My Brave Highlander (8 page)

"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?"

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."

She turned her face away. "I hate that vile liquid."

"Isobel, do what I say," he murmured. "'Twill help you."

She let out a long breath. "Very well." She drank another sip of whisky, grimacing, then lay down on the blanket and covered up. "I hope this doesn't cause me to talk in my sleep."

"'Tis doubtful," Dirk said. "Why did Torrin allow his brother to hurt you?"

"He is away in Lairg, meeting with another chief. He knows naught of it."

"Why did Nolan harm you?"

She was silent a long moment. "I cannot tell you, but I fear if he ever gets his hands on me again, he'll do far more than break my finger."

"Bastard," Dirk muttered.

Why wouldn't she tell him why Nolan had injured her? Had there been a fight? With his brother away, had Nolan tried to take advantage of her? Isobel was far more bonnie than most lasses and doubtless she turned a lot of heads. Some men wouldn't take
nay
for an answer. Their carnal lusts overrode common sense, even when the lass belonged to a brother.

"When is the MacLeod due to return home?" Dirk asked.

Isobel's breathing was deep and even, and she didn't answer. He watched her for a moment longer, the bruise marring her smooth ivory cheek infuriating him. Something in him yearned to seek revenge for such insult and injury.

He forced his gaze away. Beitris lay snoring lightly not too far from Isobel. 'Twas time for him to get some sleep as well.

He rose and moved to sit on a stool by the fire pit.

"There is some bread and cheese if you want it," Rebbie said, lying on his bedroll nearby.

Realizing he was hungry, Dirk devoured the food. He wished Isobel had eaten before she'd fallen asleep, but at least she had eaten the two bannocks earlier.

"Where is George?" Dirk asked.

"Keeping the first watch."

Dirk spread out his bedroll just as George trotted into the small room. "Someone is coming, two or three riders," he said.

Chapter Five

Who the devil would be outside the cottage and why?

"Damnation," Dirk muttered, drew on his wool mantle and grabbed his broadsword. Rebbie did the same. The approaching riders had to be MacLeods. 'Haps someone from the village who'd gotten suspicious of George and tracked him back here. Although the wind and snow should've covered his tracks by now. Maybe they smelled the smoke of their fire and followed it.

"Oh heavens." Beitris sat bolt upright on her blanket, but Isobel didn't wake.

"Watch her," Dirk said. "Both of you stay here."

Beitris nodded, her eyes wide. "Aye, sir."

He sheathed his sword and the Highland dirk he was named after so as not to appear too aggressive, then followed George and Rebbie out into the blowing snow. If the riders weren't from the village, then the villagers must have alerted the MacLeods at Munrick that strangers were in the vicinity. Better not be Nolan MacLeod, or Dirk didn't know if he'd be able to control his battle-lust. Especially if Nolan grew insolent and tried to force his way into the cottage. Dirk wouldn't let Nolan anywhere near Isobel, regardless.

The two men, one carrying a torch, dismounted a few yards away. Squinting through the blowing snow stinging his eyes, Dirk tried to identify them. Both wore plaids, trews and shaggy wool mantles. The second man unsheathed his broadsword.

"Saints," Dirk muttered, drawing his own weapon. Rebbie did the same, then set down the lantern. One could never tell when things would turn bloody.

"Who are you and what are you doing here on MacLeod land?" one of the men called out in Gaelic. "You're trespassing."

"I'm a MacKay, returning to Dunnakeil in Durness. We simply needed a place to stay for the night, out of the storm."