Page 18 of Highland Crown
Isabella turned to look back at him, but he pretended to be unconscious.
“His name is Cinaed Mackintosh, and he was the master of the ship that went aground,” she said, returning her attention to Jean. “That alone tells me he must be pitiless, or he would never be in a position of command.”
Cinaed lifted one eyebrow. Interesting that she’d have that opinion of ship captains. Knowledge of navigation and general seamanship, expertise in the unique idiosyncrasies of the ship, confidence in one’s ability to lead hard men through difficult situations—these were qualities of a successful ship’s master. But in his experience, lack of pity was not a requirement for the job.
“Habbie deserved what he got,” the older woman asserted. “What yer sea dog… yer ship’s master… did was right. He defended us from harm, sure as I’m sitting here. So don’t go casting dirt on the captain’s good character.”
“Hisgood character?”
“Yer too young to be repeating me.”
“This makesnosense,” Isabella declared, stealing another glance back at Cinaed. “Fewer than a dozen civil words have been exchanged between you two. And yet you’re ready to defend his character?”
The cart wheel hit a deep hole, splashing rainwater left by the storm and jarring the three of them. Jean grabbed the doctor’s elbow to keep her from bouncing out while a lightning bolt of pain shot through Cinaed’s chest.
“I’ve a canny sense about folks, and I know how to get along in the world. Ye don’t.”
“I know how toget along, as you call it,” Isabella said hotly.
“By St. Andrew’s beard, I swear if I left ye on yer own in these parts, ye’d be dead in half a day. Me, on the other hand, I could survive on a rock in the ocean with bit of broken glass and an auld boot. And I wouldn’t even need the boot.”
The snort from the doctor was unexpected, and the old woman sent her a sideways look.
Cinaed found their argument entertaining. He liked them. Both of them. Isabella more, and not—he told himself—because he fancied her looks or the tone of her voice. She’d saved his life.
“I know how folks think,” Jean continued. “I can tell when they’re worth a lick, and when they’re not. When my nephew left ye with me, ye didn’t hear me complaining, did ye?”
Beyond the fact that he knew Isabella was a university-trained doctor and that she was married, where she came from and what she was doing in the Highlands were still a mystery. And now, for the first time, Cinaed was hearing talk of some nephew and his involvement.
“He gave you money to house me.”
“I knew ye was worth saving the moment I saw ye. And the same goes with this one back there. I trust him.”
“And when did you decide that?” Isabella was quick to ask. “Did you trust him last night on the beach when you were insisting that I roll him back into sea? Or was it this morning while I was still stitching him up and you were telling me he’d probably murder us both?”
Neither Jean nor Isabella was ready to yield in this argument, and Cinaed felt his eyelids becoming heavy. Trust him or not, no harm had come to the lad. He was trussed up and lying on the floor of the cottage. The older woman said that no one from the village would come looking for the two until sometime late in the day. By then, she figured, they’d already be in Inverness.
With a dead body outside and a bound lad inside, Cinaed didn’t care to be caught by a mob looking for justice. He hoped Jean was right, for he was in no condition to be fighting anyone right now. He stole a look back in the direction they’d come. They were probably still closer to Duff Head than Inverness.
The cart hit another hole and jolted the passengers again. Grimacing, Cinaed waited for the pain to subside. The bullet hole in his chest was throbbing, and he could see fresh blood on the bandages. Helping him into the back of the cart, Isabella had told him how important it was to let her know if he started bleeding again.
He decided it was more likely he’d die at the hands of pursuing villagers than he would from losing too much blood. Pulling the doctor’s travel cloak over himself, he closed his eyes.
The few things that the women had packed into the cart offered very little cushion, but he knew he needed to rest. Soon, despite the discomfort, sleep overtook him, and dreams rolled over him like cresting waves in a stormy sea, stealing the breath from his lungs and driving Cinaed ever deeper into the briny darkness.
Gorse-covered hills loomed up on either side of the black, fast-flowing river that tumbled along beside him. He was on foot, running hard. Shadows like wisps of haunted mist sprang up, and formless terrors pierced him with chill shards of fear.
Behind Cinaed, angry voices spread out in a threatening line of pursuit.
As he ran, familiar mountain summits came into view, huddled beneath thick Highland clouds. The path rose and fell, and the sounds of men grew louder, closer. A thickly forested glen appeared, and he made a dash for it. As darkness closed around him, the path gave way to a thick floor of pine needles that he could smell with every step he took. His chest was burning, but he knew he couldn’t stop. The sounds of his pursuers, crashing through underbrush, continued to grow louder, hemming him in, pushing him forward.
Cinaed’s legs were no longer flesh and bone. They felt more like bags of sand and rock. A light appeared through the trees.
Someone caught hold of his hand. He glanced over,trying to shake himself free of the grip, but he could see no one. Still, he could feel the weight dragging at him. Then a voice inside spoke; he needed to carry it to safety. He gripped the hand tightly and pulled the unseen companion along.
Suddenly, he was nearing the edge of the forest. The light was blinding, but the angry voices were right behind him. As he burst out of the darkness, a new spurt of strength flowed into his chest. Cinaed knew where they were. His destination lay directly ahead. But he couldn’t see it through the thick blanket of fog rolling in from the mountains. Still, heknewit was there, ahead of him, perched on a hill. Safety lay just ahead, if he could only make it.
He flew over the path and the wet grass. The acrid tang of smoke hung in the air. He could feel the pursuers’ panting breaths and the pounding of their footsteps. The curtain wall of an ancient fortress emerged on the hill, its black, iron-studded door open.
