Page 7 of The Highlander’s Illicit Bride (Wicked Highland Lairds #1)

CHAPTER SIX

I solde stood beside the window inside the crofter’s hut, peering around the edge. She felt a flutter lower within her that made her face burn even warmer. She knew she shouldn’t have this type of reaction to her father’s greatest rival.

A man I hardly ken.

It was inappropriate. More than inappropriate. It was just plain wrong. And yet, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from stealing looks at Struan Cameron as he bathed in the chilly waters of the loch anyway.

He was a large, strong man and she admired the way his muscles rippled and flexed as he moved.

Her eyes traveled over the hard angles and planes of his body.

She’d felt them pressed against her when they rode and Isolde knew he was thick with corded muscle, but there was something very different about seeing the way his body tensed and moved.

As she watched him washing his long, dark hair, the quivering low within her grew stronger.

And the corners of her lips curled upward with a shy smile.

But then her eyes took in the patchwork of scars, cuts, and bruises that adorned his back.

Some appeared older, but there were many new injuries in the landscape of his body, with many of them courtesy of her father and his men.

Judging by the wounds that crisscrossed his body, it was evident Struan Cameron had lived a life filled with fighting and violence.

It was ghastly to look at. But more than that, it was also heartbreaking. Her father was responsible for many of those injuries. The mere thought of what Struan had endured at her father’s hands made her stomach coil.

It broke Isolde’s heart to know he had caused Struan such suffering.

She wanted to say something to him. Wanted to apologize for her father’s mistreatment.

But she did not know how to bring that up without reopening deeper wounds within him.

And he had endured more than his fair share of pain and suffering because of her family.

Struan walked out of the water and Isolde watched the way his body glistened and shined as droplets cascaded off him. He grabbed a cloth he’d taken from the line and wiped himself off, seeming to not care that he was standing naked as the day he was born, for God and everybody to see.

As if he sensed her watching him, Struan slowly turned and glanced back at the window she was sheltering behind. A slow grin touched his lips, and Isolde squeaked and darted away from it, plopping down beside the fire pit in the center of the hut.

Damn it, he saw me!

A couple of minutes later, Struan walked back into the hut and Isolde was thankful to see that he had dressed.

“That was refreshin’,” he said and the amusement in his tone sent her heart racing wildly.

Outside, the sun was slipping below the horizon, casting the sky in fiery shades of red and gold, making the clouds that were gathering blacker than shadows. The temperature was already dipping, hinting it would be a cold night.

It galled Isolde to admit, but he had been right. Having shelter in the night was far smarter than stumbling their way through the dark and cold. They would have been at a terrible disadvantage should they have stumbled across anybody.

She started to protest when Struan grabbed her pack and sat down beside her.

But he took her injured arm and laid it gently across his knee.

With surprising tenderness, he rolled up her sleeve then pulled a damp cloth from his pocket and washed away the thin layer of blood that had been smeared across her skin.

Once her arm was clean, Struan rooted around in her pack until he found what he was looking for—the kit she had stolen from the healer’s chambers.

“I figured ye’d be prepared enough tae bring some medicines,” he said.

“And what made ye think that?”

“Because ye seem like the sort who tries tae prepare fer anythin’.”

“Ye say that like ‘tis a bad thing.”

“Then ye’re hearin’ things because I didnae say, nor mean, that,” he replied. “’Tis wise.”

Mollified, if not a little embarrassed by being called out on her assumption, Isolde turned her eyes to her arm. He sniffed the different pots she’d brough along then settled on an ointment that seemed to be familiar to him.

Struan dipped the tips of his fingers into the thick salve then spread a thin layer across the shallow wound. The feeling of his fingertips gently tracing along her skin sent that same current of heat she’d had flowing through her when she had been watching him bathe.

Despite her unsettled state, Struan’s eyes were fixed firmly on her wound.

Once he was done with that, he took a clean cloth from her pack and wound it around her arm, his movements quick and efficient, but his touch was surprisingly light and gentle.

