The Highlander's Heart (3 page)

“In the future, I will take pains to keep ye from my cattle.” The Highlander spoke gruffly but made no effort to push her away.

Isabelle bent at her work, covering the wound and beginning to wrap it around his thigh. Halfway around, she realized she would need to move her hands around to his inner thigh to wrap the cloth and paused, unsure of how to proceed. “I’ve found wounds heal faster and are less likely to fester if they are cleaned and wrapped,” she explained.

His green eyes flickered, reflecting the dancing firelight. “A healer, are ye?” His voice was soft.

Isabelle swallowed hard. Heat licked the back of her neck. “Y-yes, at least I was trained to treat common complaints. If the wound was still bleeding, there is a plant to help it to stop. There are herbs for almost any complaint, some to help you sleep, some to ease pain, some if you are bilious…”

The Highlander raised one eyebrow at this, a slow smile creeping on his lips. Isabelle blushed, remembering too late her tendency to ramble when flustered, yet still was unable to curb her tongue. “I’ve been called to stitch and bind many a wound. The menfolk are always getting themselves hurt one way or another.”

He leaned closer, a small movement. “Wi’ ye around I dinna doubt it.”

Isabelle’s mouth went dry. She focused back on her work, slowly wrapping the strip of cloth around his thigh, her hands trembling and uncharacteristically awkward. She accidentally brushed her hand across his inner thigh and he caught his breath. Tying the ends of the bandage, she raised her head, finding his face close to her own. His expressive eyes mirrored her surprise.

“You should be well now,” she whispered.

“I thank thee.” He leaned closer and kissed her chastely on the cheek. “A boon for ye.”

“Thank you, Edna.” The words escaped her lips without thought.

The man brushed back her hair from her eyes and kissed her sweetly. She leaned closer into him and he deepened the kiss. She could taste the whiskey on his lips, and wondered if that was the cause of the intoxicating sensation coursing through her.

Behind her the fire popped, casting flaming sparks. He jerked back and reached around her, beating out the burning embers that had fallen on the hem of her gown.

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Ye are too close to the fire.”

Her head spun. She was much too close indeed. She should not speak to him again. “I am sorry… that is… too close, I understand… dreadful losing the horse.” She inwardly groaned. She was babbling again.

He gave her a faint smile of amusement. “Not yer fault about the horse. I shoud’na have lost my temper, but I am due in Glasgow for a meeting, and it will be verra bad if I should miss it.”

“Am I to know your name?” She blurted the question that had been on her lips all night.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on her. “I am Sir David Campbell.”

“You are a knight, then?”

“Aye. And what shall I call ye?”

“I am the… Isabelle.”

“
The
Isabelle?”

“How came you by the honor of knighthood?” Isabelle asked, trying to cover her blunder.

“I was knighted by Sir William Douglas for service rendered to Scotland for ridding Ettrick Forest o’ the English.”

A slight tingle on the back of her neck gave her a twinge of warning. He said the word English as if it was a curse. Campbell dropped her hand and folded his arms across his chest.

“For the same act,” Campbell continued, “yer king declared me a criminal and put a price on my head.”

Isabelle sucked in a gasp of air. This Highlander was a wanted man, a criminal. He was her enemy and she would do best to remember it. Isabelle hastened back to her bower. She laid down with her back to him, closed her eyes, and said no more. At first light she would slip away, back to England. She would not be going anywhere with this man.

Isabelle woke early in the dim light of dawn. The barbarian was sleeping sitting up, his back against a tree, an unsheathed knife in his hands. Even asleep he emanated power. She froze, fearing he would wake at any moment, yet he continued to sleep, snoring slightly. He was not so fearsome without his customary frown. Memories of his kisses warmed her even in the morning chill. In the gray light of dawn, she concluded Sir David Campbell was the most attractive man she had ever seen. How she could have thought otherwise was a mystery.

It was a shame to have to leave him, but she must return to her people. She moved very slowly, taking care to be silent with each movement. With considerable stealth born of fear, she crept from the camp. She was not sure if he would stop her, but waking him posed too great a risk.

