Page 43 of Highlander’s Curse (The Daughters of the Glen #8)

“We’ll leave the road here. No too far through the woods there’s a place where we can seek shelter for the night. It’s long deserted but with nightfall approaching, it will offer some protection.”

Silence returned as they rode forward, weaving their way through forest and underbrush that looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Rain beat down on them, spattering against the woolen draped over Abby’s head.

Each drop landed with a wet plopping noise that grated on her raw nerves.

After what seemed an eternity, she opened her mouth to point out how very different her view of not too far must be from Colin’s, but stopped when she saw the structures looming in the clearing ahead of them.

Surely those burned-out remains of what had once been someone’s home couldn’t be their destination, and yet Colin appeared to be slowing his horse.

“That’s it?”

She could hardly believe her eyes when he nodded his answer. How in the world did he expect them to stay dry in that place? It was little more than rubble and charred wood. Even the forest they’d ridden through would likely provide better shelter.

“It’s no the castle where we’ll stay for the night,” he called back to her as he dismounted and began to lead his horse forward on foot. “It’s the stable beyond that offers shelter.”

“Right.” Abby drew her own animal to a halt, her dismay multiplying. “I guess that would be the burned - down stable?” Did he not see the same thing she saw?

“There’s more of the building still standing than you might think.”

Through the murky light of dusk and gray drizzle, she finally spotted the area he intended.

It looked like little more than a shed left standing, backed up against a large outcrop of rocks.

Once she dismounted and approached it, however, she could see that it was, as he had said, larger than it appeared.

It likely had been a storage area for the original stable, carved deeply into the earth it backed up against.

She untied her wet bundle from the back of her mount and handed over her reins to Colin to allow him to see to the animal’s care. After a day spent in this relentless rain, she wanted only to be out of the wet, even if that meant nothing more than a cold hovel dug into the earth.

Thank goodness half of the front was open. If the whole wall still stood, she doubted she’d be able to remain inside, no matter that it was the only half-dry place around.

A fire pit made out of stacked stones sat near the opening, making it obvious even to her that she and Colin weren’t the first travelers to seek shelter here. It was equally obvious that no one had been here in a very long time, so this likely wasn’t some slightly off the trail well-known stop.

“This seems rather out of the way. How did you even know this place was here?” she asked as Colin joined her.

He stopped at the entrance to shake the rain droplets from the plaid he’d worn over his head and shoulders before he answered.

“The MacBrydes who lived here had ties to my own clan, the MacKiernans. My mother knew them from her childhood.” Colin disappeared into the far, dark corner, returning with an armload of wood and tossing it into the fire pit.

Abby leaned against the opening, peering out to study the remains of the once large castle. Such devastation set her imagination loose trying to picture what could have led to such ruin. There must have been large numbers of people here at one point in the past.

“What happened to them?”

“War, disease, breeding.” Colin grunted and coughed, scooting back from the smoke of their newly started fire.

“Or lack of breeding, I should say. The last laird of the MacBrydes sired naught but female offspring and when his wife died, he went mad from grief and ended his own life. His only surviving daughter refused to take a husband and instead allowed the castle and its lands to fall into ruin. Gradually their people drifted away, aligning themselves with other clans. Time and any number of battles raging through here have left MacBryde Hall as you see it now.”

“I’ll give you this much: one thing you Scots never seem to lack for is a tragic story.”

“ ’Tis all too true,” Colin agreed, his eyes unfocused as he stared out into the ever-worsening rain. “Tragedy steals the dreams of even those who dinna deserve it.”

Flames licked upward from the fire he’d coaxed to life, like yellow arms wavering in a ghostly dance, spreading their heat with intensity.

Abby backed away, the heat so overwhelming after a couple of minutes, she was sure she could see the steam coming off her plaid. Only feet away from the fire, the chill hit her, seeping through the wet clothing she wore.

She unwound the woolen from her head and shoulders and draped it across the rails at one end of the shed. If she was lucky, it just might dry by morning.

