The Laird had steered her down a long hall; she glanced through the windows as she passed and saw what looked like pleasant gardens and orchards. It looked truly no different than her own home at Robertson Castle; more and more, she saw that these people were not quite like the barbarians her father had always described them as.
"Matilda will get ye clean and dressed," the Laird growled. "I'll not have ye here unsupervised; it's still early yet. I will have the men ready to go immediately."
He turned to the maid, who was a gray-haired woman who, to Isla, looked quite kindly. "I dinnae want to hear that she has left your sight, Matilda," he said. "Do ye understand?"
The maid nodded without a word, and the Laird shuffled off, only casting one brief glance at Isla before shutting the door behind him.
I wonder if he'll stand there and wait outside of the door until we're done. He is so suspicious of me, and yet, I swear that I saw his face soften.
Isla was convinced that she had seen something else in his brown-eyed glare. It had confused her, but at times, she thought she could see something much less hard and sharp peeking through the savage mask he wore. Through most of their encounters together, she had sensed frustration, even anger, but there were moments when she was not sure. She had caught him eyeing her body, and the first time he'd thundered into the prison cell, he'd stared at her face as though he had known her from somewhere before, though Isla was certain that she'd never seen him before in her life.
"Alrigh' lass," the maid said. "I'll have someone fetch us some bathwater for ye; it's been some many years since I've been able to haul the pail meself. Sit tight for just a moment now."
The maid turned to beckon a younger woman, who nodded eagerly. Before long, pails of cool water were filled in the basin tub. Isla undressed and stepped in gingerly; it reminded her instantly of the chilly waters of her favorite loch. It was true that she was not out of trouble quite yet; she desperately hoped she would be able to see her loch and her home again.
Matilda had clucked over her much the same as the Robertson Castle maids would have done. It helped her to feel more at ease; she finally felt herself breathing easily. She was dressed in a sensible, fresh dress made of thick dark green linen. It was a simple garb, but she was grateful for the thick material. Once she was dressed, the maid paraded her down the stairs.
She had been right; the Laird had been waiting for her the entire time. Cleaning and dressing her didn't take long, but she still had been surprised to see him leaning up against the stone wall with his thick muscled arms folded crossly against his chest.
"M'Laird, the maid has been cleaned and dressed as ye've ordered," Matilda said. She inclined her head to the Laird, who only nodded and gestured that she was dismissed.
The sun had just taken its place in the center of the sky, resting on that thin line between morning and early afternoon. The Laird had demanded that she be taken to the village as quickly as possible, and for that, Isla was actually grateful.
"Come on then, lass," the Laird said. "Let's go find yer village and see if yer really speaking truly. I very much hope for yer sake that ye are."
He prompted her to walk down the stairs; he stayed directly behind her and waved her through the main hall of the MacThomas Castle. It was finer than she'd remembered it being the first night that she was brought here; it had been dark, and she had been terrified. Now she saw that it was decorated beautifully and with the sun, it looked positively cheerful.
The Laird, however, looked anything but.
The courtyard of the MacThomas had three burly men standing ready to leave immediately. At the sight of the Laird, one man perked up and signaled for the horses to be brought from the stables. The men were quick and efficient; within minutes, their steeds were filing in, their reigns held by the stablehands.
Isla saw with more than a little relief that they had saddled Brigida for her. She smiled at the sight of her old friend, already feeling better to be outside and with someone familiar, even if it had to be her old mare.
No one offered to help her into her saddle, but nor did she need or want anyone to. She pulled herself up easily, brushing her long black hair over her shoulder, and carefully pulled the letter out of her cloak.
"What does that note say?" the Laird barked at her. "Where does it tell ye to head?"
"South and west," Isla mumbled, her mind working. She could not imagine anyone who would know her that lived quite so far away.
And who could that have been that slipped the letter under her door in the first place?
Isla's thoughts were full of theories, but none of them seemed to hold up. There was no way to fathom who could have turned her world on its axis, and the more she tried to unravel the mystery, the more confused she became.
"Well, lass," the Laird said impatiently. "No time tae be waitin' around. Let's go, then."
She was brought out of her thoughts as she watched the Laird take the lead. She was to follow directly behind him with his men at her back in case she tried to flee on Brigida. Isla was no fool, however, and held no dreams of running away.
The motley group kept the woods at their side just as the letter had instructed. Isla almost felt normal in the outdoors, as though she didn't have her father's enemy leading her through the moors. She had always enjoyed being outdoors, and now the cool air and the sun on her face served to cheer her if only a little.
There was a long silence; the only sound was the hooves of the horses plodding over the hills alongside the sweet tweeting of several mistle thrushes diving overhead.
The men behind her had given her a wide berth, as though they were watching her every move. Isla watched as the Laird cast a glance at her over his shoulder, his brows tight with concern.
"I'm still here, m'Laird," she supplied, trying to lighten the mood as best as she could. She had sensed in him that something was folding. He did not speak to her with that rageful tone that he previously had.
"Ye cannae fault me for checking," he muttered. But he had fallen back a little, slowing his horse until she was riding at his side.
Isla felt his eyes on her again, but she did not turn to gaze back. She kept her head straight, her chin up, and tried to make the best out of her situation. The man had turned back ahead but was looking at her through his peripheral vision, though Isla could not think of a reason why. It was as if he was searching her face, as though he knew her from somewhere before.
