"Yer father struck you?" he asked, surprised.
Isla looked as though she was lost in the memory for a moment and then turned back to him, her fingers entwined in the horse's white mane. She looked as though she were trying to force herself out of thoughts of the past.
His own father had never acted out in such a way. Caelan MacThomas had been one of the most righteous and honorable men he'd ever known, and not just because he was Iain’s father. The man had done his best by Iain, had forged him into a man. Iain could only hope that he made him proud.
His heart bruised only slightly as he wondered what his father would have said about keeping a young woman locked up in a dungeon. He then told himself that the family he'd been worried that Isla had been from had been the same one that took his father's life. He had to harden his heart, be wary of any move that the Robertson clan made.
It could be his mother next. Or the rest of the entire MacThomas clan.
No, his duty came first, before this young woman, before the dream, and before anything else.
Though the fact that he still did not know the meaning behind the young woman’s sudden appearance bothered him relentlessly, the safety of his clan was more important. It was a thought he had to tell himself again and again.
"I doubt ye want tae speak on such miserable subjects," she said, but her voice had gone thick. It sounded as though she had been silently crying and had not wanted to draw any attention to herself.
It left a pit in Iain's stomach that he did not like. Though he was still suspicious of her, it wasn't enjoyable to see the young woman so affected. It frustrated and confused him, but somehow, he had the urge to protect her.
It was strange, and yet, he could not deny it. It had taken hold of him, and just being in her company was captivating all in itself.
If only he could find out why she had visited him so many times in his dreams. It was a question he could not ask, and yet he found it perched on the tip of his tongue more than once.
He wondered what her reaction would be if he did bring it up to her. Perhaps she had seen him in her own dreams too. Iain opened his mouth, considering voicing the thought out loud when his horse's ears pricked up. The beast stopped its path, its hooves pounding the grass agitatedly. The creature had heard something stirring next to them.
Iain held his arm out, signaling to Isla and his men to halt. He listened intently, scanning the moors for any sign of life. Just as he planned to continue on, something stirred in the forest.
Something larger than a wildcat, and from the sound of it, there was more than one.
Chapter Eight
Iain squinted into the darkness, but he could see nothing. The sound came again, the rustling of leaves and branches just on the outskirts of the forest, shrouded in darkness.
"Who's there?" Iain called, using his most imposing tone. "Come out, if ye know what's good for ye. I dinnae like to be snuck upon."
There was a moment of brief silence, and then the noise sounded again, closer this time. The sound was sneaky, deliberate, and certainly not any sort of beast of the moors that he'd ever heard. Iain cursed under his breath; he had not expected trouble this early in their trek.
"I suspect a man wearin' such fine garment and a lass with a dress of such shimmering fabric would 'ave a fair bit of coin on them, eh?" a voice called from the shadows. “What’s such wealthy folk doin’ out at such a late hour?”
Out stepped a man with a grubby red beard; there was a smile on his face, but it was not friendly nor welcoming. Iain let his hand stray to his sword but did not unsheath it.
"Aye," he said. "And we'll be keepin' it. Be on yer way now, unless ye want to find yerself on the end of my blade."
The man smirked, revealing a mouth of yellowed teeth. Iain could hear more men rustling in the distance: bandits. His face contorted with anger and impatience. This man was not treading carefully, and he certainly had no idea who he was dealing with. Of that, Iain was certain.
"I dinnae think so, lad," the bandit said. "I would toss by whatever valuables ye have in those rucksacks. We have ye verra well surrounded."
Iain turned to see that the man was speaking the truth. Behind them, a half-dozen other grisly men had stepped out of the woods, encircling them. Iain did unsheath his blade now, and his stomach twinged as he saw Isla flinch at the sound of the steel raking across its leather scabbard.
"Ye can give us the lass, too," the man said. "Dinnae ye worry; we'll take verra good care o' her."
Isla let out a sound that was a combination of panic and disgust. Anger filled Iain from his stomach until it beat in his forehead. These men were treading dangerously, and he no longer cared if they died at his hands.
If that is what will teach these filthy swine a lesson, then so be it.
"So ye've chosen to fight us, then?" the man taunted him. "Not a smart move, lad..."
Iain raised his chin defiantly. "I dinnae think ye understand," he said. "My name is Iain MacThomas, Laird of the MacThomas keep. If ye still are intent on challengin' me, I suggest ye come to terms with havin' these woods be yer final restin' place."
The man did not back down; Iain saw that his face was ruddy from drink. The other men, however, were starting to look unconvinced about taking on the Laird. Glances stole between the handful of bandits at their backs, their weapons dangling loosely at their sides.
