My
Brave Highlander
Vonda
Sinclair
Chapter
One
Scotland, November 1618
Dirk MacKay urged his horse into
a gallop along the narrow, muddy road that led from Draughon Castle toward
Perth. Praying he wouldn't be too late to see his father alive one last time, he
squinted against the cool, misty rain stinging his eyes.
The meager light of dawn hidden
behind thick, leaden clouds provided little illumination. Greenish-brown hills
dotted with grazing sheep and rolling beige grain fields sped by on either side
of the road. Tulloch carried him closer to the thatched-roof stone crofters'
cottages situated before a small wood of bare-limbed trees. A faint white mist
hung over the massive River Tay, hidden amongst the bushes in the distance.
Dirk hoped he'd slipped away
before his two friends knew what he was about. They would insist on going with him
and he couldn't allow them to make such a sacrifice.
Lachlan was recently married and
a newly titled earl and chief. He would be daft to accompany Dirk on a
dangerous trek through the snowy Highlands to the edge of the earth, leaving
his wife and clan to fend for themselves.
Although Robert "Rebbie"
MacInnis, Earl of Rebbinglen, was a Highlander with naught to tie him down,
Dirk wouldn't put his life in danger, either.
It wasn't simply the severe cold
weather of the north that made Dirk worry over his friends' safety. A murderer lurked
amongst his clansmen… a murderer who wanted Dirk dead, and wouldn't bat an eye at
killing one of his friends, as well. He shook his head. Nay, he'd done the
right thing by not asking Lachlan or Rebbie to risk their lives by traveling
with him to Durness.
The three of them had been near
inseparable for the past few years, but Dirk needed to handle this on his own.
He'd been living in limbo for twelve years, and now it was time to return to
his real life… to follow his destiny.
Behind him, quick, rhythmic hoof-beats
pounded the road and spattered through puddles. A sharp whistle pierced the
chill, wet air. Dirk glanced back to find a dark-haired, black-cloaked man
following him.
Rebbie.
"Damnation." How had
he known? Dirk slowed his horse, then halted and turned to face his approaching
friend. Tulloch, snorting at the interruption to his gleeful run, danced about
beneath him. "Whoa, lad," Dirk said, trying to calm the horse.
When Rebbie drew up and stopped
beside him, Dirk asked, "Where are you going?"
"A better question is where
are you going? You left without a
word. Luckily, I heard the floorboards creaking as you slipped past my chamber
this morn. Does it have aught to do with that missive you received last
evening?"
"I'm in no need of help,"
Dirk said, skirting the disconcerting question.
Rebbie's black brows lowered. "Even
if you did need help, you're likely too proud to ask for it. What's happened to
cause you to slip away like this?"
"I must return home without
delay." And, nay, it was not pride that kept him from asking for help. There
were some things a man must face on his own.
Rebbie tugged on the reins of
his fidgeting, temperamental bay. "Why?"
Gazing north, Dirk observed the
mist-cloaked, brownish mountains in the distance. He would have to travel far
beyond them to reach home. "An urgent family matter."
"Of what sort?"
"Damnation, Rebbie. Must
you always ask a thousand questions?" Dirk hated the way his chest
tightened every time he thought about the loss he might face once he returned
to the castle where he grew up. The regret. The fear. If he hurried, he might
still have time to see his father alive. "'Twould take too long to explain
it now. I must be on my way."
Rebbie's frown deepened and his
steady gaze grew darker. "How far are you traveling?"
Dirk hesitated, unsure whether
he wanted to blurt out the truth. His friends thought he was someone he was
not, but 'twas time to face facts. 'Twould no doubt spawn numerous other
questions from his inquisitive friend. But there was no point in lying anymore.
He was coming out of hiding and taking the bull by the horns—for a certainty,
his life would be in danger once he reached Castle Dunnakeil.
"I'm going home to Durness,"
Dirk said, feeling more like his true self than he had in years.
