Chapter 2 #3
When they were once again bundled against the winter chill, MacCurran doused the fire and led them back up the mountain.
It took them half the time to return to camp as it had to find the bothy.
Due in part, no doubt, to the powerful way MacCurran cut a swath through the snowdrifts, but also because the route he took was more direct.
She caught his eye as they spied the billowing gray blankets that served as a tent for his two men. He shrugged. “You lost your way as you traversed the hill.”
“So, it was a miracle we found the bothy?”
He grimaced. “Aye.”
Isabail flinched at the return of the fierce visage. He clearly thought her a fool, but could he not understand her desire to be free? Would he not have done the same in her boots?
The other two men greeted MacCurran with subdued respect.
Graeme, in particular, wore a pained expression that had nothing to do with the lump on his head.
They were ashamed to have let down their chief.
They packed up the camp and saddled the horses with spare movements and little chatter.
By the time the sun had fully broken free of the horizon, they were plowing through the snow in a westerly direction, the white-capped cone of Ben Avon reaching into the sky to the south.
Isabail was no happier to be sharing a mount with MacCurran this time than she was the last, but she had a new appreciation for the horse’s long-legged ability to cut through drifts.
She kept as much distance from her companion as their close proximity would allow, grateful for the extra padding provided by the blankets.
Making a mental note to restock the hunt bothy, she snuggled deeper into the wool.
MacCurran and his men kept an aggressive pace, their horses agilely navigating the rocky mountain paths. The leagues passed uneventfully. Despite the improvement in the weather, there was no sign of any soldiers from Lochurkie. Either they’d fallen significantly behind, or they had given up.
As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the air warmed, and Isabail’s breath no longer made a foggy exit from her lips.
There was a certain monotony to the journey—the rolling gait of the horse, the thud of hooves on the frozen ground, the gentle heat on her face and at her back.
And she felt remarkably secure with MacCurran’s unyielding arm wrapped around her waist. Perhaps because she could not see his grim face.
He said nothing as they rode, leading the group over the rough terrain without a hint of uncertainty or indecision.
The only sound that left his lips was an occasional series of clicks to encourage their horse when the terrain was especially challenging.
Isabail actually managed to forget that she was the prisoner of a Highland barbarian . . . at least briefly.
Exhaustion crept up on her. It grew harder and harder to keep her eyes open and her back stiff.
Especially during those moments when the path led straight up the mountain.
Isabail struggled against her drooping eyelids .
. . and lost. The last thing she remembered as her eyes slid shut was a gruffly worded, “Sleep.”
* * *
Aiden felt Isabail go limp in his arms and knew she had finally succumbed to the rigor of her snowbound adventure. She surprised him with the extent of her endurance—she’d slept no more than a wink during the night. Her timing was unfortunate, though.
He reined his horse in at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the wide glen below.
Forest stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, the trees a mix of barren winter branches and green needled firs.
Approaching Dunstoras from the east always made his heart soar.
Wrapped in leafless winter vines, the pale gray stones of the castle’s tower were clearly visible against the afternoon sky.
They stood above the trees like a beacon calling him home.
“Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Graeme said, drawing alongside him.
Aiden nodded, but his gaze had already moved south of the tower, settling on a rocky rise at the base of the mountains—the site of their current camp, a ruined palace built by the Picts more than five hundred years ago.
Or so said the legends. For the past several months, he and his clan had camped amid the rubble, hidden from view by the harsh landscape.
Using remnants of the old stone walls as a foundation, they had laid new thatch roofs and wooden floors, creating a primitive but livable abode.
The stone castle designed by his father and raised with the blood and sweat of his MacCurran kin might lie under the temporary stewardship of Tormod MacPherson, but he could still go home.
At least, for now.
Aiden turned his mount away from all that had once been his and made his way down the slope to the glen.
The woman in his arms was not to blame for his plight, but he still felt the twist of a knife in his gut when he looked at her.
John Grant had stolen his future. Living in the Pictish ruin was bearable only because it held the promise of returning to their true home.
Once that was gone, it would be only a matter of time before all else was gone, too.
MacPherson had been ruthless in ridding the land of his outlawed kin.
Many had died in the siege of the castle, but many more had simply been run off.
Men, women, and even children had been dispossessed.
The king’s man had shown no mercy. Those who had not made haste to leave Dunstoras land had been run through or tossed in the cramped dungeons beneath the keep.
The bitter taste of gall rose in Aiden’s throat.
He’d sworn an oath to protect his kin, and he’d failed them.
The clan elders, the learned men who’d appointed him chief upon his father’s death, were all dead.
Two of them had fallen victim to the poison, the remaining three to the siege and the trials of a cold winter.
All he had left was a small band of skilled warriors and a solitary clue to who had wreaked havoc upon his clan.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, Aiden urged his mount into a canter. In the glen, amid the trees, the snow cover was thin and easily navigated. Proving his innocence would save his kin. He had nine days left to succeed, and by God, he would do it or die trying.
The leafless boughs of the woodland gave Aiden a sweeping view of the land as he rode.
Having hunted almost every inch of the glen over the years, he was very familiar with the trail—and he knew immediately that a broken twig on a nearby hazelnut thicket was cause for alarm.
A quick glance at the frozen ground confirmed his suspicions.
There was almost no snow here, but in the occasional patches of white, he made out the faint curve of hoofprints. Somewhere up ahead, there were riders.
Raising a hand, he drew his party to a swift halt.
With two women among them, they were at a serious disadvantage. They could ill afford to engage any soldiers over a sharp blade, else they’d put the women at risk. He signaled to Duncan to dismount and take responsibility for the ladies. Aiden put a hand over Isabail’s mouth, then shook her awake.
Her eyes widened in alarm, and he removed the hand from her lips.
“Go with Duncan,” he told her quietly. “Do exactly as he says.” Then he lowered her gently to the ground and drew his sword.