“And if ‘tis no’ enough?” she asked.
He had no answer for that, and instead said, “We must make haste,” before issuing orders to his men to prepare their crossing.
Less than a quarter hour later, they climbed into the birlinn and set sail, the horses swimming across beside them. The archers set up at the stern, prepared to thwart any Mackenzies or English who might want to stop them. The rest of the men picked up the oars and set to rowing them across.
The wind struck them with full force, as if even the loch was eager for them to be on their way.
While Elsa sat looking green and miserable on the ground beside her mistress, Isabel’s gaze was fixed on the rising slopes of the island ahead. Lachlan found himself watching her again, wondering what she saw when she looked toward his world. The water was smooth, but dark from peat that washed in from the surrounding hills. A subtle breeze blew her hair and she rubbed her arms.
“Do ye need a blanket, my lady?” he asked, coming up beside her.
“Nay, Freckles is keeping me plenty warm, but perhaps Elsa would like one,” she stared down at her poor maid.
“Nay, I’m fine. ’Twill no’ be long, I pray,” Elsa said, her voice small and shaky, and he didn’t know if she meant the ride itself wouldn’t be long, or the death she seemed ready to accept.
“No’ long at all,” Lachlan assured them both.
Lachlan reached into his sporran and pulled out the ring her ferret had discovered in the ash. “I want ye to hold onto this.”
Isabel raised a brow but didn’t hesitate to take it. “Why?”
“As a sign of trust.”
She pressed it into the pouch she kept at her hip. “Ye can trust me.”
“Aye. And ye can trust me, too, lass.”
A few minutes later, when the birlinn touched the other side, the energy drained from Lachlan’s body. They had made it. There were still many miles to travel, but they had gotten through the hardest part.
Or so he hoped.
17
To say the last three days had passed in an uneventful blur would be accurate. They traversed the lush green and craggy terrain of the Isle of Skye in near silence as they rode, slept, ate, and rode some more. And then, just when Isabel was certain she could take the monotony no longer, they arrived.
Isabel had expected Lachlan’s castle in the northwest of the Isle of Skye to feel like a fortress—for it certainly looked every bit as intimidating as she’d imagined. Thick, high stone walls. An iron portcullis that raised to expose massive gate doors. A drawbridge over a moat. Cold stone and watchful guards, a place shaped by war and vigilance, where every face would turn toward her with suspicion and every movement would be measured against threat. After all, that was what many of the castles she’d occupied had been like. She had prepared herself for silence from the inhabitants, for distance from the clanswomen, for the careful politeness reserved for strangers who did not belong. Isabel was an intruder. An interloper.
And, aye, their every fortification met expectation, but, as she passed through the open gates of Dunvegan Castle behind Lachlan and his men, she found herself riding into an environment that felt different somehow.
Not in the quiet, controlled way of a noble household like her Uncle Bruce, but in a way that felt like… home. Like family. Crofts clustered along the rise beyond the castle walls, their chimneys releasing thin ribbons of smoke that twisted into the evening air. Chickens scattered noisily across the yard as the riders passed, and somewhere to her left a dog barked sharply before racing after them, only to be called back by a laughing voice. Children darted between buildings, their shrill laughter cutting through the deeper hum of daily life, until they caught sight of the returning warriors and slowed, staring with open curiosity.
The people here had suffered too because of the war but were not as worried about the Sassenachs banging down their doors as those in Glasgow and Edinburgh.
Men, wrapped in their MacLeod plaids of gold, yellow and black emerged from everywhere at once. Smiths with soot-darkened hands stepped out from their workshops. Fishermen carried nets slung over their shoulders, salt still clinging to their clothes. Farmers wiped sweat from their brows and straightened as they recognized the riders approaching. Guards with swords strapped to their backs, peered with pensive scrutiny.
When they recognized Lachlan, the reaction of the MacLeod clan was immediate. A deafening cheer rose in the air, fists pumping toward the clouds.
“The Wolf of Skye returns!”
The words carried across the courtyard, taken up by others, until the name echoed against stone and timber alike. Several men surged forward, closing the distance quickly as Lachlan dismounted. One older warrior, bald on top with hair a shocking white wrapping around the rest of his head limped forward, reaching Lachlan first, gripping his arm with a laugh that held relief as much as pride before pulling him into a rough embrace.
“Ye took your time returning, MacLeod.”
“War keeps a man occupied,” Lachlan replied, though there was a dryness to his tone that softened the words.
Women appeared in the doorway of a nearby hall, some lifting hands in greeting, others smiling openly as they watched the gathering. And yet more running toward husbands they feared would not return, caught up in embraces that made Isabel’s heart clench with emotion.
Isabel remained in the saddle, her hands resting loosely on the reins as she watched the scene unfold before her. She had heard of Lachlan MacLeod’s reputation. The Wolf of Skye. A man whispered about in courts and camps alike. Dangerous. Relentless. Unyielding in battle.
