"Isobel must be… what… five-and-twenty now?" Rebbie asked. "Is she not married?"
"How the blazing hell do I know?" Dirk frowned. "I don't go about asking women if they are married."
"You should. Some irate husband, 'haps even a laird or chief, may come chasing after us."
A sinking feeling settled into Dirk's gut, realization dawning. "That could be who bruised her face and broke her finger."
"Could be."
A blend of anger and suspicion twisted Dirk's vitals. "I asked who hurt her and she wouldn't say. She came from Munrick and is afraid to go back. We were ever friendly with the MacLeods and if one of them hurt her, she's afraid I'll be on his side." It all made sense now.
"So she knows the MacKays and MacLeods are allies."
"Aye. Her father knew. 'Tis common knowledge hereabouts."
Damnation! Had she married one of the MacLeod chief's sons, Torrin or Nolan? He cared naught for either of them—both arrogant as kings. He'd find out at the soonest opportunity.
He split the thick twig with his sharp blade, then whittled the bark and splinters from each piece, paying special attention to the flat inside. It should be smooth against her finger. Her skin was likely sensitive and delicate.
"She won't be getting any splinters from those," Rebbie said. "How gallant of you."
Dirk didn't usually mind Rebbie's teasing, but at the moment it was grating on his frayed nerves. He knew not why, except that his friend was right. Dirk cared too much about her welfare, her delicate skin, and her comforting warmth against his back, not to mention the way she'd clung to his shoulder or his mantle to keep her seat. Although he'd bedded plenty of females, one had never depended on him for safety and protection.
He refused to obsess over it. Other things were of far more importance, such as… who had broken her finger? And why?
The last thing he wanted was to fight a battle to protect her but, by the saints, he would if he had to. The only problem was, if the MacLeods attacked, Dirk, Rebbie and George would be outnumbered several dozen to three. They would have to use cunning and their wits when crossing through MacLeod land, rather than sword skills.
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?"