My Brave Highlander(12)

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.