“Lowland horses,” he said.
He did not know why he kept saying that. It was not an argument he was winning.
“You keep saying that as though Highland horses are a different species.”
“Highland terrain is different.”
“The horse doesn’t care about the terrain. The horse cares about the rider.”
He looked at her then. The wind had pulled strands of her hair loose across her face, and she had not bothered to push them back. She was gazing at the land ahead with that expression she sometimes had—open and unguarded, the one she did not know she was wearing. He looked away.
She sensed his gaze. He noticed it in the slight stiffening of her spine and the careful way she avoided looking back at him, and he felt a grim, humorless amusement at the fact that they were essentially reduced to this—two people on horseback pretending not to see each other at a distance of four feet.
They rode further out, further than he had intended, but the land was wide, and the storm was still holding, and he did not suggest turning back, and she did not ask.
“Did you ride here as a boy?” she asked.
“Every day.”
“With your father?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Before.”
She did not push it. He had expected her to, but once again, Isobel had surprised him.
“It’s beautiful,” she said instead. “The land.”
He looked at it. The long gray folds of the glens, the heather brown and flattened by the wind, the hills dark against the pressing sky. He had looked at this land every day of his life and had not, in a long time, looked at it the way she was looking at it now, as though it was something worth seeing.
“Aye,” he said, quietly. “It is.”
The lightning hit without warning. It struck the hillside two hundred yards north, a white crack followed by thunder, and the mare screamed, going down on her front knees. He was already moving before he thought; his hand shot out and grabbed her at the waist, pulling her back hard as his whole body braced for her weight.
She did not fall.
The mare scrambled upright, trembling, and he had both sets of reins and her waist. He was speaking low and fast—either to the horse or to her; he was not entirely sure which—only that hishand was at her waist, she was upright, and he could feel her breathing through his palm. He was not ready to let go.
“I have her,” she said, breathless. “I am all right.”
He did not move his hand.
She settled the mare with her voice and one hand on the animal’s neck, calm and confident, and he watched her do it, feeling his own pulse still racing and knowing it had nothing to do with the lightning.
His hand remained on her waist. He was aware of this with a clarity that nearly hurt. The coat and her shirt were between them, yet he could still feel her form, her warmth, and the specific solidity of her. Last night, there had only been thin linen, and he had felt her breasts rise and fall with each breath under his palm.
He needed to stop thinking about last night.
The thunder rolled away across the glens. The echo faded. Neither of them spoke. He could hear her breathing, slightly faster than usual, and he thought she could probably hear his, and the sky pressed down full and dark and ready to break.
“Isobel,” he quietly.
“We need to go back.” His hand dropped.
“Yes,” she agreed and then they were off.
They rode hard for the castle through the rain. The wind whipped his hair, and the icy cold rain soaked his flesh, but Alasdair did not care what the elements did to him. His eyes stayed locked on Isobel, and they did not leave her form until they rode back to the safety of the stables.
Alasdair dismounted swiftly, then helped Isobel out of her saddle.