Page 20 of To Win a Highlander’s Heart

“That’s a very real possibility,” Orrick said flatly. “But I also think the English government knows that my brother, Alastair, is the last nail into that powder keg. Alastair is a man of peace—a diplomat. Determined not to fight unless there is no other alternative.”

Lieutenant Collins peered over the brim of his glass. “With his fellow Scots or the English?”

“An English invasion would unite the isle and Highland clans faster than if Prince Charlie returned,” Tormod said without looking up from his glass.

“Is that what you support? The return of the Pretender?” The reply was shot back, stiff with indignation.

Tormod sat back and stared at their guest, his eyes alight with challenge. “I said nothing of the sort. Merely stating a fact that I think you Sassenach forget sometimes while you patrol the isle. Your presence only makes the Scots want to sharpen their clai’mors.”

“Tormod, this is supposed to be a civil dialogue,” Alastair said, warning his brother to end the antagonistic conversation now before things became heated.

Lieutenant Collins set his empty glass down and peered at both Alastair and Tormod through narrowed eyes. “If you want to guarantee safety for your family, you could always declare your fealty to the king. When the English armies come—and they will come, I promise you—such an alliance might spare your loved ones.”

Alastair stood. “At this particular point in time, I believe in leaving alliances the way they are. My loyalty will always be to the isle and her people.”

“I admire your commitment to your people, but that could soon turn to stupidity if you are not careful.” Lieutenant Collins’s voice was as cold as steel as he and his men stood. The lieutenant grabbed a capped bottle of whisky off the table and with angry footsteps headed for the door. Alastair, Tormod, and Graeme followed, leaving Orrick and one other occupant in the chamber.

As the footsteps retreated, Orrick moved to the back of the room. The tension in his shoulders relaxed for the first time since they’d entered the chamber with the Englishmen. “What were you thinking, being out of your bedchamber?”

The woman beneath the tartan cloth unfurled and crawled out from under the table until she stood before Orrick. “I was searching for my bow and quiver when you and those men entered. What was I to do? Announce myself to the lieutenant?”

The lieutenant? “Lieutenant Collins was the man you talked about in your fevered dreams? He was the man from your nightmares?”

Her pale face was all the answer he needed.

“If he’d seen you . . .”

“That’s why I need my weapon back. Please? It is more urgent now than ever.”

He wanted to ask her what she meant, but he was suddenly distracted by her clothing. She had fashioned a sort of gown out of the tartan blanket and the ribbons he’d used to bind her during her fever. The ‘dress’ left her shoulders exposed and only came to her midcalf, leaving her shapely ankles bare. At the sight, warmth flooded him. Then heat, fiery heat. The woman before him was soft and feminine, yet strong and powerful. A heady combination.

Her hair was still a snarled mess, and yet the sight of her brought an unusual curl of warmth to his chest. “I’ll strike a bargain with you. You let Gwendolyn help you tame your hair, and find you a more acceptable gown. This evening you’ll come down to the great hall to dine with my family. Then on the morrow I will return your weapon.”

Isolde glanced down at her would-be gown. “The whole idea of dining with others is rather intimidating after a year of being in a less than civilised situation.”

“But you’ll do it if it means reclaiming your weapon.”

She swallowed roughly as she brought her gaze to his. “How can I refuse?”

He smiled, pleased that she had agreed. “Let me escort you back to your chamber. And since we are heading that way, allow me to show you one of our most prized possessions.”

“The Fairy Flag?” she asked, suddenly breathless. “I’ve heard stories over the years of the gift given to you by the fairies.”

“It was given to us by one particular fairy who was granted permission by her father, the fairy king, to marry Iain Cair MacLeod for a year and a day before being called back to Fairyland,” Orrick explained as they walked from the great hall and up the stairs to the bedchambers. He stopped at the doorway of the drawing room and waved Isolde inside.

She approached the Fairy Flag with cautious steps until she stopped before where it hung between the seaward-facing windows. “It’s more damaged than I expected.”

“It is from the fourth century,” he said from beside her. “That is why Alastair had it preserved between two panes of glass as you see it now. He hopes to safeguard the flag for the generations who follow us.”

Isolde stared at the faded yellow silk embroidered with red elf dots and crosses. “I remember the tale of how the baby’s mother came back from Fairyland one night when her child was crying. She wrapped him in the silken cloth and sang him a lullaby. The details of the flag’s magic are less clear in my memory.”

“The legend claims the flag can be used in a time of great need to call forth the fairy legions for assistance.”

Her gaze shifted from the flag to him. “The MacLeods have used it before, if I remember correctly.”

“Twice, out of three chances. There is only one more use left before the flag and the flagbearer will be drawn back to Fairyland.”

She gazed back at the flag. “Will Alastair use the flag if necessary?”