"Saints, man!" Rebbie
exclaimed. His horse flicked his ears and turned in an agitated circle. "That's
where you're from? I thought the MacLeries were from Strathspey."
"Aye." His mother's
clan lived in that area and he had spent much time there. But his true name
wasn't MacLerie. It was MacKay. He couldn't tell Rebbie that now or he'd ask a
thousand more prying questions.
Rebbie waited for Dirk to
explain, and when he didn't, Rebbie raised a brow. "Durness, aye?"
Dirk nodded, a sudden gust of
wind whipping his damp hair into his eyes.
"Well, at least come back
to the keep for a few minutes. Lachlan can provide supplies, food and wool blankets.
In this weather, 'twill take a long while to travel to Durness."
"I'm well aware. My plan is
to ride west, through Stirling, then head up the west coast by galley or ship.
If the weather is decent, I can travel most of the way by sea." But the
wind and rain, which had been near unnoticeable when he'd left Draughon Castle
a quarter hour ago, was now turning into a gale.
"I'm coming with you,"
Rebbie said, his determined jaw hardening.
Rebbie was a proficient and
skilled former soldier, up to any battle that might come their way, but the
harsh Highland winter was a different matter, and so was the murderer. "Nay,
I think it best if you stay here and help Lachlan."
"Och! 'Tis not safe for
anyone, even someone so fearsome and trained as you, to travel that far alone.
There are highwaymen, savage pirates and outlaws. Sometimes large bands of them."
Rebbie's brown eyes narrowed, giving him the look of the pirates he talked
about. "Come. Let's discuss it back at Draughon, out of this rain. Rushing
off unprepared will be of little help. You need supplies. Extra wool clothing."
Dirk's stomach clenched with
dread. 'Haps his friend was right. He'd planned to buy supplies in Perth or
Stirling. But taking them from here might be more practical; he wouldn't have
to waste time looking for the items he would need.
"Very well." It was
still early morn. If they didn't tarry too long, they could make much progress
today.
They quickly rode back to
massive Draughon Castle with its four, round, gray stone towers and large
rectangular keep. The guards at the black iron gates allowed them entrance to
the high-walled, stone-paved barmkin. They circled around the side of one tower
to the stables.
Rebbie swung down, his feet landing
with a clunk on the cobblestones. "Prepare our horses, along with two
more, for a long journey," he told the stable lad.
"Two more?" Dirk
asked, dismounting. "Lachlan can't leave Lady Angelique and his clan."
"I ken it, but the two of
us will need servants to care for the horses, run errands and such."
Dirk rolled his eyes at the
coddled nobleman. "I have no servants. And the fewer in our party the
better."
Rebbie waved him off. "We'll
discuss it later."
The two of them proceeded around
the side and up the front steps of the keep.
Once inside the expansive, two-story
great hall, Dirk approached the massive burning fireplace near the high table
to warm his back, while Rebbie sent his manservant, George, to wake Lachlan.
Dirk ran his gaze over the large tapestries depicting Drummagan family history that
decorated the walls. They reminded him of the ones at Dunnakeil.
Female servants lit candles and
carried food up from the ground level kitchens, preparing for breakfast at the long
wooden tables.
Rebbie and Dirk pilfered a
couple of buttered bannocks while they waited.
A few moments later, Lachlan
MacGrath-Drummagan, wearing a belted plaid, emerged from the narrow turnpike
stairway. "Angelique is sick," he murmured for their ears only.
"What's wrong?" Dirk
asked.
"Nausea, vomiting."
Dirk and Rebbie exchanged a
concerned but curious glance.
"'Haps she is with child,"
Rebbie suggested.
"Aye." Lachlan gave a
wee joyful grin. "I'm hoping that's what it is." His sandy-blond hair
glinting in the candlelight, he glanced back at the stairs briefly, making it
clear he wanted to be up in the bedchamber with her. Facing forward again, he
asked, "What are you two doing? Looks like you've been out riding in the
rain."
