Chapter 9
Isabel woke cocooned in warmth. In that moment of security and comfort, she did not question it—until she realized there was a weight on her waist that was not that of Freckles but felt suspiciously like…
Her breath caught. Peeling back the tartan, she found exactly what she thought it was. An arm. Not her own arm. A heavily muscled, very male arm. His thick palm was splayed over her belly. That arm had better be detached from the male body she suspected it hailed from.
But, nay. His breath on the back of her neck was still deep and even with sleep.
Isabel stilled, eyes wide, gaze on his arm, his hand, how close his thumb was to the underside of her breast.
Memory returned in fragments. The storm.
Tending his wounds. The fire. The argument over who would sleep where.
His shivering. A fever. The way he’d shivered, and his teeth had chattered as he argued like a bumbling ogre.
How he’d continued to sass her as she’d solicited the help of Hamish and Finlay to move him to the pallet.
His large body had shaken and trembled as she’d climbed beside him in hopes of keeping him warm.
Pressed against her now, heat radiated from his body, no longer the searing fire of a fever. Yet her own skin felt warm now. Too warm. Feverish—but not in a sickness sort of way. Something else. Something that she hadn’t experienced before.
Isabel became acutely aware of every point of contact. His thighs aligned with hers. The length of his legs against the backs of her calves. The solid weight of him at her back. She drew in a slow, unsteady breath. Never before in her life had she felt anything quite like this.
She had never laid beside a man before. There was no room for distance or denial.
Every plane of his body fit against hers.
She bit her lip. The closest she’d come to a man’s touch, that wasn’t a familial hug or pat, was when she was introduced to a lord and he might kiss her knuckles.
But even those perfunctory greetings never elicited the shortness of breath she was feeling with the Wolf of Skye at her back.
This awareness she could not quite name unsettled her.
She did not like it.
She should not like it.
A shiver traced its way down her spine. Slow, deliberate, delicious. And she knew in that instant that she could tell herself she didn’t like it as much as she wanted, but somewhere deep down in her core, she liked it very much.
She knew that it was not within the bounds of propriety to be interested in or curious about this man who lay beside her. That his subtle breath brushing along her skin was… dangerous.
Carefully, she lifted his arm from her waist, guiding it back to his own body.
Every movement was measured, cautious, as though he might wake up and snatch her back, and she might let him.
Inch by inch, Isabel eased herself from the pallet.
As soon as she was up, he groaned and stretched across the pallet, tugging a frantic looking Freckles toward him.
Isabel snatched up Freckles, and kept her gaze fixed on him.
She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her wicked thoughts, to focus on his health instead.
Gone was the roughness of his breath from the night before.
Each steady rise and fall of his chest was a relief.
When he’d been shivering violently the night before, fear for what that had meant gnawed at her.
They shouldn’t have left, she knew that, and if he died on this journey, her uncle would be to blame.
But Isabel would also blame herself. She should have fought harder to keep him abed a little while longer.
Perhaps she could have spiked his whisky with something that would have made it impossible for him to ride. Alas, it was too late now.
Lying there, he looked less formidable. More human. And she thanked the heavens that sleep had helped to cure his fever. It would seem she had underestimated him once more.
Isabel hesitated, then turned away, not wanting to disturb him. She feared her watching would make whatever senses a warrior had stand on end. As she turned around, she spotted Elsa by the makeshift hearth, looking sheepish as she stoked the fire.
Isabel inclined her head, indicating for Elsa to follow and stepped outside.
The cool morning air was a sharp contrast to the heat she’d left behind.
A massive puddle soaked the hem of her gown directly outside the door.
The small courtyard was covered in mud, and damp grass, tamped down by horses’ hooves and men’s boots.
Droplets of rain from the night before dripped from the trees, a cool bead landing on her forehead.
But the birds were singing, and above the canopy of leaves, the sun was rising in a hazy blue sky.
The storm had passed, and though the ground looked slick to traverse upon, they would not have to combat wind and rain.
Isabel located a well that Mungo had drawn from the night before and lowered the bucket. Fresh water sloshed over the rim when she pulled it up and she splashed water on her face, willing the coolness to bring her composure back.
