Isla had reached up to shield her eyes, but her white mare had become wild in its terror. Isla flew from the back of the horse, her head narrowly missing the creature's hooves as they flew back in fear.
She cried out, clutching her hands around herself, but the beast flew off in its panic. The mare's hooves tore across the ground, and it increased its speed out on the open moors. Eventually, the horse became nothing but a white splotch in the distance.
Isla sat up, horrified.
"I'll… I'll walk, m'Laird," she said, sputtering. "Please, I—"
But Iain was shaking his head.
"No," he said. "I cannae trust ye on the ground by yerself. There is no way for me to know whether or not ye'll flee; it would certainly be much easier for ye to sneak away on foot. No, lass, ye'll have to ride with me."
Iain watched the uncertainty wash over her face. Her brows were pulled together tautly, and her lips were working softly between her teeth. Eventually, she raised her eyes up to him and nodded.
"Here," he said, extending his hand.
But she had already pulled herself up by the saddle on her own.
She was a capable young woman; he had to give her that. She gripped the leather saddle tightly; Iain could see her knuckles turning white with the effort to keep herself upright.
"What are ye holdin' on tae the saddle for?" he asked, though he knew very well why. "Just —"
He reached back, taking both her hands in his, and wrapped them around his middle. At the feel of her skin against his, Iain sighed out a mix of contentment and confusion. She mystified him and entranced him, and yet, how could he trust her?
But he could not deny the way that she made him feel, even if he could not comprehend them.
She both calmed him and bewildered him. Her arms were wonderfully warm around him, and desire flooded his every thought. He wanted to lift her down from his horse, slide his hands along her waist, feel how smooth and soft she must be beneath that dress...
Iain could barely shake himself out of the fantasy before speaking.
"There," he said. "That should be easier then. If ye dinnae hold on, ye'll find yerself face first in the grass. I dinnae think yer too keen on a mouthful o' dirt for supper."
He felt her stiffen and then relax against him. She sighed, and her breath fluttered against the back of his neck, causing his own to catch in his throat.
Iain looked up at the sky as he felt Isla's chest against his back, breathing softly as though she felt safe once more. It was a marvel that she brought about a sentimentality in him again, even with her identity truly unknown, but she made him feel a way that he had not for so long.
He looked up at the stars, his eyes searching. He wanted to voice a wish out loud but dared not. It would have to suffice to keep the thought inside his mind, but Iain MacThomas desperately wished for one thing.
Please, he thought to himself, dinnae let the lass be lying.
Chapter Nine
Isla wondered when the Laird would finally allow them some rest and respite. It had been an hour, perhaps a little more, since the bandits had attempted their heist.
She had felt Iain's head turn, his eyes on her every so often. In truth, a little bolt of awareness shot through her at every glance; he did not hold the rough glare he once did. In fact, it seemed more like he was checking up on her rather than assuring himself she could not escape. His face was softer, less angled, and his eyes no longer frightened her quite so much.
Isla still held suspicion of him; she was not daft. The man would kill her in an instant if he thought that she had been lying to him. Still, though, he held the air of someone who had already made his choice, and it seemed as though he had elected to let her live, at least for now. Isla could not be entirely certain, but she wanted to trust him for some reason.
His men had fallen back a little; she supposed to give them a little privacy in case Iain wanted to question her. It seemed as though the men gave him a wide berth, but they did not seem to truly fear him. She wondered how that could be, how someone could command such disquiet in his men yet still be so respected at the same time.
Her father's men had only seemed to act on base fear, a primal need to not raise the man's ire. Even Isla herself had not been spared from his rage, nor had her sisters, though they had done their best to stay out of his way. Isla, though, had acted on her own accord and suffered for it more than once.
She let out a quiet breath, thinking of home was beginning to comfort her less and less. What would she have to go back to after she discovered whatever awful secret had been hidden away from her?
Surely her father would be incensed with anger. She would pay for her transgressions physically, more likely than not. He would rage at her, probably shake her furiously, and she would be lucky if she was not struck for endangering herself and perhaps the clan. If her father knew that she was captured by his mortal enemy, then who knew what he would do?
"Ye've been awfully quiet," Iain said beside her, bringing her out of her thoughts. "What are ye thinkin' of?"
He is asking me my thoughts now?
