Chapter 2
Aiden stared at Isabail Grant, torn between berating her and hugging her with joy. She was alive and seemingly in good health. But, damn it, the story could so easily have had a bitter ending. He glanced down at the maid. Frostbite had gripped the woman’s fingers and nose and likely her toes.
They needed a fire.
He crossed to the hearth, pulling several peat bricks from his pouch. Breaking one of the bricks into small pieces, he crouched to light them with his flint. “Remove her boots and any wet clothing.”
When Isabail just stared at him, wide-eyed, he barked, “Now.”
She scrambled to the other woman’s side.
“Put your hands on any flesh that is white. Do not rub; just hold her.”
The peat came to fiery life with gratifying ease, and he layered on more bricks, taking care not to smother the flames.
Then he snatched the rabbit furs from the pile atop the maid and shaped them into a thick pallet before the fire.
When he was satisfied the bed would triumph over the cold of the dirt floor, he crossed the room to the unconscious woman.
He scooped her up, blankets and all, and carried her to the fire. The color had returned to her nose, a good sign. When she was settled, he turned back to Isabail.
“You next.”
She blinked. “If you think I’m going to disrobe in front of you, you are—”
He grabbed her and forced her onto a chair. “Boots first.”
“My feet are fine.”
The leather was soaked, which suggested her stockings were also wet.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He untied her boots and tugged them off.
Her stockings quickly followed. The tops of her feet glowed a healthy pink, but the soles were a bloodless white.
Unceremoniously, he opened the lacings on his lèine, took a foot in each hand, and planted her soles on his chest.
Her cheeks flushed a furious shade of red, but she said nothing.
He studied her face. A collection of delicate features, very feminine—except for her eyebrows, which were strong arcs above her smoky blue eyes. A contradiction not unlike the lady herself. Who would have guessed she’d make a bold bid for escape? With a rock, no less. “You’re a fool.”
“Because I dared to escape?”
“Because you very near killed your maid.”
Her gaze dropped. “Were it not for the winter storm, we would have traveled much swifter. I cannot be blamed for the snow.”
“Had you looked at the clouds, you’d have known.”
Her eyes lifted. “You knew it would snow?”
He said nothing, believing the answer obvious. Why else would we have built the camp in such an open area? He checked the soles of her feet. Still pale, but no longer colorless. “Warm your maid’s feet while I fetch some wood from the log pile.”
“How do you know there’s wood? The food stores are empty.”
“I’ve passed this bothy many a time in the summer.”
She frowned. “If you knew it was here, why did you make camp in the hills?”
He tossed her a cold, pointed stare. “I do not willingly take solace from my enemies.”
Aiden yanked his brat over his head and braved the blizzard once more.
Isabail Grant was his enemy. He had to remember that.
John Grant had robbed him of all he held dear—his reputation, his home, and his kin.
The justiciar could have chosen to believe Aiden’s version of the events—in fact, for a brief time Aiden thought he had won the man over—but he had not.
The earl had ruled against him. And he hadn’t stopped there.
In the days that followed, he’d brutally tortured Aiden and outlawed all who carried the MacCurran name.
Every hardship his people currently endured could be laid at feet of the Grants.
Seeing Isabail as a gentlewoman in need of protection was a mistake.
She could restore his life, or she could destroy it.
And it was up to him to decide which it would be. Isabail possessed information that could redeem him in the eyes of the king and return his clan to their rightful prominence. She knew the identity of the man in black—the man who was behind all of the misfortunes that had befallen him.
Gaining that information was all that mattered.
Aiden trudged around the bothy to the woodpile, which was buried under several thick inches of snow and ice.
He swept aside the layer of snow; then, with a clenched fist, he hammered the ice.
With one mighty blow, the ice cracked and fell away.
The smaller pieces of kindling were at the top, the larger split logs at the bottom.
Aiden scooped up some of both, then returned to the bothy.
Inside, he stomped his feet to rid his boots of clinging snow.
Isabail was bent over her maid, binding her sprained ankle, but the moment his gaze fell upon her, she shrank against the back wall of the hut.
