My Brave Highlander(20)

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."