The Highlander's Heart (4 page)

David Campbell set out at a bruising speed, causing Isabelle to hold on tight and hope she would not fall to her death. After a while, he slowed to a brisk trot and Isabelle was able to loosen her grip. By afternoon, a new fear had settled upon her.

“When shall we make Glasgow?”

“If we make good speed I hope to be there by tomorrow before the gates close.”

“Tomorrow! Oh my, I had thought Glasgow closer than that.”

“Ye dinna ken whether it was a town, a loch, or a person. Ye want to tell me why this sudden desire to see Scotland?”

“I did not wish to be left alone in the forest.” It was true, if vague.

Isabelle pondered her limited options. She always prided herself in being able to find solutions to problems, though she had been told often enough that being clever was not an endearing quality in a wife. Still, she was going to need whatever wits she had to save herself from her husband’s men and return to her own guard, a particularly difficult challenge since she was traveling farther from England with every passing minute.

If only she could convince the Highlander to return her to England. She considered what little she knew of him, searching for weakness. Unlikely as it was for a barbarian, he did feel compelled to rescue her—twice, and even returned after regaining his horse. The first time he may have mistaken her for a Scot, but the other times were sheer chivalry. Perhaps he would be moved by sympathy.

Isabelle bit her lip. What she needed were some tears. She filled her mind with thoughts of doom, imagining what horrors Tynsdale may inflict on her people if she should fail in her efforts to prevent him from taking Alnsworth. That thought alone was enough to make her bottom lip quiver.

The Scot reined in his mount and came to a stop by a small creek. “Time to give the horse a rest.” He dismounted with ease and handed Isabelle down. Isabelle seized the opportunity to put her hands on his shoulders.

“Please, sir,” she managed a convincing half sob, “please do not take me away, so far from my home.” She was pleased when tears spilled from her eyes. “I cannot bear to be separated from my family. Could you find it in your heart to return me to England?” She sniffed and wiped away a tear. She actually had no family left her, but a whimpering homesick lady sounded more pathetic. “Please, will you not show some mercy?” She rested her head on his chest and cried with abandon.

“Ye are verra good, I’ll admit, my lady. But I’ve seven sisters to me and I’ve learned to tell the real tears from the fake.”

“What!” Isabelle jerked her head up, annoyed. Their eyes met and he gave her a sly smile. “Oh, fine then,” she snapped, stepping back from him. “You are a most dreadful man. I hope you know that.”

“Aye, so my sisters have said on many occasions.”

“How am I to return to England?” she asked, more to herself than anyone.

The Scottish knight shrugged and pointed toward the horizon. “England is that way.”

“Do you think I could make it walking by myself?”

“Nay,” he replied with brutal honesty.

Isabelle sat on a rock by the creek, trying to work out how she would escape. She accepted the leftover meat and some water with thanks, but still no obvious solution presented itself.

“Is Glasgow a large town?” she asked hopefully after considering and discarding many poor plans.

“Aye.”

“Do they trade with England?”

“Aye.”

“Mayhap I could go with a trading party back to England?” asked Isabelle, brightening.

“Mayhap,” said the taciturn Scot.

“Then that is precisely what I shall do.”

Campbell said nothing, but caught her eye and held his appraising look. Isabelle looked away, flushed and confused.

“What is it, sir? Why do you stare at me so?”

“I was wondering when ye are going to tell me the truth.”

“I… have told you…” Isabelle stammered, her cheeks burning.

“Nay. Another thing seven sisters taught me is how to tell the truth from a falsehood. Ye may be a bonnie lass, but ye are no’ telling me the whole truth.”

“I…” Isabelle swallowed hard and thought fast. “The honest truth is I must get to Bewcastle.”

“I believe it. I also believe ye would say anything if ye thought it would get ye there.”

Isabelle straightened her shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. She would not allow him to shame her. Despite her appearance as an unlucky harlot, Isabelle knew who she was. “You are correct,” she acknowledged. “I would do much to return to Bewcastle, though perhaps not as much as you think. There are people who are depending on me. People I care about. Children even. I must get to Bewcastle safely.”

“Ye have many children?” he asked, turning away to prepare the horse for travel.

“Oh no! Not my children. Others whose welfare I must consider.”

He stopped his work and his eyes met hers with a critical frown. “Who are ye?”

The wind rustled through the tall grass, the birds chattered merrily, but Isabelle held her tongue. Campbell waited for an answer.

“I must get to Bewcastle,” Isabelle finally said. She could not tell him the truth. It was too dangerous.

“That is the only thing about ye I ken is true.” The Highlander shook his head. “Come on wi’ ye. I plan to change horses up the road a ways. Mayhap ye can pay for passage back to England there. They trade wi’ the borders.”

“Thank ye, but I have no coin.”

“Aye, I reckoned ye woud’na, but I do.”

“Thank you.” Relief flowed down her tense shoulders and Isabelle viewed Campbell from a fresh perspective. Maybe he was her knight in shining armor after all.

David Campbell mounted his horse and reached down to help her up. This time he lifted her up in front of him. She gasped at the forced intimacy of it. His arm was around her, and she was sitting mostly in his lap, her legs over one of his thighs.

“I can ride behind ye,” she gasped.

“I am tired o’ ye squeezing the life from me.”

“I—” Isabelle tried to move away from him, but it was quite impossible. “I do apologize for squeezing you, but this must be unnecessary.”

“Only if I wish to keep ye from cracking a rib.” Campbell’s eyes glinted with mischief and he clicked to get the horse moving.

“Surely not, sir!” exclaimed Isabelle, resisting the urge to grab for him when the horse began to saunter. “Oh, you are jesting with me again.”

