The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2) Page 3

  Was it possible for a person to thrive on nothing?

  Nay, she couldn’t thrive on nothing. That was unacceptable because it howled of pitiful. And Isla was not pitiful. Pitiful women did not rebel against their brothers.

  She let out a long sigh. “That is what I wish to discover.”

  “And you believe you will discover it in London?”

  “I’m not sure, but I won’t discover it at MacCallan Castle—not with the way my brothers have been acting.” She shook her head. “I will stay with Falcon and Davina to clear my mind.”

  And heart.

  Mostly heart.

  The heaviness that had settled in her breast refused to lift, no matter how hard she tried. One thing had become apparent since her brothers had returned from their trip to Edinburgh: if she wanted to move forward with her life, she had to find a way for her heart to mend. Which, up until this point, had been suspended in loss. First Ewan’s death. Then Drew’s banishment. And last, Patrick’s dismissal. Her life seemed to have stopped for eighteen months.

  “I believe I understand.”

  She lifted her head to find his gaze fixed on her. A graveyard of shadows swirled in that stormy sea of blue. A blue, if she gave it some thought, that reminded her of Drew Murray. But Drew’s eyes had never carried the weight of the world. In them, you could always trust to find a sort of carefree spark. What could have happened to put such weight in Mr. Ross’s stark gaze?

  She lowered her eyes and glanced away. His presence, his energy, filled every inch of the closeted space. With every breath he took, it was as if he touched her. And this was not the time for her hopeless heart to act up again. History would not be repeated.

  Not if Isla could help it.

  DREW LOOKED UP FROM beneath the strands of his chestnut hair, his gaze roaming the worn velvet padding of the carriage ceiling. The temperature was deuced cold; the only warmth came from the small bundle nestled in the crook of his arm.

  So it is my fault that she’s running away.

  As Drew and ultimately as Patrick, he had disappointed her time and time again. And though she had been pushed by her brothers’ careless idiocy to run, he was ultimately the cause of her running off. That, more than anything, turned his gut inside out.

  His self-centeredness had done this to her.

  He should have sought her forgiveness eighteen months ago, fought to gain it as the Drew Murray she knew and cared for. But fear had held him back. Fear that she would never forgive him for what happened to Ewan. Fear that she loathed him. But now, mostly, fear that she would forgive him. That she did not blame him. Because then he’d have wasted all that precious time on the past when he ought to have addressed the future.

  A memory beckoned, and Drew tried to shut it out. Too late. Shoving into his skull was an image of Ewan falling, the thud of his head hitting the ground shouting into the silence. Isla’s horrified gasp. The resounding curses that followed.

  If only . . .

  Those two treacherous little words again.

  Screw them.

  It might be too late to twist back the hand of time, but it was not too late to make things right. Somehow. Drew would find a way to restore Isla’s spirit, even if it meant withdrawing from her life.

  He locked his jaw tight to keep from reaching out to pull her onto his lap. That seemed to be a constant for him—always wanting to reach out and pull her close. Never mind that they’d be much warmer that way.

  And if it kept snowing like this, Drew might have no choice. At some point, the density of the snow would slow them down, and Drew didn’t want to scare her, but if the temperature kept dropping, they might very well freeze to death.

  The carriage veered suddenly at a sharp turn, and they slid across the seat.

  “Oooch!” Isla gasped, her voice a croak against his arm.

  “I’m going to strangle the driver if he doesn’t kill us first,” Drew growled.

  “Why did you agree to accompany me at the risk of your life—your livelihood?”

  “You’re asking me that now?” he barked, his boot digging into the opposite seat to keep his balance.

  She nodded frantically. “I need to take my mind off this wild race.”

  Drew cursed but answered in a tight voice, “I was not about to let you ride off on your own.”

  “Surely tattling to my brothers would have been less of a bother.”

