“All the better to keep ye in line.” She smiled sweet as honey, even though her words stung like a bee.
He laid back, and she lifted the plaid off his thigh, keeping his groin covered as she poked and prodded, then gave a perfunctory nod.
“So,” he said, studying her. “I am to be your nursemaid.”
There was a flash of irritation on her lovely features, which only made her lovelier. She pulled his plaid back over his thigh and gave him a look that said she was tolerating him more than anything else. And there from her bodice popped the head of a ferret, which startled him.
“I see ye’ve already got a bodyguard.”
“Ye are to be my protector.” Lady Isabel folded her arms, the ferret chirped, and he thought he heard the distinct sound of Isabel’s foot tapping a rhythm on the stone floor. “Though I suspect I shall be the one protecting ye. In your current state, ye’re scarcely fit for anything other than being an invalid.”
Her words stung, but they were true. He wasn’t sure he could bear weight when he stood, let alone fend off some bastard intent on maiming her.
“Ye’ll find, my lady, that I killed many men even with that spear in my leg. Without it, and just a wee bandage wrapped around this muscle, I’d be more than willing to kill any man who tried to harm ye.”
Something flickered in her gaze. Amusement perhaps? But it was hard to tell if she was laughing at him or impressed.
“We shall see.” She chuckled, stroking the head of her ferret whose gaze hadn’t left his face since popping from the lady’s bosom.
Och, so the lass was laughing at him then. Mo chreach, but the woman was infuriating. Lachlan had never had to prove himself as hard as it appeared he was doing at this moment. Most women softened at his presence, fluttering their lashes, and blushed, just waiting for him to bestow a compliment. Lady Isabel appeared to think him weak and ridiculous.
And yet he was completely intrigued by her. He had never been spoken to in the way she was speaking to him. There was something about Isabel Bruce that set his blood to boiling—and it could go either way: anger or desire. Her words rang out like a challenge tossed out. We shall see.
“Aye… I suspect we will.”
8
Though he would never admit it aloud, Lachlan was fully aware they were departing for Skye before his leg was ready. Every jolt of the horse would likely threaten to reopen his wound. Yet, remaining was no’ safe. Already a sennight had passed since his downfall at Falkirk, and it was only a matter of time before those bastard Sassenachs came bearing down on the Bruce’s castle.
‘Twas a dangerous feat to take Isabel to Skye. They would have to be very careful as they went, avoiding well-traveled roads, and sticking to the trees. His warriors would be with them for added protection, though only half. The other half would join Ewan and Callum to protect the Bruce.
Lachlan swung into the saddle before his leg could protest too loudly and refused the help of Angus and James. But the moment his weight settled, pain tore through his thigh, hot and sharp as the spear that had done the injuring to begin with. He gritted his teeth, keeping any sound from escaping that might draw attention. Adjusting his grip on the reins, Lachlan steadied himself as his eleven warriors mounted their steads.
Across the bailey, Isabel watched him, unflinching in her examination. Her long hair was pulled back into a thick braid down her back. Gone were the long linen aprons to catch the messes of wounds he’d seen her wearing in the castle, replaced by a plain kirtle and plaid. Though she dressed the part of a commoner, Lady Isabel sat with her spine rod straight, a look of authority in her eyes that attested to her true nature and position. Even he didn’t want to argue with her. Her uncle had no such reservations though. That morning when she’d told him they needed to delay their departure, giving Lachlan more time to heal, he’d remained adamant that they needed to get on the road.
Seated beside the lady, was her maid on a smaller mare, who was also spreading glances across the warriors as if in fright. Lachlan couldn’t really blame her. They were a fearsome lot.
He gave the signal to depart before Lady Isabel could concoct another excuse for them to remain behind. Lachlan led the caravan with half his accompanying men behind him, the women in the center of the line, and the other half at the rear. They rode two abreast through the woods.
Lachlan scanned the tree line, listening past the rhythm of hooves and the creak of leather. Over the murmurs of female conversation, he searched for anything out of place. The snap of a branch. A whisper of unnatural movement. Steel where there should be none.
They could face the English, of course, but there were other dangers in an unstable countryside. The worry of an ambush on the road. Whether by outlaws or the bastards who’d betrayed them at Falkirk.
Either way, it would end in bloodshed, and they needed to be prepared. Isabel was a commodity, even if she tried to make herself look common. The fact was, she was the Bruce’s niece and would fetch a fine ransom.
Hours later, they finally stopped to rest. The party dismounted to stretch and relieve themselves, water the horses. Lachlan swung down more carefully than he would have liked, his injured leg buckling the moment it took his weight. He gripped the saddle as the sudden pain flared from the dull ache of the ride. The leather pinched tightly in his grasp until the discomfort subsided. There was no way in hell he was going to fall. Not in front of his men, and especially not in front of her.
“Ye look half dead.” Isabel’s taunt sounded from behind, but Lachlan refused to take the bait.
He managed to turn on his good heel and smirk. “Only half? I’m improving.”
A soft snicker escaped her before she turned, disappearing into the brush with her maid.
Lachlan watched her go. Saints, but she was not at all what he expected. Every conversation surprised him. The lass was too witty, too charming, and too strong for her own good.
The strength in her was not something he was used to seeing in women. To be sure, Scottish women were strong in body. But most of them—at least those he had encountered—would not have dared to argue with him, let alone bait him.
Isabel had no qualms about either.
