Islaen was dressed in her finest. Her father was a wealthy man and no expense had been spared. Her chemise was of the finest silk, as were the braes she insisted upon wearing. The corset was a rich brown velvet with elaborate embroidery on the sleeves that matched the gold surcote. Shoes of the finest gold velvet adorned her small feet. The houppelande that was becoming more and more popular was left off for Islaen had not yet mastered wearing the voluminous robe with any grace, having difficulty with the draping sleeves and the way it trailed on the ground. After placing the fine couverchef upon Islaen's head, Meg surveyed the results with a very critical eye.
After a final check to make sure that there were no lumps, bumps or wrinkles and that the errant hair was still neatly contained, Meg declared Islaen ready. She then took her charge to join the men in the great hall where the search for a husband would begin and Islaen would meet the king.
Islaen fought to control her nerves. She did not want to do anything silly or stupid. Her pride quailed at the very thought of it.
She did not like the situation but had decided to forbear. It was far past time she had a husband. Coming to court allowed a greater choice. She simply wished the choice would be more in her hands than it would be.
The resentment that tried to gnaw at her was fairly easily put aside. This was the way such matters were settled. She was grateful she had not been betrothed at cradleside. There had been the opportunity for her to find a man and there were plenty to choose from around home. When she had reached the age of nineteen still unattached, it was no surprise that her father would take matters into his own hands. She could not blame him for that. Even if she did not really agree with his methods, she knew he was doing it out of love, because he wanted to see her happy. The political, defensive or monetary arrangements that could come out of her betrothal were only pleasant additions, not necessities. Glancing towards her father, who was talking to Meg, she hoped he would give her some pleasant surprise in his choice of groom that would ease the sting of not having Iain MacLagan.
"The lass has an eye for Sir Iain MacLagan,” Meg informed Alaistair MacRoth at the very first opportunity. “Do ye ken the mon?"
"Aye.” Alaistair adjusted his long, broad-shouldered frame more comfortably upon the bench. “Widowed for o'er a year. Said he is still grieving sore as he doesnae pursue the lasses, doesnae show an interest in them at all. Said he is cold, that his emotions lie with his late wife. Be a good match, for the land Islaen would bring him lies near his kin, but I cannae think there will be any move made there.” He frowned at his cousin. “Are ye sure? ‘tis a hard face on the mon that isnae helped by that gruesome scar etched upon his cheek."
"The lass claims ye hardly see it, ‘tis a mere nick. Cast an eye on your wee daughter, cousin, and watch where her eyes linger."
It was an easy thing to confirm, for Islaen's whole face radiated her admiration for the man who sat at the king's table. She would seem to come to her senses, conceal the look and act nonchalant, but it did not last long. Within moments her control slipped again.
"Och, weel, I will give it a try but I cannae think it will lead anywhere. ‘Tis said that a murderer stalks him, a mon who blames him for the death of Catalina, his late wife. Some old lover, I would wager. Could be he takes no wife for fear she will soon be made a widow.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his graying auburn hair. “Still, best she be happy for a short while than unhappy for a long while. If ye can, turn her eye to Ronald MacDubh. That mon is godson to the king and he has expressed an interest in our Islaen."
"Ye mean in her purse. Coin flows through his hands like water, hands that cannae keep off o’ the lasses."
"He is young and nay hard to look upon. He is also close to the king. After him they grow older and less fair to the eye. There are too many full-bodied women about. The young men want a wife that willnae be lost beneath the covers, some curves to hold."
Alaistair wished his words were not true but, though Islaen's dowry put many men to thinking, there was money and land to be found in other places. So too would there be some flesh to hold onto and make a soft bed with. Delicacy of looks only aroused brotherly feelings when it was unaccompanied by full breasts and well-rounded hips. Their eyes would light up over the dowry, only to flicker and die when they closely observed what went with it. What interest could be stirred was not held long. A little less dowry for a lot more woman was a sacrifice most of the young men were willing to make.
Islaen had not expected much interest, so was not disappointed when there was so little. Her menfolk did all the work while she entertained herself watching Iain MacLagan. Assuming that her family would soon find her a husband, she decided that she should soak up as much about the man as she could. A multitude of memories could come in handy later. It was highly possible that her marriage could use a great deal of imagination and dreaming to make it tolerable.
She knew that few men could equal the image she had of Iain MacLagan. It was going to be difficult not to constantly compare others, whatever husband she gained, to him. That was something she was going to have to try very hard not to do. It would be very foolish indeed to ruin her chances for happiness with another man because she was unable to let go of a dream. It would also be unfair to her husband.
That was true, of course, only if she was blessed with a husband who was also willing to try for the best marriage possible, full, rich and lasting. There was, however, far too great a chance that she would not get a husband like that, no matter how carefully her father chose for her. She knew enough of the world to know that not all men considered marriage a sacred trust or a wife of any importance save that of a breeder of legitimate heirs. With a husband like that, memories of Iain MacLagan might well be her only source of joy aside from whatever children she might have.
Despite her admirable reasoning for her steady perusal of Iain MacLagan, she admitted that she simply liked to look at him. He was a feast for her eyes. Even when she knew she was being too blatant and fought to turn her attentions elsewhere, her gaze was drawn back to him and she was yet again lost in the pleasure of watching him.
He was dressed in dark blue and maroon. Long, wellshaped muscular legs were snugly encased in maroon hose. The tight sleeves of his deep blue jupon revealed strong arms. Broad shoulders, a trim waist and slim hips completed what was a fine figure of a man. He was taller than most yet moved with a lithe grace that belied his strength and size. Many a woman's eye touched upon him in approval. It did not seem to matter all that much that he returned neither inviting looks nor friendly smiles, remaining impervious to all ploys and flirtations.
Facially he was somewhat daunting. His was a lean face with harsh lines not enhanced by either the jagged white scar or remote expression he wore. Grief had made his high cheekbones more prominent, the hollows in his smooth shaven cheeks deeper. His mouth was well formed although his lips were on the thin side, something made more noticeable by their grim set. A long straight nose and proud jaw were more delineated than on other men. A dark complexion only added to what seemed a formidable and constant darkness of expression. Rich brown hair was cut neatly, framing the remarkable face. It was also shot with strands of white, unusual in a man of only four and thirty.
It was all food for her imagination. She wondered at his loss, the grief that had left such a mark upon him. From there it was easy to imagine herself as the one who could return love and laughter to his life. As she dreamed, there were more people than she knew working towards giving her dream a chance.
