She had never met a MacInnis before and had no idea who they were allied with.

"M'lady, 'tis a great pleasure to meet you." The dark-haired man gave a sweeping bow as if they stood in Holyrood Palace instead of a Highland snowstorm. He had to be a laird, but he didn't seem offended that Dirk had introduced him as simply Rebbie.

She attempted an awkward curtsy, but her knees almost gave out. Ashamed of her weakness, she stiffened her legs. They had run out of bread at midday, and she'd been hungrier than usual, what with walking in the cold.

Another man appeared behind Rebbie and she stiffened. How many men traveled with them?

"This is my manservant, George," Rebbie said.

Isobel nodded, then motioned to her companion. "And this is my maid, Beitris."

"Enough with the pleasantries and introductions," Dirk snapped. "Do you wish to die out here?"

"Nay," she said, hoping her tone was equally curt. She didn't enjoy being out in a snowstorm any more than he did. But neither did she wish to die at the hands of Nolan MacLeod or any of his kin.

Dirk waved her forward. "You can ride on my mount. We will not go to Munrick. Are you hungry?"

"M'lady," Beitris whispered. "You do need to eat something."

"As do you. Do you have extra food?" she asked Dirk.

"Aye."

She slid the dagger back into its sheath in the pouch hanging from her belt. Clinging to each other, she and Beitris moved forward, their feet slipping on the wet snow.

"I'll get the horses," George said.

Dirk nodded and offered Isobel his arm. Thankful her good hand was nearest him, she grabbed onto his substantial elbow. Even through the layers of clothing, the hard, flexing muscles of his arm were obvious.

Her feet slipped again.

"Have a care," he murmured, steadying her.

"Aye."

Beitris, clung to her other elbow, jerking this way and that, her leather slippers apparently even slicker than Isobel's.

"I bet your feet are near frozen," Dirk said.

"Very nearly so." She wondered at his concern. Certainly most men did not give her feet a second thought.

"When did you last eat?" he asked.

"A few hours ago, but I'm not famished." The mere thought of food prompted her stomach to growl loudly, negating her words. 'Twas true though that she wouldn't mind eating.

With a raised brow, he glanced down at her. "You started on a long trek with little food?"

"We ran out." The small loaf of sliced bread Beitris had lifted from the kitchen hadn't lasted as long as they'd hoped.

"And when did you start on this journey from Munrick?"

"Last night."

He nodded. "I have some food in my pack."

Once George and Rebbie led the horses forward—two large beasts more resembling war horses and one smaller Highland pony—Dirk released her and dug into his pack. He handed a bannock to her and one to Beitris.

"I thank you," Isobel said then bit into the flat oatcake. Never had anything tasted so good, like hearty oat flour fried in butter. With a lifted brow, he watched her eat. Ashamed of devouring the food as if she were a starving boar, she slowed down and took dainty bites. Although she didn't know why she should care what he thought of her manners.

Once she'd finished, he handed each of them a second bannock.

"Will that tide you over for a short while until we reach our lodgings?"

She nodded, unsure where their lodgings would be. Perhaps the same ruined hut they'd stayed in last night.

Once their second bannocks were but a memory and their stomachs satisfied, Dirk said, "All right then. Ready to mount up?"

"I suppose." She couldn't get far in her slippers without falling. "And again, I thank you for the food."

"You're welcome. If you're thirsty, you'll have to eat snow until we reach a stream."

"Aye, we've had plenty of snow already."

Dirk approached her and lifted her into the saddle. She was thrown off-kilter for a moment, being lifted so swiftly. She caught hold of the horse's mane and steadied herself.

"Mistress," George said to Beitris. "You can ride my pony if you wish."

"You will receive a bonus for your generosity, George," Rebbie said.

The young man grinned. "'Tis not necessary, m'laird."

Aha, so this Rebbie was a laird. Why on earth did they not introduce him as such? What were they hiding?

"Hold to the saddle," Dirk told Isobel.

She nodded and clutched her good hand around the leather. She covered her injured hand with her arisaid. It felt near frozen, but the icy air had diminished the pain somewhat.

On foot, Dirk led the horse forward along the snowy trail.

"I did not intend to take your mount," Isobel said, raising her voice to be heard over the gust of wind.

"You didn't," he called back.

She observed him from the back, an imposing and fearsome warrior. Though she had not recognized him at first because he'd changed so profoundly, now she remembered with clarity how she'd felt the first time she'd looked into his blue eyes, so fierce and intense. He had even appeared annoyed then.

At fifteen, he had intrigued her, yet frightened her at the same time. Now, since his muscular frame had filled out into that of a man, he was even more intimidating. But she didn't think he meant her harm. Clearly, his soul was not as icy as his eyes or he would've left her out in the snow to freeze to death.

"Do you have a suggestion where we might find lodgings for the night, south of Munrick?" he asked.

"There is an abandoned crofter's hut."

He turned, frowning at her. "You jest."

She shook her head. Was he surprised that a lady, the daughter and sister of chiefs, could lower her standards so much? 'Haps he, like a lot of others, thought she was a cosseted lady who would throw a tantrum if she couldn't stay in the most elegant of lodgings.

"Is that where you stayed last night?" he asked.

She did not wish him to know anything more about her, but every time she opened her mouth, she revealed another bit of information he could use against her. In addition, he was astute and canny. Even if she didn't tell him everything, he might surmise the rest.

Still, they had to find somewhere to stay the night. Outside of Munrick Castle, or a cottage in the village, there was nowhere else to stay. She could not show her face in the village. Surely the MacLeods had searched every cottage by now, and their inhabitants would be more than happy to turn her over to their laird's brother. No matter his attempted crime, she was the outsider.

"The crofter's hut was not so bad. We built a fire in the smaller room which was more enclosed against the wind."

"Ah. If it was so cozy, why does no one live there?"

"Well, there is the small matter of the half-missing roof."

"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered. "And how much further back to this crofter's hut?"

"I'm not certain. We left early this morn." But they'd also gotten lost before dawn and followed the wrong trail for a long while. Once she'd realized they were traveling east instead of south, they'd had to backtrack. Besides, it was slow going with Beitris's bad knees and hip.

Dirk led his sure-footed horse up an incline, a hill-pass between gigantic granite mountains. The snow fell thicker at the top and the wind buffeted them with more biting force. Once they'd descended the other side, Dirk paused. "We can make better time if we all ride," he called back to George.