“Wallace has taken it hard,” Isabel said. “Hard enough to speak of stepping down, of surrendering his guardianship of Scotland to someone deemed more worthy.”
“Truly tragic. Wallace is the heart behind this entire war for independence.” There was something about talking with Isabel that made him comfortable enough to share his thoughts. “I’ve followed Wallace from the beginning. Fought beside him. Won beside him. To see a man like that falter, not just in battle, but in spirit, too, is something I dinna know how to reckon with.” His grip tightened on the reins.
William Wallace was a great soldier, a great warrior, a great strategist, and to have failed so miserably and taken that to such heart that he would give up such a position to someone more worthy that he believed was disconcerting and disappointing at the same time.
“Ye must find the traitor and present his head to my uncle and to Wallace.”
“Aye.”
The forest floor sloped ahead, the sound of water growing louder as they approached the river crossing. That, at least, offered some advantage. The current would break their trail, muddle what tracks remained, forcing any followed to guess at their path. If they were still being followed.
As they approached the riverbank, the ground softened beneath the horses’ hooves, the mud thick and slick from the night’s rain runoff. Lachlan shifted in his saddle, already bracing for trouble.
“Careful,” he called to Isabel, his gaze fixed on the uneven slope as her horse picked its way down the embankment.
His men approached the bank with caution, and Isabel followed suit. Her maid, however, either wasn’t as good with a horse or didn’t heed his warning, and took the decline at too fast a pace, her mount’s footing faltering. Then the horse lurched to the right, its hooves scrambling for purchase and getting sucked into the muck. One unbalanced step and then another, and with each lurch, Elsa slipped further off her saddle.
“Help!” she shrieked, holding on for dear life.
“I’ve got ye!” Angus who was closest, surged forward on his horse.
“Elsa!” Isabel, too, whirled to help, her own horse also slipping.
“Isabel!” Lachlan spurred his horse forward.
Everything happened all at once: Elsa pitched sideways, losing her grip; Isabel started to slip; Lachlan reached Isabel, catching her at the waist and hauling her back before she could fall on top of her maid who was fortunate enough to miss being trampled; Angus leapt from his horse into the muck, and finally, he pulled Elsa, now covered in mud, from the sinking ground; Freckles escaped her bosom cage and climbed on top of Isabel’s head, leaping into Lachlan’s lap.
Lachlan shifted his balance back into place, wishing it was Isabel on his lap, and not the ferret.
They moved to steadier ground, the lot of them, and dismounted to stretch their legs, and Isabel to help her maid clean herself up.
Lachlan watched her approach from the bank of the river, her maid looking devoid of happiness, and Isabel trying to comfort her. Elsa’s clothes were wet, less muddy now, and she veered away from Isabel toward her mount, perhaps in search of a blanket. Isabel met his gaze, and hurried forward, her skirts tangling in her legs, her ferret crawling up over her shoulder, tail flicking against her face. She was two feet from him, when the chaos of her tangling skirts and blinding ferret got the better of her, and she pitched forward.
Lachlan reached out, bracing, as he caught her in his arms.
“Oops,” she said with a smile, gazing up at him with a humorous expression he would not have expected given the day.
For just a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. She held fast to the front of his shirt, his arms around her waist. She did not pull away, not immediately. Her head rested briefly against his chest, the warmth of her cutting through the damp chill of the air.
She glanced up at him, and something inside Lachlan tightened. A ripple of awareness that he had not felt in quite a long time. That he shouldn’t feel with her at all.
To be sure, he had had plenty of women in his life and many lovers. Never had he found anyone he loved enough to marry, but he wasn’t immune to women’s wiles or attraction.
But he had not expected to feel such a way about Isabel.
And the way she was looking at him. The closeness of her. The heat of her body through damp wool and linen. His hand resting on her waist just below her breast had him holding his breath for half a second.
“Careful, lass,” he said gruffly. “I canna fight the English and rescue ye from tumbling.”
She pushed herself upright, settling back onto her feet with a frown. “Ye can barely stand.”
A slow grin of appreciation filled his face, and he tried to ignore how much he missed having her in his arms. How his gaze now went from her brilliant blue eyes to the purse of her rosebud lips. “Agreed. I see that we are in similar company then.”
She laughed at that, quick and unguarded, and something in him eased despite himself. Most women of her station would have bristled, or taken offense, or turned cold beneath such teasing. Isabel did none of that. She met his spirit, matched it and returned it without hesitation.
That level of energy showcased a part of her personality she kept hidden from most—she was witty.
Lachlan dragged his attention away from her, rounded up the men and they all remounted. He regarded the crossing, signaling Angus to circle behind them again. If they were being followed, he meant to know about it before the trail closed in.
