Later that summer, he'd been forced to leave his clan.

Though beautiful she might be, Isobel, given her association with Maighread, was as trustworthy as a viper.

"Who are you?" Isobel repeated, her voice more demanding this time.

"My name is Dirk MacKay. We met many years ago at your home in Dornie."

She frowned, her gaze searching his face.

"Do you remember?" he asked, knowing she wouldn't. But some part of him hoped she would.

"You've grown," she said.

Isobel remembered him? Stunned, he frowned. And though he was likely daft, he felt flattered and humbled. He supposed he'd gotten it into his mind that everyone from his past had forgotten him. Almost as if he'd truly died twelve years ago and been reborn a different person when he'd relocated and changed his name.

And she was right, he had grown. At fifteen, he'd been a tall, thin stripling of a lad, his frame much different from the large one he possessed now. Had Isobel known of Maighread's evil plot against him? Had she heard of his "death?"

Chapter Three

Isobel studied the tall, broad-shouldered man before her. He had the fearsome look of a Norseman, especially with that frown. Who could've guessed when she and Beitris had left the hovel that morn, they'd run into Dirk MacKay by gloaming?

His head was now protected with a snow-covered mantle's cowl, but she recalled his hair was reddish-blond like his invading ancestors… if he truly was Dirk MacKay. She remembered the lad well, but she thought he'd died years ago, not long after she'd met him.

How could a person change so much? His shoulders were twice as wide as they'd been back then. He looked to be a well-trained warrior, certain sure. He even wore metal-studded leather armor beneath his wool mantle. His sword's basket hilt gleamed in the scabbard by his side. When he'd approached her earlier with that deadly weapon drawn, fear had near choked her. A well-polished dagger hilt and pistol grip also protruded from his belt and shimmered in the approaching twilight. Only the wealthy possessed such impressive weapons. Of course, being a chief's eldest son, he certainly had everything he needed.

Even if she had met him long ago, how did she know he was trustworthy now? Mayhap he had become an outlaw since then.

"Well then, since we're not strangers, tell me what you're doing out here alone in this ghastly weather and so far from home," Dirk said. It wasn't a question. He was demanding an answer. But she was not yet ready to give it to him.

Last she'd heard, the MacKays and the MacLeods were allies. And if that was still the case, she couldn't tell him what she'd done to that MacLeod knave who'd attacked her. Dirk might drag her back to Munrick. After all, he was planning to stay there this night.

Though he'd sheathed his weapon, she was not yet ready to put hers away. Her fingers were almost frozen to the dagger's bone hilt.

Isobel glanced at her maid and then back to him. "'Tis naught for you to worry over. We are used to the Highland weather."

Even through the waning daylight, his pale eyes speared her. They were light blue, but not soft. His gaze could be called nothing but sharp, penetrating… even when he was smiling. She recalled vividly that he had smiled at her once and spoken a few words, but it had been so long ago. At the time, she'd been too shy to utter a response. She'd found his pointed gaze both compelling and intimidating, and he'd had a defensive way about him. Every time she'd glanced at him in the great hall of Teasairg Castle, her clan's home, he'd been silently assessing those around him with intelligent but distrustful eyes. He regarded her the same way now.

"The weather is not improving and I'd like to be arriving at Munrick afore dark," Dirk grumbled. "Surely the MacLeods will give us a place to sleep for the night. Highland hospitality and all. Our clans have ever been friendly."

Saints! Her maid grabbed her elbow, startling her. The last thing she could do was go back there. But how to avoid it—and Dirk—without drawing suspicions?

His frown deepened. "Every time I mention the MacLeods or Munrick you look as if you'd like to flee. What have you neglected to tell me?" he asked, his tone hard.

"We cannot go there. 'Tis north of here. We're headed south."

He narrowed his gaze and studied her for a moment. "That's where you've come from, is it not?" he asked in a calm, almost understanding, tone she hadn't expected. Most men she knew lost patience when she wouldn't do what they wanted or tell them what they wished to know.

Though she was unsure she could trust him, his deep, roughened voice and his intelligent gaze compelled her to do just that. She nodded, praying he would not force her back to Munrick.

"What happened?" he asked.

She shook her head. There was no way in hades she would go into it now. She didn't know what connection he might have to the MacLeods. "'Tis best I not say."

Dirk sighed, then glanced up at the low-hanging clouds and the snow pouring from them. "We have to get out of this weather, Lady Isobel. Gloaming is upon us. The snow is deepening and the wind is picking up. I don't have time to take you all the way to Dornie. I've had a missive. My father is ill and dying. I have to make haste to Durness."

A sinking sensation hit her in the stomach, reminding her of her own father's illness and death three years before. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear this news. I'll not keep you, then." She gave a curtsy though it wasn't so elegant with her legs stiff and sore from the walking and hill-climbing.

He frowned, his astute gaze dropping to her aching and injured hand, which she realized she now held protectively close to her chest. She lowered it to hide it in her skirts again.

"Are you hurt?" Dirk asked.

"Nay." Heavens, he could not find out what had happened to her. What if Nolan MacLeod was one of his friends? They were near the same age. "Why would you think this?"

He took a step toward her. Impulsively, she jumped back and lifted the dagger. "Stay away from me."

He halted and slowly offered his hand. "Lady Isobel, surely you ken I would never hurt you. Put down the dagger and let me see your hand." His tone was still too demanding for her taste.

She shook her head, still not trusting him. Her maid clutched at her arm and together they inched backwards.

He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm not leaving you out here to die in this snowstorm," he growled.

"And we're not going to Munrick with you." She tried to keep her voice from shaking.

Even though he was so big he could toss her over his shoulder and carry her off like a sack of flour if he wished, she would not back down. Not only that, he had reinforcements. His dark-eyed friend who stood beside him was equally broad of shoulder, and almost as tall.

"Well then, we'll go someplace else." Dirk's voice was softer, but no less annoyed.

"Where?" she asked.

"I know not at the moment but we shall find a place. Come."

She glanced again at the man beside him. He too looked the formidable warrior, wearing tall expensive leather boots, brown trews, a plaid, and a wool mantle. Rich as his clothing was, an odd mixture of Highland and Lowland, he might be a chief or member of the nobility. What if he was an ally of the MacLeods? They had connections far and wide.

"This is Rebbie, a good friend," Dirk said. "He is trustworthy as well."

She hesitated. "Which clan is he from?"

"MacInnis."