My Brave Highlander(25)

Breathe.

Dark figures moved near the gates. Three guards were watching them. Their swords gleamed in the torchlight.

"Halt there! Who are you?" a man called out in Gaelic, approaching along the trail leading from the castle.

Oh dear heaven, the same guard she'd seen when she'd left here. If he saw her face or the worn plaid arisaid she'd been wearing when she'd left, he would surely recognize her. At least he wasn't one of the guards who'd searched the cottage the night before.

"I'm a MacKay," Dirk said in a commanding voice. Halting, he faced the guard. "Just passing through on the way to MacKay Country."

"Who is this?" The guard motioned toward Isobel.

Her breath stopped. She feared she'd pass out and topple from the saddle.

"My wife," Dirk said without any hesitation.

His wife? Isobel flushed with heat from her head to her toes, despite the frigid weather and being near frozen with fear.

Dirk motioned back to Rebbie. "And that is my friend, Robert MacInnis, and our two servants."

As the guard paced by her and moved toward Rebbie, she swallowed hard and prayed he would not drag her from the horse.

"We must make great haste," Dirk called. "My father is on his deathbed."

'Twas a pity that was not a lie too.

She forced herself to draw in air as she listened to the footsteps crunching in the snow, the minute clanks of weapons and bridles. One of the horses snorted. The chill, wet air seeped into her bones.

Dirk's wife? The thought would not leave her. Good heavens, to be his wife in truth. Although he was the most fearsome man she'd ever met, the thought of being his wife did not fill her with dread as her first husband did. Nor like the MacLeod she was now betrothed to.

Returning, the guard passed her again. "Well then. Godspeed, MacKay." He motioned them along and headed back toward Munrick.

A breath of relief rushed out, leaving Isobel shaky, weak and cold. Dirk led the horse forward at a brisk pace while he sent the occasional glance back toward the guards.

Even though it would be far more pleasant to daydream about being Dirk's wife, she'd best remain in reality and stay attentive. If Dirk's father was indeed on his deathbed, or had already passed, he would experience great emotional pain and grief, just as she had when she'd lost her parents. She shivered, praying his father was alive and well by the time they reached Durness. She remembered the older man when he'd been hale and hearty, a huge bear of a man with auburn hair flecked with gray. She even remembered how he'd laughed louder than anyone else.

What would Dirk's laugh sound like? She barely remembered one smile from him. Back then, he'd been rather quiet, watching everyone else with suspicion. His sharp gaze never missing a tiny detail. He was ever serious, as he was now.

He had even observed her more than she was comfortable with, his pale eyes assessing her.

She knew not why he unnerved her. Clearly, he was trustworthy. He had just saved her from the MacLeods.

She must think of a way to thank him properly.

***

Isobel's toes were numb with cold by the time they arrived at a place Dirk called Scourie that evening. They'd not even stopped to eat their midday meal and had instead eaten while moving forward. The wind through the passes and glens was brutal at times. Once they'd moved from the treacherous mountains to flat moorland that wasn't too soggy, Dirk had again ridden in front of her so they could make better time.

She was ashamed to even think of it, but she enjoyed riding behind him and holding onto him. He was so vital, strong and protective, he made her almost giddy. She found herself wanting to smile at the oddest times, when she really had naught to smile over. Her finger ached and her feet were near frozen, but what did that matter? The man in front of her made her more disoriented than the whisky he'd forced her to drink the night before.

With the cowl of his mantle lying on his back, she observed the rich luster of his copper hair and found herself wanting to comb the fingers of her good hand through it. But that would not be acceptable.

Dirk guided the horse to the largest cottage in the village, stopped and dismounted. He handed her the reins and glanced up at her. The blue of his eyes was different somehow, darker. Maybe it was because gloaming was already upon them and the sky had become heavily overcast again.

"I used to know the man who lives here. I'll be right back." He strode to the door and knocked.

A man with a bushy gray beard opened the door and stared at Dirk for a moment as they exchanged words.

"Dirk? Is that truly you, lad?" The man laughed then shook his hand heartily. "I thought you were dead."

"'Tis a long story I'll be glad to tell you sometime."

"Well, bring your friends inside out of the cold. I'll have Mattie bake a few more oatcakes." He disappeared inside the house, yelling for Mattie.