A Highlander’s Homecoming (10 page)

Bizarre spring weather for the highlands indeed.

As Isabella had said, he found an enclosed stable butt up against the back wall of the cottage.

He ducked his head as he entered the building, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings. For a stable, particularly a stable in this time, it was remarkably clean. There were rushes strewn about the hard dirt-packed floor as if it were someone’s home rather than a pen for animals.

Strange indeed, but it would do just fine, for both his horse and for him.

He leaned down to loosen the straps holding the saddle, frowning to himself. He’d told Isabella he was prepared to stay here as long as necessary, but he had absolutely no intention of doing so. MacDowylt had
claimed his armies could reach the gates of Castle MacGahan within a fortnight and Robert planned to be long gone before that happened.

Isabella might not want either his help or his protection, but she was damn well going to get it.

Though she was a growing mystery to him, at least he’d been right in his earlier assessment. Isabella had a soft spot for creatures in need. A soft spot he wouldn’t hesitate to use to his advantage whenever necessary now that he’d found it.

Perhaps a very fortunate discovery, considering he had less than two weeks to convince the woman of the necessity of making her escape.

Chapter 8
 

Though the broth was weak, it soothed its way down Isa’s throat and settled warmly in her stomach. She’d leave the pot to simmer through the night over a low fire, and once she added her oats tomorrow, she’d have a savory porridge for the day’s meals.

If only she’d thought to set it onto simmer before she’d left this morning, it would be done by now, but food hadn’t been her priority then any more than when she’d arrived home.

Once she’d assured herself that MacQuarrie wasn’t going to make any attempt at forcing his way inside, she’d heated water and bathed the filth of the day from her body and her hair. Only then had she thought of putting her kettle on to cook.

Now she was comfortable and warm, snug in her heavy nightdress, sitting in front of her cozy fire. She
plucked at the folds of the soft woolen draped across her lap, telling herself what a lovely evening this had turned out to be, even if her dinner did leave a little something to be desired.

She, at least, had a warm dinner.

No! She attempted to swat away the guilt nattering around her head like a pesky summer fly. It mattered not to her that the light fluffy flakes of early evening had quickly turned into a cold heavy rain.

So what if MacQuarrie was out there somewhere in the dark, huddled into his plaid against the weather. It was his own fault and none of hers. That he remained, braving the wet, supping on what cold food he carried with him was the result of his own poor choices. She had told him he was free to leave—had, in fact, all but demanded he go. But he’d refused. So how could any of this be her blame? It couldn’t.

Anyway, likely as not, he’d taken shelter in the stable with his great horse. He’d be fine there.

Steam from the mug in her hand wafted up across her face, bringing with it a fresh wave of guilt. Though her stomach growled at the enticing smell, she found herself unable to take that next sip.

What if it
were
her fault? No, she’d not made the choice for MacQuarrie to stay, but she had been unsettled by the whole of the day, and most especially by his decision to remain with her.

As unsettled as the weather.

“Nonsense,” she muttered, ripping a small chunk of bread from the loaf on the table next to her and dipping it into her broth.

Spring weather was frequently unsettled. It had
nothing to do with her reaction to the warrior, and she certainly didn’t intend to waste another minute thinking about the man. She’d told him she wouldn’t take on the responsibility for his feeding and care, and she’d meant it!

She shoved the bite into her mouth, chewing with much more enthusiasm than she actually felt.

She refused to think about how he’d stood before her grandfather and claimed his right as her guardian to protect her, or how he’d stood up to the MacDowylt for her, championing her cause against the greedy man. Most especially she would not think on how she had felt as he’d lifted her up onto his horse in front of him, encasing her within the warm, protective circle of his arms.

And what had she done to thank him for his efforts? She’d left him without benefit of hearth or fire, to suffer through the long dark night. Alone. Hungry. Perhaps in danger of freezing in a storm that could very well be of her own making.

“Fie on it,” she said aloud, tossing the woolen from her legs onto the floor.

She’d get no peace this way. She could spare a cup of broth. It would be no hardship for her. It wasn’t as if she were actually taking on the responsibility of caring for him. It was no more than a simple cup of warmth handed out to one in need.

Besides, in weather such as this she truly should check on the ewe and her new lamb.

Dropping to her knees on the floor beside the box where she stored all her treasures, she pulled out the tall metal and bone lantern that had once belonged to her father. Beside it, wrapped in soft wool, lay her
dwindling supply of fine beeswax candles. She fit one into the lantern before filling a mug from the bubbling pot that hung over the fire. Isa strapped on her pattens, tossed a cloak over her shoulders, and lifted the cover to her head before lighting her candle. She didn’t really need the light to find her way around back to the stable, but it would be too dark inside to adequately check on the condition of the new lamb.

Cold rain spattered her face when she stepped outside. Clutching the mug in one hand, she braced the lantern against her body while she closed the door.

Stepping carefully along the muddy path, she shuddered as the smell of wet dung stung her nostrils. Must be time to clean the stables again.

From her childhood, Isa had hated the odor of filth and its vile feel on her body. Her grandfather had claimed that her constant bathing would send her to an early grave and declared it was her mother’s fault, insisting that her unnatural heritage made her an aberration in nature.

Even after all these years, the memory of his words set Isa’s teeth to grinding. The great laird of the MacGahan was wrong. Wrong on so many counts.

The differences Isa had inherited from her mother enhanced her life. Anyone with eyes could see that nature loved cleanliness. She washed the earth with her rains on a regular basis. Isa could do no less.

