By the time her hair had been finished, braided long down her back, Isabel had nearly convinced herself of her statement too. Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned—and there he was.
Lachlan leaned heavily on a makeshift cane, a thick branch, one of the few that hadn’t been rotted by the damp. His weight was still uneven, his jaw set tight against the effort it must have cost him to stand, let alone walk.
“There ye are,” he said, his gaze settling on her. “I thought ye might have run off.”
Isabel straightened her shoulders, trying not to notice the way his gaze roved from her head to the tips of her muddy boots. Two parts within her warred against each other. The one asked: why are all men the same? And the other countered with a hot flush and a desire to pose in a way that was more enticing. Half of her was an idiot.
“Or been taken, since it seems I am meant to keep ye safe, and ye vanished.”
Isabel lifted her chin, warding off the warmth of his perusal and concern, and her own inner demons. “I assure ye, if someone had tried to abduct me, my shouts would have woken the dead.” She paused, then added dryly. “Which ye almost were.”
Lachlan grinned, and she couldn’t help but notice how even his teeth were. “And yet, here I stand. Saved by your hand, my lady.”
“No thanks to ye,” she said. “Ye are by far the worst patient I’ve ever dealt with.”
His gaze lingered a fraction too long. “It seems I owe ye a favor.”
“I will think of a way for ye to repay me.”
“If that’s how ye wish to reckon it.”
Lachlan limped toward the well, leaning his hip against the side, and dipped his hands into the cool water of the bucket. He splashed water on his face, then drank sparingly between breaths. Isabel watched him, eyed the way his weight was favored on his good leg. She couldn’t see the bandage beneath his pleated plaid, and she’d have to tend the wound before they left today.
“How is your pain today?” she asked.
Lachlan glanced at her briefly between sips. “Less than yesterday. More than I’d like.”
They returned to the neglected cottage where Elsa was arranging a simple breakfast of oatcakes and a few slices of apple. Lachlan followed close behind her doing his best attempt to hide his limp. Settling on the stools, they began to eat, and Isabel did a mental calculation of how many times they ought to stop for her to check his wound throughout the day.
The door opened suddenly, rocking on its already loose hinges, and bringing in the crisp scent of morning.
“My laird, I have need to speak with ye.” James’ expression was grim and sweat still glistened on his skin from his scouting ride.
Lachlan paused, a slice of apple halfway to his mouth. He bit down, crunching, then nodded. His gaze flicked to Isabel briefly, before he extended his hand and nodded at James. “My sword.”
“Why do ye need your sword?” Isabel asked, weary of whatever James might have to say about what he’d seen on the road.
“A warrior never leaves a sanctuary without his weapon.”
Isabel frowned, while James picked up Lachlan’s claymore from where it rested. Lachlan pushed to his feet, favoring his uninjured leg, his movements tight with effort, as he sheathed his sword at his back. He managed to walk out of the ruined lodge without the large stick as a crutch.
Isabel waited only a heartbeat before standing. She wasn’t going to let them leave without her listening in on what they had to say. Isabel was stealthy at spying, years of practice in her uncle’s household. Careful not to draw attention, she crept over to the window while Elsa continued to eat her breakfast. A narrow crack in the warped wood let in a threat of cool air, and sound. She leaned in just enough to hear.
“Tracks on the road?” Lachlan asked. “How many?”
The abandoned lodge’s position, tucked deep within the trees, had brought them some measure of safety. But perhaps the sound of his teeth chattering may have echoed across the countryside, drawing unwanted attention. Whoever had followed them would not have needed to use their tracks if they’d seen the smoke. Were men now waiting somewhere just beyond their awareness, planning to set up some sort of ambush on the road?
Isabel’s stomach tightened, rejecting the few slices of apple she’d eaten. An ambush on the road would be the simplest choice. Nowhere to hide.
“Several, my laird. Someone may have followed us. ‘Tis no’ confirmed.”
“May have?”
“We found no one. But the tracks are fresh, and no’ ours. The rain washed away most of our tracks. But that’s no’ all.”
There was a pause, and she peeked through the crack to see Lachlan leaning on his sword where the tip was pressed into the ground. He must be in much pain to risk his sword. His man, Angus stood beyond them with his hands on his hips, watching his laird, as if thinking the same thing.
“Well, spit it out,” Lachlan grumbled, pressing his back to the wall of the croft.
