Chapter 6 #2
“Skye is defensible.” Uncle Robbie sat up, stretching out his other leg. “A narrow crossing. Difficult to reach. Even more difficult to hold. Longshanks will no’ waste men chasing ghosts that far north.”
Isabel’s stomach turned. What her uncle called safe, felt more like exile.
Once again she had no control of her own situation, and it seemed her uncle was sending her straight to death.
Heat crept up her throat, not one prone to anger, she worked hard not to start screaming, but she was certain her rage was visible on her face.
“And the marriage ye were arranging?” she asked, her voice tight. Saying I do, terrified her more than going to Skye with a wounded man who was supposed to somehow protect her when he could barely get up off the table and stay conscious.
Uncle Robbie’s gaze flicked to hers, assessing. “Postponed.”
Isabel’s knees grew weak with relief, and she pressed her hand to her belly, before straightening her back.
“We will no’ concern ourselves with marriage when your life is at risk.”
Isabel released the breath she had not realized she’d been holding. For now, she was spared. But perhaps, her uncle had just given her a new strategy. For as long as she was in danger, marriage was off the table.
And quite honestly, she could protect herself if needed.
Her fingers danced over the sgian dubh at her wrist. The blade was small, but deadly, and she’d practiced enough that she was certain to hit a mark if she tried.
Traveling to Skye with a wounded man would not be her undoing.
In fact, she might do well to look at it as she was his protection.
Isabel inclined her head to her uncle and left him in the solar, but instead of turning toward her chamber, she made her way back to the great hall. After the news she’d just received, sleep would evade her for some time.
As she passed by warriors, some clustered in small groups, others laying on makeshift pallets, they spoke in ballad verse, that combined formed a story.
“The Wolf of Skye…”
“Nearly died…”
“Half the line...”
“Saved…”
Isabel slowed her pace, tilting her head to hear better.
“Aye. Fought like a devil before they brought him down.”
Whispers of his fierceness had drifted through their halls before, but to have it said so plainly right then and there, her imagination whirled. She pictured him on the battlefield, just fighting and fighting and fighting. As relentless as a mountain goat on a cliffside.
But she also remembered his wounds.
His gaze found hers from the table where he laid. Not the eyes of a man in the fit of a fever, but open and alert. Too aware for a man who’d been near death mere hours ago.
Despite his awareness, his ruddy cheeks belied the truth that an infection was being starved from within him.
Isabel stopped a few paces away, all too aware of what had happened the last time she was close. Her lips tingled with the memory. “Apparently I am to travel with ye to Skye,” she said.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “A reward for my trouble?”
“I am not your prize.” Isabel crossed her arms and frowned. How could a man in his condition still be adept at flirtation?
“Nay?” His voice was gravelly, and threaded underneath was something that sounded a lot like amusement.
“I am to be your temporary burden,” she said crisply. “Ye are meant to protect me, although I fail to see how that will be accomplished.” Isabel flicked her gaze pointedly over his injuries. “If anything, it seems I shall be the one protecting ye.”
A smile drifted across his face. “When do we leave?”
Isabel’s arms fell from where she’d crossed them, and she hesitated. “I know no’. I thought to see whether ye were capable of such a journey.”
MacLeod pursed his lips, his face scrunching in contemplation. But then, just as suddenly, the light dimmed in his eyes and his head fell to the side, the strength draining from him as though it had never been there at all.
Isabel stared, breath held. He looked every bit as close to death as he had when they brought him in. She stepped closer despite herself, her gaze tracing the hard lines of his face, the damp flush of fever along his skin, and then down to the linen wrapped tight around his leg.
He had been lucky. The spear had hit mostly muscle, only cracking the side of his femur. And the wound from the arrow in his shoulder was already scabbing over, the stitches tight and even. If he lived, he’d have full use of his arm, and he would walk again. If.
Isabel drew in a deep breath and poked him in his unconscious chest. “Ye will recover,” she said firmly, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I refuse to die on some ridiculous journey.” The words came out steadier than she felt.
Isabel straightened, backed away, praying that he’d obey her order.
Completely drained, she finally went to her own solar to eat her simple supper of bread and cheese, which sat heavy and tasteless in her gut. She’d barely swallowed before exhaustion dragged her into a fitful sleep.
Only moments had passed when she was woken by the sun streaming brilliantly through her window. But that wasn’t what had actually woken her, it was the hand seizing her arm and shaking.
“My lady, we must make haste.”