Chapter 1 #2
The Highlander’s head lifted. His eyes instantly located her position, as if he already knew where it was, without needing to search.
Isobel opened her mouth to say something, but all she managed to squeak out was, “I…” before her throat went dry and she realized her folly.
They could come for me! I should not have interfered.
Somewhere, deep inside of her, Isobel felt an inkling of self-preservation roil and twist angrily. She had endangered herself by thinking that she could stop this skirmish. And now, two men who were carrying weapons and would likely not hesitate to attack her were staring in her direction.
“Don’t move a muscle,” the Highlander said through gritted teeth.
Isobel was not sure if his words were meant for her or his opponent, but the second raider didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran, splashing across the stream and scrambling up the other bank, disappearing into the trees before his retreat’s echo finished reverberating.
The Highlander did not pursue him.
He looked at her for a few seconds, as if giving her a chance to run, then stalked toward her. The slow pace he used was worse than if he had run. Isobel’s knees quaked as he prowled closer.
His dirk hung loosely in his right hand.
Water dripped from his plaid, his boots, and the dark ends of his hair.
Those long, dark locks which were kissed with coppery red highlights were plastered to his neck and continued to glisten in the sunlight.
His face revealed nothing. He had a strong jaw, with a small cleft in his chin.
His sideburns had grown a little long and across that robust jawline there was a hint of day-old stubble.
Isobel wondered at the texture of it. Her hands flexed slightly as she considered lifting her hand and trailing just the tips of her fingers through the coarseness.
As he continued his approach, Isobel’s eyes darted from one feature to the next.
On his nose there was a small bump. The trickle of blood that seeped from his nostrils urged her to believe that had she arrived moments before, she would have seen just how he came to acquire that injury.
His cheekbones were sharp and well-defined but there were hundreds of small freckles dusting them, which gave him an oddly boyish look.
Her interest was piqued by the contrast. In one respect, he looked like a recalcitrant, stoic warrior.
But in another light, he almost seemed like a young man who was practicing for sport.
With each step, the Highlander drew closer, and when he got close enough that she could see a quizzical look cross his face, she knew that she had better move.
Get to the horse. Go now, while there’s still distance between you.
She did not budge, though every instinct told her to run. Running would only confirm she was worth chasing. Staying still was safer. At least, that was what she told herself.
This is absurd. He already knows I’m here.
She drew a slow breath.
I might as well stop hiding like a frightened rabbit.
She stepped forward and held up her hand as if to stop his progress.
Her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that she was sure he would be able to hear it too.
She lifted her chin and stared at him unflinchingly.
She might not know exactly what to do, but instinct told her that showing her terror would be unwise.
“Halt,” she commanded, employing the tone she had heard her father use when dealing with those he considered beneath his station. “You will not come one step closer.”
Immediately, the Highlander stopped moving. The blade of his dirk sparkled in the sunlight. Isobel’s eyes flicked toward it, and she saw a spot of blood smeared on the tip.
Even though her words had worked and he had obeyed her, Isobel was frightened further by the weapon and so she softened her tone when she said in a more pleading manner, “Please don’t kill me.”
For a moment, the Highlander simply looked at her, as though recalculating something. Then he gave a short scoff and shifted the sword slightly in his hand.
“If I meant to kill ye, lass, ye’d already be dead.”
The sound of his voice, so sure and confident, sent a small, unexpected shiver through her. It was low and rough around the edges, making her stomach tighten in a way she did not appreciate, a faint warmth following close behind it, and she was suddenly, absurdly aware of how near he stood.
She shook herself out of her stupor.
He paused three steps away, close enough that she could see details his distance had hidden before.
He looked younger than she initially thought, maybe not yet thirty, with a scar threading through his left eyebrow and eyes that were worthy of notice.
At first, they seemed to be a sharp, gray hue.
But then, upon further inspection, she realized that the color leaned more toward a bluish-green shade.