Saints above. He’d never struck a woman in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.
He’d lost enough. He refused to give up his principles, no matter how justified his anger might be.
The peat bricks were still burning nicely, so he stacked the wood near the flames to dry it out. Wet wood would create more smoke, and in a bothy with no chimney and a winter storm preventing open shutters, smoke was a hazard.
All the while, Isabail hugged the daub and wattle wall, watching him warily.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Hope brightened in her eyes for a moment, but she tempered it and then shook her head. “I don’t willingly take solace from my enemies.”
He shrugged. “The key word there is willing, lass. If you don’t eat, you won’t be strong enough to make another attempt to escape.” He dug into his pouch and pulled out two large strips of dried venison. One, he chewed on. The other he broke in half and offered to Isabail.
She resisted for several heartbeats.
Then she darted forward, snatched the meat from his hands, and retreated to her corner of the hut.
“You’ll not benefit from the fire over there,” he said, with a shake of his head.
“I’m fine.”
“Nay, you’re not.” The woman still wore her damp clothes.
If she did not dry out, he’d be tending to two invalids, not one.
Aiden crossed the room in an easy stride, grabbed her about her slender waist, and hauled her over to the fire.
He forced her down onto a blanket before the flames. “Eat, then sleep.”
Then he stepped away, seeking his own pallet.
Isabail stared at him, her face pale. But she remained where she was, her feet almost instinctively reaching toward the fire. The room was quiet for a while, with only the crackle of the fire and the chew of dried meat.
Then, with a hesitant voice, Isabail asked, “Is he all right? The man I hit?”
“Graeme? Aye.”
“I feared I might have killed him.”
Aiden snorted. A rock wielded by a sturdy milkmaid, perhaps. But not one hefted by a will-o’-the wisp like Isabail Grant. Graeme would face a great deal of ribbing over being felled by the likes of her.
“Sneer if you’d like,” she said quietly, “but I am not like you. I do not murder people with an easy conscience.”
Aiden tossed her a hard look. “Be careful, lass. You know naught of what you speak.”
“You deny you killed my brother?”
“I do.”
She shook her head lightly. “Do you deny slaying the king’s courier, too? My brother said they found the necklace in your chamber.” How easily those accusations spilled from her lips. Like they were an absolute truth.
All the rage he’d contained for months suddenly poured through Aiden’s veins like molten steel, sending him to his feet.
Isabail cringed, and he swiveled to avoid the fear on her face.
He was too angry to be kind. “The accusations made against me are sheer madness. Why would I poison my own kin? Why would I steal from a king while his courier was feasting under my own roof? Only a fool would do such a thing, and I assure you, I am no fool.”
Crossing the room to a wall hung with antlers from bygone hunts, he did his best to contain the fury that burned in his chest . . . and failed. He punched the wall with a heavy fist, sending antlers crashing to the floor.
“Eight of my kin died that night, including the wife of my cousin Wulf and her wee son, Hugh. No necklace, no matter how grand, could be worth the loss of those lives.” He closed his eyes, picturing the faces of those who were lost that night, one by one.
Most of the dead had been very young or very old.
The healthier sorts had sickened, but survived.
Except for Elen and Henry de Coleville, both very fond of eel soup—they’d consumed two bowls.
He opened his eyes and stared at the dent his fist had left in the wattle and daub wall. “‘Twas your brother who caused their deaths.”
“Nay,” she said vehemently. “That’s not possible. If you knew my brother, you would never say such a thing.”
Aiden pivoted. “One of the men who accompanied Henry de Coleville to Dunstoras was also at Lochurkie the next morning. I saw him when your brother arrested me.”
She frowned. “Of what relevance is that? All of the king’s men came to Lochurkie after the murder of de Coleville.”
“I spied this one in the corridor leading to my chamber. He hid the necklace there.”
Her lips thinned. “A rather far-fetched tale. Why would anyone go to such lengths?”
“To discredit the MacCurrans.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Your clan is small, and your land is mostly mountains. What could they possibly gain?”