He tied off the bandage then put everything he’d taken out of her pack back into it and set the whole thing aside.

She gave him a curious look. “Dae ye actually ken what was in the ointment ye just put on me wound? Or did ye use it because it smelled nice?”

A wry grin quirked the corner of his mouth upward. “It didnae smell all that nice.”

“Ye didnae answer me question.”

He sighed and fixed her with an expression that bordered on irritation.

“’Twas a mixture of borage, thyme, and sage among other things.

Some call it St. Hildegard’s herbs,” he replied.

“All the dried herbs have different properties—some help stave off infection, some are goin’ tae keep yer arm from becomin’ inflamed, and some will help with the pain. ”

Everything he said was correct and it left Isolde stunned. She stared at him blankly for a long moment, blinking at him stupidly.

“Did I pass yer test then?” he asked sharply.

“Aye,” she managed to murmur.

She hadn’t expected him to know any of that. He was a fighting man, not a healer, so his depth of knowledge came as something more than a shock. She cleared her throat and patted her long, golden locks as she gathered herself.

“Where did ye come tae learn about healin’ and herbal properties?” she asked.

“I beat a man until he told me everythin’ he kent about it.”

She gaped at him, horrified for a moment. It was only when she saw the mischievous glitter in his eyes that she realized he was again jesting with her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Be a gentleman,” she said. “Tell me true. How’d ye learn about it?”

“First—I am nae a gentleman. Now, fer the herbs, I was taught when I was young,” he said.

“Me faither believed every laird should ken how tae help in times of trouble, be it by pickin’ up a blade or tendin’ tae the wounded.

He always told me the best lairds were those who were of the most use tae their people in whatever form the people needed his help. ”

Isolde sat back and studied him for a moment, once again struck by how different he was from her father.

As the laird, her father believed in iron fisted control.

He took what he wanted, when he wanted, and killed those who got in his way.

She could never imagine her father leaving coin for somebody’s clothing, nor bandaging somebody who’d been wounded—not even his only daughter.

The differences between Struan and her father, specifically in how they viewed their roles as lairds of their respective clans, couldn’t have been starker.

And for Isolde, the contrast seemed provoking.

Her father and the people within his circle called Struan Cameron a savage, a man unworthy to sit in his laird’s chair.

But the image she was getting from observing him told her they couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Thank ye,” she said softly, gesturing to her bandaged arm.

He nodded but said nothing as he set about trying to start the fire. He’d found some flint in her pack and was working hard to get the wood he’d gathered to light. But it wasn’t catching. Mud was still caked on the branches he’d collected, and they were still wet to the touch.

“Bleedin’ hell,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“The wood’s too wet tae catch All of it here’s bound tae be after that storm we had,” he said. “There’s naethin’ we can dae about it.” He stuffed the flint back into her pack and set it aside.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her they’d had very little to eat that day.

She rifled through it and pulled out some of the paper packages she’d filched from the kitchens over the past days.

Flattening her lap, she spread the paper out and broke up some cheese and cured meat inside, then added some dry oat cakes.

“Ye should eat,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he replied.

She turned to him, her lips curled into a frown. “Fer bein’ a laird so concerned with the well bein’ of his people, ye’re sure nae concerned with ye’re own well bein’.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

“Ye’ve nae eaten all day. Same as me,” she argued. “Ye’ve got tae be hungry.”

His eyes dropped to the paltry feast in her lap and Isolde saw the hunger flash through them. But he turned away, his jaw clenched. She knew she needed to appeal to him a different way.

“If ye dinnae take care of yerself, how are ye goin’ tae save yer braither?” she asked.

“I’ll hunt tomorrow. Maybe get us some fresh meat.”

She sighed dramatically and threw her hands up. “Are ye always so bleedin’ stubborn?”

“Nae always.”

“Daesnae look like it from where I sit.”

He shrugged but said nothing.

Isolde stared at him for a long moment, not understanding why he wouldn’t accept something as simple as food from her. Why he wouldn’t allow her to return the kindness he’d offered her.

