Chapter 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.
After Mungo handed out a meager meal of apples and hard cheese, they remounted just as the sky turned, a low, heavy gray pressing down through the trees.
Wind rustled the branches, thick with the scent of oncoming rain.
This would be the kind of storm that lasted for hours.
Lachlan tipped his head side to side, cracking his neck with irritation.
Rain would slow them down. Soak their plaids.
Make passage treacherous for their horses.
Ruin what little protection his bandages offered.
When that happened, he was liable to get an infection or a fever.
Heat slid down his spine despite the cooling air.
Already a fever was threatening to return.
He could feel it creeping in, slow and certain.
“Mo chreach,” he cursed under his breath, even as he prayed for the storm to push past them.
But his prayers for a light rain were not answered.
A crack of thunder rumbled the air and the ground beneath their horses’ hooves.
Lightning flashed and fat raindrops smacked into their faces through the canopy above.
Within seconds, a hard, relentless downpour soaked them to the bone.
He pulled his plaid over his leg, hoping it would offer more protection to his wound.
The horses faltered, their hooves sucked into the mud, making each step slower than the last. Lacklan wiped at his face, blinking against the sheets of water. He could barely see ten feet ahead.
They could not keep riding like this, but there was no village nearby for shelter, and the trees were swaying with the wind to allow the rain better access.
“Angus, James, scout ahead to see ye can find a place for us to settle in for the night.”
Angus and James nodded, skirting around the caravan and hurrying ahead. Lachlan called for the party to wait, letting the horses rest, and seeking mild shelter beneath the leaves of the trees.
“How de ye fair, my lady?” Lachlan asked.
Isabel gave a brief nod. “Better than the time I fell into the moat at my father’s holding.”
Lachlan chucked. “A story I must hear, if ye’re willing to tell it.”
Isabel grinned, a faraway look on her expression. “I was chasing one of our dogs, who was chasing a cat, who was chasing a mouse, who had stolen a bit of bread from the table.”
Lachlan could picture it. Hair flying behind her, calling after each of the animals.
“The mouse went through a crack in the drawbridge, the hunk of bread yanked between, and the cat stopped so short, the dog fell over top of poor kitty, and I tripped over my own slippers. The three of us tumbled into the moat, and the mouse got away with the bread.”
Lachlan’s head tilted back and he howled with laughter. Even Elsa looked less miserable laughing beside her mistress.
Isabel’s ferret popped out of her warm haven and peered up at her.
“I must know the story behind your wee ferret.”
“Freckles.” Isabel looked lovingly at the animal. “From one of our huntsman’s litters. She was the runt, half the size of the rest. They breed them to hunt rabbits. And they were going to toss her into the feed for the dogs. I saved her.”
Lachlan grinned. As much as she had a biting tongue, she had a warm heart, too. At least for animals.
“But I suppose she saved me too.”
“How so?”
But before she could answer, Angus and James returned, calling over the rain that there was shelter not far off. A ruined lodge, half standing, but it would have to do.
Lachlan gave the order to head toward the haven without hesitation, though every instinct in him balked at slowing their pace to Skye.
Every moment they paused was a moment Longshanks’ army would grow stronger, get closer.
They’d pushed the limit in waiting a sennight to leave, which made every second now more perilous.
Elsa shivered violently on her horse, he could see her nearing hysterics, sending pointedly upset glances towards him and the soldiers around her.
And even though she was just as wet, Isabel sat stoically next to her, blinking droplets from her lashes.
He could see her attempting to hold her muscles in check, seemingly to reject the tremors that should be wracking her body.
It was as if by will alone, she would survive any force of nature.
They were all soaked through, and though he was loath to admit it, his bandages would not hold much longer, and worse still, he could feel himself growing more exhausted by the hour. This was new to him, this weakness, and he did not like it.
The structure loomed out of the storm, lightning flashing, his returned scouts at the front to guide their way. Broken and sagging, one half of the roof was gone entirely. What remained barely stood, but it offered cover, and that was enough.
He squinted through the dark, a stable stood off to the side, miraculously intact.
Wary of an ambush, the MacLeod warriors bedded down with the horses, keeping swords and daggers at hand.
Lachlan, Isabel and her maid headed for the dilapidated building.
He barely had to push through the door hanging partly on its hinges to get into the not very welcoming expanse.
Dark, damp, and smelling of rot, it was better than getting whipped by the storm outside.
He moved further into the interior, keeping Isabel and her maid at his back while he checked the corners for anyone his men might have missed.
Although he trusted Angus and James to look well, his nerves were frayed.
Seemingly safe, at least from brigands, maybe not from the dozens of diseases a place like this might hold, he let out a breath and fully entered the hovel.