To her surprise, the top of her shift and overdress where the plaid had covered her were only lightly damp, though the skirts of both, along with her riding underpants, were completely soaked up to her thighs.

That little fact gave her some hope for her extra bundle of clothing.

She dropped to her knees feeling there was a chance that she might be able to find something dry in the center of the roll.

As she worked at the wet, swollen laces holding the bundle tight, her fingers shook, as much from impatience as from the chill.

“Let me do that.” Colin placed a hand under her arm, gently pulling her to her feet. “Go and sit by the fire until we can get you out of those wet things.”

She considered protesting but decided against it, the lure of the fire too great to be ignored.

In no time at all, he was lifting her things from the unrolled bundle and shaking them out before he draped them over the fencing that separated the storage area from the original stalls in their shelter.

“It’s all wet?” She didn’t even try to keep the disappointment out of her voice. The prospect of the long, uncomfortable night she faced loomed large in her thoughts.

“Dinna fash yerself over it, wife. I’ve a dry tunic and plaid in my bundle.”

“How?” The rains had fallen on him equally hard as they had on her.

“Because I carry our provisions, I wrapped them first in an oiled leather. Here.” He crossed over to where she sat, stopping to scoop up an ivory-colored shirt, which he handed to her. “You can change over there. I promise no to watch if that makes you feel better.”

An uncharacteristic grin broke over his face as he teased, causing her heart to beat a little faster than it had a moment before and forcing a smile to her lips in return. As if his seeing her in any state of undress made a difference anymore.

Shirt in hand, she hurried behind the stable wall and worked her way out of her overdress and shift, letting them drop to her feet before slipping his shirt over her head. It hung down past her knees while the sleeves draped several inches past her fingertips.

Last, she wiggled out of the wet linen underpants, balancing on one foot after the other to pull them off. She then located a spot on the rail to hang them to dry before heading back to the fire.

She brushed a hand down the soft linen of the tunic she wore, surprised at the case of nerves that suddenly afflicted her.

How stupid was that? She’d never met a man, never met anyone, with whom she felt as comfortable as she felt with Colin.

And yet, when she stepped around the fence, she felt her face color with embarrassment as he watched her approach.

After what seemed like the longest minute of her life, she suddenly realized it wasn’t her attire at all, but the expression on his face, that elicited her discomfort.

“What?” she asked nervously as she sat down on the blanket he’d spread close to the fire.

He continued to stare at her for a moment longer, as if he had something he wanted to say.

A pensive expression he’d worn off and on all day.

Then the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

He shook his head and turned his back, stirring whatever was in the pot he had placed at the edge of the fire.

“Stay to the middle of those woolens,” he cautioned. “They’re from under the horses’ saddles, so their edges are quite wet.”

So that was where he’d gotten them. She pulled her feet up under her and tucked the big shirt down over her toes, watching Colin as he fussed over the pot, yet again going out of his way to take care of her.

“What is that you’re making?”

“Porridge. It’s only oats with bits of dried meat, but it will be warm and filling. It needs stirring so it doesn’t burn. Would you mind looking after it while I change into something drier?”

“Go.” Abby rocked up onto her knees and took the stick Colin was using from his hands. “I’ve got this under control. Go change.” She could handle campfire cooking.

She couldn’t help but notice how the wet plaid he wore clung to his body. When he bent over the bundle he’d unwrapped on the hard-packed dirt floor, the wet woolen seemed to wrap itself around his thigh, as if his clothing had orchestrated some special little performance just for her benefit.

Abby snapped her eyes back to the pot in front of her, searching desperately for some distraction from the knowledge that at any second now, Colin would be standing somewhere behind her, not a stitch of clothing on him.

Stir. She needed to stir the oats. With the stick. The stick in her hand.

The stick itself was tapered to a rounded point on one end while the other had been carved into a crownlike design. She recognized it immediately as a classic spirtle, a specialty tool long used in Scotland for the cooking of oats.

From behind her she heard the sound of the wet plaid slapping up against the rail.

If she closed her eyes, she could see him standing there, the firelight flickering over his well-defined body, his long legs covered only in the dark hair . . .

Stop it!