaggy wool mantle with him. Toasty warm from his body heat, she was certain. Simply imagining it, she tingled. She had not been comfortably warm for a long time. Never had she snuggled close to a man for warmth, and never had such a thought been so appealing as it was now with Dirk.

Just before nightfall stole the last of the light, the ruined crofter's hut came into view.

"The abandoned cottage is there." She pointed.

"Ah. I can see now why it is abandoned," Dirk said dryly.

'Twas true the roof looked a ramshackle mess, but she now held a strange fondness for the old structure. "It provided decent shelter for the night, and no one knew we were there."

"You were hiding out, then?"

A chill of warning coursed through her. "In a manner of speaking," she said carefully. "We didn't wish to draw the attention of outlaws." Or anyone who knows the MacLeods.

***

Nolan MacLeod gently stroked his fingertips over the huge swollen lump on his head that the MacKenzie bitch had given him. The night before, he'd awakened in a sticky pool of his own blood. Damn her.

Fortunately, he'd been able to leave her bedchamber before anyone had found him knocked out. The last thing he needed was for his clingy, irritating wife or his brother to suspect what he'd been after. Isobel MacKenzie was one tasty morsel he'd like to sink his teeth into. Not only that, but she thought she was better than everyone else, including him. He'd wanted to show her she wasn't so high and mighty. Sure, she was a countess, but only because she'd been married to an old, decrepit earl.

The servants who'd found the blood in her room assumed it was hers and that she'd disappeared under mysterious circumstances. They'd raised the alarm and the guards had gone out looking for her. No one had found her as of yet. Some thought she'd staggered out injured and drowned in the loch. Others said they'd wager their last bottle of Scotch that someone had slipped in, knocked her on the head and kidnapped her, given her beauty.

Where had she gone? She must have run away during the night.

Nolan had made them think he'd drunk too much whisky the night before and passed out in his brother's empty chamber.

Once Nolan had come to his senses and washed the blood from his hair, he'd sent some additional clansmen out looking for her and her maid. No one in the village had seen them last night or this morn. How could they simply vanish?

What did it matter? A snowstorm had moved in soon after and the wind had blown colder. He hoped the wee witch froze to death. 'Twould serve her right after she'd left him for dead.

He'd never before seen a woman fight back as she had. His wife certainly wouldn't or he would knock her flat. But this Isobel thought she was a queen. She believed she had the right to do whatever she wanted. Clearly, her father and brother had never kept her in line.

If she showed up here again, she'd cause all sorts of trouble for him. She might tell Torrin he'd tried to force her. Not that his brother would believe her.

Still, Torrin wouldn't be happy that his intended bride was gone. What would he do? And when would he be home?

Tomorrow, he would send one of Torrin's men to him at Lairg and let him know what happened. If he didn't, he would look suspicious.

Nolan certainly wasn't braving a snowstorm to look for her. And she'd never show her face here again, unless her brother forced her back.

Nolan would simply play the helpful, concerned brother. And if they ever found that deceitful wench, he'd get his revenge.

Chapter Four

At the snow-covered ramshackle cottage, Dirk dismounted. He couldn't believe Isobel and her maid had slept here the night before. If that was truly the case, she'd been desperate to hide out from someone. What kind of trouble had she gotten herself into at Munrick?

The stone cottage looked forbidding in the gloaming with its darkened doorway and almost half of the thatch roof either caved in or blown away. It would be little protection from the snow that gusted sideways, stinging his face and eyes.

Dirk turned, placed his hands at Isobel's narrow waist and helped her to the ground. She felt so small and fragile within his hands, and indeed she was about a foot shorter than he was. Snow covered the wool plaid over her head.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Well. But I look forward to some heat," she said with a shiver.

"Aye." Dirk turned to Rebbie who had dismounted nearby. "Lady Isobel tells me this is where she stayed last night. We can take the horses inside with us out of the wind." Thankfully the doorway appeared wide and tall enough to accommodate their mounts.

Rebbie nodded, although he looked none too pleased about the cottage. Truth was they had stayed in far worse accommodations when they'd fought in France, sometimes sleeping with no roof over their heads. Although it had not been as cold as it was now.

"I'll investigate the cottage first to make sure 'tis empty," Dirk said.

George brought one of the lanterns and helped him search the two-room hut. Finding it empty and the area behind it filled with naught but bushes, they rejoined the others.

Dirk offered Isobel his arm so she wouldn't slip on the snow.

Through the layers of linen and wool, her hand felt small and lightweight lying in the crook of his elbow, almost as if she were afraid to touch him. Something in him wanted to calm her worries. But beyond helping her get to safety, he wanted naught else to do with her, given her close association to his stepmother. Whatever trouble Isobel had gotten into at Munrick only added to the threat surrounding her.

Though it irritated him, his unruly body was on high alert around Isobel… because she was female. That was the only reason. And she was even lovelier than she'd been when they were younger, obviously curvier. The image of her riding astride behind him put lustful thoughts into his head… thoughts that had no business being there. No matter how bonny she might be, this was one female he would not become involved with.

The five of them entered the meager, two-room stone hut. Isobel took her lantern and proceeded through the doorway. "We found this smaller room to be much warmer."

Everyone followed her.

"Indeed, 'tis much more sheltered," Dirk said.

"We burned most of the kindling last night. But I do have two bricks of peat left."

Dirk nodded. "We may need more. The night will be long and the wind is cold."

"Is there a village nearby?" Rebbie asked.

Isobel's eyes grew wide and she hesitated. "Um… aye. Just north, around the bend. But there are no inns."

"Don't fash yourself, m'lady. With such splendid lodgings here, I have no need of an inn." Rebbie winked, then turned to his servant. "George, I need for you to go into the village and buy some dry peat, oats for the horses and some fresh bread if you can find it." Rebbie dropped silver coins into the younger man's hand.

"Aye, m'laird." George gave a brief bow and moved toward the doorway.

"Make no mention of the women," Dirk added, hoping to ease Isobel's worry. "And be certain no one follows you back. If they ask, you work for the MacKays."

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.