"Aye, Dirk is headed to
Durness and I'm accompanying him," Rebbie said. "We need provisions
and supplies, if you can spare them. Wool blankets, mantles and enough food for
a sennight."
"God's teeth!" Lachlan's
light brown eyes widened. "Why in blazes would you need to go to the far
north?"
"I'm not entirely certain."
Rebbie looked to Dirk.
He merely grunted, heavy dread
hanging over him like the dark gray clouds outside. He didn't mind his friends
knowing, but it was the act of telling them he wasn't looking forward to.
Talking about his past stirred up all sorts of painful emotions. He hated
emotions because he felt them too sharply and too deeply.
Lachlan sent two kitchen maids
in search of food Dirk and Rebbie might take with them—bread, hard cheese,
oatcakes, dried fruit, wine and apples.
"We'll go into the library."
Lachlan led the way down a short corridor, then closed the door behind them.
Though no fire burned in the
small hearth, Dirk had always found this smaller, low-ceilinged room cozy and
comforting, maybe because it reminded him of his father's library at Dunnakeil,
a place he'd felt safe as a lad.
"Out with it, man,"
Rebbie said, dropping into one of the cushioned leather chairs. "We want
to know what the missive said."
"You are demanding of a
sudden," Dirk muttered, pacing before the cold hearth. He could hardly
bring himself to voice the words he needed to say, but stalling was doing
naught but wasting precious time. He cleared his throat, trying to relieve the slight
ache. "My father is ill. My uncle does not expect him to live long." Speaking
the facts aloud was almost like an arrow piercing his chest for he had always
been close to his beloved father.
"Nay." Rebbie frowned,
his eyes troubled.
An unexpected illness of some
sort had taken hold of his father. Dirk should've returned to Durness months
ago, but he hadn't known his father would become sick.
"I'm saddened to hear of
it," Lachlan said in a comforting tone. "When did you last see
him?"
Dirk was ashamed to admit how
many years it had been. "When I was fifteen summers."
A weighty silence filled the
room. Dirk stared into the black coals of the hearth rather than his friends'
curious eyes. He knew what they must be thinking. Why so long?
"Was there some sort of
rift?" Rebbie asked.
"You could say that."
His friends needed to know the whole truth. A truth Dirk hadn't spoken of for
twelve years. It seemed like forever. He was closer to these two men than he
was to anyone, even his own family. If he couldn't trust them, who could he
trust?
He inhaled a deep breath and
released it. "When I was a wee lad, my mother died giving birth to my
sister. My father remarried a year or two later and had two more sons. My
stepmother, Maighread Gordon, wanted her oldest son to inherit. So… she tried
to kill me—or have me killed—more than once."
"'Slud!" Lachlan
rasped, his amber-brown eyes darkening and his face turning into a warrior's
mask. "When you were but a bairn?"
"Aye. The last time, when I
was fifteen, a man attempted to push me off a cliff onto the rocks far below in
the sea. My cousin, a good friend, was with me. He died but I, by some miracle,
managed to land on a wee ledge about fifteen feet down. The next morn, my uncle
came to my rescue. My father thinks I'm dead, as does the rest of the clan. The
only people who know I still live are my uncle, aunt, and two cousins."
"Saints," Rebbie
hissed. "What a witch. Is she still alive?"
"Last I heard. Anyway, my
uncle told everyone I died and took me to live with my mother's clan in
Strathspey. I went to university a couple of years later." That was where
he'd met Lachlan and Rebbie. "I've kept my identity secret for the past
twelve years."
"What is your true name?"
Rebbie asked.
"Dirk MacKay."
"You're not a MacLerie? Why
did you not tell us?" Lachlan asked.
"My mother was a MacLerie.
And… well, it was simply easier and safer that everyone think my name MacLerie.
My uncle ordered me to tell no one, for my stepmother comes from a powerful
clan with a far reach."