Unless he thinks I…

“I’ve nae poisoned the food if that’s what ye’re worried about,” she said.

“Why would I be worried about that?”

“Because I’m a Mackintosh… and with what me faither did tae ye, I suppose I cannae blame ye for bein’ a little wary. But I’ve nay desire tae hurt ye…”

Her voice trailed off and she lowered her gaze, not finishing the rest of her thought. She was about to tell him she wouldn’t hurt him because she was relying on Struan to get her far away from Moy Castle and her father. If he died, she would be alone. And that would not do.

Nay, that would nae dae at all.

So, to show him she was being sincere, Isolde took a bite of everything on the paper in her lap. She pulled a skin of water from the pack and swallowed it all down before turning her attention back to Struan.

“There. Ye see?” she said. “’Tis nae poison.”

He chuckled, but then did share in her paltry meal, taking small bites and satisfying the rumbling in his belly that she could hear. Once they’d eaten, Isolde wrapped up the rest of the food and put it back in her pack.

She had no idea how long their rations were going to last but she knew they needed to stretch them as far as they could. If Struan was unable to secure fresh meat, it would be all they had to fill their bellies with.

As a cold gust of wind blew through the crofter’s hut, Isolde shivered. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, trying to preserve as much warmth as she could.

She turned back and gasped as Struan leaned forward. The tips of their noses were scant inches apart but his gaze was fixed on her forehead. He reached up and gingerly touched her temple, a small frown flickering across his lips.

“What are ye daein’?” she croaked.

“Ye’ve got a bruise on yer head I didnae notice before.”

“I’m fine.”

“I ken. I just wanted tae check.”

His stormy gray eyes fell onto hers and Isolde drew in a sharp breath. Their gazes lingered and a palpable tension suddenly filled the air around them. For the first time, she noticed his lips, soft and full, and found herself wondering how they would feel pressed to hers.

Isolde gave herself a shake and turned away, breaking eye contact. The aftereffects lingered though and she felt an energy, sharper than lightning and hotter than lava, crackling across her skin. She swallowed hard, trying to remove the lump and quell the churning in her belly at the same time.

As another cold gust blew through the open crofter’s door, Struan got to his feet and walked across the room to where he’d left his thick wool cloak.

He walked back over and sat down beside her, draping the cloak over both their shoulders, pulling her in tight.

She looked at him with a question in her eyes.

“We cannae have a fire and ye need tae stay warm,” he said simply. “’Tis me duty tae keep ye alive until we find me braither.”

The way he said it sent a cold chill down her spine. “And after that? After we find yer braither?” she asked. “What are ye going tae dae with me then?”

They sat beneath cloak, shoulder to shoulder, the heat between them growing like a building fire. The air continued to crackle with tension between them and Isolde had to fight hard to keep her heart swelling so large that it burst out of her chest.

He shrugged. “That’ll be up ae ye. Keep yer promise and help me get me braither back, and I’ll help ye get tae wherever ye want tae go.”

A small smile flickered across Isolde’s lips.

Though she had no reason to believe him, she found that she did, that she trusted him.

It was odd, given that she did not know him.

But she could feel it when somebody was untrue, and she hadn’t gotten a single whiff of that from Struan.

She believed he was true to his word; he would not harm her and help her get wherever she wanted to go when her part in this was done.

The trouble was, Isolde had no idea where she wanted to go.

Her entire plan had been to get out of Moy Castle—to get away from the marriage and the life her father wanted to force upon her.

And if she was being honest, she had never thought she’d get as far as she was.

And because of that, she had never planned beyond the castle walls.

She had not anticipated the turn of events that had led her to that moment. But there she was.

But now I am out in the open and free. It’s time to come up with a plan.

It was daunting. Terrifying. But at the same time, it was exhilarating. For the first time in her life, she had choices that were all hers to make.

“We should try tae get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll want tae be off at first light.”

“Aye.”

They lay down on the hard packed ground, back-to-back, the cloak covering them both. Isolde closed her eyes and tried to get some sleep, but the excitement of a future yet uncharted was almost too much for her to bear.