Several yards from camp she paused, trying to decide which way to go. She could follow the road, but Campbell had indicated it did not lead to England. On the other side of the road was a small hill. She decided to climb it to see if there was another road that might lead her back toward England. At the top of the rise she could still not see beyond the thick foliage. If only she was taller, she might be able to see above the bushes and small trees.

A large boulder caught her eye and a moment later she was scrambling up it, ignoring the painful sound of ripping velvet. She had been a tree climber in her youth, before someone decided she was old enough to leave the nursery and become a lady, thus ending her amusements in life.

Standing on the boulder was better, but still her view was obstructed. A low-hanging branch provided a tempting option and she took it, hoisting herself up into a tree. Now she had a clear view of the surrounding area. Below her was the road she had found yesterday, and beyond that was another road, which might suit her purpose of returning to her country.

She was engaged with trying to find a path to this road when she noticed something else. A line of men leading horses were tracking through the forest in her general direction. At first her hopes soared, thinking it must be her captain, come to rescue her. She was disabused of this happy notion when the men stepped into a clearing, and their livery became clearly visible. They were Tynsdale’s men.

Isabelle gasped and leaned forward, hoping that perhaps she had been mistaken. She was not. Careful scrutiny confirmed they were indeed her husband’s guard come looking for her.

At once she felt the deprivation of her genteel education, which did not afford her with such language as she now felt necessary to convey her true feelings. She envied Campbell, for in his darkest moment he had not appeared to suffer from a loss of words.

What with leaning forward to see her tormentors drawing nearer, and her idle musings on her lack of vulgar vocabulary, she lost hold of the branch and slipped forward with a shriek onto another one a few feet below. She swung forward, her feet dangling in the air. The branch was not sufficient for her weight and it bent down at such an angle that she lost her grip, and fell to the ground, a mere few feet away. She landed in a heap, panting and shaken, but unhurt.

“Bother!” she exclaimed, and knew it to be a woefully inadequate expression of her current wretched situation. Throwing off all propriety she lifted her skirts in both hands and raced down the hill, ignoring the sting and scrape of branches as she ran. She must fly or risk being taken prisoner.

Her only hope now was in throwing herself on the mercy of a barbarian Scot. Truly, not even one proficiently schooled in the art of foul language could have the words to describe this sad circumstance.

But… what if he was gone?

***

David Campbell regained his mount after a brief but decisive altercation with the knave who had stolen his horse. He had heard Isabelle leave early that morning, and considered trying to stop her, but let her go. He had offered his help. If she chose not to accept it, the better it was for him. He was already behind schedule and taking up a female would only slow him further.

After she left, he followed the trail left by the horse thief. Fortunately, he found the thief had made his own camp about a mile away. Unfortunately, the thief had helped himself to the whiskey Douglas had given him. If stealing his horse had not already inflamed Campbell’s anger, drinking his whiskey sealed the thief’s fate.

Astride his mount, Campbell turned toward Glasgow. The dark road stretched out before him, still cast in the shadows of early dawn. He ought to move fast, for he was already late. He turned back to where he had made camp with the little English vixen. He had offered his help. She had refused it. He had no obligation to help her. And yet he was plagued by memories of her kiss, warm yet innocent. He could not shake the impression that there was more to her story than had been revealed. She was in trouble, that much was clear. Good thing it was none of his concern.

Campbell had enough female trouble of his own. His visit to Douglas, his former foster father, had been brief. He had ducked some rather pointed questions from Lady Douglas as to the timing of his nuptials with her daughter, replying that he still mourned the loss of his father. His sire had died last fall, and this being spring, the excuse was growing a bit lame. Campbell cited urgent business at one of his holdings and left the castle with some haste.

It was not that he had anything against Eileen Douglas, except that she was a shrew with a shrill voice and a haughty laugh, but that was hardly a consideration. An alliance with Douglas would be a highly desirable thing, but other alliances and loyalties must be taken into account. Rumblings of discord were in the air, whispers of treason and preparation for war. It was a dangerous, lawless time in Scotland.

