A Highlander’s Homecoming Page 7

  He just hoped wherever she lived actually had solid doors. Though the MacDowylt had gone away, he’d be back. Robert had not a single doubt of that fact. It was only a matter of when.

  With a seeming lack of concern for her own safety, Isabella sat astride his horse in front of him. The top of her head was level with his nose, while her hands draped over the saddle horn. Her fingers, though dirty, were long and unexpectedly delicate.

  Her hair, drying at last, tickled at his nose, filling his senses with the not unpleasant smell of woodsmoke.

  How odd. From her appearance, the odors he would expect to find wafting up from the woman would be far from pleasant. And yet that wasn’t at all the case.

  Inclining his head, he breathed in deeply, drawing the scent of her into his nostrils. Again he smelled woodsmoke lightly overlaying something fresh, something that made him think of sunshine on a warm spring day.

  He must be mistaken.

  When he sniffed in a second time, she stiffened, tilting her head to the side as if listening.

  “What’s wrong? Is there something out there? Are we being followed?”

  “No, my lady. I apologize if I startled you. I suspected something amiss, but there is no one out there.”

  Without a doubt, however, something was amiss. All was not as it seemed with the wild redhead in his arms.

  “Here we are,” she almost sang as they broke through into a picturesque clearing in the woods.

  A small, tidy cottage with a neatly thatched roof lay straight ahead of them. Off to one side was an open area of freshly cleared land, obviously intended to serve as a garden. On the other side, a running stream wound its way down the hill and into the woods. While small and far from elaborate, it hardly looked like the home of the mad hermit the woman seated in front of him portrayed herself to be.

  The longer he was around Isabella, the more of a puzzle she became. A most enticing puzzle he had every intention of solving.

  What in the name of all that was holy was she going to do with this man now that they’d reached her home?

  Isabella fidgeted in the saddle, impatient as Robert dismounted. Normally she would have simply slipped feetfirst to the ground, but this horse of his was a monster, easily larger than any she’d ever been on before. The ground was uncomfortably far away from her present perch.

  When he lifted his arms to assist her, she leaned into him and his hands fastened around her waist. His grip tightened as he took her full weight, pulling her closer, his face all but buried in her breasts. Her breath caught in her lungs and she placed her hands on his shoulders to steady her descent, feeling for a moment as if time stood still.

  Lord, but she’d thought sitting so close to him on the journey home, his arms stretched out on both sides of her, had been difficult, but this!—This was a thousand times worse, face to face, sliding down the length of his hard body. Her heart pounded in her chest and a strange sensation shivered through her, warming her cheeks and shooting that heat throughout her, to the pit of her stomach and lower still. Closing her eyes, she fought against the need to catch her breath in quick little gasps as her toes touched solid ground

  at last.

  He released her as soon as her wobbly legs took her weight, and she looked up to find his handsome features distorted in a grimace. The sight of what had to be his disgust at being so close to her felt like the shock of falling into a frozen winter pond.

  She stepped quickly back from him, dropping her eyes to the ground. This warrior, who had only moments before set her heart skipping in her chest, found her completely repulsive. So much so, in fact, that his face had distorted as if in pain when he’d held her.

  As it should be. That had been her goal, had it not? To keep the world away from the old crone’s door? To convince everyone that she wasn’t worth their time or bother. She should be happy she’d been so successful in her deception.

  She should be, but she wasn’t. His reaction hurt, cutting as deeply as any weapon ever could, and the heat that suffused her cheeks now was stoked by the fire of humiliation. She simply wanted to be rid of the man and his hateful grimaces.

  “Thank you for seeing me home. I’ve no more need of yer assistance now, so yer free to go as soon as you like.”

  Free to go and let her get back to her life as usual. That should come as a welcome relief to the man.

  “Go?” Neither his look nor his tone conveyed relief. If anything, he sounded incredulous. “I’ll no be leaving unless you’ve decided yer ready to make the move to my own home.”

