Dalziel’s gaze narrowed but he did as Ian asked, moving away in disgust. Ian knew that wasn’t going to be the end of the conversation between them.
The warrior from earlier approached Ian now that the initial threat was over with, wincing as he saw his nose. “Mah apologies, laird Wallace. He’s nothing but a drunken old fool.”
“No need tae worry aboot it,” Ian grimaced, hoping that his expression resembled some sort of a smile. He cared not about the old man and his ramblings but this wasn’t how he had expected his first visit to go with his sister. She was going to think that he had started something with one of her new clansmen.
“Ida!” the warrior shouted as he turned toward the cottage. “Come here and apologize tae the laird!”
“There’s no need,” Ian started as the young woman hurried to him, a wide look on her face. With her hair parted behind her ears now, he could see that her eyes were the color of a summer sky, with a pert nose and a full lush mouth with pale pink lips.
“I’m so verra sorry mah laird,” she said, dipping into some sort of curtsey before him, her eyes downcast in submission as if she expected Ian to yell at her. “He dinna mean tae hurt ye.”
“Tis fine,” Ian forced out, tearing his gaze away from her features. Never before had he been struck by a lass like her.
The last lass he had felt this strongly about had broken his heart.
Shaking that particular thought out of his head, Ian felt the drip of blood on his face again, wiping it away. “Please mah laird,” the woman called Ian said as she straightened. “Let mah tend tae yer nose.”
“The laird doesna need anything else from ye,” Dalziel shot back, stepping in front of Ian. “Stay away from him.”
“Dalziel back down,” Ian ordered, irritated that his captain seemed to think everyone was a threat right now. “If the lass wished tae help, then I will allow it.”
The captain didn’t take to his words too kindly, turning to face Ian with his jaw clenched. “She could ram a sword through ye the moment ye step inside.”
“I assure ye,” Ida spoke up from behind Dalziel’s broad shoulders. “I donna own a sword.”
“Harmless,” Ian added, eyeing his captain. “She’s harmless. Dalziel. Allow her tae tend tae mah. I canna let mah sister see mah like this.” It was partly a lie. Iris had seen him a great deal worse over their lifetime and she wouldn’t bat an eye at a broken nose. She probably would march up to him and force it back into place without so much as a grunt.
But Ian wished to see what this connection with this woman led him. He wished to learn more about why her uncle hated the Wallace clan and why he thought they had slaughtered innocent lives. There were many questions he had and none of them were going to be answered with violence.
Stepping around his captain, Ian met Remy’s questioning eyes but his friend knew better than to interfere as long as Ian wasn’t getting drunk off whiskey or about to spar with another. If nothing more, Remy was likely curious as to why Ian would be interested in a mere stable lass. She wasn’t even what Ian would consider a great beauty, but more a plain woman with impressive blue eyes that drew him in. “Lead the way Ida,” Ian finally said, motioning to the hut next to the stables. “While mah men stable the horses.”
She gave him a tight nod and Ian drew in a breath, starting across the cobblestones toward the cottage.
3
Ida had never been so nervous and frightened in all her life as she led the laird into the cottage, trying not to stumble or embarrass herself as she did so. She had spent all morning mucking the stables, picking up the chores that needed to be done while her uncle slumbered away in his bed, sleeping off the drink he had consumed the night before. More and more he did that, no longer the first one up to start on the chores or at least light the fire to warm their cottage. While Ida enjoyed the business of the chores to keep herself busy, there were days that she wished she could lay around in bed herself.
Now he had nearly gotten himself killed by Laird Wallace and still could face some sort of punishment from Laird MacGregor. It would be fitting even though she knew that the laird wouldn’t lift a hand to help the drunken Scot these days, punishment or otherwise. If her laird decided that her uncle was unfit to care for the horses any longer, Ida wouldn’t be able to stay near her beloved horses either.
Swallowing hard, Ida pushed open the door and quickly looked about the small space, glad to see that her uncle had heeded her words and slunk out while she had been apologizingto the laird. Ida reached for the chair at the table and pulled it out, motioning for the laird to sit. The chair itself didn’t look like it could hold up the laird’s large frame, but he lowered himself into it anyway and Ida hurried to retrieve a rag and some water in a bowl.
When she turned, she found him looking at her meager surroundings and her cheeks heated at what he must see. Surely he lived in a great hall like the MacGregor laird did, with rich tapestries on the walls and a roaring fire in the stone fireplace.
Here, all she had was a faded blanket that separated her sleeping arrangements from the kitchen, the fire low in the soot-covered fireplace because she had been busy in the stables. She could change things around in the cottage if she wished, but Ida liked the simplicity of having just what she needed and it not being anything that her uncle could sell off for his next fix of drink. Still, Ida held her head up high as she approached the table, her breath stuttering in her lungs as his warm eyes fell on her.
By God, he was a bonny lad, with a high forehead and dark hair that fell to his shoulders in silky waves. His dark-colored eyes were framed by long eyelashes. He had strong jawline and besides his slightly swollen nose, there was nothing that wasn’t perfect about him.
“Does it look that bad?”
His deep voice jolted Ida out of her thoughts and she busied herself with the rag, dipping it in the water. “Nay mah laird. It doesna.”
He chuckled and Ida felt it straight through her bones. “Well then. I thought ye had been startled by mah horrid appearance.”
If his appearance was horrid, then Ida would eat straw for her supper. She lifted the rag from the bowl and their eyes met. There it was again, that tightening in her stomach. She had never felt anything like it before. “This may hurt mah laird.”
“Ian,” he said, straightening in the chair. “Mah name is Ian.”
Ida’s lips parted. She couldn’t call a laird by his given name! She wasn’t someone that should even be talking to him, yet fate had pulled them together in the unlikeliest of ways and now, she was attempting to keep her uncle from meeting the end of a sword or worse. “Ida,” she finally said, her voice shaking slightly. “Mah name is Ida.”
