Chapter 10
Iain and Abigail walked all night except for an hour when they found another burnt-out shell of what was once a home and rested.
By the time the gray light of dawn filled the sky, Iain was tired, but he was used to all-night hunting trips.
However, the lass was exhausted and stumbled more often than she trod behind him.
“Are ye all right?” he asked for the hundredth time.
“No, my legs are numb.” She stopped and fell to the ground.
“Wait there. I’ll go atop the rise and search for somewhere safe to sleep.”
She didn’t answer, just laid her head on her crooked arm and, he guessed, fell asleep.
At the bottom of the hill, Iain glanced back. Abigail was a lump of brown on the brown grassy field. With her not moving, she looked like a clump of dead grass from a distance.
Voices rose up in the air behind the hill. Iain fell to his stomach and shimmied up the crest until he saw over the rise. Horses and a cart slowly rolled down the road.
Iain immediately recognized the MacDonald colors in the men’s kilts and the women’s shawls. The MacLarens and the MacDonalds had never been friendly, and while the last battle they’d fought raged in the fifteenth century, they would never become allies.
Iain squirmed down the hill and once he figured he was out of sight, he stood up and ran back to Abigail.
“Quickly, get up,” he said as he pulled on her arm to make her stand.
She groaned and tried to roll over. He placed his arms around her waist and yanked her up onto her feet.
“Wake up, lass.”
She stood there swaying in his arms, her eyes still shut. He shook her. “Wake up!”
Her eyes snapped open, though she stared as if not seeing. He gave her another shake. “Wake up.”
Recognition slowly came to her eyes. “Stop shaking me. I’m awake.” She brushed his hands off her. “What?”
“Hurry.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind him, hoping the MacDonalds had not moved past.
She yanked her hand away. “I can walk myself.”
Iain shrugged and kept going.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
They were at the hill. “Be quiet and keep down.”
He dropped onto his hands and knees, and crawling up the rise, he turned to her and gave her an expression that said to do the same. She looked down at her mud-encrusted skirt, shook her head, and, bending low, followed him.
Once at the top, Iain fell onto his stomach again and waved her down. She flattened her body out beside him.
As the horses and wagon passed by, he swore in Gaelic. Surely these men fought side by side with him on the moor? With closer inspection, Iain dismissed that idea. These people were landsmen, not warriors.
Hoping he was doing the right thing, he stood up, ran to the road, and called out, “Stop.”
Three men turned their horses around and stopped. A small lad, a young man, and an older man. They might welcome another sword.
One with a wild blond mane said coldly, “Why might a MacLaren waylay us?”
Iain’s hopes fell. Some MacDonalds still harbored ill-will toward the MacLarens.
A curly brown-haired man moved his horse forward a step. His face was lined with age, but he held himself with strength. “Whit are ye doing here, MacLaren? Have ye misplaced yer clan?”
The fair-haired man laughed.
Iain ignored him and held the older man’s gaze. He indicated Abigail should move to his side. She did, and putting his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close into his uninjured side. “This is ma wife. Our croft was burned, and we need help to reach the coast.”
The older man raised his brows. “The English are scouring all of Scotland for Jacobites. Might ye be one?”
Iain didn’t want to lie, but he had no way of knowing if the men were English loyalists.
Although the Jacobite MacDonalds were on the battlefield fighting beside him and the other Jacobites, Iain wasn’t certain that all members of that clan thought the same.
“Nay, we lost everything in the fire and need to return to family.”
The three men exchanged looks, and the older man leaned forward slightly. “We have naught to offer.”
Iain well understood. His presence would put the man’s family in peril.
He slightly bowed his head and was about to turn Abigail away, but a woman called out, “Wait.”
A full-bodied woman jumped off a cart and hurried to the man. Her dark hair blew over her face, and she shook her head to clear the strands from her eyes. She caught her hair up in a strip of material and tied it at her nape. “We have enough, Colin.” She smiled at Abigail. “Whit be ye names?”
Abigail opened her mouth to speak, and Iain hurriedly cut her off.
If these people heard her strange accent, they might not help them.
Mayhap after they learned they could trust them, they would be more open to her.
“I be Iain MacLaren, and this be Abigail.” He glanced at the lass and added, “Ma wife.”
“I’m Mary, and that be my husband, Colin.” She waved her hand behind her. “These are our sons; the blond rebel is Parlin, and the lad is Tavis.”
