Chapter Two
The door handle rattled.
A scream strangling her throat, Helen jolted upright. Her half-frozen fingers gripped the leather-bound book, and she wished it were a pistol. It was up to her to defend Gillie and Abbott.
In a blast of icy air, the door flew back. The dog barked. Miss Gilbert came awake and squealed in surprise. A loud snort emanated from Abbott.
The beast thrust its head and shoulders inside, blocking the meager daylight. His shaggy black hair was mantled by snow, and a length of plaid cloth draped his brawny chest. Dark eyes glowed in a face of uncompromising masculinity.
A man, Helen thought in relief. The beast was merely a Highlander.
"Hello," she said, extending her gloved hand to him. "I am Lady Helen Jeffries. And you are…?"
Muttering under his breath, he glowered as if she were his worst enemy.
The coachman rubbed his eyes. "Here now. What's this?"
"We've been found, thank heavens," Helen said briskly. She braced her hand on the velvet-covered wall and struggled to stand in the tilted vehicle, her half-numb legs tangling in her heavy skirts. "Have you come from the village, sir?"
The Highlander grunted what sounded like an assent. In one giant step, he entered the coach, and it rocked beneath his weight.
Helen's heart beat faster as she backed up to afford him space. He dwarfed the interior, and she was pressed against Miss Gilbert's plump form. "You must have seen Cox, my footman," Helen said. "Is he all right?" When the stranger didn't reply, she went on, speaking slowly for his benefit. "Surely he must have given you directions, told you where to find us."
Another grunt. Was the man a simpleton?
He turned his broad back to her and examined the coachman's leg. Abbott winced at his touch. Then the Highlander retreated outside and returned with a short, straight branch. Taking a long strip of cloth from the pouch hanging at his waist, he secured the branch to the coachman's lower leg.
" 'Tis broken, your ankle," he said, rolling the words in a gravelly Scottish burr. "You shouldna ha' been moved without a splint."
At least the man could speak. "Are you certain it isn't just a bad sprain?" Helen asked in concern.
The stranger cast an accusing glance at her, as if he knew the accident was her fault. "Aye. The temporary splint will protect the leg for now."
She stifled her guilt. "Thank you. We should be on our way if we want to reach the village before dark. I can't imagine we have more than an hour of daylight left. If you'll be so kind as to help Mr. Abbott climb out."
Sheltering M'lord within her cloak, she clambered past the Highlander to open the door of the coach. Snow needled her face and the wind snatched at her cloak, but she gritted her teeth and stepped outside. The gale blew worse than before, the snowflakes falling thick and icy.
Slipping and sliding, Helen hurried to the horse tethered in the lee of, the rock cliff. The gelding nuzzled her cloak, clearly looking for his dinner.
"Sorry, darling," she murmured. "You’ve a bit of a load to carry first." Even as her numb fingers fumbled. to untie the leather lead, she felt herself brushed aside. She looked up into the harsh face of the Highlander. His features were as rough as these wild hills, with a stark, compelling beauty.
"The injured man rides," he stated. "Not you." Before she could react, he led the mount away.
He thought she meant to claim the horse?
His rude assumption startled Helen, but she was too cold to stand there framing belated retorts. Returning to the coach, she helped Miss Gilbert disembark as the Highlander hoisted the burly coachman onto the horse. Then he poked around the luggage that was lashed to the back of the vehicle. Suspicious, Helen went to him. "May I help you find something?"
"Food. You canna be daft enough to set out with no provisions."
His criticism made her bristle. "There's a hamper inside the coach, secured beneath the seat. If you need anything else, you have only to ask-"
He didn't stay to listen. Striding to the door, he went inside and emerged a moment later with the large basket. He thrust the hamper at Helen. "Here, make yourself useful," he growled. "I'll lead the horse."
With a jerk of his head, the stranger motioned for the women to follow. Then he guided the horse and coachman toward a cleft in the rock.
Helen blinked the icy flakes from her eyelashes. Holding the dog in one arm and the basket in the other, she hastened to follow. "The village is back that way," she called, pointing down the road in case he was slow-witted.
"Too far," he snapped. " 'Tis almost dark."
He started to turn, but she caught his sleeve. His muscles felt hard beneath her fingertips. "Wait. What is your name?" #
He muttered an answer, but she couldn't have heard him right. "The brute?" she repeated.
"MacBrut"-he cast her a brooding look-"without an e"
He could spell, too. She wanted to proclaim it the perfect name for an unfriendly lout. But whatever his faults, Mr. MacBrut had come to their rescue. "How did you find us?" she asked.
"Your footman."
Exasperated, she said, "Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I dinna have time for chatter."
He directed the horse up a steep track into the hills. Miss Gilbert fell into step behind him. Lugging the heavy hamper in one hand and the dog in the other, Helen hastened to catch up to the small party, already barely visible through the falling snow. She slogged through drifts higher than her ankle boots and felt icy trickles down her silk stockings. Within a short time, her hem was sodden and the freezing dampness dragged at her skirts. Miss Gilbert was struggling to keep up, so Helen lent her aid, though it was awkward while holding the dog in the crook of her arm.
"Bless you, my lady," the governess panted. "And bless our rescuer. Aren't we lucky he happened along?"
"Lucky, indeed." Helen didn't want to alarm the older woman. But something about MacBrut made her uneasy. How did they know they could trust this stranger? He might be a bandit, leading them to his lair…
Quickly she banished the morbid thought. She was no longer a silly girl who spun fancies. Better she should praise him for being a good Samaritan.
MacBrut. That must be his clan. What was his first name?
She watched his wide back as he led them steadily higher into the mountains. A thick wool plaid wrapped his massive torso. Now and then, she caught a flash of strong, bare legs beneath his knee-length kilt. The sight caused a peculiar tension in the pit of her stomach. If he had any sense, he'd wear trews in such weather. Though perhaps the storm had caught him by surprise, too.
Where was he taking them?
She had her answer a few minutes later when she spied a castle through the snow. The dark monolith reared against the sheer rock face of a cliff. There was no drawbridge or moat, only an arched gate with a raised portcullis. Through the dimness of dusk, Helen glimpsed twin towers guarding either end of the walled yard.
Picking a path through the scattered rubble, MacBrut guided the horse toward a tall stone keep. Helen could barely feel her feet as she trudged across the bleak courtyard. The basket of food dragged on her arm, but she spared only a fleeting thought for her own discomfort. From the way Miss Gilbert clung, her round body quivering, Helen knew the cold upland trek had been hard on the aging woman.
The keep was chilly and dark inside, but at least the walls provided protection from the wind and snow. Helen gratefully set down the hamper and tilted her head back, turning around for a dizzying view of a cavernous room. The faintest light seeped through the high window slits.
She looked at MacBrut. "What is this place?"
"My castle."
"Your castle?"
"Aye."
"Do you live here alone?"