Iain well understood. His presence would put the man’s family in peril.
He slightly bowed his head and was about to turn Abigail away, but a woman called out, “Wait.”
A full-bodied woman jumped off a cart and hurried to the man. Her dark hair blew over her face, and she shook her head to clear the strands from her eyes. She caught her hair up in a strip of material and tied it at her nape. “We have enough, Colin.” She smiled at Abigail. “Whit be ye names?”
Abigail opened her mouth to speak, and Iain hurriedly cut her off. If these people heard her strange accent, they might not help them. Mayhap after they learned they could trust them, they would be more open to her. “I be Iain MacLaren, and this be Abigail.” He glanced at the lass and added, “Ma wife.”
“I’m Mary, and that be my husband, Colin.” She waved her hand behind her. “These are our sons; the blond rebel is Parlin, and the lad is Tavis.”
She gazed at Abigail with concern filling her eyes. “Ye look worn out, lassie.” She raised her hand to touch Abigail’s hair, but drew it back and looked her up and down. “You be the dirtiest lass I have ever seen. Colin, we need to stop at the burn.”
Colin huffed. “Muire.”
The woman gave him a glower that saidye won’t be arguing with me, and Iain had to stop himself from smiling.
Colin must have known that stare well, because he sat back and nodded once.
Relieved, Iain eyed the horses, wishing he could ride. His glance swept over the already laden cart. It appeared sturdy enough to carry both his and Abigail’s weight. Following Iain’s gaze, Colin said, “Tavis, let Iain have ye horse and ye can ride in the cart. I’d like to talk to him some.”
Thankful for the man’s change of heart but wary about what he wanted to discuss, Iain nodded. “Thank ye.”
Abigail said, “Iain was injured in the fire at the cabin. He cannot ride a horse.”
Iain gently nudged her toward Mary. “I am well enough, Wife.”
He glowered at her, hoping to quiet the woman. Her strange way of talking would only have the people asking questions, questions he had no answers for.
She narrowed her eyes at him and shrugged. “It’s your life.”
The woman, Mary, or Muire, her Gaelic name, regarded Abigail with curiosity. Iain tensed but breathed out in relief when she didn’t say anything. Instead, she helped the lass onto the wagon.
Mounting Tavis’s horse, Iain bit back the shooting pain in his side. He didn’t want Colin to change his mind about letting him ride a horse. He needed the mount in case the MacDonalds were traitors and he needed to whisk Abigail out of their clutches. Many Scots aligned themselves with the English.
And while Iain fought alongside the MacDonald clan only days before, he wasn’t certain that every MacDonald was loyal to Scotland. He decided they had yet to prove themselves trustworthy.
Once settled in the saddle, Iain took the reins and rode alongside the cart Abigail settled on. He shot her a hard glance, hoping she would keep her chatter short, but he needn’t have worried. Abigail answered Mary’s questions with good grace, saying she was from the Americas and had met Iain when she came to Scotland to visit her grandfather.
Mary appeared to believe her.
The continuous ache in his side had Iain worrying for his life. He’d experienced fevers in his younger days, and he knew when one was growing inside him. He wanted to get to Dorpol before it overtook him completely.
His sister was adept at healing and would aid him back to health. He sighed at the thought of Maeve. He had left his lands in her care for too long, and it was time he returned and took on his responsibility as laird.
He absentmindedly held his side. If they didn’t get to Dorpol in time, Maeve would be burying him instead of tending him. His gaze shifted to Abigail. He wanted to get to know her better, but he would have to live for that to come to pass.
As the day continued, Iain constantly found himself staring at the strange woman, his angel. With the very mortal feelings she imbued in him, he wondered if she’d put a spell on him. He had never been as attracted to, as curious about, or as confused by a woman before. While he liked to think of her as an angel, for she looked like one, he knew in his heart of hearts she was as human as he was.
But could he really believe she was a stranded innocent? He didn’t want to consider the alternative. He had a feeling she was hiding something, but somehow, he didn’t think it had anything to do with the war between Scotland and England. And she didn’t appear to be masquerading as someone else. Even though she acted strangely to his way of thinking, her actions were natural. He gazed at her dirty but open face and frowned. He’d been to France, and not even in Louis’s palaces had women like her existed.
He eyed her figure. She sat with her back straight, but by the slope of her shoulders, she wasn’t tense.
Even in peasant clothes, she would shine in a group of women of gentry. She moved to the side of the wagon, pulled her knees up, and rested her chin on them, gazing at Iain. His breath hitched at the admiration in her eyes.
He looked away. Those stormy eyes penetrated his very essence. He still couldn’t decide what color they were. Blue or gray? They were neither, yet both.
Her laughter brought his eyes back in her direction. He wished he’d made her laugh that tinkling melody.
He raked his eyes over her. She gazed up at him, something akin to fear reflected deep in her eyes, along withsomething else . . . want? The emotion reaching out to him snatched his breath away. Her orbs once again stormed, swirling eddies pulling him under. He forced his gaze away and focused on the road ahead. He near drowned in those eyes.