A faint smile graced Campbell’s lips and he held her securely.

Isabelle attempted to shift into a more respectable position, holding herself bolt upright and determined to keep herself aloof. It was not long before the muscles in her back were cramping from the uncomfortable position and she was fidgety from trying to hold her tongue. Silence was not a natural state for her.

With a resigned sigh she leaned her shoulder against him. His chest was very solid and very warm. His arm wrapped around her comfortably and she relaxed into him. She seemed made to fit there. The sun shone bright with promise on the lush green landscape before her. If not for her desperate need to return to England, it would be an enjoyable ride.

“Seven sisters is a lot of sisters,” she said.

“Aye, I have always thought so.”

“You have brothers too or just the sisters?”

“There are fifteen of us together, seven sisters, and eight brothers.”

“My gracious, what a large family you have.” Isabelle swallowed down the taste of envy. “I had a sister once, and two older brothers. They are dead now, along with my parents. The plague, you understand, many years ago when I was young. I went to live with my uncle, but he is gone now too.” She opened her mouth to say more but instead coughed a bit to cover her mistake of saying more than she ought. At what point had riding through the countryside become a confessional?

“I am sorry for the loss of yer family.” He must have noticed the contradiction in her words, first crying for her family, then admitting them to be gone, but he was charitable and let it pass.

“My family was spared the ravages of the plague,” Campbell continued, “maybe because we were living far in the Highlands at the time. I was in Glasgow on an errand when it broke out. I chose to stay rather than risk bringing the pestilence home wi’ me.”

“You were fortunate not to be afflicted.”

“Indeed, I was afflicted. I thought I would die, I was sure of it. But then one morn I awoke and the fever had passed.” Isabelle felt the muscles in his shoulders stiffen, the worry lines on his forehead creased deeper. “’Tis all forgot now.”

Isabelle suspected it was far from forgotten. “Were you the only one afflicted?”

“Nay. I was staying wi’ my uncle and cousins. None in the family survived. The whole house was ill and no one was left to call the priest for last rites, not that he would come. That was the worst part, thinking I would go to my grave unconfessed. Then the fever took me and I dinna ken what happened after that. One morning I woke up. I dinna ken how long I had been there. All I can remember was the thirst. It was a powerful thirst. It drove me out of bed and searching for water. I found my kin had all perished but me. Eventually, I made it back home. It was so many years ago now, but I still wonder why I was the only one spared.”

She reached up and laid her hand on his shoulder. “What horrors you must have faced.”

His eyes slid down to hers. Their eyes held together longer than they should. Ever so slightly he pressed her closer. It was a small movement, the faintest of movements, but her heart beat faster. She should look away, but she did not, could not.

“Forgive me, I never speak of it. I dinna ken what has come over me,” said Campbell softly.

“The plague was something terrible. Now it seems no one wants to talk about it. They want to pretend it never happened and get back to life.” It was quiet for a moment before Isabelle added, “I still sometimes miss my mother.”

Campbell slowly took her hand in his. “Both my parents died last winter. An inflammation of the lungs. First one, then the other. It was… no’ what I expected. My father, Laird Campbell, had been poorly for years, and as eldest I had taken over many responsibilities for him. I was no’ shocked when he took ill, but my mother was always verra hale. I was surprised at her death.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“I am sorry for speaking of such sad events.”

“I do not mind.” Isabelle placed her other hand on his chest.

“Sometimes ’tis easier to speak to a stranger than to family,” Campbell’s eyes met hers.

“You can tell me anything.”

He leaned closer and touched his forehead to hers. “What am I to do wi’ ye?” he whispered.

“Take me to Bewcastle,” Isabelle whispered in return.

Campbell jerked back as if the spell had been broken and focused on the road ahead. “I hope this man in Bewcastle will take better care o’ ye than yer previous beau.”

Isabelle did not know what to say in response. She played with the idea of telling him the truth, but could not see how it would improve her situation. Men had a habit of thinking women should return to their husbands, no matter what the situation. Isabelle sighed. She believed Campbell to be an honorable man, but she could not risk trusting him.

They continued in awkward silence until a few houses appeared in the distance.

“Is that the town? The place where I may find passage back to England?”

“Aye.”

Isabelle leaned forward in anticipation. Campbell was a good man, but perhaps too good at seeing through her lies. She needed to return to England before he discovered who she truly was.

The little hamlet was a small but cozy place. The thatched roof houses were well kept, many with little kitchen gardens planted in neat rows beside the house. Children played happily, and people appeared to be congenially talking with one another or going about their business, at least until Campbell rode into town.

As their presence was noticed, conversations stopped, people stared, and then the roar of fierce whispering began.

“Wish ye had no’ lost yer veil,” muttered Campbell. He stopped by a small inn with a stable beside it. He dismounted and helped her down. His eyes raked over her and focused on her bosom. “Wish ye had a cloak too.”

Isabelle raised a protective hand to her chest and felt skin where there should have been material. A quick glance down confirmed there was much more of her natural assets on display than she would wish. She gave her gown a fierce tug up and was rewarded with the sound of the garment ripping further.

Walking into the inn, they met two people with opposite expressions. The innkeeper was all smiles, welcoming Campbell and Isabelle’s breasts, for he never once looked at her face. The woman next to him, whom Isabelle guessed must be his wife, wrung her hands on her apron and regarded Isabelle with narrow eyes.

“She can stay in the stable wi’ the other animals,” said the woman, pointing a red, pudgy finger at Isabelle.

“Wheesht!” hushed her husband. “Any friend of Campbell’s is welcome here.” He gave Campbell a licentious wink.