She did not want to take her eyes off him for one second, but Isobel knew she needed to look skyward so she could make a proper comparison.
Sure enough, when she glanced at the boughs overhead, she saw that the Highlander’s eyes were much like the needles on the branches of the pine trees.
Those orbs were glowing and grey, with speckles of sapphire, sage, and olive softening them.
Despite the situation, she found his overall effect… striking.
Oh, certainly. This is the moment to notice that. A man has just killed someone not twenty feet away, and I’m standing here considering whether he is handsome.
The dirk was still in his right hand, and she was very, very aware of it.
His eyes scanned her with a thoroughness that missed nothing—her riding habit, her boots, the loose hair that had come free from its pins somewhere in the underbrush, and the water skin at her belt.
She felt the appraisal like a hand pressed flat against her chest. She lifted her chin once more and broke the silence between them.
“Are you hurt?”
The question left her mouth before she finished forming it, and the effect was immediate; he went still. The dirk shifted slightly in his grip. He looked at her as if she had said something in the wrong language, and he was deciding whether it merited a response.
“What?” His voice was rough and heavily accented, the single syllable carrying an entire conversation’s worth of suspicion.
“You fought two men,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could manage, which was not entirely level. “I am asking if you are injured.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted past her to where the mare was visible through the trees.
Unhurriedly, his eyes returned to her riding clothes, focused on the quality of her boots, and finally on the fact that she was here at all—alone, in this particular stretch of forest at this particular hour.
“You are an Englishwoman,” he said with disdain.
“I live in the Lowlands. But my father is English, if that is what you heard in my speech.”
“Same thing.” He turned his head to the side and looked away from her.
“It is not the same thing,” she retorted, feeling slightly affronted by what she deemed to be a dismissal of her heritage.
He twisted his neck slowly and gazed at her once more in an appraising manner.
Isobel’s eyes darted to the blade in his skillful hands again and she had to fight the wave of uneasiness that fluttered through her stomach. “Put that away at once,” she said, jutting her chin toward the weapon while summoning all her strength to infuse her words with authority.
One of the Highlander’s eyebrows hooked high on his forehead, rumpling the scar there, but he said nothing. He simply twirled the dirk in his fingers and stared at her.
“I do not wish to provoke you,” she said as she watched the blade swirl and cut neatly through the scant bit of air between them. “But you must see that the danger has passed and there is no need to continue brandishing your weapon.”
The Highlander let out a long breath, making a rough sound in the back of his throat as he seemed to consider her words. “Ye’ve cost me a man.”
“I did no such thing,” she retorted tartly. “You…”
“Ye were crouched in the brush watching men kill each other.” His voice was laced with annoyance.
Isobel felt as if she were being scolded for sneaking a second slice of cake during teatime or nabbing a book from the library without bothering to return it later.
“Ye announced yerself at exactly the wrong moment. What ye intended doesnae change what happened.”
“I thought I could stop the killing,” she said. “I thought I could save…”
She swallowed the words before they flew from her lips. She dared not say she meant to save the other man. And she knew, just by looking at him, that this warrior would be forever insulted if she even mentioned having spent a fleeting moment worrying over his safety.
He looked at her as if she had said something so deeply misguided that it barely deserved a response. He was still close, too close, and the dirk remained in his hand. Despite all of this, she stood her ground.
“You sought to provide ‘help.’” The word sat in his mouth like something foreign. “You think I needed help to come from a Lowland lass who cannae move through undergrowth without tellin’ every livin’ thing within a quarter mile exactly where she is.”
“I can stop your bleeding.”
She nodded first at the rivulet of blood that leaked from his nostril, then they both glanced down.
There was a cut along his left forearm, shallow, but open, a slow dark bead tracking toward his wrist. He looked back up at her, and something in his expression shifted in a way she could feel more than read, the way a person feel a change in air pressure before they understand what’s coming.