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Her cheeks tinged with rose. Down came the pointy elbow, jabbing his ribs, right where the rock had struck three years ago, right where a new bruise ripened.
He grunted, and she added a knee, driving it into his thigh as she crawled onto the grass.
He sat up, and his vision bleached from the edges. He blinked and blinked again, put his hand to his temple.
Mongrel bitch of a week.
His tailbone felt like a pouch filled with boiling marmalade. The ache in the back of his skull was migrating forward to pulse between his brows. And he wouldn’t be floating up to join his feathered enemies any time soon.
The rent in the balloon posed no significant obstacle—he’d hire someone to stitch it up—but he’d no way to replenish his fuel.
He could still hear the faint hiss of escaping gas.
If only he’d prioritized the production of sulfuric acid over lime. Instead of dithering about the type and placement of the Dearnrigg lime kiln, he could have seen lead chambers built in the Fairy Dale, which would turn out pounds of sulfuric acid, essential to the creation of hydrogen.
Without sulfuric acid—without more hydrogen—his balloon was as capable of aerostatic flight as a wet blanket.
Hell.
The sun beat down. It was hot, for Scotland. In addition to the hiss of gas, he heard the creak of the rigging as the balloon’s small movements tugged at the ropes.
He shaded his eyes. His vision filled back in.
There was the sheep cote, just a few yards away. An ancient, one-story structure. The stone was mossy, the thatch dirty and gray. Bouquets of flowers stood in butter jars on either side of the crooked door. No windows.
“Very cheerful, with the flowers,” he remarked. Isobel sat at his elbow, cross-legged, knees tenting her striped petticoat. She was slightly hunched, nursing pain in her own ribs no doubt, but she flicked him a suspicious glance.
“Meadowsweet. I was picking more flowers, but . . .” She waved a hand. “I dropped everything to fight a dragon.”
His lips twitched. He recognized sarcasm. But he also knew her. Fanciful, always looking backwards, into the mists of legend, while sensible Britons—English and Scottish alike—strove to modernize.
She’d believed a dragon was streaking over the hills.
His superior grin froze before it could unfurl.
Dragons didn’t exist. That didn’t change the essential fact.
Isobel MacKinnon was a dragonslayer at heart.
She’d glimpsed unholy terror in the sky, and she’d charged toward it.
It was easy to jeer at her willful naivete.
It was more difficult to acknowledge her courage. At least for him. As a boy, he’d felt humiliated by her fearlessness. She’d swarm up cliffs and dance about on narrow ledges, seagulls wheeling below, island children cheering. And he’d have no choice but to follow, no choice if he wished to hold up his head. His heart would turn small and skittery in his chest. The worst part upon reaching a given ledge—the leap down, down, down to the sea.
Isobel always shrieked with joy on the descent.
By God, she’d plagued him.
Back in London, he would bring renewed intensity to his training with his riding master, with his fencing master, to his studies, to everything he did. All so he might better his odds of trouncing her when he returned. How he’d longed to put her in her place!
The fixation was beyond laughable. He was the son of a duke. She was the daughter of a farmer. Their places had been decided long before they were born.
These past three years, he’d pictured her mellowed by her happy marriage, her edges smoothed, her harsh brightness dimmed to an unthreatening glow. He’d pictured his next visit to Dearnrigg passing without incident. Isobel, a placid wife. Forgetful of her former crusade against him. No longer capable of stinging him into a frenzy of rage.
“Why aren’t you married?” The question burst out of him like an accusation. He grimaced but continued. “Girls who want to leave their father’s houses marry. They don’t move into sheep cotes.”
If looks could kill . . .
