Though she knew it was near impossible, Isobel still yearned for the same things she'd dreamed of as a young lass… what her parents had, a love match. Her brother scoffed at that, but her father before him had not. Of course, most chiefs' daughters or sisters were married off to whoever would benefit the clan most. She'd endured an unsuitable match with her first husband. Thankfully, he hadn't been a mean or evil man. He had been tolerable, despite his advanced age.
She had met her current betrothed, Torrin, once. He was younger than her first husband, at least—around thirty summers—and much better looking, but he didn't appeal to her greatly. He had an arrogant, cocky way about him. The MacLeod had glanced at her, then ignored her. Now, she knew why. As Nolan had said, he was devoted to another woman and had been for years. Obviously, she was a woman beneath his station that the clan discouraged him from marrying.
In this case, being ignored by one's husband might be a good thing. But that left another problem—the husband's brother who did not ignore her. And now she'd almost killed the bastard, so there was no going back to Munrick. Nolan would surely kill her if he ever laid eyes on her again.
As Isobel and Beitris rounded the bend, the bitter scent of peat smoke from the village became stronger. Dim firelight showed through the cracks between shutters in a couple of the cottages.
"Thank the heavens! My feet are near frozen," Beitris said.
"We can't stay here tonight," Isobel whispered despite the stray droplets of rain that spattered against the plaid covering her head. "This is the first place Nolan and the guards will look for us. The villagers will surely turn us over to them with nary a qualm."
"Where are we to go then?" her maid asked in a panicked voice. "'Tis starting to rain."
"I'm well aware." 'Twould be hard to miss the icy rain spitting through the air. They would indeed need shelter soon. "On the way here, I noticed an abandoned croft south of the village." She was unsure why she'd noticed it except that it had looked deserted and sad sitting on such a lovely site a hundred yards or so away from the track.
"I saw it too. The thatch was half gone!"
"Aye, but it might serve for shelter tonight. We can build a fire in the center of the floor."
"If we can find any dry turf to burn." Her maid sounded doubtful.
Isobel patted the pouch in her arisaid that hung over her hips, making her look several inches wider than she was. "And what are you thinking this is? Rolls of flab?"
Beitris frowned and looked her up and down.
"You carry bread in your arisaid, and I carry five bricks of peat in mine," Isobel explained.
"In truth, m'lady? How canny you are."
Isobel allowed a brief smile. "I carried off all I could. We'll need things to trade for a night's lodgings and food." She'd save her coins for the galley transport.
"'Haps we'll eat and stay warm tonight, but what about tomorrow and the next day? And the day after that?"
"Do you wish to survive this, Beitris?" Isobel asked, weary of her maid's dismal outlook.
"Aye, of course."
"Well then, start thinking of ways out of this problem instead of expecting the worst."
She sighed. "I'm a score years your senior, lass. My old bones ache in the cold."
"Once we build a fire you will feel better."
They passed through the village unnoticed. No one was about, and she could see why. The rain was turning to sleet. She was thankful they were facing south, for the tiny bits of ice pelted her back, hurled by the north wind.
Beitris slipped on a patch of ice or slick mud and Isobel grabbed onto her. "Not much further."
A half-hour later, they neared the abandoned crofter's hut. The northern half of the roof was still covered with thatch. Isobel entered the open doorway dragging Beitris behind her. Immediately, they were out of the wind.
"You see? This is a decent shelter." She noticed a darkened doorway leading to what appeared to be another room. Taking her lantern, she ventured inside. This small room would be much warmer than the main room. The roof had a hole or two, but it was much more enclosed.
Her face tight with worry, Beitris stood in the doorway.
"We'll sleep here," Isobel told her in what she hoped was an encouraging tone.
"Aye."
"Let's build a fire."
"I must rest first." Beitris found an overturned stool, righted it, and sat upon it. "My hip pains me."
Some of the thatch from the demolished portion of the roof had blown into a heap in one corner of the main room. Isobel gathered the straw and carried some into the smaller room where she piled it in the center of the dirt floor, then propped a peat brick beside it.
Next, she poked a dry straw into the lantern and came out with a small flame which she set to the clump of dry thatch. Once that was burning and the peat had started to smoke, she rose and glanced about. They couldn't burn all their peat in one night. They needed other fuel.
Taking the lantern, she poked among the debris of the cottage. Surely she could find something here that would burn. Aha, an old heather-stuffed mattress abandoned in the corner. It might be flea infested, but at least it would burn. She dragged it forward, then ripped the tattered material off, freeing the dried heather. She put several handfuls on the fire.
She also discovered half a broken wooden bucket. It would burn just as well as peat. She piled her finds not too far from the fire.
"Well, at least we have plenty of wool clothing to roll up in for the night," Isobel said.
"'Twill have to do, I reckon." Beitris rose and hobbled across the floor.
Watching her slow progress, Isobel frowned and dark fear slid through her. What if Beitris couldn't walk fast enough, or very far? Could she travel the twenty-five miles to Ullapool? And if they were too slow, would the MacLeod guards catch up to them?
***
Gusts of chill wind flung icy snowflakes into Dirk's eyes. After several days travel on galleys up the west coast, he and Rebbie had disembarked at Ullapool. With the strong winds, it had been unsafe to sail further north. Then, they had traveled north on horseback.
'Twas slow going on a narrow footpath through the rugged countryside. He glanced up at the Assynt Mountains surrounding them, their rocky peaks hidden in the low-hanging clouds. Snow blanketed even the lowest slopes in white.
"Is the weather always so inviting here?" Rebbie called out several feet behind him.
Turning in his saddle, Dirk glanced back and smirked. Rebbie had become spoiled in the temperate Scottish Lowlands and England. Snowflakes littered his friend's dark hair. Breath fogged from his mount's nose.
Of course, Rebbie had insisted on bringing his manservant, George Sweeny. He'd wanted to bring two servants but Dirk had to say no. It would've been more difficult for a large entourage to secure passage on a galley.
"I was thinking you were a Highlander," Dirk called.
"I am, indeed. But from much further south."
"Use the mantle's cowl." The plaids and mantles Lachlan had given them had come in handy. The wool over his head would catch the water from the melting snow and hold in the warmth from his body heat. Beneath that, Dirk wore a piece of metal-studded leather armor—because one couldn't be too careful in the Highlands—and a belted wool plaid over his trews.