She glanced up at him with a guilty look. Both denial and dread stabbed at him.

"Nay," she whispered.

"Do not lie to me." His tone was harsher than he'd intended.

"I'm not married to anyone," she said firmly. "I'm betrothed to the MacLeod Chief."

Damnation! Betrothed was as good as married. He should've known. And what did it matter? He'd never be able to trust her anyway, no matter how bonny she was.

"The chief, is he the one who broke your finger?" Dirk asked.

"Nay, 'twas his brutish younger brother."

"Nolan?"

She eyed him, fear glinting in her eyes. "You know him?"

"I met him once, many years ago. He's a swine." And Dirk couldn't wait to get his hands around the bastard's throat. Any man who injured a woman was no man, in truth.

"I'm not going back there. And I'm not marrying a MacLeod. Any of them," she said with finality.

Dirk was glad she'd reached that decision, but there was still a betrothal contract somewhere, tying her to Torrin MacLeod. Breaking it would have repercussions. Her brother might have to pay the MacLeods a large sum.

Dirk handed her the flask of whisky. "Drink this and then lie down and sleep. It will help you heal."

She turned her face away. "I hate that vile liquid."

"Isobel, do what I say," he murmured. "'Twill help you."

She let out a long breath. "Very well." She drank another sip of whisky, grimacing, then lay down on the blanket and covered up. "I hope this doesn't cause me to talk in my sleep."

"'Tis doubtful," Dirk said. "Why did Torrin allow his brother to hurt you?"

"He is away in Lairg, meeting with another chief. He knows naught of it."

"Why did Nolan harm you?"

She was silent a long moment. "I cannot tell you, but I fear if he ever gets his hands on me again, he'll do far more than break my finger."

"Bastard," Dirk muttered.

Why wouldn't she tell him why Nolan had injured her? Had there been a fight? With his brother away, had Nolan tried to take advantage of her? Isobel was far more bonnie than most lasses and doubtless she turned a lot of heads. Some men wouldn't take nay for an answer. Their carnal lusts overrode common sense, even when the lass belonged to a brother.

"When is the MacLeod due to return home?" Dirk asked.

Isobel's breathing was deep and even, and she didn't answer. He watched her for a moment longer, the bruise marring her smooth ivory cheek infuriating him. Something in him yearned to seek revenge for such insult and injury.

He forced his gaze away. Beitris lay snoring lightly not too far from Isobel. 'Twas time for him to get some sleep as well.

He rose and moved to sit on a stool by the fire pit.

"There is some bread and cheese if you want it," Rebbie said, lying on his bedroll nearby.

Realizing he was hungry, Dirk devoured the food. He wished Isobel had eaten before she'd fallen asleep, but at least she had eaten the two bannocks earlier.

"Where is George?" Dirk asked.

"Keeping the first watch."

Dirk spread out his bedroll just as George trotted into the small room. "Someone is coming, two or three riders," he said.

Chapter Five

Who the devil would be outside the cottage and why?

"Damnation," Dirk muttered, drew on his wool mantle and grabbed his broadsword. Rebbie did the same. The approaching riders had to be MacLeods. 'Haps someone from the village who'd gotten suspicious of George and tracked him back here. Although the wind and snow should've covered his tracks by now. Maybe they smelled the smoke of their fire and followed it.

"Oh heavens." Beitris sat bolt upright on her blanket, but Isobel didn't wake.

"Watch her," Dirk said. "Both of you stay here."

Beitris nodded, her eyes wide. "Aye, sir."

He sheathed his sword and the Highland dirk he was named after so as not to appear too aggressive, then followed George and Rebbie out into the blowing snow. If the riders weren't from the village, then the villagers must have alerted the MacLeods at Munrick that strangers were in the vicinity. Better not be Nolan MacLeod, or Dirk didn't know if he'd be able to control his battle-lust. Especially if Nolan grew insolent and tried to force his way into the cottage. Dirk wouldn't let Nolan anywhere near Isobel, regardless.

The two men, one carrying a torch, dismounted a few yards away. Squinting through the blowing snow stinging his eyes, Dirk tried to identify them. Both wore plaids, trews and shaggy wool mantles. The second man unsheathed his broadsword.

"Saints," Dirk muttered, drawing his own weapon. Rebbie did the same, then set down the lantern. One could never tell when things would turn bloody.

"Who are you and what are you doing here on MacLeod land?" one of the men called out in Gaelic. "You're trespassing."

"I'm a MacKay, returning to Dunnakeil in Durness. We simply needed a place to stay for the night, out of the storm."

One man, wearing a metal-studded leather hauberk over his layers of wool plaid brought the torch closer, eying Dirk. Surely they saw his resemblance to many of the MacKays. The men, with their long brown hair and lean, lanky frames, certainly resembled the MacLeods.

"And who is he?" the man nodded to Rebbie.

"My friend, Robert MacInnis. The MacKays and MacLeods have ever been allies," Dirk reminded the men who, by the looks of their clothing, were men-at-arms.

"Indeed. Why did you not ask for lodgings at Munrick?"

"We would have, but it was late and the weather growing more severe. We saw this cottage and decided to put it to use." Dirk shrugged. He hoped they believed the lie. "We will be leaving and going on to Durness in the morn."

"Did you happen to run into a lady and her maid on your way here?"

"Nay. Why?" Dirk asked without hesitation. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"The chief's future bride ran out into the snowstorm. She's a wee bit daft, I'm thinking." He spat on the ground.

"Why in blazes would she do that?" Dirk asked, feigning surprise, while in truth he wanted to belt the man for calling Isobel daft.

"We know not." The man's gaze drifted toward the cottage door.

Dirk tensed. The bastard had best not even consider it.

"Who is traveling with you?"

"My servants," Rebbie said.

"Then you won't mind if we search inside the cottage for the missing lady." He moved forward.

Alarm driving through him, Dirk stepped in front of the door, blocking it. "Nay. I wouldn't do that."

"And why not?" The MacLeod clansman halted, his face tightening dangerously, his sword clasped at the ready.

"His servant is very ill," Dirk said, hoping the knave believed the lie. Most people were terrified of disease, for it usually meant death. "We know not what it is. Coughing up blood. Might be catching."

The knave's eyes narrowed. "Neither of you has caught it yet. If you don't let us search, you may as well head south, for you won't be passing Munrick."

Loud coughing echoed from inside the hovel. "'Tis all right," George called in a raspy, weak voice. "It matters not to me if they search in here." He lapsed into another fit of coughing.

Why in blazes would George say such a thing?

"You heard the man. Step aside, MacKay," the man-at-arms demanded, the strong smell of whisky wafting from him on an icy gust of wind. If he was near sotted, his reflexes would be off. He might also have a difficult time recognizing Isobel.