Highlander Enchanted(8)
Despite all she had been through, she had paid her way fairly, selling off her possessions one by one until all but the medallion was gone. She hoped that God would forgive her for the sin of theft and doubted she would live long enough to confess, if she were caught by either of her pursuers.
She focused on the dirt trail through the woods. The sun had peeked from the clouds shortly after rising and had since disappeared behind billowing storm clouds visible through the brown branches and green leaves of the forest canopy overhead. Breaking from the forest onto a wider road, Isabel twisted to look over her shoulder and ensure the path was clear. She saw no one and faced forward, trusting the horse to take her somewhere far away.
The horse slowed as it rounded a bend, and she nudged it to continue the quick pace before looking up to see what made it hesitate.
If there had been a bridge across the swollen creek, there was no piece of it left. Isabel drew the destrier to a walk and approached the bank. It was nowhere near as wide as the Thames, but it was impossible to guess how deep the creek was. Debris from upstream whipped by her, and she gauged the speed of the waters, her sense of urgency and doubt growing at her conclusion.
“We cannot cross here,” she whispered as much to the horse as to herself. She scoured the banks in each direction.
The frequent rains of early autumn had helped trap her.
The destrier shifted feet, nickering quietly.
Isabel twisted once more, and her heart felt as if it stopped.
A party of men, one of whom she knew from the distance by the brilliance of his banner, appeared down the road. If they saw her, they did not yet realize who she was, for their pace was a slow walk.
Isabel dismounted and leaned against the horse. Hot pain spiked through her injured leg. Gritting her teeth against it, she approached the stream at a hobble. No part of her considered crossing the fast moving water to be a good idea, but an even worse plan was being caught by the man she had fled across England to the Highlands. She patted the satchel across her chest and stepped away, returning to the horse. A quick search through the saddlebags yielded what she sought: an oiled cloak, resistant to the constant rain of the Highlands. Wrapping her precious cargo in it securely, she replaced it in the saddlebag and took the horse’s reins.
It nudged her with its long face, as if to second her instinct about this being a bad choice.
“My life is full of thus lately, horse,” she responded to it aloud. “You will fare better than I.” She slung one arm over its neck to balance her and limped towards the stream.
Trained to trust its warrior over its nature, the horse went with her.
Isabel walked into the thick muck beside the stream. She waited for the horse to do the same before she stepped into the swirling waters. Her foot sank two feet into the shallowest part of the small river, and she hesitated, eyes following a tree being swept swiftly downstream. Cold dampness sank into her clothing and chilled her to the bone.
“Lass! Ye canna think to cross here!”
The sharp voice of the warrior-laird made her jump. Isabel glimpsed him flinging his large frame off another destrier and striding towards her. His silver-blue eyes blazed with anger, and he was tense enough to warn her he did not intend to show her the mercy he had earlier.
Isabel tugged the horse with her and walked into the waters. Droplets splattered her face while the current yanked at her cloak. She was four steps into the stream, the water at her armpits, when she heard the splash behind her.
“Beware the –”
She saw the tree trunk headed towards her a moment before his warning. Isabel started to backpedal. Jarring pain, accompanied by the weight of her wet clothing, slowed her.
The tree smacked into her, driving her under the surface, her footing lost and cold fingers releasing the horse’s reins. The tide grabbed her and swept her into the center of the racing stream.
Gasping, she reached the surface and coughed up a mouthful of water, struggling to see through the water drops clinging to her eyelashes. Bobbing in the current, she was unable to see the horse or its master, nothing but the waves around her and the occasional floating branch or brush that whipped by her.
Isabel fought the pull and struggled to swim towards shore. The current yanked her under and tossed her back towards the center. Starting to panic, she tried again and found herself once more submerged. Her hands and feet were so cold, they hurt, her fingers and toes numb. It was a matter of time before she ended up too cold to move and drowned.
She hit something solid and started to get sucked beneath. Isabel clawed at the downed tree, still rooted to the bank and stretched across the water. With her arms wrapped around a branch the size of her leg, she rested for a moment to catch her breath and assess where she was.
The horse was nowhere in sight, and she wanted to cry at the thought of hurting it. Just as a tug of the current forced her attention to her situation, she saw something else in the waters headed towards her, a flash of red in the blues and greys of the stream.
The warrior-laird. He was caught in the same current that had swept her away but too far from the tree to find safety in its branches. Isabel was torn for a moment between helping him or letting the stream rid her of one of the two men threatening her life.
How very un-Christian of me. Banishing the evil thought that made her want to let someone else suffer, she pushed herself down the branch towards the center of the stream once more. She balanced the pull of the tide with her grip on the wood. When she was as far as she dared go, she released the tree with one hand and stretched. One foot more …