"I see. Your father holds a
title and property, then?" Rebbie asked.
"Aye, but nothing so
remarkable as yours. He's a baron and a chief. MacKay lands are vast but
contain little arable land. The holdings include a keep called Castle
Dunnakeil, a manor house about twenty miles away and several hundred clansmen
scattered over MacKay Country along the north coast."
"'Tis impressive,"
Lachlan said. "You will one day inherit, then?"
Dirk shrugged. "'Tis my
duty and responsibility to lead and guide the clan when my father is no longer
able. He trained me for this from as far back as I remember."
One of his first memories was
riding a large horse with his father. Dirk must have been three or four at the
time. One day this will be yours, Da
had said. When I'm gone, I want you to
take care of the clan as if they are your children. Do you understand? Dirk
recalled looking up into his father's proud and noble face, with his russet
beard and blue eyes. Dirk had nodded, even though he truly didn't understand.
But his father had known that someday Dirk would remember and know what he'd
meant.
Now, he didn't even know whether
he'd see his father again. His throat ached.
"Did you get on well?"
Rebbie asked.
Dirk nodded. "As well as
could be expected. But Da was smitten with Maighread. Back then, he thought her
the most beautiful creature on earth. He didn't believe me when I told him she
was trying to kill me. He accused me of having too vivid an imagination."
"How did you ken 'twas her?"
Lachlan asked.
"She threatened me from the
first time she laid eyes on me, and took great joy in slapping me every chance
she got, when no one was looking. She was not careful in what she said to me
because she thought no one would believe me. She was wrong. My uncle believed
me even if Da did not."
"Bitch," Rebbie
muttered.
Dirk nodded, a sense of urgency
coming over him. "I'm thinking 'tis time for me to take my leave. But
first, I want to thank you both for your friendship these last ten years. You've
become like brothers to me."
"Och," Rebbie
muttered. "You ken we feel the same way."
"Indeed, brother."
Lachlan stepped forward for a handshake. "Have a care on your journey
north. And I must thank you also for your help in clearing up the mess we had
here at Draughon last month. I wouldn't have survived without you both."
Dirk nodded. "That's what
friends do. Help each other."
"Which is why I'm going
with you," Rebbie said, standing.
"I must warn you that the
weather, especially in winter, in MacKay Country is harsher than anywhere we've
been thus far."
"I'm well aware. I've
traveled to Thurso before."
"And my murderous
stepmother might be just as inclined to kill my friends as she is to kill me."
"Och. Let her try,"
Rebbie grumbled.
"Well then, you've been
warned. We'll need some warmer clothing and some wool plaids."
"I have some excess ones,"
Lachlan offered. "And we have the thick, shaggy wool mantles we wore back
from Kintalon. They'll work well in the snow and wind."
Dirk nodded. "I appreciate
it."
"I wish I could go too, but
Angelique is not feeling well."
"You must stay here and
care for her and the clan." Dirk clapped him on the shoulder. He'd never
seen Lachlan smitten before, but his wee wifey had tamed the wild Scot.
"Send me a missive to let
me know how things go there. If you need me, let me know and I'll be on the
first galley north."
Dirk nodded. "I thank you."
"I hope your father is
alive and well when you arrive," Lachlan added as they proceeded into the
corridor.
Dirk prayed his da had a
miraculous turn of health. At just over two-score and ten, his father was not
an elderly man and 'haps that would work in his favor. Dirk had always imagined
returning to Durness one day and seeing the surprised look on Da's face. He
hoped he still would.
***
With no candle to light her way,
Isobel MacKenzie swiftly climbed the stone turnpike staircase within Munrick
Castle. Soft footsteps pursued her, spurring her to quicken her pace. Likely, 'twas
Nolan MacLeod, her future husband's younger brother. This would not be the
first time he'd approached her. He was ever leering at her or murmuring lewd
comments when no one was paying attention. She'd done naught to encourage him.
