Chapter Two #3
He exchanged a confused glance with Rebbie. He was surely wondering the same thing Dirk was. Why were they here, far from the nearest village, croft or castle?
"'Tis not safe for two women to be wandering about. Do you not ken of the outlaws and thieves in these parts?" At least there had been twelve years ago, and he doubted things had changed much.
"We're not troubling you, and we have no need of your help. Not much farther and we'll reach our destination." The glint of her dagger taunted and irritated him. Undoubtedly, she was afraid of them.
Dirk returned his broadsword to its scabbard. "And where would that destination be? It's been a long while since we passed through a village." And even longer since they'd left the keep they'd stayed in the night before.
"'Tis none of your concern."
Ah. So the lass had an impertinent mouth on her.
Even more interesting, she had the speech of the Highland aristocracy, the dialect of somewhere south of here, but Western Highlands for a certainty.
He nodded. "Well, I cannot leave you out here in the elements.
I'll take you and your companion to Munrick Castle. The MacLeods will help you."
"Nay," she snapped and turned about, helping her friend—or her maid—rise to her feet. "Leave us. We are well."
"We mean you no harm, m'lady." He watched for her reaction to the title.
"I thank you for the offer of assistance, but we have no need of it."
She didn't notice the title, so clearly she was used to being called lady.
Aside from that, her speech spoke volumes about her social station.
And her status meant he definitely couldn't leave her unprotected in a snowstorm.
She would not be as accustomed to the elements as a hardier crofter maid might be.
Was she some chief's daughter who'd run away?
"Which clan are you from?" he asked.
"Does that matter?"
"Aye." He always liked to know who he was dealing with. Helping her would no doubt have repercussions.
The shape of her lips and the curve of her jaw line gave Dirk a sense of déjà vu. Though he could tell her eyes were dark, he could not see the shape clearly beneath the cowl and curtain of her dark brown hair. Had he seen her somewhere before?
"Are you a MacLeod? A MacKay?" he asked. Those were the two main clans in the area. But if she was from somewhere farther south, as her dialect indicated, no telling which clan she'd come from.
"Nay," she said. Why the devil wouldn't she reveal her clan name at least?
"Are you running from someone?"
She froze, staring at him wide-eyed. That was it. Who was she running from and why?
A sharp gust of wind grabbed her cowl and flung it back, revealing more of her face and long dark hair.
Indeed, she was familiar. Was she someone he'd met during his youth? The familiarity niggled at the back of his mind, tormenting him.
"I've seen you before," he said.
She yanked the cowl over her head, concealing most of her face once more. "Nay. I think not. You're mistaking me for someone else."
A name sprang to his mind. "Isobel?" he asked.
She backed up a few steps, her suspicious wide-eyed gaze searching his face. "Who are you?"
Damnation, now he remembered. "You are Isobel MacKenzie, daughter of the MacKenzie chief."
In the late spring of his fifteenth year, he had gone with his da and several members of the clan to Dornie.
He'd met her then. The other lads had been silly in their attempts to gain her attention.
But she'd turned her nose up at all of them.
She'd barely said a word or two to him when they'd been formally introduced.
Although he had to admit she was lovely, even then, she'd been much too young to catch his interest. Besides, she and her mother had been close to Dirk's stepmother.
They'd laughed and talked for hours, and he'd learned Isobel's mother and his stepmother had been friends from the time they were young lasses.
The same stepmother who'd tried to kill him.
He didn't understand how Maighread could have two such opposite sides, or how people could trust her.
Later that summer, he'd been forced to leave his clan.
Though beautiful she might be, Isobel, given her association with Maighread, was as trustworthy as a viper.
"Who are you?" Isobel repeated, her voice more demanding this time.
"My name is Dirk MacKay. We met many years ago at your home in Dornie."
She frowned, her gaze searching his face.
"Do you remember?" he asked, knowing she wouldn't. But some part of him hoped she would.
"You've grown," she said.
Isobel remembered him? Stunned, he frowned.
And though he was likely daft, he felt flattered and humbled.
He supposed he'd gotten it into his mind that everyone from his past had forgotten him.
Almost as if he'd truly died twelve years ago and been reborn a different person when he'd relocated and changed his name.
And she was right, he had grown. At fifteen, he'd been a tall, thin stripling of a lad, his frame much different from the large one he possessed now. Had Isobel known of Maighread's evil plot against him? Had she heard of his "death?"