“I said ye had tae be civil and mind yer manners. That’s nae the same thing. We need tae maintain peace wi’ the Oliphants, aye… but beyond that, we ought nae mix wi’ them.”
“Why nae?” she repeated.
His brow bristled ominously. “Because ‘twas the bloody Oliphants who killed yer grandfather.”
1
Eight years passed, and during that time, it was generally agreed upon by those who knew Isla that she did not change all that much.
She was taller, certainly, and her once-skinny silhouette had filled out somewhat into curves that turned the heads of most lads that saw her. But her brown eyes still laughed and danced, and her hair was often still tangled and unruly from her activities.
She remained headstrong and rebellious, and she still had a penchant for dirtying her dresses at every opportunity. However, instead of doing so by pretending to be various animals for her own amusement, she now found ways to stain them whilst riding her beloved horse, Thistledown.
Thistledown was a tall stallion, milk white with dappled gray legs and belly. He was sleek and fast, and he was given to Isla by Elspeth on her eighteenth birthday in the hope that it would keep her off the ground—and thus, keep her clothes clean.
Isla, in turn, seemed to go out of her way to find some muddy patch, shallow stream, or dense forest every time she was out for a run… and so she would return with her dresses spattered withmuck, soaked through, or covered in brambles. By that point, her mother had ceased complaining about it, knowing that the war had been fought and lost long ago.
Hamish, on the other hand, stil refused to surrender that particular conflict. He ranted and fumed each time he saw her in such a condition, and today, it seemed, would be no exception.
“Look at the state of ye, lassie!” he exclaimed, horrified, as she dismounted in front of the stables. “What swamp did ye drag yerself through this time, eh?”
“I didnae think tae ask the frogs what it was called,” she giggled, showing off the green and brown smears on her once-white dress. “Actually, I quite like how it came out! I might just keep it this way!”
“Ye’ll do nae such damn thing!” he snapped. “Och, ye’ll be the death of me some day! Go up an’ get changed this very instant, for I’ll nae have the man kept waitin’ a moment longer than necessary!”
Isla tilted her head, freeing several leaves from her hair. “What man?”
“‘What man?’” He stomped his foot, exasperated. “I’ve only told ye a hundred bloody times, lass! Rory Haggart, the older cousin of Laird Euan Haggart, has declared his intention tae court ye! Theirs is a respectable clan, and ‘twould be a strong match!”
“I’ve told ye over and over, father, I dinnae consent te ye offering me up tae the highest bidder like a prize pig at a market!” she reminded him crossly. “If I am tae marry, I shall marry someone of my own choosin’.”
“But ye never choose anyone! Ye never willingly let any lad make a proper attempt tae woo ye, and I say this foolishness has gone on long enough! Ye’re of marryin’ age, so ye are, an’ so ye shall do yer duty tae this clan an’ marry a man who’ll help us thrive for generations tae come!”
“I will nae marry a man I dinnae like, and ye cannae force me to!”
“How do ye evenknowye dinnae like him when yerefuse tae meet him?!” he exploded.
“Very well! I’ll meet him, and I’ll even wear a clean dress,” she conceded angrily, “but ye’ll soon see that nae good shall come of it!”
Isla stormed up to her room and shed her unclean dress. She balled it up and threw it into a corner, letting out a frustrated groan. She loathed having to do this again – having to find some novel method of brushing off yet another would-be suitor.
But it had to be done, and that was all there was to it. She refused to be traded off to some other clan by her father like a wagonload of grain. She was worth more than that.
Besides, she thought,there’s the other reason I’d just as soon put off my wedding night for as long as possible. Perhaps even forever, if it comes to that.
She shook her head, trying to clear it of the unwelcome thought just as she did each time it bobbed to the surface. Then she selected a clean dress—green with white ruffles, and lined with tiny bows. Nothing particularly flattering or provocative, for that was generally not her style. She donned the matching slippers, surveyed herself in the looking glass, and forced a smile that was meant to be just a bit too wide for comfort. She added a stunned and glassy look to her eyes, then nodded, satisfied that she looked like a madwoman, and allowed her face to return to normal.
Such things had to be perfect, after all, and no one ever achieved perfection without at least a wee bit of practice.
Isla scampered down to the front doors, where her parents were both waiting for her. Hamish looked her over imperiously, and—seeming mildly surprised at finding no obvious flaws—gave her a small and grudging nod.
The servants opened the heavy doors, and one of them announced: “Rory Haggart, of the Clan Haggart!”
When Isla saw the man, she gave her father a withering look.
Hamish cleared his throat, muttering under his breath: “I did mention he was the laird’s older cousin, did I nae?”
“How old is Laird Euan?” Isla asked through gritted teeth.
