Chapter Six
Isla had at least received a new change of clothes. Everything in her bag was still musty and damp from the rain; the contents were no longer truly soaked, but nor were they anywhere near dry enough to wear. And so, she was given a maid's dress made of white and brown cotton. It was slightly scratchy, and she could tell it had been previously worn, but she didn't care. The dress was warm and dry, and they'd even given her a thin cloak to wrap around herself, which she did with eagerness and gratitude.
She remembered the Laird's eyes upon her and his words to the guard about bringing her new clothes. It had been a kind thing to do, even if he had done so in a rage, but it told her that there was at least a pinprick of gentleness in the man's heart.
Why am I worrying about the state of this Laird's emotions? I should be trying to think of a way out of this mess!
Even as the thoughts occurred to her, she knew that they were useless. Isla had explored nearly every inch of the damp dungeon she had been thrown in during her time that she'd been locked away. No stone was out of place, and no light peeked through the space under the door. It was impossible to even fit her pinky finger beneath it. She had run her hands across every smooth stone, felt for anything she could use as a weapon in case she needed it.
She had laughed at herself then, searching for loose stones to strike at her captors with. She would be run through before she could even lift her arm to defend herself; this was a certainty that she knew all too well.
Her father had told her and her sisters stories about the Robertson clan. She had known them to be savages her entire life, nothing but brutal, war-hungry tyrants who delighted in ravaging the land. Years ago, her father had succeeded in not only slaying the Laird of the castle but taking out many of their best warriors as well.
She had heard the story told fervently by him more times than she could count. Laird Caelan MacThomas, laying to waste most of their soldiers, only turning around to leave the keep in shambles. He had told his daughters that it was enough to leave his enemies in shame rather than conquer them all. She had always wondered if that story were true; her father had never been one to show mercy.
Isla had no idea what time it was nor how long she'd truly sat alone inside these four walls. She had tried to sleep but found that she couldn't, not when her fate hung so precariously out of her reach.
She jolted when the door pushed open again, but this time it was gentle, not the forceful slamming that the Laird had done. She lifted her head, her fear tugging at her to get her attention. She considered opening her mouth to plead for her release again but stopped when she saw a thinner silhouette against the light of the open door.
It shut behind the figure, and when Isla's eyes adjusted, she saw with some surprise that it was a woman.
"So yer the lass my son has holed up here in this dungeon," the woman said. Her voice was soft and comforting, and Isla found that she liked her immediately. "My apologies, lass; my son can be quite hot-headed when he's a mind tae be. I cannae hold it against him, as he is my only child, and yet even I can admit when he is wrong.”
The woman shook her head, looking away from Isla at the corner of the dungeon. When her attention turned back to Isla, her eyes had softened. Isla found herself so surprised still by the woman's entrance that she had no voice at all.
"My name is Fiona MacThomas," the woman said. "Mother to the bull-headed Laird, but we have gone through all of that, have we not, lass?"
Isla simply nodded her head, her mouth slightly slack. Perhaps this woman was kind enough to set her free. Maybe she should still hold onto some hope!
"What we havenae spoken of is who ye are," Fiona went on to say. "I tried to speak to my son, but he is too young to truly see things as they are at times. Iain's judgment has become clouded of late. I cannae hold it against him, and yet he is too ruled by anger and grief to see clearly."
Grief? Had that been what the woman had said?
Isla's mind worked; could he still be grieving the death of his father? It had been at least seven years since that bloody battle had ended the life of Caelan MacThomas. Could he still be so affected as to go through life in the fog his mother had said he'd been walking through?
"Can ye not let me out?" Isla asked, her voice cracking. "Please, I just want tae go home."
Fiona angled her head regarding Isla quietly. She said nothing for a few moments and then looked as though she might open the door for her but did not budge.
"And where is home, lass?" she asked. "Tell the truth now. It's important that we ken from whence ye came."
This woman was indeed a MacThomas, but she did not seem like a savage or barbarian. On the contrary, she seemed like someone Isla would love to get to know; she was motherly and kind, with sad brown eyes that stared at Isla so intently.
"Please," Isla said. "I told the Laird when he questioned me as well. I am but a daughter of a simple servant of the MacIntosh Castle. I live in a small village near the castle, and I found meself lost on the moors in the storm during my nightly swim! I —"
She stopped, for the woman had a small smile on her lips.
"I am also of the mind tae find meself in the lochs at night," Fiona said. "It seems like we're cut of the same cloth, ye and I."
Isla swallowed, waiting for the woman to speak more. She didn't want to destroy her chances of being released, if there even were any at all. She could think of nothing more to say; no other excuse came to her mind, and she was careful not to contradict herself with what she had said to the Laird.
"But is that the truth, lass?" she asked. "Somehow, I feel as though ye are still hiding something from me."
Isla dropped her head, her breath fleeing from her body. This woman, too, was smarter than she'd realized. The MacThomas clan were looking less like brainless savages and more and more like strategists, thinkers.
"It's true," she said. "I... I wasn't exactly searching for home. I was running from it, truly."
It was a gamble, but she reached inside the small pocket of her wet cloak that sat in a pile upon the dungeon floor. She produced the letter, fragile and soaked, and placed it carefully in the woman's hands.