  “I don’t tattle,” Drew snapped, offended. “Besides, if I had, I’d have missed the opportunity to be part of whatever scandal you’ll cause, and I do love a good scandal.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “You don’t look like a man that leaps for joy at the chance of causing a scandal.”

  “Then believe you convinced me with the whiff of sheer desperation that I caught from you in the stables.”

  The carriage regained its balance, and they righted themselves.

  “Honestly, Mr. Ross,” she said and then paused to dart a suspicious look at him. “Is that why you sniffed my hair?”

  “I did not sniff your hair.” Drew cleared his throat. “I do not sniff hair.”

  “You are such a hair sniffer.”

  He glared at her. “I am not.”

  But he was.

  Apparently.

  But only because he was partial to her scent—the scent of a thousand blooming roses.

  “You are a hair sniffer until you tell me why you agreed to accompany me at the risk of your livelihood.”

  Drew let out an exasperated breath. His eyes flicked to her fleetingly before he rested his head against the seat.

  “I reckon,” he began, “because I, too, know something about running away.”

  “You ran away from home?”

  He felt her questioning gaze burning into him. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “But you’re a man.”

  “And?”

  She huffed out a breath. “You shouldn’t have come with me if you are reliant on your earnings. I don’t know if there’s much I can do to keep my brothers from releasing you from our employ after this is over.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How can it not matter?”

  Drew offered her a smile and shrugged. “Pen me a letter of recommendation for my efforts, and we will be even.”

  She shook her head and slowly returned his smile with a stretch of lips that reached her eyes. “Och, very well. I suppose that is the least I can do.”

  “It is.”

  “You make employment sound like such a small, simple matter—easy to acquire.”

  “It’s as hard or as difficult as you want it to be.” Drew almost reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear but caught himself. “It all depends on what you are willing to endure to gain the position you seek.”

  Another sharp bend brought them crashing into each other.

  “What the devil—”

  An ominous snap cut Drew off—the deafening sound of wood splintering. Horses whined. The driver cried out a curse. Wind whipped against the carriage. It was the most bizarre feeling in the world. Three heartbeats and it was over, and yet it felt drawn out over an entire lifetime.

  Drew reached out to circle his arms around Isla’s waist, cocooning her in safety against his chest not a moment too soon.

  Everything tilted sideways.

  Chapter 4

  The sound of her name registered just above the roar of her heartbeat. The cry sounded frantic, panicked. Hands patted down over her skirts, searching her body. What were they looking for? Trinkets? Baubles? Had they been set upon by thieves? Nay, there’d been an accident.

  Isla forced her jumbled thoughts to coalesce. Coldness enveloped her. Aye, a storm gathered. Something hard pressed into her ribs, and her legs were intertwined with what she thought to be more limbs.

  Leaving MacCallan Castle . . . snow . . . breakneck pace. . .

  That ne�
��er-do-well driver!

  Her eyes snapped open.

  “Isla!” Mr. Ross’s face appeared inches away from hers, his voice urgent. “Are you hurt, lass?”

  “Why are you yelling at me?” Isla complained, lifting her hand to her head. “If you must yell, yell at that wastrel driver for putting our lives in danger.”

  “I’ll be doing more than yelling at that fool,” Mr. Ross growled, his hand covering hers with a gentle touch. “Does it hurt here?”

  “Nay, I’m just in shock that I survived.” Her lips lifted at the corners. “With all my limbs intact.”

  “Thank God,” he breathed before his face hardened. “Do not jest about such things.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Ross, I am not.”

  He grunted, then motioned to the latched door above their heads. “The carriage overturned. I’m going to climb out, assess the damage, and come back for you.”

  Isla nodded, sitting upright as they untangled themselves from each other. She grimaced, stretching her legs gingerly. Was the driver hurt? One glance at Mr. Ross’s face and she almost felt sorry for the man. She reached out to grasp his boot just as he was about to lift himself through the opening.

  His gaze glinted down at her in question.

