The Highlander did not pursue him.
He looked at her for a few seconds, as if giving her a chance to run, then stalked toward her. The slow pace he used was worse than if he had run. Isobel’s knees quaked as he prowled closer.
His dirk hung loosely in his right hand. Water dripped from his plaid, his boots, and the dark ends of his hair. Those long, dark locks which were kissed with coppery red highlights were plastered to his neck and continued to glisten in the sunlight. His face revealed nothing. He had a strong jaw, with a small cleft in his chin. His sideburns had grown a little long and across that robust jawline there was a hint of day-old stubble. Isobel wondered at the texture of it. Her hands flexed slightly as she considered lifting her hand and trailing just the tips of her fingers through the coarseness.
As he continued his approach, Isobel’s eyes darted from one feature to the next. On his nose there was a small bump. The trickle of blood that seeped from his nostrils urged her to believe that had she arrived moments before, she would have seen just how he came to acquire that injury. His cheekbones were sharp and well-defined but there were hundreds of small freckles dusting them, which gave him an oddly boyish look. Her interest was piqued by the contrast. In one respect, he looked like a recalcitrant, stoic warrior. But in another light, he almost seemed like a young man who was practicing for sport.
With each step, the Highlander drew closer, and when he got close enough that she could see a quizzical look cross his face, she knew that she had better move.
Get to the horse. Go now, while there’s still distance between you.
She did not budge, though every instinct told her to run. Running would only confirm she was worth chasing. Staying still was safer. At least, that was what she told herself.
This is absurd. He already knows I’m here.
She drew a slow breath.
I might as well stop hiding like a frightened rabbit.
She stepped forward and held up her hand as if to stop his progress. Her heart thumped so loudly in her chest that she wassure he would be able to hear it too. She lifted her chin and stared at him unflinchingly. She might not know exactly what to do, but instinct told her that showing her terror would be unwise.
“Halt,” she commanded, employing the tone she had heard her father use when dealing with those he considered beneath his station. “You will not come one step closer.”
Immediately, the Highlander stopped moving. The blade of his dirk sparkled in the sunlight. Isobel’s eyes flicked toward it, and she saw a spot of blood smeared on the tip.
Even though her words had worked and he had obeyed her, Isobel was frightened further by the weapon and so she softened her tone when she said in a more pleading manner, “Please don’t kill me.”
For a moment, the Highlander simply looked at her, as though recalculating something. Then he gave a short scoff and shifted the sword slightly in his hand.
“If I meant to kill ye, lass, ye’d already be dead.”
The sound of his voice, so sure and confident, sent a small, unexpected shiver through her. It was low and rough around the edges, making her stomach tighten in a way she did not appreciate, a faint warmth following close behind it, and she was suddenly, absurdly aware of how near he stood.
She shook herself out of her stupor.
He paused three steps away, close enough that she could see details his distance had hidden before. He looked younger than she initially thought, maybe not yet thirty, with a scar threading through his left eyebrow and eyes that were worthy of notice. At first, they seemed to be a sharp, gray hue. But then, upon further inspection, she realized that the color leaned more toward a bluish-green shade. She did not want to take her eyes off him for one second, but Isobel knew she needed to look skyward so she could make a proper comparison. Sure enough, when she glanced at the boughs overhead, she saw that the Highlander’s eyes were much like the needles on the branches of the pine trees. Those orbs were glowing and grey, with speckles of sapphire, sage, and olive softening them.
Despite the situation, she found his overall effect… striking.
Oh, certainly. This is the moment to notice that. A man has just killed someone not twenty feet away, and I’m standing here considering whether he is handsome.
The dirk was still in his right hand, and she was very, very aware of it.
His eyes scanned her with a thoroughness that missed nothing—her riding habit, her boots, the loose hair that had come free from its pins somewhere in the underbrush, and the water skin at her belt. She felt the appraisal like a hand pressed flat against her chest. She lifted her chin once more and broke the silence between them.
“Are you hurt?”
The question left her mouth before she finished forming it, and the effect was immediate; he went still. The dirk shifted slightly in his grip. He looked at her as if she had said something in the wrong language, and he was deciding whether it merited a response.
“What?” His voice was rough and heavily accented, the single syllable carrying an entire conversation’s worth of suspicion.
“You fought two men,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could manage, which was not entirely level. “I am asking if you are injured.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted past her to where the mare was visible through the trees. Unhurriedly, his eyes returned to her riding clothes, focused on the quality of her boots, and finally on the fact that she was here at all—alone, in this particular stretch of forest at this particular hour.
“You are an Englishwoman,” he said with disdain.
“I live in the Lowlands. But my father is English, if that is what you heard in my speech.”