Sometime during the day, Fiona stirred to hear heavy rain pounding on the thatch. The laird had been right about the weather. She hardly cared. She was warm and safe—when the weather turned dreich, there were worse places to be than a snug Highland bothy. A fire blazed merrily in the grate, and Diarmid had covered her with his coat. His spicy scent filled her senses once more, helping to calm her fears.
On the far side of the cottage, the laird slept on the packed dirt floor. He used his saddle as a pillow. The sight of him gave her the same reassurance as his scent. She settled back into immediate slumber.
Now Fiona emerged from the deep sleep of exhaustion. She opened blurry eyes on lamplight and a tall, dark-haired man watching her from where he sat among the shadows.
Mr. Mactavish. Diarmid.
She felt no disorientation. She knew exactly where she was.
“Better?” he asked softly.
Gingerly, stiff from the long ride, she slid away his heavy coat and shifted to perch on the side of the bed. She felt like she’d been beaten—and she knew that feeling well enough. Aggravating how weak she still was. She needed to regain her strength soon, or she’d be no use to Christina.
“Aye, thank you.”
“I’m glad. I’m sorry I pushed ye so hard yesterday.”
Her lips turned down in a smile that was close to a grimace. “I’m not, if it means we outrun the Grants.”
“I wouldnae worry about them for the moment.” He shrugged. “I’ll be verra surprised if they track us so far.”
So would she. She ran a hand over her untidy mess of hair. What an absolute fright she must look. Diarmid would wonder if he shared the house with a witch.
Her mind slammed to an appalled standstill. Good Lord, when had she started to worry whether a man approved of her appearance? At Bancavan, she’d tried as hard as she could to avoid masculine notice altogether. “What time is it?”
“About four.”
“In the afternoon?” If it was, she’d slept most of the day away.
“Aye.”
He rose from his spindly chair and crossed to offer his hand. “There’s a bucket of water in the corner, if you’d like to wash.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking his hand. She stumbled as she stood but gestured him away when he made a move to pick her up again.
“No, don’t carry me. I need to stand up for myself.”
His lips twitched. “As long as ye are managing to stand.”
She tottered toward a chair and watched as he tugged his coat over his shoulders. “Are you going out in the rain?”
“I willnae melt, lassie, and the lean-to is only across the way. I’ll go and check on Sigurn to give ye some privacy. Take your time. When I get back, I’ll fix us something to eat. The laird here keeps the bothy stocked, in case travelers are stranded. As you’ve seen, the weather in these braes can turn on a sixpence.”
“Thank you.” She started to feel like a parrot, saying the same thing over and over again.
Only after he’d disappeared out the door did she notice that the water he’d left her was steaming with heat and he’d put a folded handkerchief near the bucket. He’d also put out a small cake of soap and a comb.
More silly tears stung her eyes. Such simple concessions to bring her to the brink of losing control, but for years she’d survived without an ounce of kindness or consideration from people who owed her their care. Diarmid’s thoughtfulness made her feel like sinking down to the ground and howling like a lost bairn.
By the time he returned, she felt much better. Taking a cat bath in hot water had felt almost luxurious. Tidying the birds’ nest of her hair made her feel less like something that same cat had dragged in.
Without a mirror, she didn’t try to do anything elaborate with the style. Once she’d combed out the knots, she braided it into one long plait and tied it with the pale blue ribbon threaded through the neck of her chemise.
How she wished she had some fresh clothes to put on. After yesterday’s travel, her plain gray frock was stained and creased, and she’d love a change of linen.
Diarmid appeared in the doorway and flung off his coat. Fiona was used to seeing him dressed comme il faut. The man before her was no longer the elegant Laird of Invertavey. His thick dark hair was wet and windswept, and after the long ride and sleeping rough, his shirt was in worse state than her dress. Dark stubble shadowed that determined jaw and lent him a disreputable air. Even a frightened mouse of a woman like her found this rough-hewn version of her rescuer intriguing.
“Sigurn is all tucked up and enjoying her oats.” That sharp black gaze ran over Fiona with more concern than covetousness. Still, an instinct of self-protection had her folding her arms in front of her breasts.