“MacLaren,” Colin called to him, and signaled Iain to ride alongside him.
Iain kicked his horse into a trot and brought it back to a walk beside Colin.
“I know ye are a Jacobite, MacLaren.”
Iain opened his mouth to deny the charge.
“No, dinnae try to lie to me. I’m not aneejit, but dinnae worry, we are MacDonalds, and even though I would not follow the pretender, I would never be disloyal to Scotland.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Many MacDonalds lost their lives during the battle, and I am proud to have fought alongside them.”
“Aye, my brothers fought, and I was hoping to come across them on the way to Inverness. I have heard Bonnie Prince Charlie has sent orders through the ranks for everybody to shift for himself as best he could. Is that what ye are doing?”
“I hadn’t heard that order, but aye, that is what I’m doing.”
“Is the lass really ye wife?”
Even though Iain felt comfortable talking to Colin, he managed to keep to his lie. “Aye, I made it to her parents’ home, and now we must get to Dorpol.”
After a few miles, Iain fell back to ride alongside the cart. He chanced another glance in Abigail’s direction. She had curled up in the corner of the wagon with her eyes closed. She seemed to be sleeping. But, as if she sensed his gaze resting upon her, her sleepy lids slid open, and once again, her gaze penetrated to his soul.
He had sagged in his saddle and tried to straighten his back, but the movement made him groan in agony. He couldn’t swallow the sound quick enough and knew she had heard him when she asked Mary, “Are we going to stop soon?”
Just then, Colin shouted over his shoulder, “We will camp here this night.”
He veered his horse off the road and into a clearing.
The cart followed him. Colin and Parlin unsaddled their horses and hobbled them before unharnessing the cart horses. They, too, were hobbled and led to a stream.
The women filled buckets from the stream, and as Iain tended his mount, Tavis ran up and said, “I’ll look after Donny.”
Iain patted the horse’s neck. “Thank ye for being such a grand mount, Donny.”
Tavis grinned as if he had been the recipient of the compliment and set about unsaddling and rubbing the horse down.
With nothing to do for the moment, Iain watched Abigail talk and laugh with the other women at the water’s edge. Mary and the other younger woman washed Abigail’s hair with buckets of water from the stream.
The lass must have said something funny, because Mary hit her playfully, and they both fell about laughing.
Once they’d caught their breaths, they both glanced at Iain. Mary’s eyes were full of merriment, but Abigail’s were filled with swirling clouds of . . . sadness?
Iain drew his brows together. Was she mad? Laughing one minute and near crying the next? He shook his head. He’d never understood the complexities of a woman’s emotions.
As he helped build a fire, Iain realized he felt no pain. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing, but he decided to enjoy the relief while it lasted and collected as much firewood as he could handle to thank the MacDonalds for their kindness. All the while, his gaze kept wandering in Abigail’s direction as she dangled her legs in the cold water and washed as much of herself as possible.
By sunset, the pots were boiling, and the aroma of the dried beef stew had Iain’s stomach reminding him neither he nor Abigail had eaten all day.
She sat on a blanket and accepted a bowl from Mary with what Iain recognized as a tentative smile. She squinted into the bowl, her face telling him she wasn’t sure what she would see in there. The trepidation in her eyes made him wonder if she expected whatever was in the bowl to jump out at her at any moment.
He drank from his bowl with an eager slurp, let out a moan of contentment, and nodded to her. “’Tis very good.”
After another slight grimace, she breathed in the aroma before delicately sipping. She shot him a wide smile and seemed to enjoy the rest of the bowl’s contents.
“Iain,” Mary said, handing a piece of bread to him. “My mother would like you to try her bread.”
Iain smiled at Mary. “Thank ye, but please, what is your mother’s name?”
An older woman slid beside Mary. “I am Fenella.”
