It didn't, but he supposed that was better than nothing.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I was but admiring my memorial plaque," he said in a dry tone and motioned toward it.
She moved forward, her eyes scanning the carved stone. "Oh," she breathed. "Brave and noble. I agree with that."
Her words meant more than he could say. "I thank you," he murmured.
When her dark eyes found him again they were misty. "Your clan missed you."
"No more than I missed them."
"But you knew they were here. They thought you were gone… permanently."
"Aye, there is a difference," he admitted. He especially knew that to be true now that his father had passed. It touched him deeply that Da had such a fine plaque carved in his honor.
She glanced at the plaque again. "Faraid Head… where is that?"
"Over two miles that way." He pointed over the wall toward the massive stretch of land on the opposite side of Balnakeil Bay. "'Tis inhospitable with naught but sand dunes and sea cliffs."
"What happened?"
Too much to explain it to her now. A mixture of dark emotions converged on him, memories of what he'd gone through that night. To know Lady MacKay was so greedy she was willing to kill for what was rightfully his… while he, at age fifteen, endured the pain of a serious injury and the fear of hanging off the edge of a cliff for hours in the darkness and wind, the waves crashing below where his best friend had died, not knowing if he would be able to climb back to the top or if he would also fall to his death. And then the gratitude of surviving. Nay, 'twas too much to relive now. And he rarely talked about it.
"I'll tell you sometime," he said, staring toward the harsh headland, thinking of Will and missing him more now that he stood at his grave. He didn't want to call Isobel's attention to it, nor did he want to talk about his cousin at the moment. More urgent issues were at hand.
"We need to talk," he said.
"I thought we were." She bit her lip but a faint grin slipped out, distracting him, pulling him up from the depths of dismal emotions. His past vanished like morning mist as he focused completely on the here and now.
Isobel.
Loose strands of her dark hair escaped the cowl and fluttered in the wind, tempting him to capture them and twine them about his fingers. Her cheeks and lips were rosy from the chill air… and her dark eyes entrancing.
Damned if she wasn't a wee seductress.
He glanced away to better focus on what he'd wanted to say. "I mean we need to talk about something serious."
"There is naught more serious than a memorial plaque," she said with a straight face.
He snorted and grinned before he could stop himself, unsure why her words struck him as humorous. He shook his head. "I think we should head back to the castle afore dark. 'Tis growing colder with the setting of the sun."
She nodded and proceeded between the graves toward the exit.
He held the weathered wooden gate for her, then fell into step beside her on the trail of wet, compacted sand up the hill toward the castle.
"I wondered whether you had sent my brother a missive letting him know I'm alive and well. He'll worry when the MacLeods tell him I've vanished," she said.
"I was planning to. But then I got to thinking the MacLeods might intercept the messenger or the missive and learn where you are. For your own safety, I thought it best to wait a bit."
She nodded. "Very well. I'd rather they not find out where I am at all costs."
"I also have to figure out which servants are trustworthy and who might best serve as messenger." 'Twas almost two hundred miles to Dornie. He needed to send someone who'd been to Dornie before who was also hale and hearty enough to withstand the cold weather. In truth, he should probably send two servants on such a long, arduous and dangerous journey.
Aside from that, he'd hate for anyone, including her brother, to show up and take her away so soon. It would be for the best, of course, but he was not entirely sure he was ready to let her go. He was being imbecilic, for there was no future with her. Still, he could not help but enjoy spending time with her and talking, even if they discussed trivial matters.
"You were walking on the beach?" he asked, wondering what possessed her to wander out in the cold.
"Aye, 'tis warmer today and the wind less fierce. And I have never seen such a beautiful beach." She paused for a moment to glance back over Balnakeil Bay, tinted by the soft light of gloaming.
"There are many lovely beaches around Durness." And most ladies wouldn't have ventured outside, beautiful beach or not. He was drawn to her resilience.
"I had to get some fresh air and light," she said. "My chamber is warm and cozy but a bit dark."
He'd have to see about finding her a better chamber if, or rather when, he became chief. He had no doubt the clan would decide in his favor, especially if Aiden stepped down. Haldane would protest, but what good would it do the lad? He might have the temperament of a gale storm but was ultimately powerless. What had angered Dirk most was the way Haldane had spoken about Isobel, calling her a whore. Dirk might yet have the opportunity to teach the whelp a lesson about respect for ladies and members of the nobility.
"And how is your finger today?" Dirk asked.
"The swelling has gone down a wee bit." She paused, holding her hand out to him.
He took it gently, eager for any excuse to touch her. "Your hand is cold. And 'tis a bonny shade of green today."
She grinned, temptingly.
More than anything, he wished to kiss her hand. But he wasn't a gallant or a rogue like Lachlan, or even Rebbie. Dirk was not one to tease women or make them giggle. He wished he was. He wished he could change and become more like his friends.
When Isobel gazed up at him with such beguiling dark eyes, he was near spellbound. He didn't want to tease her; he wanted to kiss her. Not just her hand, but her lips. But that he must not do again, even though the kiss and her soft, delectable lips had haunted his dreams all night.
She was still betrothed to another. A betrothal was a legal and binding contract.
He released her and continued up the hill at a slow pace, waiting for her to catch up. "Lady Isobel, I find I must apologize for what happened in the stable last night."
"For the kiss or for snapping at me afterward?"
"Both." His face burned despite the cold wind.
"Nonsense. I'm glad you're not angry with me. 'Haps I am the one who should apologize."
"Nay, there's no need of it."
"Good. Because I'm not sorry."
Did she have to be so damned honest and look so enticing at the same time?
"Glare at me all you wish." She smiled. "'Twas a bit of indulgence, aye?"
He focused forward again, determined not to get pulled in by her allure. "Aye. It won't happen again."
"A pity," she mumbled, but he heard her clearly despite the gust of wind that near shoved his breath back down his throat.
Damnation if she wasn't pursuing him. Was she mad? Or was she trying to avoid marriage to a MacLeod? If he stole her, there would be clan wars. He feared no one, but he wouldn't put the lives of his clansmen on the line because of his own lusts.
If she'd been unattached, he wouldn't have a problem dallying with a widow. In fact, young widows were his favorite to share bed-sport with. They were somewhat experienced and often deprived. Eager.