  “Do not be too harsh on the coachman,” she implored. “We could have signaled him to slow down at any time, but we did not.”

  “There is a difference between pushing the horses beyond their limit and being reckless,” he growled.

  “He might be hurt too,” Isla pointed out. “I’m more put out than anything else.”

  He muttered something she failed to catch and pulled himself through the doorway. By the time she heard the soft thud of him landing in the snow, Isla had regained control over her breathing, somewhat, though certainly not her heartbeat.

  A loud curse followed shortly after and then, “What the hell happened?”

  “Something spooked the horses, guv’nor, and they veered off the path, taking the turn too sharply.”

  Isla snorted. Guv’nor? Honestly.

  “You are limping,” Mr. Ross’s voice rang out, though it sounded more like a scolding. “Is your leg badly injured?”

  “Nothing serious, guv’nor. A minor bruise.”

  A grunt. “The horses?”

  “Spooked but otherwise right as rain.”

  Isla shook her head before lowering her gaze to inspect herself. She gasped. Her skirts were in complete disarray—hiked up to her thighs, putting her richly patterned scarlet stockings on display.

  “What is it? Isla?” Mr. Ross demanded, causing her to jerk. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything is fine.” She sighed. How humiliating. “It’s nothing.”

  “Are you sure you are all right?” The suspicion in his voice made her cringe.

  The carriage groaned as Mr. Ross hoisted himself back up, not believing her excuse. She scrambled to put her skirts to rights before his face appeared at the opening, eyes assessing.

  “As you can see, I’m perfectly fine,” Isla said. When he narrowed his eyes, she snapped, “Are you going to stare at me all night or help me out of the carriage?”

  “It’s cold outside; you should remain in the carriage for the time being.”

  Isla raised her arms in response, flexing her fingers. “I’d rather not.”

  He grunted but leaned over to grasp her wrists and lift her through the doorway, seating her in the opening. He wasted no time in jumping to the ground, turning almost in the same breath and reaching out for her again.

  Isla curved her lips. “Such a gentleman,” she murmured and leaped. Snowflakes danced around them as she fell into his arms, replacing the heat of her cheeks with a faint sting.

  She shivered. It was positively freezing.

  Mr. Ross set her back on her feet. “Ow!” Isla could not help but cry out at the sudden stab of pain shooting up her leg.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, eyes moving over her.

  “My knee,” Isla managed through clenched teeth. “I must have struck it when the carriage tipped over.”

  “Let me see,” Mr. Ross demanded, hunching down and gathering her skirts.

  “Do not be absurd.” She yanked her skirts out of his grasp. “It’s not that bad. Just a slight scrape, I imagine.”

  His brows drew together. “You cried out in pain.”

  “It was unexpected, is all.” She peered longingly at the carriage. “There are more pressing matters to consider. Like the carriage being beyond repair?”

  “The door is shattered.” He straightened from his crouch and cocked his head to where streaks of light filtered through the vast darkness of the sky. “Dawn is breaking.”

  “The snowfall is still dense.”

  Mr. Ross turned his gloomy face to her. “Aye, we should seek shelter as soon as possible.”

  “The next town is not far from here,” the coachman said, hobbling over. “About an hour’s ride on horseback through this snow. I wager we will find lodgings on our way.”

  Mr. Ross nodded. “Unhitch the horses and make sure they are in good enough condition to ride.”

  “Aye, guv’nor.”

  “I will examine your knee once we reach lodgings,” Mr. Ross said to Isla.

  She started when he circled her waist with a sturdy arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Hold onto me.”

  “Why?”

  “So suspicious,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m merely allowing you the use of my strength to lessen the strain on your injured knee.” Teeth flashed. “And lending you some of my warmth.”

  “You have a smooth tongue,” Isla rejoined but accepted his support. “And I will examine my knee once we reach lodgings.”