In fact, she'd tried her best to ignore him as she awaited the return of her
betrothed. No doubt the chief, Torrin, would tell his brother to go attend to
his own wife.
When Isobel emerged at the top
of the steps, the dimness of the cold corridor gave her a sudden chill. She had
been here less than a fortnight and the unfriendly place felt less like home
every day.
"Where are you fleeing to,
my wee witch?"
Glancing back, she couldn't see
him in the stairwell, but the voice belonged to that knave, Nolan.
"Leave me be." She
rushed toward the only light, a sconce at the end of the corridor, near her own
chamber.
Footsteps thumped behind her on
the wooden floorboards, but the boisterous music from the céilidh in the great hall ensured no one would hear. Her heart beating
loudly in her ears, she glanced over her shoulder and found him looming no more
than two paces away. Stopping, she faced the bastard. In the dimness, one side
of his thin lips quirked up within his scraggly brown beard, and the lusty gleam
in his light brown eyes disgusted her.
"I'm feeling nauseous and
thought I would retire for the evening," she said, glaring up at him. In
truth, she wished she could vomit on him. Then, maybe he'd lose some of his
unhealthy interest in her.
His smirk broadened and he took
a step toward her. "I ken how to make you feel better, lass."
Her stomach truly did turn then.
"Where is your wife?"
"Busy. Taking care of the
babe."
She cringed. He was the
sleaziest of men, seeking out attentions from other women when his wife had
only given birth a fortnight ago. 'Twas indeed a pity her intended, Torrin MacLeod,
was meeting with another clan and he'd left Nolan to oversee the castle.
"I'm sure she will be
looking for you," Isobel said. "And in case you've forgotten, I'm to
marry the MacLeod."
Nolan snorted. "Are you
thinking Torrin cares about you? He's only seen you one time. Nay, he has
Ruthann in the village. He has been smitten with her for years, and they have
children."
Could this be true? Her nausea
increased tenfold.
"With you, he but wants an
heir," Nolan went on. "If you're capable of providing one." He
snickered. "The rumor is you're barren, since you failed to produce an
heir for your last husband before his death."
Revulsion and anger swelled
inside her. She'd heard the rumors about her, but they were all lies. "That
is none of your concern."
"I'm making it my concern.
You see, if you're a widow who is barren, it will matter little if we have some
fun betwixt the sheets."
She wanted to scratch his eyes
out. "I am not barren." At least she didn't think so. It was
difficult to tell since she was still a virgin. "Do you think your brother
wants your bastard as his heir?" she asked. "Leave me be." She
turned toward her room, her skin crawling.
Close on her heels, he grabbed
her arm, jerked her around and forced her up against the stone wall. Her heart
catapulted into her throat.
She tried to yank herself free,
but couldn't budge his grip. "Unhand me!"
"Nay. And be quiet."
His breath reeked of strong whisky, and his belted plaid smelled like a wet
sheep that had wallowed in a bog.
"Knave! What do you think
your brother will say about this?" she asked. "Laird Torrin will be
furious." At least she hoped he would. It was her only ammunition.
"He will never know,
because if you tell him, you'll regret it." He breathed his odorous breath
against her face, then pressed his lips to her neck, his beard scratching her
skin.
She cringed. "Ugh."
She twisted, trying to wrest herself out of his grip, but his arm only
tightened around her.
"And even if he does find
out, what of it?" he asked. "He's only marrying you for the three
hundred acres in your dowry. You are a seductress and I must have you! Or 'haps
you are a witch who has cast a spell upon me."
"You are mad!" She
jerked her knee upward, slamming it toward his groin but his sporran and her
own skirts hampered her efforts.
He tightened his grip and shoved
his legs between hers. "You whore. Don't you dare attempt to fight me.
'Twill only make it worse for you."