She gazed at Abigail with concern filling her eyes. “Ye look worn out, lassie.” She raised her hand to touch Abigail’s hair, but drew it back and looked her up and down. “You be the dirtiest lass I have ever seen. Colin, we need to stop at the burn.”
Colin huffed. “Muire.”
The woman gave him a glower that said ye won’t be arguing with me, and Iain had to stop himself from smiling.
Colin must have known that stare well, because he sat back and nodded once.
Relieved, Iain eyed the horses, wishing he could ride. His glance swept over the already laden cart. It appeared sturdy enough to carry both his and Abigail’s weight. Following Iain’s gaze, Colin said, “Tavis, let Iain have ye horse and ye can ride in the cart. I’d like to talk to him some.”
Thankful for the man’s change of heart but wary about what he wanted to discuss, Iain nodded. “Thank ye.”
Abigail said, “Iain was injured in the fire at the cabin. He cannot ride a horse.”
Iain gently nudged her toward Mary. “I am well enough, Wife.”
He glowered at her, hoping to quiet the woman. Her strange way of talking would only have the people asking questions, questions he had no answers for.
She narrowed her eyes at him and shrugged. “It’s your life.”
The woman, Mary, or Muire, her Gaelic name, regarded Abigail with curiosity. Iain tensed but breathed out in relief when she didn’t say anything. Instead, she helped the lass onto the wagon.
Mounting Tavis’s horse, Iain bit back the shooting pain in his side. He didn’t want Colin to change his mind about letting him ride a horse. He needed the mount in case the MacDonalds were traitors and he needed to whisk Abigail out of their clutches. Many Scots aligned themselves with the English.
And while Iain fought alongside the MacDonald clan only days before, he wasn’t certain that every MacDonald was loyal to Scotland. He decided they had yet to prove themselves trustworthy.
Once settled in the saddle, Iain took the reins and rode alongside the cart Abigail settled on.
He shot her a hard glance, hoping she would keep her chatter short, but he needn’t have worried.
Abigail answered Mary’s questions with good grace, saying she was from the Americas and had met Iain when she came to Scotland to visit her grandfather.
Mary appeared to believe her.
The continuous ache in his side had Iain worrying for his life. He’d experienced fevers in his younger days, and he knew when one was growing inside him. He wanted to get to Dorpol before it overtook him completely.
His sister was adept at healing and would aid him back to health. He sighed at the thought of Maeve. He had left his lands in her care for too long, and it was time he returned and took on his responsibility as laird.
He absentmindedly held his side. If they didn’t get to Dorpol in time, Maeve would be burying him instead of tending him. His gaze shifted to Abigail. He wanted to get to know her better, but he would have to live for that to come to pass.
As the day continued, Iain constantly found himself staring at the strange woman, his angel.
With the very mortal feelings she imbued in him, he wondered if she’d put a spell on him.
He had never been as attracted to, as curious about, or as confused by a woman before.
While he liked to think of her as an angel, for she looked like one, he knew in his heart of hearts she was as human as he was.
But could he really believe she was a stranded innocent?
He didn’t want to consider the alternative.
He had a feeling she was hiding something, but somehow, he didn’t think it had anything to do with the war between Scotland and England.
And she didn’t appear to be masquerading as someone else.
Even though she acted strangely to his way of thinking, her actions were natural.
He gazed at her dirty but open face and frowned.
He’d been to France, and not even in Louis’s palaces had women like her existed.
He eyed her figure. She sat with her back straight, but by the slope of her shoulders, she wasn’t tense.
Even in peasant clothes, she would shine in a group of women of gentry. She moved to the side of the wagon, pulled her knees up, and rested her chin on them, gazing at Iain. His breath hitched at the admiration in her eyes.
He looked away. Those stormy eyes penetrated his very essence. He still couldn’t decide what color they were. Blue or gray? They were neither, yet both.
Her laughter brought his eyes back in her direction. He wished he’d made her laugh that tinkling melody.
He raked his eyes over her. She gazed up at him, something akin to fear reflected deep in her eyes, along with something else .
. . want? The emotion reaching out to him snatched his breath away.
Her orbs once again stormed, swirling eddies pulling him under.
He forced his gaze away and focused on the road ahead. He near drowned in those eyes.