He did not really frighten her with his sudden fierce intensity. She found that she had a deep, abiding trust in him. What she did not understand was why he was so fierce. Their conversation had taken a strange turn that left her confused. It was certainly not like any she had dreamt they would have when she finally got to talk to him. ‘Although,’ she mused with an inner smile over her own foolishness, ‘it is no stranger than if he began to spout flowery phrases of undying love as I have so often imagined him doing.’ In truth, next to that fantasy, this strange discussion seemed quite reasonable.
"I ken more than I like, little one. To get a wee lass like ye with bairn is much as cutting her throat. Aye, she will do naught but scream while day fades into night and back again, only to spill out a dead bairn and her life's blood. I ken all too weel."
She staggered when he released her abruptly. “That fate can visit a woman with hips as wide as a loch,” she said calmly, knowing from the brief glance she had had of remembered horror in his eyes that he spoke of something very personal.
"Suit yourself, lass,” he said coldly, his calm restored.
"Aye, I will. I will wed and by a year's end I will have me a bairn. Nay, I will have twins and ye can come to the christening, Sir MacLagan,” she retorted with a mixture of confidence and childish defiance.
That haughty declaration almost made him smile. She looked belligerent and confident. That made him feel certain that she had little idea of what she spoke of. Some women could be kept very sheltered, knowing little or nothing of life until they found themselves wed and thrust from their family home.
"'Tis your life, mistress. Toss it away as ye please."
The reply forming on her lips was never made for she spotted a familiar shape in the distance. “I must go now, Sir MacLagan."
With that she was off and running even as a farewell formed on his tongue. Her skirts were well hiked up and, even as he noted that her legs were slim as well, he deemed them very fine legs indeed. He then looked to see what had sent her off.
Marching down the path was a tall, thin woman adorned wholly in black. Her hawkish features made him think of a carrion bird. The impression was not lessened when she paused before him, fixing him with a cold, grey stare.
The woman was so completely the opposite of the woman-child that Iain almost smiled. He mused with a touch of humour that they made a strange pair. Then again, he mused, such a stern guardian was probably just what the minx needed to keep her from getting completely out of hand.
"Did ye see a wee lass aboot, m'laird? Most like she was disheveled and without an escort."
In a courtly manner that never failed to impress, Iain replied that he had indeed seen just such a lass. In the same way he politely sent the woman in the wrong direction. As he strolled back to the castle he wondered why he had done that.
After just a few moments of conversation with the girl he was already acting strangely. Since she was going to be around often now, he decided that was something he had to watch out for. His cold, hard pose had been hard won and he had no intention of losing it to some tiny lady with wild, wine-red hair. It had worked and no knight worth his armor gave up a successful defense.
He fought down his emotions as he saw her in his mind's eye. She was daintier and smaller than Catalina had been. The only reason he could find for speaking out so bluntly was that he could see her meeting the same fate. She would go to her marriage bed, get with child and die to be buried beside her babe, two innocents lost in one stroke. Iain shook his head wishing there could be some sort of law against letting such tiny, frail ladies wed. It was tantamount to a death sentence.
Islaen suffered no concerns about childbirth once she left Iain. Her only worry was surviving Meg's scolding which had duly fallen on her moments after she had reached her room. A distant cousin of her father's, Meg had been hired to raise her after the death of her mother. The woman set about her job with admirable vigor. Making use of the tender spot her father and eleven brothers had for her did not deter her at all.
Each of the men in Islaen's family treated the girl with amused and loving tolerance. Sometimes Meg suspected they forgot Islaen was a girl. She had dragged the girl from wrestling matches, riding contests, knife hurlings. That Islaen seemed ill-equipped to be a fine lady was no help either. Not only ill-equipped but none too interested either, Meg feared, as was illustrated by an incident just a week past. Fine ladies did not get on their hands and knees to join in a dice game.
Meg had no sense of failing with the girl. Improvements had been made. When the laird had first brought her to care for Islaen, the girl had been as wild as any lad. With determination Meg had smoothed away many a rough edge.
"Is he not the bonniest mon ye have e'er seen?” Islaen sighed after Meg soundly denounced Iain MacLagan's trick.
Meg's sharp eyes grew even sharper as they rested upon her charge sprawled somewhat ungracefully in her bath. “He is scarred."
"'Tis just a wee one,” Islaen retorted defensively. “Ye hardly e'en see it."
Thinking of the scar that ran from the man's right temple nearly to his lip, Meg drawled, “Oh, aye, barely visible. A wee nick in the skin."
With no trouble at all, Islaen ignored Meg's sarcasm. She had never found it hard to do that. Long before Meg had arrived Islaen had learned that, as well as how to return it in equal measure, for her family had sharp tongues.
"I wonder how he came by it. Something gallant, I wager. A duel o'er a fair lady's honour or heart.” She let her imagination take hold of her.
The noise Meg made was highly derisive. “Or bed. ‘Tis the sort o’ thing that puts most men in a lather. They wield one sword and hack aboot at each other just tae win the chance to wield their other sword. Men have but twa thoughts in their heads."
"Aye,” Islaen sighed, “fighting and wenching, blood and flesh, violence and lust, swords and seduction, rampaging and rutting..."
"I ken that covers it, ye wicked girl.” Meg met Islaen's dancing gaze without expression. “Out o’ the bath ere ye wrinkle."
"Heaven forbid that I should add wrinkles to the freckles,” Islaen murmured as she stood up and stepped out of the bath. “I wish I could have such a husband as Sir Iain. Would we not have bonnie wee ones? And strong, like my brothers and fither. T'would be verra nice."
As instructed by her kin, Meg took note of Islaen's stated preference. At the first opportunity she would tell the laird. It would be nice if the child could have a husband she fancied, but none of them hoped too hard. She was a wee lass that many a man would fear to break. It had been the same when the laird had married the lass's mother only to have everyone proven very wrong indeed. The trouble was that few recalled the girl's mother, so few would believe that Islaen could prove as strong or as prolific. Then too, Islaen was a bit more delicate and not quite as lovely, her mother having been highly praised for her beauty.
Meg could not help but wonder if she had erred in keeping Islaen's true looks a secret from her family. There was no chance that a husband could remain ignorant. She had only tried to insure that the girl did not become an object of ridicule and looked her loveliest. Perhaps that would be enough to gain forgiveness for the deception she had practiced, and forced Islaen to, when the truth was finally revealed. As she began to help Islaen dress she hoped the girl would not suffer from her own husband the very scorn and ridicule she had tried so hard to protect the girl from. It would cut the child deeply, inflict a wound that might never heal.