She paused outside the door to the stable, looking up toward the blanket of clouds that hid the stars from her. Fat drops of clean, cold rain pattered her face, caressing her skin as they rolled down her cheeks.

In truth, not all of the differences she’d inherited
from her mother enhanced her life, but this rain tonight felt too comfortingly natural to have been her fault.

Holding on to that reassurance, she pushed open the big wooden doors and slipped quietly inside.

Light from her lantern barely pierced the curtain of black, as if she moved about inside a small, dimly lit cocoon. The flickering candle sent strange shadows wavering around her and the silence of the stable beat at her ears. The calm she’d felt only moments before began to slip away.

The giant black warhorse loomed as a massive dark mound at one end of the room.
He
lay next to the animal, huddled into his plaid for warmth, just as she’d imagined he would.

Her hands full, she tried to ignore the need to pull her cloak tightly around herself, to retreat into the warm safety of the wool’s heavy folds. Instead she tiptoed nearer, stealing a closer look at MacQuarrie.

The eyes that had so mesmerized and intrigued her when open were shut now, allowing her to study the warrior’s face without embarrassment.

Only to ascertain his well-being, she assured herself, and for no other reason. She would not enjoy the task of dealing with his great body should he take sick and die on her out here.

Tendrils of dark brown hair escaped the plaid pulled snugly around his head, curving softly over his strong, whisker-shadowed jawline. His lips, slightly parted in his sleep, were full and strong, and for an instant she allowed herself to wonder how they might feel against her own.

His nose, which she’d earlier thought straight and perfectly aligned on his face, on closer inspection appeared
to be slightly crooked, as if it might have been broken at some point in his life.

Not that it made a difference in his beauty. She allowed herself to honestly admit he was the most starkly handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon.

She bit down on the exclamation that bubbled to her lips so as not to wake him. What had happened to her practicality? What a ridiculous thought for her to harbor—as if she were in any position to compare the qualities of men’s beauty. Her of all people! It wasn’t as if she saw men every day. Didn’t months at a time go by where wee Jamie was the closest thing to a man she encountered?

Shaking her head at her foolish flight of fancy, she sighed and turned to spot her small wooden milking stool. Moving as silently as possible, she placed the mug of broth on the stool. It would cool quickly out here but there was no point in her carrying it back with her. Besides, he might awaken during the night in time to appreciate its warmth.

She stopped at the sheep’s stall, where the new mother opened a wary eye.

“Be at peace, Maisey,” she murmured, realizing only as the words left her lips she’d decided on the ewe’s name. It had come to her mind as she’d spoken as if from the sheep herself.

Maisey closed the discriminating eye, acknowledging Isa was no threat to the lamb sleeping peacefully beside her.

Isa watched the mother and babe for a moment more until she was satisfied that all was well and she could leave. Her coming out here had been silly to begin
with, but perhaps now she could go inside and relax. There was nothing out here to give her worry.

Comforted by that knowledge, she’d barely touched the latch when a large hand closed around her throat, choking the scream that burst from her lungs.

Robert awoke with the first footfall outside the stable, his hand instinctively closing around the dagger at his waist.

Too light to be a full-grown man. Would MacDowylt have sent a boy? A scout, perhaps, sent to seek Isabella’s location?

The steps paused, far enough away they’d be standing in the open. Careless, whoever it was. He’d expected better than an untrained boy from what he’d seen of MacDowylt and his men.

The moment the door opened, Robert realized his error.

Not a scout, and certainly not a boy.

Isabella.

Her unique scent preceeded her into the stable, wafting ahead of her, fresh and distinct.

After a pat to ensure his steed ignored their visitor, he forced himself to remain motionless as she drew near.

What the hell was she thinking, wandering about after dark? Anyone could be outside her doors, waiting to attack her. Was the woman that naively trusting or simply the brainsick hermit she had appeared in her grandfather’s great hall? Whichever the case, the more he learned of her, the more difficult he realized his task would be.

Her footsteps hesitated and then stopped very close to him.

With his eyes closed, his sense of smell sharpened. The earlier woodsmoke was gone. Now her scent brought him visions of newly mown lawns, sparkling after a fresh rain.

With a sigh and a rattle of pottery and wood, she moved away.

Whatever the reason, Isabella seriously lacked the care for her own safety. Though they likely had a fortnight before MacDowylt could return with his armies, anything was possible. And while Robert grudgingly admired the man’s attempt to avoid war in his campaign to add to his lands, this was one time he couldn’t agree with his methods.

In spite of Isabella’s rationale that MacDowylt would return to the castle, the man knew she didn’t live within the security of the castle walls. At this very moment he could have men scouring every inch of the surrounding countryside, hunting for her location.

It’s what Robert would do in his position.

No, there was no haven to let down his guard here. He could either watch her twenty-four hours a day or he could teach her that the sense of security she obviously felt in her surroundings was false.

Better yet, he could do both.

The melodious tones of her voice floated to his ear as he stealthily rose to his feet and tucked the end of his plaid into his belt before approaching her. She’d just reached the door when he struck. Slipping directly behind her, he slid his hand inside the hood of her cloak
to curl his fingers around her slender throat and pull her back against his chest.

As her strangled scream shattered the night, he loosened his grip immediately but didn’t let go. Instead he pulled her closer as all hell seemed to break loose around them.

The sheep’s plaintive wail combined with the cries of frightened goats. Even his own horse bellowed, the whole of their cries all but lost in a crash of thunder, as if Mother Nature herself were venting her outrage along with the animals.