“Put your hands on any flesh that is white. Do not rub; just hold her.”
The peat came to fiery life with gratifying ease, and he layered on more bricks, taking care not to smother the flames. Then he snatched the rabbit furs from the pile atop the maid and shaped them into a thick pallet before the fire. When he was satisfied the bed would triumph over the cold of the dirt floor, he crossed the room to the unconscious woman.
He scooped her up, blankets and all, and carried her to the fire. The color had returned to her nose, a good sign. When she was settled, he turned back to Isabail.
“You next.”
She blinked. “If you think I’m going to disrobe in front of you, you are—”
He grabbed her and forced her onto a chair. “Boots first.”
“My feet are fine.”
The leather was soaked, which suggested her stockings were also wet. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He untied her boots and tugged them off. Her stockings quickly followed. The tops of her feet glowed a healthy pink, but the soles were a bloodless white. Unceremoniously, he opened the lacings on his lèine, took a foot in each hand, and planted her soles on his chest.
Her cheeks flushed a furious shade of red, but she said nothing.
He studied her face. A collection of delicate features, very feminine—except for her eyebrows, which were strong arcs above her smoky blue eyes. A contradiction not unlike the lady herself. Who would have guessed she’d make a bold bid for escape? With a rock, no less. “You’re a fool.”
“Because I dared to escape?”
“Because you very near killed your maid.”
Her gaze dropped. “Were it not for the winter storm, we would have traveled much swifter. I cannot be blamed for the snow.”
“Had you looked at the clouds, you’d have known.”
Her eyes lifted. “You knew it would snow?”
He said nothing, believing the answer obvious.Why else would we have built the camp in such an open area?He checked the soles of her feet. Still pale, but no longer colorless. “Warm your maid’s feet while I fetch some wood from the log pile.”
“How do you know there’s wood? The food stores are empty.”
“I’ve passed this bothy many a time in the summer.”
She frowned. “If you knew it was here, why did you make camp in the hills?”
He tossed her a cold, pointed stare. “I do not willingly take solace from my enemies.”
Aiden yanked his brat over his head and braved the blizzard once more. Isabail Grant was his enemy. He had to remember that. John Grant had robbed him of all he held dear—his reputation, his home, and his kin. The justiciar could have chosen to believe Aiden’s version of the events—in fact, for a brief time Aiden thought he had won the man over—but he had not. The earl had ruled against him. And he hadn’t stopped there. In the days that followed, he’d brutally tortured Aiden and outlawed all who carried the MacCurran name. Every hardship his people currently endured could be laid at feet of the Grants. Seeing Isabail as a gentlewoman in need of protection was a mistake.
She could restore his life, or she could destroy it.
And it was up to him to decide which it would be.Isabail possessed information that could redeem him in the eyes of the king and return his clan to their rightful prominence. She knew the identity of the man in black—the man who was behind all of the misfortunes that had befallen him.
Gaining that information was all that mattered.
Aiden trudged around the bothy to the woodpile, which was buried under several thick inches of snow and ice. He swept aside the layer of snow; then, with a clenched fist, he hammered the ice. With one mighty blow, the ice cracked and fell away. The smaller pieces of kindling were at the top, the larger split logs at the bottom. Aiden scooped up some of both, then returned to the bothy.
Inside, he stomped his feet to rid his boots of clinging snow. Isabail was bent over her maid, binding her sprained ankle, but the moment his gaze fell upon her, she shrank against the back wall of the hut.Saints above.He’d never struck a woman in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. He’d lost enough. He refused to give up his principles, no matter how justified his anger might be.
The peat bricks were still burning nicely, so he stacked the wood near the flames to dry it out. Wet wood would create more smoke, and in a bothy with no chimney and a winter storm preventing open shutters, smoke was a hazard.
All the while, Isabail hugged the daub and wattle wall, watching him warily.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Hope brightened in her eyes for a moment, but she tempered it and then shook her head. “I don’t willingly take solace from my enemies.”
