"Aye. Her father knew. 'Tis common knowledge hereabouts."

Damnation! Had she married one of the MacLeod chief's sons, Torrin or Nolan? He cared naught for either of them—both arrogant as kings. He'd find out at the soonest opportunity.

He split the thick twig with his sharp blade, then whittled the bark and splinters from each piece, paying special attention to the flat inside. It should be smooth against her finger. Her skin was likely sensitive and delicate.

"She won't be getting any splinters from those," Rebbie said. "How gallant of you."

Dirk didn't usually mind Rebbie's teasing, but at the moment it was grating on his frayed nerves. He knew not why, except that his friend was right. Dirk cared too much about her welfare, her delicate skin, and her comforting warmth against his back, not to mention the way she'd clung to his shoulder or his mantle to keep her seat. Although he'd bedded plenty of females, one had never depended on him for safety and protection.

He refused to obsess over it. Other things were of far more importance, such as… who had broken her finger? And why?

The last thing he wanted was to fight a battle to protect her but, by the saints, he would if he had to. The only problem was, if the MacLeods attacked, Dirk, Rebbie and George would be outnumbered several dozen to three. They would have to use cunning and their wits when crossing through MacLeod land, rather than sword skills.

His mind drifted back to Isobel and her swollen finger, slightly bent at the wrong angle. Damn the man who'd hurt her. "She'll be in pain while I straighten and set her finger bone, have no doubt. You may have to hold her still."

"My pleasure." Rebbie grinned.

"'Tis not an opportunity for you to take advantage," Dirk growled. "The lass will be in a lot of pain."

Rebbie sobered, observing him closely. "You hold her, and I'll set her finger."

"You've set bones afore?"

"Of course. Do you not remember the time I set your finger?"

"Nay. You're mad. When are you imagining this happened?"

"You were too sotted to remember it. I'm thinking you'd downed a pint of whisky. 'Haps two."

"I remember breaking a finger, among other, worse injuries. But I thought Lachlan was the one who set it."

"Nay, 'twas I who performed the miraculous healing that time."

"I thank you, then. But the lady's fingers are a lot more delicate than mine."

"I should hope so, considering your paws more resemble a bear's."

Dirk snorted, glad he'd been blessed with large, strong hands. They'd served him well in battle, and the lasses did not mind his hands being big.

"Rebbie, in truth, are you certain you can do it without injuring her further?"

"Aye. I swear it."

Dirk considered threatening his life if he hurt Isobel, but that would only provoke more nettling from him. Besides, setting the bone would likely hurt; there was no help for it, other than whisky.

They tramped through the snow back to the cottage and entered. The horses munched on oats in the main room. Inside the smaller room, George and Beitris crouched near the fire while they reheated some bannocks. Her head lying on her folded arms, Isobel sat to the side, against the wall.

"Did you run into any trouble in the village?" Rebbie asked George.

"Nay. I did what both of you said. They asked who I worked for and I said the MacKays. They were not so suspicious after that and sold me the supplies."

Dirk eyed Isobel, who appeared to be sleeping. "Did she drink the whisky?" he asked Beitris, then remembered they'd need a string to bind the splints to her finger. With his sharp knife, he sliced off a strip of his plaid.

"Aye, sir."

"All of it?" Rebbie asked, aghast.

"Nay. About half."

He nodded.

"Help me hold her while we set her finger," Dirk said to Beitris, then knelt beside the lass. "Lady Isobel, are you awake?"

Lifting her head, she smiled up at him dreamily, her dark eyes seduction itself. Her lips looked luscious and inviting. Saints! She was beautiful. His heartbeat sped up, pumping blood hard against his throat, and places much lower. 'Twas only the whisky putting that amorous look on her face, but it spurred the wickedest craving in him.

She's probably a married woman, you dolt.

"Your maid and I will help you hold still while Rebbie, with his considerable experience, will set the bone in your finger. He even set my broken finger one time a few years ago and, as you can see, 'tis fine now." He held up his first finger briefly, then motioned Rebbie forward.

Dirk sat on one side of her and her maid on the other.

"You hold that arm, Beitris, and I'll hold the one with the broken finger. You must remain perfectly still, m'lady."

"Will it hurt?" Her words were slurred.

"'Haps a wee bit, but I'm certain you're strong enough to handle it."

He held her arm and extended the injured hand to Rebbie. "Have a care now, Rebbie."

"I shall do my best to be gentle."

"You wouldn't even know he's an earl, would you?" Dirk asked, trying to distract her.

"He is… in truth?"

"Aye. Earl of Rebbinglen."

"I could tell he was so' sort o' laird." Her words blended together as if her tongue refused to form each individual word. "He has a gold ring and…"

While she was distracted, Rebbie took her swollen finger, straightened the bone and had it back in alignment in seconds.

Isobel gave a short scream and jerked, but Dirk held her arm firmly.

"Nay, you must hold still. Else you'll injure yourself worse."

Rebbie wrapped the thin strip of plaid around the splints and tied it into place.

"Ow, ow, ow!" She squeezed her eyes shut. The tears leaking out near broke Dirk's heart.

"I'm sorry, lass."

"You said 'twould only hurt a wee bit." She glared up at him through tears.

"You let it go too long before you had it set."

"'Twill be well soon," she mumbled in a near whisper. She snuggled beneath his mantle and turned her face against the plaid covering his chest. He could not help that his arm went around her shoulder. He wanted to pull her closer and comfort her, try to take away her pain. Even more, he yearned to pull her onto his lap and cradle her there until she stopped crying. He detested the tears glistening on her cheeks.

"The room is spinning," she whispered and latched her good hand onto his plaid.

"'Tis the whisky."

"I ne'er drink pure whisky. Da wouldn't let me drink it without water."

Dirk nodded. "But you need it now. The whisky will dull the pain and help you sleep."

"There now. All finished," Rebbie announced. "I predict 'twill be well within a month."

Drawing her hand close, she examined her splinted finger. "I thank you, sir… my laird."

"Rebbie will do." He stood and gave a brief bow.

"You need to eat, m'lady." Beitris stood and moved toward the fire pit.

"Not hungry." Isobel didn't move away from him and he was unwilling as of yet to push her away.

"Tell me who hurt you," Dirk said in a low tone, trying not to draw the attention of the others.

"I'd rather not."

"Was it a MacLeod?"

She bit her lip.

A dark sense of foreboding coming over him, he forced himself to draw away from her, then helped her lean against the wall. "Are you married to a MacLeod?"