  Now it was her turn at incredulity. “Yer home? Oh, I dinna think so, sir. I’ve no intention of going to yer home.” Or any other place with a man such as him. No, the farther away she was from him, the better.

  “You canna remain here, Isabella. The MacDowylt will come back.”

  It could be as he said. He did seem to be a man who would know of the world. But MacDowylt would be returning to the castle, not to her woods.

  “I’m no leaving my own home,” she repeated stubbornly.

  He bowed his head as if he were a man accepting his laird’s judgment. “Then I stay here with you. I made a promise to yer father to look after you and, late or no, now that I’m here, I’ve every intention of keeping that promise.”

  Oh no, having him here would never do.

  “In that case, Robert MacQuarrie, as my father’s only living descendant, I release you from yer onerous vow.”

  She envisioned him, at her words, gratefully mounting his enormous horse and riding quickly away into the distance. He did neither.

  Instead he laughed.

  “I’m sure yer pleased to have yer freedom back, sir, but I dinna see a need for you to be quite so rude about it.” You’d think the man would have some small regard for her feelings. He had vowed to see to her well-being even if she had released him from that promise.

  “My apologies, my lady.” Though his laughter ceased and he dipped his head respectfully, the corners of his mouth continued to quirk upward. “I can see you value yer independence, but getting rid of me will no be so easy as that. As the subject of said vow, yer no in any position to release me from it. Simply put, if you stay, I stay.”

  “Stay?” Isabella’s stomach tightened in a knot of nerves. What would she do if he seriously meant to stay? How long could she keep up her pretense? She’d never needed to carry on for more than a couple of hours at a time. Even now the ashes matted in her hair were itching at her scalp. “For how long?”

  He crossed his arms over his large chest, following along behind her to the cottage door. “A month, a year, five years. I canna say. I’ll stay until I’m either satisfied this is the best place for you to be or I’ve convinced you to allow me to take you somewhere better.”

  What had felt like a good idea in her grandfather’s hall, allowing this man to be her guardian, no longer seemed quite so appealing. In fact, she was beginning to feel as if some giant trap were closing in on her.

  She opened her door and stepped inside, turning at the last moment to peer up at the handsome warrior. If she couldn’t send him away, perhaps she could drive him away.

  “Do as you want. But hear this: I’ve no a use for you or any other intruders in my life. I like my own company and no other’s. If yer to stay here, you’ll keep yerself out of my way.” With one step back, she slammed the door shut and leaned up against it, drawing in a deep breath.

  There. That should convince him he wasn’t welcome. As soon as her body stopped trembling, she’d drag her stool over and climb up to watch him riding away.

  The nerve of the woman! She’d slammed the door right in his face. Another inch or two and he’d be straightening out his nose even now.

  Thick, dark clouds had begun to build, so he pounded on her door, pleased to see it seemed heavy enough to provide her some protection. After a long pause, followed by a scraping noise, she finally answered.

  “Have you no left yet? What do you want?”

&nbs
p; Robert shook his head, fighting back a smile at Isabella’s transparent actions. She thought he’d leave simply because she warned him off and slammed the door in his face? She had a lot to learn about him.

  “Have you a place where I can shelter for the night?” he called.

  “No,” came the muffled reply. “If yer to remain here, you’ll have to make do for yerself. I canna be expected to feed and shelter you.”

  Remembering her apparent compassion for the boy back at her grandfather’s castle, he decided on a different tack.

  “I’ve no such expectations for myself, my lady. But is there a place where I can feed and water my horse? A storm looks to be gathering and he’s tired after carrying the two of us all the way here.” Not exactly a complete truth—that animal had been bred and trained for much harder exertion. But Isabella didn’t know that.

  A few moments passed this time before she responded.

  “There’s a stable around back. And feed. Mind you dinna frighten my animals, though.”

  Robert walked the short distance back to his horse, taking up his reins and leading the animal around to the back of the little house just as the first snowflakes began to drift to earth.

  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?