My Brave Highlander (22 page)

"I'll be glad to. I bid you good evening."

Dirk bowed, and the minister retreated out the side door, likely headed to his nearby cottage.

A memorial plaque? Dirk had to see this.

He gave the new chapel one final glance and left by the front door, still feeling disturbed that it was built with a murderer's money. Why would his father allow such a thing… unless the clan was having financial difficulty? Had Maighread and her fancy manor house bled them dry? He'd have to talk to the steward soon after he was installed as chief.

Outside, Dirk meandered between the grass-covered graves with their old tombstones. The sun, having dropped behind the hills, stained the sky orange, pink and violet. The whole of the north wall faced the bay and Faraid Head beyond, depending on where an onlooker might stand. Halfway along, he noticed a carved gray stone plaque set into the wall. It measured about a foot in height. He moved forward to stand before it.

To honor the memory of Dirk MacKay, brave and noble son of Chief Griffin MacKay. Born 1591. Died 1606 Faraid Head. We miss you.

Of a sudden, he felt the finality of his death just as his father and clan did. It could have so easily been true.

A few feet away stood the grave marker for his cousin who truly had died that day, William MacKay.

His stepmother was a murderer in truth.

Something thumped behind him and he whirled, hand on his sword hilt, alert and ready to lash out.

The dark-clothed figure from the beach stood ten feet away.

Chapter Twelve

Isobel.

For Dirk, seeing her here in the cemetery was so unexpected, he was at a loss for words. And his body was still in high-alert defense and attack mode.

Removing his hand from his sword hilt, he felt daft for the sudden rush of alarm that had near made him strike before he saw who was behind him. His pulse thumped in his ears like a drum. This wasn't the first time it had happened. Expecting to be ambushed at any moment tended to do that to a man.

"Pray pardon. I didn't mean to startle you," Isobel said, frowning. "Are you well?"

He drew in a deep breath, then blew out the tension, forcing himself to relax. "Aye. What are you doing outside the gates? The highwayman could venture into these parts."

She frowned and glanced about. "I simply had to get outside while the weather was halfway pleasant. If it makes you feel any better, I have a dagger in my pouch."

It didn't, but he supposed that was better than nothing.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I was but admiring my memorial plaque," he said in a dry tone and motioned toward it.

She moved forward, her eyes scanning the carved stone. "Oh," she breathed. "Brave and noble. I agree with that."

Her words meant more than he could say. "I thank you," he murmured.

When her dark eyes found him again they were misty. "Your clan missed you."

"No more than I missed them."

"But you knew they were here. They thought you were gone… permanently."

"Aye, there is a difference," he admitted. He especially knew that to be true now that his father had passed. It touched him deeply that Da had such a fine plaque carved in his honor.

She glanced at the plaque again. "Faraid Head… where is that?"

"Over two miles that way." He pointed over the wall toward the massive stretch of land on the opposite side of Balnakeil Bay. "'Tis inhospitable with naught but sand dunes and sea cliffs."

"What happened?"

Too much to explain it to her now. A mixture of dark emotions converged on him, memories of what he'd gone through that night. To know Lady MacKay was so greedy she was willing to kill for what was rightfully his… while he, at age fifteen, endured the pain of a serious injury and the fear of hanging off the edge of a cliff for hours in the darkness and wind, the waves crashing below where his best friend had died, not knowing if he would be able to climb back to the top or if he would also fall to his death. And then the gratitude of surviving. Nay, 'twas too much to relive now. And he rarely talked about it.

"I'll tell you sometime," he said, staring toward the harsh headland, thinking of Will and missing him more now that he stood at his grave. He didn't want to call Isobel's attention to it, nor did he want to talk about his cousin at the moment. More urgent issues were at hand.

"We need to talk," he said.

"I thought we were." She bit her lip but a faint grin slipped out, distracting him, pulling him up from the depths of dismal emotions. His past vanished like morning mist as he focused completely on the here and now.

Isobel.

Loose strands of her dark hair escaped the cowl and fluttered in the wind, tempting him to capture them and twine them about his fingers. Her cheeks and lips were rosy from the chill air… and her dark eyes entrancing.

Damned if she wasn't a wee seductress.

He glanced away to better focus on what he'd wanted to say. "I mean we need to talk about something serious."

"There is naught more serious than a memorial plaque," she said with a straight face.

He snorted and grinned before he could stop himself, unsure why her words struck him as humorous. He shook his head. "I think we should head back to the castle afore dark. 'Tis growing colder with the setting of the sun."

She nodded and proceeded between the graves toward the exit.

He held the weathered wooden gate for her, then fell into step beside her on the trail of wet, compacted sand up the hill toward the castle.

"I wondered whether you had sent my brother a missive letting him know I'm alive and well. He'll worry when the MacLeods tell him I've vanished," she said.

"I was planning to. But then I got to thinking the MacLeods might intercept the messenger or the missive and learn where you are. For your own safety, I thought it best to wait a bit."

She nodded. "Very well. I'd rather they not find out where I am at all costs."

"I also have to figure out which servants are trustworthy and who might best serve as messenger." 'Twas almost two hundred miles to Dornie. He needed to send someone who'd been to Dornie before who was also hale and hearty enough to withstand the cold weather. In truth, he should probably send two servants on such a long, arduous and dangerous journey.

Aside from that, he'd hate for anyone, including her brother, to show up and take her away so soon. It would be for the best, of course, but he was not entirely sure he was ready to let her go. He was being imbecilic, for there was no future with her. Still, he could not help but enjoy spending time with her and talking, even if they discussed trivial matters.

