While Rebbie dismounted, Dirk rushed in upon them.

Rebbie and the outlaw rolled on the ground, tussling for the weapon. Dirk grabbed the man's brown cloak, secured at his throat, and yanked him away from his friend, who had the pistol in hand. The outlaw made choking sounds and clawed at the mantle's clasp. Once it was unhooked, he freed himself from the garment and fled toward a grove of bushes, his long gray hair flying out behind him. Before he reached cover, he made as if to circle around toward Isobel and Tulloch.

"Halt!" Dirk demanded, launching into motion and sprinting toward Isobel. Bastard! Dirk would choke him if he ever got his hands on him.

A gunshot exploded behind him. Dirk glanced back to see Rebbie with his pistol raised, still aimed at the outlaw, and a fog of black smoke being carried away by the wind. The masked man didn't go down. Instead, he changed course and bolted for the bushes again.

"Bastard!" Dirk yelled, finally reaching Isobel.

Tulloch snorted and pawed the ground.

The last time he'd seen Donald McMurdo, he'd had dark hair, but that had been many years ago. That had to be him. If the women hadn't been in their party now, he'd hunt the knave down and toss him in Dunnakeil's dungeon.

"What the devil?" Rebbie grumbled, coming up behind them and brushing the snow and debris from his clothing. "A highwayman? Out here, in the most remote country I've ever seen?"

"Aye. They're everywhere. 'Twas likely McMurdo. Back when I was a lad, my father and his men tried to capture McMurdo but he was as elusive as a ghost. Not only is he a thief, but also a murderer. Hard to believe he's still alive after all this time."

George led the other horse forward and Beitris, still quite pale, was perched upon it.

Rebbie surveyed the outlaw's pistol in his hand. "If this wasn't such a piece of rubbish, I could've shot him in the arse with his own gun."

Dirk snorted. "Let's make haste afore he returns."

"I hope he does," Rebbie called out, making sure anyone hiding in the bushes could hear him. "I'll give him something—a lead ball betwixt his teeth."

Observing Isobel, Dirk noted her dark eyes were wide as she scanned the edge of the copse of bushes. "Are you well?" he asked.

"Aye." Twisting and wiggling about in her layers of clothing and blankets, she moved back onto the bedroll behind the saddle. He admired the way she took distressing events in stride without lapsing into hysterics.

He mounted and within a quarter hour, Uncle Conall's large cottage, with its whitewashed stone walls and thatched roof, came into view on the outskirts of the village. Dirk's spirits lifted with relief to finally be at the journey's end. But as he rode forward, closer and closer to the village of his childhood, he tensed. He prayed he'd arrived in time to see his father alive.

"Here we are," Dirk told Isobel. At the cottage, he dismounted, then glanced back to Rebbie upon his horse. "'Tis my uncle's home."

Lifting his arms, Dirk helped Isobel dismount. The others followed suit.

When he faced the door of the cottage, dread twisted his gut. Uncle Conall, Dirk's father's youngest brother, and his family were the only members of the clan he could trust.

Beside him, Isobel squeezed his forearm, distracting him from the gloom for a moment. Her eyes, a touch darker than chestnut brown, softened as if she understood how he felt. The anxiety, the fear. Aye, she must. She'd seen her parents sick, then lost them. But most important of all, in that moment, he no longer felt alone. For even when he was with his friends, he often felt disconnected from them and unsure if they could truly understand him. Something told him Isobel did.

Her hand slipped away and he could not believe how he missed that small contact.

Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to move forward and knock at the weathered door.

His aunt Effie opened it and stuck her head out. Her gaze landing on Dirk, she smiled, flung the door back and threw her arms around him. "Nephew, 'tis a blessing to lay eyes upon your face again. I'm glad you've come home." She drew back and called into the cottage. "Conall!" Facing Dirk again, she said, "He's eating his supper. You know how he is. Naught can draw him away from the table. Come in, you and your companions." She waved them forward.

He didn't move. And though he hated to ask, it had to be done. "What news of my father?"

"Oh, Dirk." Her face contorted into a grimace. "I forgot you'd not heard yet. I'm sorry to say he passed over a month ago."

Her words hit him like a battering ram smashing against his stomach.

Da was gone. Dirk would not be able to embrace him one last time nor see a look of happiness on his face.

Dirk nodded, his throat constricting. "'Tis as I feared." Although he'd truly hoped he'd been wrong. "I came as soon as I could."

Regret flooded him like rain inundating a bog. His father must have died even before Dirk received the missive at Draughon. He should've come back sooner, 'haps years ago. But his father thought him dead. He never knew whether it was better to stay 'dead' or proclaim his presence to the clan and the woman who would see him murdered if she could.

"Aye?" Conall appeared in the doorway, his hair and beard now gray. His gaze focused for a moment on Dirk's face. "Dirk, lad, is that you, then?"

"Indeed."

"I hardly recognize you all grown up." Conall grabbed him in a fearsome hug. When he drew back, his eyes were watering. "Lad, I'm sorry your da didn't make it. A week after I sent the missive, he was gone. I sent another but I don't know if you received it."

Dirk shook his head. "I thank you for letting me know."

Conall glanced past him to the others who'd traveled with him. "Who have you brought with you?"

Dirk forced himself to push his grief aside for a moment. Rebbie stood closest to him. "This is my good friend, Robert MacInnis, earl of Rebbinglen."

"An earl? I'm pleased to meet you m'laird." He shook Rebbie's hand.

"A pleasure."

"And this is Lady Isobel MacKenzie and her maid," Dirk went on. "We rescued them on the trail."

"Rescued? Well, you're a true knight and a gallant, are you not? Come in. We have enough food for everyone."

"With the way you were shoveling it in?" Effie said.

"Bah! I'll deal with the horses, woman. You give our guests some food." Conall waved everyone else into the cottage.

As Isobel passed Dirk, she met his eyes with a sympathetic glance.

He gave her a quick nod to thank her for understanding, then followed his uncle toward his small stable.

After Conall showed George where to take the horses, Dirk asked, "Could I have a word, Uncle?"

"Aye."

The side of the stone byre sheltered them from the worst of the wind. "I cannot believe my father is gone. Did he suffer?" Dirk asked.

"Nay. He did not seem in much pain. 'Twas his heart, the healer said." Conall shook his head.

"Is Nannag still the healer?"

"Aye. Still spunky as a pup, although her hearing is going."

"Saints, she must be at least a hundred."

Conall nodded with a faint grin. "Around eighty or ninety summers, I'd say. But her mind is still sharp."

"She's trustworthy, is she not? My stepmother wouldn't have coerced her into speeding up Da's death, would she?"

"Nay, I don't think so, lad. Maighread seemed to care for your da. It wouldn't have benefited her or their sons to murder him. Aiden is only twenty-one summers, barely old enough to be a decent chief. Griff and Maighread both figured he'd struggle with it."