  Snow whirled around them, and Mr. Ross ran a hand through his white-dusted hair. “Too bad, lass. You are receiving my help, whether you wish for it or not.”

  “Och, you are petulant to the bone.”

  “I believe you mean stubborn.”

  “That much has never been in doubt.”

  He grinned. “But only when it comes to stubborn lasses.”

  Isla snorted.

  In response, he turned back to the coachman. “We don’t have many belongings; strap them to the horses.”

  “Aye, guv’nor.”

  Reminded of clothing and warmth, Isla peeked down at her all but frosted apparel. How she longed for a steaming bath, a soft mattress, and dry and snug clothing.

  At least all of her limbs were intact. That was something to be grateful for. She cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Ross. All of his arms and legs were intact as well, though unfortunately, so was his arrogance. He seemed no worse for wear, though she knew he had taken the brunt of the tumble. She thought of how he had caught her up against him, sheltering her from the crash.

  “Are you . . .” she started but trailed off when his fiery gaze locked with hers. There was something baffling about Mr. Ross. Layers of unfathomable mystery cloaked him. Isla swallowed and finished with a whispered, “Hurt?”

  “My hide is tough as leather.”

  “You aren’t indestructible.”

  He arched a brow. “Are you sure about that, my lady?”

  She harrumphed and turned away from him. Why was she concerned about him, in any case? The man was nothing but an annoyance. Aye, a rude, bothersome Highlander. She shrugged out of his hold and stalked off to one of the horses.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  She tossed him a testy look over her shoulder. “You said we were traveling further on horseback.”

  “You are riding with me,” he called after her.

  “There are four capable horses and three of us. I don’t see why I should.”

  “There are no saddles, and your knee is injured. You are riding with me.” His tone warned her that quarreling would be a waste of breath.

  Isla harrumphed. Still, some dignity had to be reserved. “I’m not fighting you on this,” she proclaimed. “I’d
rather save my strength for the cold.”

  THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH Drew’s hair, and cold seeped through his gloves. This was why he had insisted Isla ride with him. To shelter her from most of the cold. Ungrateful wench.

  But if they did not find shelter soon, no amount of heat would be of help. The snow had gathered so heavily that he could scarcely see the road. It had been damn foolish to think they could outrun the storm.

  Fear assaulted his senses, and a metallic taste settled in his throat. The last time he had felt such emotion surging through him had been the day Ewan fell after one bone-grinding blow. The rip-roaring quiet of that moment, followed by a small horrified gasp and a string of curses, threatened to choke Drew. He ruthlessly thrust the memory into a box and locked it down tight.

  “Up ahead, guv’nor,” the coachman called out, pointing off into the distance.

  Drew squinted, searching through the dim snowfall for what the coachman had spotted. The dense flakes made it nearly impossible to tell head from toe. Then he saw it: the faint outline of a towering, narrow three-story building materializing out of thin air like an ominous crack of lightning.

  The relief that flooded him was short-lived.

  The building seemed to shudder against the wind and snow; the gate whining on its hinges. Overgrown branches covered the rooftop of what appeared to be an inn. The only inviting quality, still suspect at best, the lone candle perched on top of the interior windowsill, beckoning to any passerby, There is life here.

  Push on or enter the spooky building?

  For one bone-gnawing second, Drew hesitated.

  The slight tremble of Isla’s small frame against his chest made the choice a simple one. In a matter of moments, Drew handed the horses to the coachman’s care and ushered a shivering Isla up the stairs to the entrance of the roadside inn.

  The door let out a punishing creak as Drew pushed it open, and a gust of snow swirled around their boots as they entered the front hall. He shut the door with a loud bang, turned to inspect the glum interior, and grimaced.

  Gloomy did not begin to describe the vision his eyes met. Stained, mold-covered wallpaper peeled away from the walls where old portraits of disapproving faces hung. Above their heads, cobwebs decorated the far corners of the room; the air decayed and stale.