My Brave Highlander(17)

"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.