A man waited for him in Glasgow. Campbell dreaded the meeting, but it must be done. He needed the information to make a difficult decision. Though Campbell had traveled with his brothers for most of his journey, he had separated from them for this last task. For this meeting, he must go alone.

Campbell rubbed the linen bandage around his thigh. It was not his fault Isabelle was alone in Ettrick Forest. He had no responsibility for her. He had already saved her twice, what more could he be expected to do?

Campbell rubbed his head that was beginning to ache. English. They brought nothing but ruination. And poverty. England had held Scotland’s King David captive for the past nine years. England demanded a crushing ransom for his release. As laird, Campbell was expected to make large annual contributions, money that could be better used to support his own clan. He had every reason to leave that English piece of baggage on the road where he found her. And yet…

With an audible sigh Campbell spurred his mount and galloped down the road. He pulled up when he reached the point in the road where he had made camp with Isabelle. She was not there. He paused for a moment, listening to the birds singing in the morning. He frowned at his own stupidity. He had wasted his time by returning. He must hasten to make up for lost time.

He turned his horse to leave but stopped short at the sound of a familiar shriek. With a loud rustling Isabelle skittered onto the lane in front of him. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. Her long, silky, black hair was disheveled, and her red cast-off gown was torn, revealing more of her lush décolletage than was the dressmaker’s original intent. Her appearance was even dirtier and more tattered than the day before, if such a thing was possible.

Isabelle was a wild thing, a fey wood nymph, decorated with twigs and bits of shrubbery. He had never beheld a more beautiful creature. Her dark eyes were large and alluring, her red, full lips matched what her scarlet velvet gown might once have been, and her body was curved in all the right places. He was not a man to take up dalliances easily, especially with a disgraced English miss, but he was sorely tempted.

“Good day to you, sir,” she said with a graceful curtsy as if they had met in a ballroom. In a fruitless gesture she tried to smooth her hair and gown.

“Good day.” He smiled in spite of himself. She amused him, and precious little in this world did.

“You have recovered your horse!” she exclaimed with sudden recognition.

“Aye.”

“That was very clever of you! What did you do with Red Cap?”

“He stole my horse,” said Campbell. Further explanation could not be needed.

“Oh. Yes. Well.” Isabelle scanned the forest, her brows knit together in apprehension.

“Looking for someone?” asked Campbell, scanning the forest himself.

Isabelle’s eyes opened wide. “N-no. I was… lovely day. Where do you go today, sir?”

“I am to Glasgow.”

“Glasgow!” Isabelle clapped her hands together as if enraptured with the idea. “I would dearly love to visit that town. It is a town—yes?”

Campbell was suspicious. “Yesterday ye said ’twas imperative ye returned to England and now ye wish to visit Glasgow?”

“Yes! Only I do not wish to keep you. I recollect you said you needed to make haste.”

“Why this sudden change in plans? When ye left this morn I believed ye had decided to walk back to England yerself.”

“I… yes.” She looked into the forest again with growing anxiety. “But I saw something in the forest that made me change my mind.”

“These woods are not safe for a woman traveling alone.”

“No, indeed they are not. Please let us leave here.”

He was a little irked by her concern. What did she imagine would come through the trees that he could not handle? “Dinna fear. I winna let any harm come to ye.”

She looked up at him not moving, her large eyes filling with tears.

“Isabelle?”

She wiped away the tears with a quick swipe of the back of her hand. “I beg your pardon. My uncle had the occasion to say the very same words to me many years ago, but now he is gone.” Her voice became quite soft and Campbell’s own attitude toward her softened as well. Poor thing. He guessed her uncle’s death had left her quite defenseless. If only she was not quite so English.

“Take my hand,” he said gently, reaching out to her. She put her hand in his and he drew her up behind him.

“My, it is high up here. What a large horse!” She clung to him tightly enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs.

“Aye,” he choked, but did not ask her to loosen her grip. Nor did he ask her to remove her legs, which brushed against his thighs in a most suggestive way. He spurred his horse and galloped away faster than he would have normally done, causing her to press herself to him even tighter.

He decided to let the horse run awhile, shamelessly enjoying the way her body moved against his. He was a veritable knave, but he smiled and spurred his mount faster.