He snagged his fingers in the
back of her hair and pulled. Her head thumped hard against the stone wall. Pain
shot through her skull but she dared not let him know he'd hurt her. Besides,
none of his clan would come to her rescue. Nolan could do no wrong in their
eyes. She was the outsider.
He covered her mouth with one
hand and wrapped the other around her throat. "Do not utter a sound or
I'll kill you now," he growled in her ear. "I'll squeeze the breath
from your soft, slender neck."
Icy fear freezing her muscles,
she remained still, her mind scrambling for an escape. Someone to help her? A
weapon? His dagger! It was always in a sheath on his belt. She prayed it was
now. If so, she would snatch it and stab him. She went limp as if acquiescing
to his demands.
"Aye, that's a good lass.
Now, we'll go into your chamber for some privacy." Grinning, he pressed
against her so tightly, his hardened member jabbed against her stomach.
Rutting bastard. She would make him regret touching her. Her
brothers had taught her well how to fight.
He loosened his hold, propelling
her toward the door to her small room. One of his hands bit into her arm, while
the other covered her mouth. When he pushed her through the doorway and kicked
it shut behind him, her fingers landed on the bone hilt of his dagger. She
yanked it from its sheath, the metal hissing against the leather.
"What are you about?" He
grabbed her hand and pried at her fingers on the hilt. She jerked her hand,
trying to free herself from his tight grasp. A crack sounded and pain shot
through her middle finger. Mo chreach!
Was the bone broken?
Gritting her teeth and fighting
past the pain, she twisted her hand free, retaining her grip on the knife. He swung
and his fist bashed into her face. Pain radiating from her cheekbone, she
staggered back but stayed on her feet. Damn him!
Lunging forward, she sliced and
stabbed at him in the darkness, connecting once.
"Ow! You whore!" he
growled. "I vow you'll pay a steep price for this." He grabbed for
her.
Ducking aside, she stabbed
again, kicked at him and ran across the small room, dodging her trunks of
clothing and the bed. Nolan stumbled and fell with a thump.
"I'll kill you," he
seethed in a quiet but deadly tone. And she knew he would if he got the chance.
Chills of dread and fear covered her.
Although he was fonder of
drinking and whoring than practicing his battle skills, he was still far
stronger and larger than she. From the bedside table, she picked up the stoneware
jug, still containing a bit of watered down wine. She waited for him to move,
her heart thumping in her ears.
Truly, she didn't wish to kill
him—she didn't wish to kill anyone. But she wouldn't let him use and abuse her.
In the dim glow from the coals
in the tiny hearth, she could only discern the outlines of objects. Growling,
Nolan lumbered to his feet and charged for her once again. Using her good hand,
she bashed the heavy jug against his head with all her strength. A thwack sounded, stoneware connecting
with bone. With a groan, he crashed to the floor. Silence filled the room.
Holding her breath, she waited
for him to move, to make a sound.
"I've killed him," she
whispered, frozen in shock. "Bashed in his skull."
She set the stoneware jug on the
floor and, with trembling fingers, lit a candle from the coals in the hearth to
see if he truly was dead. And if so, what would she do? Flee? The clan would
sentence her to death and drown her in the icy loch outside when they learned
of it. Likely, they wouldn't even wait for her future husband to arrive. Or
they might throw her in the dungeon until his return, and starve her.
Saints preserve me.
Her arms jittery and weak, she
set the candle on the trunk at the foot of her bed and stared at Nolan's
unmoving body for several long moments. His chest rose and fell with each
breath.
"Not dead," she
whispered. That was good, she supposed, but he could wake at any moment and try
to kill her. Again. She observed him,
seeing no movement except for his breathing. He appeared well and truly knocked
out, thank the heavens.
Pains shot from her finger.
Examining it, she found it was crooked at an odd angle. He had indeed broken
it. Damn him! She pressed it between the thumb and forefinger of the other
hand. Pain lanced through it. She sucked in a hissing breath. "Mo chreach!" She'd never
before had a broken bone. What could she do about it? She'd seen her brother
have his broken arm set when he was a lad. He'd screamed in utter agony.
