Chapter Two #2
Taking the lantern, she poked among the debris of the cottage.
Surely she could find something here that would burn.
Aha, an old heather-stuffed mattress abandoned in the corner.
It might be flea infested, but at least it would burn.
She dragged it forward, then ripped the tattered material off, freeing the dried heather. She put several handfuls on the fire.
She also discovered half a broken wooden bucket. It would burn just as well as peat. She piled her finds not too far from the fire.
"Well, at least we have plenty of wool clothing to roll up in for the night," Isobel said.
"'Twill have to do, I reckon." Beitris rose and hobbled across the floor.
Watching her slow progress, Isobel frowned and dark fear slid through her. What if Beitris couldn't walk fast enough, or very far? Could she travel the twenty-five miles to Ullapool? And if they were too slow, would the MacLeod guards catch up to them?
∞∞∞
Gusts of chill wind flung icy snowflakes into Dirk's eyes. After several days travel on galleys up the west coast, he and Rebbie had disembarked at Ullapool. With the strong winds, it had been unsafe to sail farther north. Then, they had traveled north on horseback.
'Twas slow going on a narrow footpath through the rugged countryside. He glanced up at the Assynt Mountains surrounding them, their rocky peaks hidden in the low-hanging clouds. Snow blanketed even the lowest slopes in white.
"Is the weather always so inviting here?" Rebbie called out several feet behind him.
Turning in his saddle, Dirk glanced back and smirked. Rebbie had become spoiled in the temperate Scottish Lowlands and England. Snowflakes littered his friend's dark hair. Breath fogged from his mount's nose.
Of course, Rebbie had insisted on bringing his manservant, George Sweeny. He'd wanted to bring two servants but Dirk had to say no. It would've been more difficult for a large entourage to secure passage on a galley.
"I was thinking you were a Highlander," Dirk called.
"I am, indeed. But from much farther south."
"Use the mantle's cowl." The plaids and mantles Lachlan had given them had come in handy.
The wool over his head would catch the water from the melting snow and hold in the warmth from his body heat.
Beneath that, Dirk wore a piece of metal-studded leather armor—because one couldn't be too careful in the Highlands—and a belted wool plaid over his trews.
Rebbie generally dressed like a Lowlander. But now they both had on several layers of clothing, both Highland and Lowland.
Evening was upon them and the temperature was dropping. They needed to reach Munrick Castle before nightfall. The MacKays and MacLeods had ever been allies, most of the time, anyway. He hoped the chief would provide them shelter for the night.
No doubt word had circulated through neighboring clans that the MacKay heir had died several years ago and a younger brother was set to inherit. Dirk wasn't yet sure how he would explain that he was indeed alive.
During his twelve year absence, he'd forgotten exactly how forbidding the weather in the Assynt region could be. If anything, MacKay Country, on the north coast was even harsher.
The trail through the Highlands only handled single file horses and foot traffic.
He inhaled the bitter peat smoke trailing from nearby crofters' cottages.
What he wouldn't give right now to be sitting beside one of those smoldering fires.
The smoke scent blended with the damp air off the nearby bog and frost-bitten plants created a scent that reminded Dirk of his childhood.
When he was a lad, he had visited this area a few times with his father as they had dealings with the MacLeods. Generally, they got on well, but most Highland clans were canny enough not to trust another clan with one hundred percent conviction.
A movement out ahead caught Dirk's attention. What was that? Not a red deer. He thought he'd seen a flash of plaid. The trail turned uphill and passed through low-growing gorse bushes. Someone was hiding behind that boulder.
Dirk stopped and turned. "Rebbie," he said low. "Someone's lurking up ahead."
Rebbie nodded. They both quietly dismounted and withdrew their swords.
"Hold the horses," Rebbie murmured to George. "But if they come out fighting, give us a hand."
George nodded. "Aye, m'laird."
With the wind blowing constantly, Dirk could hear naught above it.
"Who's there?" he called out. "I'm a MacKay, just passing through."
No response. The knave was still hiding. Might be more than one of them. Was this an ambush by highwaymen or desperate outlaws?
Gripping his sword, Dirk sneaked along the trail, trying to avoid kicking loose stones. Rebbie followed a few feet behind.
The wind picked up, whistling through the gorse branches and stinging his face. Good. This would cover any sounds they made, especially since they were downwind of whoever lay in wait between the bushes and rocks. If he could sneak up on them, he could gain the upper hand.
If they were members of the MacLeod Clan, he'd have to assure them he was a MacKay ally. He prayed there hadn't been any clan feuds since he'd last been here. His uncle hadn't mentioned any in his missive, but then his message had been brief and to the point.
Each step took Dirk closer and closer to their hiding place. He held his basket-hilt broadsword at the ready, fully aware two or more men could leap out at any moment.
At last, he reached their hidey-hole and stole around the side of the boulder. Naught but snow-covered heather and low-growing plants greeted him.
Damnation, where had they gone?
He crept forward, down an incline and around a bush. There, two forms in drab plaid huddled, one standing upright, back pressed against a giant boulder, and the other crouched.
Dirk froze, as did the two strangers.
A lass? Dark fierce eyes met his from beneath a cowl, but the face was definitely female and so was the clothing—a long arisaid.
Despite her bulky and voluminous clothes, he could tell her shoulders were slender.
Her eyes narrowed, and her stance was defensive.
He glanced down at her hands, partially hidden in the folds of her skirts, but he did not miss the glint of a dagger clutched in one fist.
His gaze darted to the other figure. Also a woman, but a few years older.
"What the devil?" Rebbie muttered, coming up beside him.
"What are the two of you doing out in this weather?" Dirk asked in Gaelic, his tone harsher than he'd intended. Were they mad? Gloaming was approaching, and the snow and wind would only worsen.
"Leave us be," the lass said, her voice strong.