Page 21 of Highland Crown
She shook her head, her gaze refusing to meet his.
Cinaed guessed she already knew the man’s other name. The Radical Laird. Since December, Kinloch had been in hiding for speaking out in favor of reform. The government was calling for his arrest.
“Hardie and Baird and others from Glasgow are rotting in prison, waiting to be tried. They’ll surely hang. Why are they chasingyou, Isabella?”
“Please. Stop.”
He heard the desperation in her tone. She was frightened. And from the bits and pieces of information he’d heard, she didn’t want to involve anyone else in her troubles.
Cinaed saw her turn to the road. He couldn’t fault her hesitation, for she knew nothing about him. Nothing but the little he’d told her.
“This here is Stoneyfield House,” Jean told them, gesturing ahead.
Her announcement put an end to the conversation, and Isabella’s relief was palpable. She turned her gaze toward the inn.
Cinaed knew this place. Or rather, knewofit. Not so much the inn, but the area. Looking toward the firth, he saw the stone cottages of fishing families clustered along the edge of a protected inlet, surrounded by boats andnets and drying racks for their catch. To the south, beyond the rambling stone inn, with its enclosed yard and stables, farm cottages studded the flat fields, cooking smoke rising above their thatched roofs.
Not far beyond the bordering swath of forests, the moors of Culloden and Drummossie lay, the wooded hills rising above. The blood of the Highlands stained those fields.
Just around a bend ahead, a small kirk sat with its squat steeple. Like so many village kirks, its bell had rung out for the Bonnie Prince, calling his Jacobite forces to gather. The sounds of pipes and war drums and cannon had grown silent—for now—but many would never forget the sacrifice of those who had died and the brutality of those who had carried the day.
The cart rolled past the entrance to the inn yard and stopped.
Cinaed inched off the cart and forced his fevered brain to focus on their destination. The inn sat on the coach road between Inverness and Nairn, and from the activity in the stable yard, it appeared to be doing good business. The door of the tavern was open, and a trio of farmers was going in.
“Ye’ll not be coming in with us,” Jean told him. She climbed down and came around to where he was leaning against the cart. “Ye can just climb back up and go on yer way.”
Isabella was slow to get down. She kept her face averted from the inn as she pulled up her bonnet.
“Perhaps I should wait,” he said, unable to tear his attention away from the doctor. He was worried about her. “What if your nephew decided not to stay here?”
“He told me he’d be here.” The old woman started toreach for their bags, but Isabella was already pulling them to the end of the cart. “Ye don’t need to worry. I’ve known the innkeeper for twenty-five years. He’ll look out for us.”
As Cinaed raised his hand to help with the bags, pain flashed through his body, shooting from his chest up his neck and setting his head ablaze with blinding heat.
“You’re injured,” Isabella said. Her face was still pale. “I can manage this.”
Cinaed was satisfied that an understanding had passed between them. At least she knew he was aware of her predicament. She’d have his friendship if she chose to accept it, although in his current condition, he was more of a liability than a help.
He was reluctant, but he let go of the bags. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you two alone here.”
Jean waved off his concern. “The innkeeper’ll give us a place where we’re out of the way until John returns.”
“Let me at least bring your bags in for you,” he offered, wondering how the devil he’d accomplish it if she agreed. “I’d like to see you settled.”
One grey eyebrow lifted. “Yer daft, man. Look at ye. Yer a bloody mess. Ye’ll draw more attention than if we hung a placard about our necks. Nay, ye can help us best by getting as far from here as that auld nag’ll take ye.”
Isabella moved around the cart and, without asking his permission, pulled open Cinaed’s coat and waistcoat. She didn’t spare a single glance up into his face, focusing her attention on the bloody bandages covering the wound on his chest. She ran cool fingers over his burning skin. He wanted to reach up and take her hand. Cinaed was relieved to see a soft blush had crept back into her cheeks.
“You’re bleeding again.” She frowned.
“A few other things needed tending since you sewed me up.”
As she pulled the bandage away from the wound and leaned closer to get a better look, Cinaed admired the dark lashes against her pale skin. She pressed the flesh beneath his collarbone and a shaft of red-hot iron ran him through. It was all he could do to remain still.
“You’re feverish and bleeding,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll need a physician wherever you’re going.”
He neededhercare. But he wouldn’t ask. Inverness was his destination. Searc Mackintosh was no doctor, but he could find him one.