The door behind her opened and
she jumped. Her maid, Beitris, stood frozen upon the threshold, her round eyes
locked on Nolan MacLeod illuminated by the candlelight. Isobel pulled her into
the room, closed the door and barred it. Her maid had been with her since she
was small and she trusted her above all others.
"Can you set a broken
finger?" Isobel asked.
Beitris observed her as if she were
mad. "What… M'lady, what is it you've done?"
She whispered in a shocked tone and motioned toward the man on the floor.
"He is yet alive. You see
how his chest rises and falls."
"But… the blood." She
pointed at the floor.
For the first time, Isobel
noticed candlelight gleaming off a small pool of dark blood spreading from his
head. Fear shot through her. Sweet Mother Mary, even if he wasn't dead now, he
might be in a short time.
"He tried to force himself
on me. The bastard. I will not abide it."
"Doubtless, he will not
abide this injury and insult to his pride, either… if he lives."
"I ken it. We'll have to
leave, slip away during the night."
Her wide dark eyes troubled, Beitris
nodded. "But where will we go? 'Tis late fall and the weather is turning."
"I know not, but I'll be
found guilty for attacking him, even if he lives. And if he dies…" She
shook her head, fear chilling her bones. "They'll drown me in the loch.
You know that."
Indeed, women were not hanged in
Scotland for crimes such as murder. Instead, they were drowned. And trials were
only a farce in most cases. Many an innocent woman had been drowned. Who knew
what Torrin MacLeod would say about it? Rarely did brothers go against each
other. Even if he would defend her, he wasn't here at Munrick now and might not
return for a week or more.
"We'll make our way back
home to Dornie," Isobel said. "My brother would not suffer me to
marry into this clan… with a would-be rapist for a brother-in-law."
"But Dornie is many miles
south of here."
"Indeed." Her stomach
knotted at exactly how far that was, perhaps a hundred miles.
"'Twas not your fault, m'lady."
"That will matter little in
their eyes. Hurry. Put on all your clothes." Rushing and trying to ignore
the pain in her finger, Isobel sloppily layered most of the clothing she
possessed onto her body, choosing her most worn arisaid to go over the top of it all. She pulled the upper portion
of the tan and green plaid over her head. The thick woolen garment contained a
few small holes, but it had been her grandmother's. Isobel always kept it with
her. All her small possessions, including silver and gold coins, her jewelry
and her small flute went into the pouch at her waist, hidden beneath the
layers.
Next, she picked up the dagger
she'd dropped—Nolan's dirk—and wiped the blade clean on his plaid. She shouldn't
take it, but she needed a weapon if she was setting out over the Highlands with
no one but her maid. Thieves and outlaws were plentiful.
Through the narrow window, she
saw that it was pitch black outside. With winter approaching, gloaming came
early, and dawn would arrive late in the morn. No moon shined through the
clouds this night. They'd need light. Bending, she took the candle and lit her
small metal and horn lantern, which sat on the trunk. It had been her mother's
and Isobel had used it since she was a child.
What else might they need? She
had no food or drink here in her chamber. She glanced around the room and
spotted bricks of peat lying by the hearth. They were lightweight and could be
exchanged for a night's lodging or burned for heat if necessary. She crammed
five into the large pouch that the bulky material of her arisaid made when it bunched out over her belt and took the two
extra candles lying on the mantel.
"We must slip out during
the céilidh. Come," Isobel
whispered, picking up the lantern and heading toward the door.
In the corridor, Nolan's
bearded, wiry manservant approached in his worn, belted plaid. Isobel's heart
rate spiked. Once Beitris had exited the room, Isobel closed the door and stood
before it. She prayed Nolan made no sound inside.
"M'lady, have you seen
Master MacLeod?" the servant asked. "His wife is wondering where he
got off to."
