Her face tight with worry, Beitris stood in the doorway.
"We'll sleep here," Isobel told her in what she hoped was an encouraging tone.
"Aye."
"Let's build a fire."
"I must rest first." Beitris found an overturned stool, righted it, and sat upon it. "My hip pains me."
Some of the thatch from the demolished portion of the roof had blown into a heap in one corner of the main room. Isobel gathered the straw and carried some into the smaller room where she piled it in the center of the dirt floor, then propped a peat brick beside it.
Next, she poked a dry straw into the lantern and came out with a small flame which she set to the clump of dry thatch. Once that was burning and the peat had started to smoke, she rose and glanced about. They couldn't burn all their peat in one night. They needed other fuel.
Taking the lantern, she poked among the debris of the cottage. Surely she could find something here that would burn. Aha, an old heather-stuffed mattress abandoned in the corner. It might be flea infested, but at least it would burn. She dragged it forward, then ripped the tattered material off, freeing the dried heather. She put several handfuls on the fire.
She also discovered half a broken wooden bucket. It would burn just as well as peat. She piled her finds not too far from the fire.
"Well, at least we have plenty of wool clothing to roll up in for the night," Isobel said.
"'Twill have to do, I reckon." Beitris rose and hobbled across the floor.
Watching her slow progress, Isobel frowned and dark fear slid through her. What if Beitris couldn't walk fast enough, or very far? Could she travel the twenty-five miles to Ullapool? And if they were too slow, would the MacLeod guards catch up to them?
***
Gusts of chill wind flung icy snowflakes into Dirk's eyes. After several days travel on galleys up the west coast, he and Rebbie had disembarked at Ullapool. With the strong winds, it had been unsafe to sail further north. Then, they had traveled north on horseback.
'Twas slow going on a narrow footpath through the rugged countryside. He glanced up at the Assynt Mountains surrounding them, their rocky peaks hidden in the low-hanging clouds. Snow blanketed even the lowest slopes in white.
"Is the weather always so inviting here?" Rebbie called out several feet behind him.
Turning in his saddle, Dirk glanced back and smirked. Rebbie had become spoiled in the temperate Scottish Lowlands and England. Snowflakes littered his friend's dark hair. Breath fogged from his mount's nose.
Of course, Rebbie had insisted on bringing his manservant, George Sweeny. He'd wanted to bring two servants but Dirk had to say no. It would've been more difficult for a large entourage to secure passage on a galley.
"I was thinking you were a Highlander," Dirk called.
"I am, indeed. But from much further south."
"Use the mantle's cowl." The plaids and mantles Lachlan had given them had come in handy. The wool over his head would catch the water from the melting snow and hold in the warmth from his body heat. Beneath that, Dirk wore a piece of metal-studded leather armor—because one couldn't be too careful in the Highlands—and a belted wool plaid over his trews.
Rebbie generally dressed like a Lowlander. But now they both had on several layers of clothing, both Highland and Lowland.
Evening was upon them and the temperature was dropping. They needed to reach Munrick Castle before nightfall. The MacKays and MacLeods had ever been allies, most of the time, anyway. He hoped the chief would provide them shelter for the night.
No doubt word had circulated through neighboring clans that the MacKay heir had died several years ago and a younger brother was set to inherit. Dirk wasn't yet sure how he would explain that he was indeed alive.
During his twelve year absence, he'd forgotten exactly how forbidding the weather in the Assynt region could be. If anything, MacKay Country, on the north coast was even harsher.
The trail through the Highlands only handled single file horses and foot traffic. He inhaled the bitter peat smoke trailing from nearby crofters' cottages. What he wouldn't give right now to be sitting beside one of those smoldering fires. The smoke scent blended with the damp air off the nearby bog and frost-bitten plants created a scent that reminded Dirk of his childhood.
When he was a lad, he had visited this area a few times with his father as they had dealings with the MacLeods. Generally, they got on well, but most Highland clans were canny enough not to trust another clan with one hundred percent conviction.
A movement out ahead caught Dirk's attention. What was that? Not a red deer. He thought he'd seen a flash of plaid. The trail turned uphill and passed through low-growing gorse bushes. Someone was hiding behind that boulder.