And yet, even he did not know what to do.
Iain contemplated telling him that the woman in the dungeon was also the woman from his haunting dreams, but he knew how he would sound. His mother would fix him with that mixture of sympathy and worry, but she would not believe him, even if she said she did.
Dream women, after all, did not walk in broad daylight, nor did they stay huddled up in dungeons.
His mother left him after fixing him with one more disapproving stare, but Iain could not falter. It took everything in him not to stride back down to the dungeon right that instant and question the girl further, but he did not want to take the chance of getting caught up in her presence and captivating beauty again. It would only serve to embarrass him if his stern mask slipped and she saw what was underneath: a lonely man, a grieving man.
He leaned back in his chair, alone in his bedchamber, and sighed, frustrated. There had to be some sort of explanation for this, and Iain MacThomas was going to find out what it was.
He wondered for the first time if the dream had been a warning.
* * *
Duncan Robertson was relaxing in his chambers, enjoying the quiet that had taken hold of the castle.
Ever since he had threatened those with talkative mouths with death, he had not heard Isla's name whispered in the shadowy corners of the castle at all. It had only been less than a day, but word had been buzzing around her name of late, and that was something that Duncan could not have.
He grunted as he stood, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn.
He was about to go down to the kitchens and see what the cooks had been preparing for his morning's breakfast, a rare good mood settling in when there came a knock on his door. He knew immediately who it would be; there was only one man among the Robertson clan that had the courage to knock upon the Laird's door with a force like that.
"Fingal," he cried through the thick wood. "Well, come in, come in, man. What news have ye? Ye look as though ye've been runnin' from the reaper himself."
It was true; Fingal did look poorly. The man's normal ruddy expression did look quite a bit paler, and his dark hair hung over his eyes, his chin low. When the man looked up, Duncan winced. He looked like the grave himself.
"Well?" Duncan demanded. "Out with it!"
Fingal took a deep, shuddering breath. "My apologies, m'Laird," Fingal said, his voice low and grating. "But I must report that Isla has gone missing as of this morn."
Duncan paused, blinking at Fingal as though he had not heard him correctly. He waited for the man to continue explaining, to tell him that he had been joking all along, but Fingal only looked down at the stonework floor.
"What do ye mean 'missing'?" Duncan asked. His voice had taken on a dangerous tone to it; there was a keen edge not unlike the deadly blade of his broadsword.
Fingal sighed, his wide chest blowing in and out only once. "Just as I said, m'Laird. Her sisters have not seen the lass at all this morn, and she was not in her bedchambers either. I have men searchin' the forests and the round near the loch, but the first party has come back with nothin' to show for it, m'Laird. We cannae think of where the lass could be."
Iain MacThomas.
There could be no one else behind this. Some snake among the MacThomas clan must have discovered her true identity and abducted her in order to make him pay. Duncan's instincts told him over and over that Isla was there; she had to be. Her favored loch had not been too terribly far from the MacThomas keep, and he had told her time and time again to avoid straying that far from the castle.
Yet, the girl did not listen.
Duncan's temper flared again, spots of color bursting before his eyes in his fury. Duncan fumed, his face turning red and then redder still.
Fingal certainly knew this would come; he had averted his eyes from his Laird to his boots.
"Find her!" Duncan let out in a rage. "I suspect none other tae be behind this than Iain MacThomas! I thought that puttin' the bastard’s father in the ground along with more than half of his best warriors ought to have been enough tae silence him, but it seems like he's achin' for another lesson. Taking Isla has gone too far!"
His roars were both directed to Fingal and to himself. He had done his best to keep the girls under lock and key, all of them, not just Isla. He cursed, his voice thundering.
"Take our best trackers," Duncan said when he had a handle on himself. "Our finest men. We need to find her now. I have a suspicion on where the lass is. I want our men fitted completely for battle, d'ye understand?"
Fingal dipped his head, his bright ginger hair catching the sun. He let out a breath before he lifted his head; Duncan saw resolve seep into the man's gaze. He would find Isla and bring her back home, Duncan knew.
Because if he didn't, Fingal would incur his wrath, and the man knew it.
Fingal turned sharply without another word, shutting the door quietly behind him and leaving Duncan to his racing thoughts. They were full of rage, of vengeance, but more than anything else, Duncan had one image spring to life in his mind more than the others.
Iain MacThomas, lying slain on the battlefield with Duncan's sword running him through. Duncan let a small, wry smile touch his lips. Perhaps there was a silver lining to this catastrophe; it gave him the excuse to attack the MacThomas keep and end his mortal enemy's life once and for all.
