No so great a challenge, surely?
* * *
When Isabail woke, the bothy was dark and shuttered. The howl of the winter storm had quieted, but she had no sense how long she had been unconscious. Her last memory—the fierce face of the MacCurran swooping down upon her—was still vivid enough to make her heart pound, and she wondered if she’d taken a beating. Biting her lip in anticipation of pain, she shifted in her pallet. To her relief, there was almost none. Her hip was sore from lying in the dirt floor—the blankets beneath her couldn’t compare to the feather-stuffed mattress she was accustomed to—but save for that, she felt perfectly fine.
Isabail looked around.
The fire was merrily blazing, having recently received a fresh log, and she lifted her head to find the person who had fed it. Her heart stumbled. Aiden MacCurran sat on the other side of the flames, sleeves rolled up, carefully tending to his sword. He seemed unaware of her, so she watched him for a moment.
Unlike his two henchmen, the MacCurran chief’s chin was clean-shaven, and his hair appeared to have been recently washed. Not a typical Highlander, then, despite the warring nature of his clan. His forearms rippled with sinews as he worked, the hairs on his arms golden in the firelight. Isabail was woman enough to admit she found him attractive—from a distance. Broad shoulders and tapered hips were attractive in a man, no matter who that man might be. But it was also strangely comforting to watch him hone his sword—his hands were strong and sure as they worked, displaying a level of care and control over his weapon that belied the bestiality of his large fists.
“There’s more venison, if you’ve a hunger,” he said quietly.
Isabel swallowed dryly and sat up. “I’ve more a need for something to wet my mouth.”
He pointed to the door of the hut. “Fetch some snow.”
Isabail flushed. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Of course she could eat some snow. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door.
“I’ve beat a good path to the woodpile,” he added. “If you must see to your needs, it’ll provide a measure of privacy.”
Her flush deepened, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. A visit to the privy was a common enough event, and he was hardly giving the delicate topic excessive attention. But just the knowledge that he’d thought about her needs made her cheeks heat. Isabail escaped quickly.
Outside the bothy, the snowfall had ceased, but the sky was still sullen with cloud. The sun was little more than a smudge of brightness above the trees, but a pair of crossbills flitting through the branches thought it was well worth chirping about. For the briefest of moments, the notion of fleeing took hold, but she couldn’t leave without Muirne. Besides, where would she go?
Nay. As much as he frightened her, the MacCurran was her best hope of survival.
She ate her fill of cold wet snow, completed her ablutions, and returned to the cozy warmth of the hut. MacCurran had not moved—he was still polishing the fine steel of his blade with a purposeful attention to detail. For some reason, that eased Isabail’s tremulous thoughts. Surely a man capable of such focus could keep his temper under tight rein.
“Rouse your maid,” he said.
She knelt beside Muirne and checked her fingers and toes—save for the woman’s right small toe, all were a healthy shade of pink.
“We’ll set off as soon as she is ready.”
Isabail nodded. With a gentle shake and a firm voice, she encouraged Muirne to rise. The older woman was still clearly exhausted, but she sat up when Isabail offered her food and water. “Nay, my lady. It should be I who sees to your welfare, not you to mine.”
But she took the food and consumed it with a very unladylike haste.
MacCurran handed her a pair of dry stockings. “Your boots are dry, but they likely won’t remain that way. If you lose feeling in your feet as we walk, let me know immediately.”
When they were once again bundled against the winter chill, MacCurran doused the fire and led them back up the mountain. It took them half the time to return to camp as it had to find the bothy. Due in part, no doubt, to the powerful way MacCurran cut a swath through the snowdrifts, but also because the route he took was more direct.
She caught his eye as they spied the billowing gray blankets that served as a tent for his two men. He shrugged. “You lost your way as you traversed the hill.”
“So, it was a miracle we found the bothy?”
He grimaced. “Aye.”
Isabail flinched at the return of the fierce visage. He clearly thought her a fool, but could he not understand her desire to be free? Would he not have done the same in her boots?
The other two men greeted MacCurran with subdued respect. Graeme, in particular, wore a pained expression that had nothing to do with the lump on his head. They were ashamed to have let down their chief. They packed up the camp and saddled the horses with spare movements and little chatter. By the time the sun had fully broken free of the horizon, they were plowing through the snow in a westerly direction, the white-capped cone of Ben Avon reaching into the sky to the south.
Isabail was no happier to be sharing a mount with MacCurran this time than she was the last, but she had a new appreciation for the horse’s long-legged ability to cut through drifts. She kept as much distance from her companion as their close proximity would allow, grateful for the extra padding provided by the blankets. Making a mental note to restock the hunt bothy, she snuggled deeper into the wool.
MacCurran and his men kept an aggressive pace, their horses agilely navigating the rocky mountain paths. The leagues passed uneventfully. Despite the improvement in the weather, there was no sign of any soldiers from Lochurkie. Either they’d fallen significantly behind, or they had given up.
As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the air warmed, and Isabail’s breath no longer made a foggy exit from her lips. There was a certain monotony to the journey—the rolling gait of the horse, the thud of hooves on the frozen ground, the gentle heat on her face and at her back. And she felt remarkably secure with MacCurran’s unyielding arm wrapped around her waist. Perhaps because she could not see his grim face.