“My lady seemed quite at ease beside the Wolf of Skye,” Elsa said in a lilting tease as she too splashed water on her face.
Isabel shook her head, rolled her eyes, but all her bluster was wasted on her maid who knew her well. “I did what was necessary. What I would have done for anyone. Ye want to arrive in Skye alive, do ye no’?”
“Of course, my lady,” Elsa replied, far too innocently, as she stepped closer and began to brush Isabel’s hair smooth with nimble fingers.
By the time her hair had been finished, braided long down her back, Isabel had nearly convinced herself of her statement too. Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned—and there he was.
Lachlan leaned heavily on a makeshift cane, a thick branch, one of the few that hadn’t been rotted by the damp. His weight was still uneven, his jaw set tight against the effort it must have cost him to stand, let alone walk.
“There ye are,” he said, his gaze settling on her. “I thought ye might have run off.”
Isabel straightened her shoulders, trying not to notice the way his gaze roved from her head to the tips of her muddy boots.
Two parts within her warred against each other.
The one asked: why are all men the same?
And the other countered with a hot flush and a desire to pose in a way that was more enticing. Half of her was an idiot.
“Or been taken, since it seems I am meant to keep ye safe, and ye vanished.”
Isabel lifted her chin, warding off the warmth of his perusal and concern, and her own inner demons. “I assure ye, if someone had tried to abduct me, my shouts would have woken the dead.” She paused, then added dryly. “Which ye almost were.”
Lachlan grinned, and she couldn’t help but notice how even his teeth were. “And yet, here I stand. Saved by your hand, my lady.”
“No thanks to ye,” she said. “Ye are by far the worst patient I’ve ever dealt with.”
His gaze lingered a fraction too long. “It seems I owe ye a favor.”
“I will think of a way for ye to repay me.”
“If that’s how ye wish to reckon it.”
Lachlan limped toward the well, leaning his hip against the side, and dipped his hands into the cool water of the bucket.
He splashed water on his face, then drank sparingly between breaths.
Isabel watched him, eyed the way his weight was favored on his good leg.
She couldn’t see the bandage beneath his pleated plaid, and she’d have to tend the wound before they left today.
“How is your pain today?” she asked.
Lachlan glanced at her briefly between sips. “Less than yesterday. More than I’d like.”
They returned to the neglected cottage where Elsa was arranging a simple breakfast of oatcakes and a few slices of apple.
Lachlan followed close behind her doing his best attempt to hide his limp.
Settling on the stools, they began to eat, and Isabel did a mental calculation of how many times they ought to stop for her to check his wound throughout the day.
The door opened suddenly, rocking on its already loose hinges, and bringing in the crisp scent of morning.
“My laird, I have need to speak with ye.” James’ expression was grim and sweat still glistened on his skin from his scouting ride.
Lachlan paused, a slice of apple halfway to his mouth. He bit down, crunching, then nodded. His gaze flicked to Isabel briefly, before he extended his hand and nodded at James. “My sword.”
“Why do ye need your sword?” Isabel asked, weary of whatever James might have to say about what he’d seen on the road.
“A warrior never leaves a sanctuary without his weapon.”
Isabel frowned, while James picked up Lachlan’s claymore from where it rested. Lachlan pushed to his feet, favoring his uninjured leg, his movements tight with effort, as he sheathed his sword at his back. He managed to walk out of the ruined lodge without the large stick as a crutch.
Isabel waited only a heartbeat before standing.
She wasn’t going to let them leave without her listening in on what they had to say.
Isabel was stealthy at spying, years of practice in her uncle’s household.
Careful not to draw attention, she crept over to the window while Elsa continued to eat her breakfast. A narrow crack in the warped wood let in a threat of cool air, and sound. She leaned in just enough to hear.
“Tracks on the road?” Lachlan asked. “How many?”
The abandoned lodge’s position, tucked deep within the trees, had brought them some measure of safety.
But perhaps the sound of his teeth chattering may have echoed across the countryside, drawing unwanted attention.
Whoever had followed them would not have needed to use their tracks if they’d seen the smoke.
Were men now waiting somewhere just beyond their awareness, planning to set up some sort of ambush on the road?