"You were walking on the beach?" he asked, wondering what possessed her to wander out in the cold.

"Aye, 'tis warmer today and the wind less fierce. And I have never seen such a beautiful beach." She paused for a moment to glance back over Balnakeil Bay, tinted by the soft light of gloaming.

"There are many lovely beaches around Durness." And most ladies wouldn't have ventured outside, beautiful beach or not. He was drawn to her resilience.

"I had to get some fresh air and light," she said. "My chamber is warm and cozy but a bit dark."

He'd have to see about finding her a better chamber if, or rather
when
, he became chief. He had no doubt the clan would decide in his favor, especially if Aiden stepped down. Haldane would protest, but what good would it do the lad? He might have the temperament of a gale storm but was ultimately powerless. What had angered Dirk most was the way Haldane had spoken about Isobel, calling her a whore. Dirk might yet have the opportunity to teach the whelp a lesson about respect for ladies and members of the nobility.

"And how is your finger today?" Dirk asked.

"The swelling has gone down a wee bit." She paused, holding her hand out to him.

He took it gently, eager for any excuse to touch her. "Your hand is cold. And 'tis a bonny shade of green today."

She grinned, temptingly.

More than anything, he wished to kiss her hand. But he wasn't a gallant or a rogue like Lachlan, or even Rebbie. Dirk was not one to tease women or make them giggle. He wished he was. He wished he could change and become more like his friends.

When Isobel gazed up at him with such beguiling dark eyes, he was near spellbound. He didn't want to tease her; he wanted to kiss her. Not just her hand, but her lips. But that he must not do again, even though the kiss and her soft, delectable lips had haunted his dreams all night.

She was still betrothed to another. A betrothal was a legal and binding contract.

He released her and continued up the hill at a slow pace, waiting for her to catch up. "Lady Isobel, I find I must apologize for what happened in the stable last night."

"For the kiss or for snapping at me afterward?"

"Both." His face burned despite the cold wind.

"Nonsense. I'm glad you're not angry with me. 'Haps I am the one who should apologize."

"Nay, there's no need of it."

"Good. Because I'm not sorry."

Did she have to be so damned honest and look so enticing at the same time?

"Glare at me all you wish." She smiled. "'Twas a bit of indulgence, aye?"

He focused forward again, determined not to get pulled in by her allure. "Aye. It won't happen again."

"A pity," she mumbled, but he heard her clearly despite the gust of wind that near shoved his breath back down his throat.

Damnation if she wasn't pursuing him. Was she mad? Or was she trying to avoid marriage to a MacLeod? If he stole her, there would be clan wars. He feared no one, but he wouldn't put the lives of his clansmen on the line because of his own lusts.

If she'd been unattached, he wouldn't have a problem dallying with a widow. In fact, young widows were his favorite to share bed-sport with. They were somewhat experienced and often deprived. Eager.

Isobel had kissed him eagerly last night. But he didn't indulge with young widows who were spoken for, even if they were near irresistible.

"Was that all you wished to talk about or was there something else?" she asked when they neared the open portcullis.

"There is more. We'll talk in the library."

***

"This is the room my father always used to conduct official business," Dirk said, opening the ancient carved oak door.

Isobel entered but could see little in the dimness. Pausing inside the open door, she watched Dirk light a candle from the low-burning hearth fire. He used this to light two more candles in a candelabra sitting on the worn table. Two benches sat along each side of it, and chairs at either end. Old faded tapestries depicting galleys filled with warriors decorated two of the stone walls.

She wouldn't have called the room a library for, although there was one bookcase, it contained no books. Just some loose parchments and rolled documents. The window was tall and narrow with a splendid view of the bay in the gloaming.

"Have a seat." Dirk motioned toward a carved, regal-looking chair by the hearth where a peat fire burned.

"'Tis your chair. I cannot possibly—"

"Nay. 'Tis no one's chair at the moment."

She sat on the chair's worn blue velvet cushion and held her hands closer to the fire. "I'm certain they'll name you chief at the hearing." They were mad if they didn't. She had never met a man more suited to be a chief.

"I'm hoping they will. And I'm relieved that Aiden doesn't truly wish to be chief. If he did, this would be much harder." He turned one of the chairs at the table and carried it closer to the hearth for himself.

"I'm certain of it." She admired the close bond between Dirk and his younger brother and loved the thought that Dirk didn't wish to hurt the lad. "His gift is music rather than leadership."

"Indeed. As you know, Haldane went to retrieve his mother."

She nodded, remembering the young man's scathing response to her. She'd be happy if she never had to face him again. He was a menace.

"You know Maighread Gordon, of course," Dirk said.

"Aye. Since she and my mother were friends, she came to visit a few times when I was growing up. My mother thought highly of her."

"She can have a charming façade at times, but it hides one of the most cunning and evil minds I've yet seen."

"I know she tried to kill you."

Dirk's eyes narrowed. "Who told you?"

"Your aunt, Effie. She warned me to be careful."

"I want to warn you of the same thing. My stepmother may appear friendly and kind on the surface but, to be sure, she is always scheming for her two sons."

"'Tis hard for me to imagine," she said. At his lifted brow of skepticism, she added, "But I believe you."

"I know her only too well. I can easily imagine what she'll do when she arrives."

"What?"

"First, she will try to discredit me, and then she will try to murder me again. Or rather, she'll hire someone."