What would Dirk's laugh sound like? She barely remembered one smile from him. Back then, he'd been rather quiet, watching everyone else with suspicion. His sharp gaze never missing a tiny detail. He was ever serious, as he was now.

He had even observed her more than she was comfortable with, his pale eyes assessing her.

She knew not why he unnerved her. Clearly, he was trustworthy. He had just saved her from the MacLeods.

She must think of a way to thank him properly.

***

Isobel's toes were numb with cold by the time they arrived at a place Dirk called Scourie that evening. They'd not even stopped to eat their midday meal and had instead eaten while moving forward. The wind through the passes and glens was brutal at times. Once they'd moved from the treacherous mountains to flat moorland that wasn't too soggy, Dirk had again ridden in front of her so they could make better time.

She was ashamed to even think of it, but she enjoyed riding behind him and holding onto him. He was so vital, strong and protective, he made her almost giddy. She found herself wanting to smile at the oddest times, when she really had naught to smile over. Her finger ached and her feet were near frozen, but what did that matter? The man in front of her made her more disoriented than the whisky he'd forced her to drink the night before.

With the cowl of his mantle lying on his back, she observed the rich luster of his copper hair and found herself wanting to comb the fingers of her good hand through it. But that would not be acceptable.

Dirk guided the horse to the largest cottage in the village, stopped and dismounted. He handed her the reins and glanced up at her. The blue of his eyes was different somehow, darker. Maybe it was because gloaming was already upon them and the sky had become heavily overcast again.

"I used to know the man who lives here. I'll be right back." He strode to the door and knocked.

A man with a bushy gray beard opened the door and stared at Dirk for a moment as they exchanged words.

"Dirk? Is that truly you, lad?" The man laughed then shook his hand heartily. "I thought you were dead."

"'Tis a long story I'll be glad to tell you sometime."

"Well, bring your friends inside out of the cold. I'll have Mattie bake a few more oatcakes." He disappeared inside the house, yelling for Mattie.

When Dirk returned to help her dismount, Isobel carefully laid her injured hand on his shoulder as he lifted her down.

"His name is Lewis MacLeod," Dirk murmured.

"What!" A MacLeod? Claws of ice seized her.

"Shh. He's a good friend of my father, and as you can see, he's far removed from most of the other MacLeods, but some of them do occupy this village."

"He might turn me over to the clan," she whispered, trying to keep her voice from shaking but unsure she'd succeeded.

"We're not going to tell him your real name," Dirk assured her.

"What name am I going by?"

He shrugged. "How about Liz MacDonald?"

She frowned, wondering how he'd come up with that. He must have been planning this for hours.

"Very well." She was afraid to ask him if he planned to continue the pretense of being her husband. If he did, she was fine with it. More than fine, actually. When he'd said she was his wife earlier, a wicked little thrill had spun through her.

Dirk motioned her ahead of him while he spoke to Rebbie and George… about her false name, without doubt.

"Since this man is a MacLeod, you are to call me Liz MacDonald," she whispered to Beitris.

"Ah. Good thinking," she said.

The door of the cottage opened. "Come in, come in, bonnie lasses, and warm your toes." The gray-haired man's jovial mood seemed genuine as he motioned them forward.

Isobel smiled and proceeded inside. "I thank you for your hospitality."

"'Tis my pleasure." Though the fireplace contained only glowing coals, 'twas much warmer in the room than outside. MacLeod added peat to the fire, then lit a candle to brighten the dim room.

Isobel stood before the small hearth warming her hands, while Beitris occupied a cushioned chair nearby. Dirk and Rebbie entered, depositing their bedrolls by the door.

"I thank you for allowing us to stay the night," Dirk said.

"'Tis the least I can do. Make yourselves at home. I'll show your man where to stable the horses," Lewis MacLeod said, then closed the door on his way out.

So as not to stare at Dirk, Isobel allowed her gaze to wander over the room. The cottage appeared to be a small manor house. The slate floors and the worn but good quality furniture proclaimed this owner was likely a landowner, though probably not a chief.

"Are you certain he won't mind all of us staying here?" Isobel asked.

"Nay. He's a good man," Dirk said. "I remember a time when I was just a lad that ten or twelve of us stayed here. We slept right here on the floor."

Isobel was certain they'd have to do the same. Though she was not accustomed to sleeping on the floor, she'd practiced it without complaint for the past two nights. 'Twas far better than being kept hostage by a barbarous clan of abusive men, even if they did have beds and straw mattresses.

She wiggled her toes, glad they were thawing out, although they did sting with the return of feeling.

Lewis returned inside with a gust of cold air and a friendly grin directed at Dirk. "It does my heart good to see you alive and well, Dirk MacKay, and newly married besides." He chuckled. "I can tell you've not been married long."

Heat rushed over her and she could think of naught to say. Why had he assumed this? Or had Dirk told him earlier?

"Um, aye," Dirk said. "I mean, nay. We've not been married six months yet."

"I could tell!"

She wasn't sure whether that was a lie or not. They indeed had not been married six months. She was unaccustomed to lying and unsure if she could keep up the farce. But perhaps pretending marriage to Dirk would be good practice. Where had that thought come from? Did that mean she wanted to be married to Dirk?

"Well, lad, you got yourself a beauty," Lewis proclaimed, eying her. He quirked a brow. "Is that a bruise on her face?"

"I fell from my husband's monstrous horse," she blurted. "And broke a finger in the process." She held up her hand to show him, hoping he believed her poorly thought out story.

"Och. You will have to be more careful. Which clan are you from?"

"MacDonald of Glencoe," Dirk said. "And this is my good friend, Robert MacInnis, Earl of Rebbinglen."

Lewis's eyes widened and he bowed. "'Tis my great honor to meet you, m'laird. I did not ken I had the privilege of hosting a man of such elevated rank."

"The pleasure is all mine. And I thank you for your generous hospitality."

The older man waved a hand through the air. "I only hope you are able to eat our humble food. I must say though, Mattie's Highland pie is tasty."

"I'm certain 'tis far better than the day old bannocks we've been eating."

"'Haps."

Isobel's stomach growled loudly in the moment of silence. She placed her hand against it, cringing.

"I'm thinking the lass is famished. Have you not been feeding her, lad?"

"Aye, when she's willing to eat," Dirk said, his face a bit flushed.

Was he blushing? Isobel could not imagine it.

Lewis laughed and motioned them toward a separate dining room. "I smell those Highland pies."