She turned to look at him and found his face searching hers, but for what, she could not tell. Iain had a look about him that said he expected an answer, that he was actually curious as to what was on her mind. She would have brushed the question off otherwise, but there he was with his face still turned in her direction, his brown eyes on her own blue ones.
For some reason, she wanted to shy away from his gaze. It nearly felt like they were out on the moors alone, sneaking away from her father's castle. It brought about a girlish excitement that surprised her; it had come from nowhere, and was completely displaced in her situation. It was a foolish feeling, and she waved it away at once.
"I was wonderin' what my father will do when I finally go home," she said. "Ye already know that he isnae the most... affectionate of men. He could do anythin', really. It wouldnae surprise me in the slightest to see him toss me out on the moors, away from my sisters and my home forever. He has already spoken of sendin' me away tae some castle across the highlands, whereas he wants tae keep a watchful eye over my sisters. I am no' his favorite, by any means, of that, I can be sure."
Iain said nothing for a long moment. Isla was certain he would let the conversation go and would allow the silence between them to grow until it pushed them apart completely. After a while, though, he spoke.
"Ye have no fond memories of childhood at all?" he asked. "Nothing?"
She glanced at him. It was strange to see him so invested in her words, whereas before, he was quick to dismiss her.
"I do," she said. "I have some. My sisters and I were all quite the wee terrors at one point, though they grew out of it and I, as you can see, did not. I have many cherished memories with the two of them; runnin' around the gardens and the orchards, raiding loaves of bread and cheese slices from the kitchens... Yes, the two o' them were always at my side. Even Brigida had been in my life for quite some while. I will be sorry to lose her."
"She seemed like a good mare," he said. "Sturdy and reliable. Ye never know. Maybe she'll find her way back tae yer home. Or perhaps back tae mine."
There was something in his words that sent a chill down her spine; his voice was gravelly and hushed all at once. He seemed interested in what she had to say at least, and she found that she enjoyed conversing with him.
"Perhaps," she said. "I can only hope that she does turn up. She was a good friend tae me throughout the years. Other than my sisters, maybe my only one. It always pleased me greatly tae take her out on the moors an' ride for hours."
She felt Iain straighten and was suddenly conscious of how tight around his middle her hold had become. She had almost sunk into him for comfort, seeking compassion and warmth, and had somehow found it. The Laird's body language told her he had just realized as well. Isla loosened her hold, sitting up further herself so that she did not lean so close into his back.
"As a youngster, I could be found out on the moors as well," he said. "My father never cared tae rein me in; he always said that a good leader could lead himself and only directed me when he felt tha' I needed guidance. He was a good man."
Isla swallowed; this was an entirely different picture than the one her father had painted throughout the years. Caelan MacThomas was described as bloodthirsty, full of rage and fire, someone who could not be reasoned with. From Iain's perspective, however, he was a kind and gentleman, much more lenient and easy-going than her own father had been, surely. Though she knew that Iain would, of course, be biased in favor of his own father, he seemed as though he was telling the truth.
She could see inside of him his own fiery streak, but he had not been unreasonable. And had he not just saved her life?
He had done so without argument and had not hesitated to allow her to ride with him. Iain had told her it was to keep an eye on her, but surely he knew she would never outrun his horse? She did not even need to consider the longbows that each man carried.
No, she would never make it far on foot, even if she had a head start. And yet, he had allowed her to ride with him anyway. She could not truly fathom why.
"I was often found in the orchards as well," she said. "Or in the gardens. I had a certain penchant for herbs, roots, and flowers found there and was even taught by the village healer how to heal all manner of wounds and illnesses."
This was a blur between truth and lies. While it was true she did have some knowledge of herbs and healing; she never would count herself as the village healer. She had learned a little, if not so much as being taught directly; she had shadowed healers enough times to know what to do. She had made herself poultices as a child, many times from scraping her knees on the large alder tree she had shimmied up on more than one occasion.
"A healer?" Iain asked. "Cannae say I'm no' surprised. Healing is an honorable art."
Was he calling her honorable? It was certainly a change from the title of 'spy' and 'liar' and one that she welcomed. To have the Laird on her side could only be a boon.
She did not reply to this; she could not, there were no suitable words, nothing she could think of to change the subject. She let her mind digest his compliment for a moment longer, taking apart the way he had said the words, how soft his voice had been.
What are ye doing, Isla? Ye have tae stay on your toes!
Isla knew that she should not put too much stock in the man's words; he had, after all, tossed her in a dungeon and would have left her there if not for the intervention of his mother. She knew she was being foolish, but there was nothing to be done about it.
"I think we'll need tae be findin' a camp for the night," he said ahead of her. "The lads will be gettin' tired, and I dinnae want tae waste any energy feelin' exhausted while travelin' tomorrow. It’s wiser tae stop tonight."
It was true; they would be able to get much more traveling done in the daylight. They kept to the woods a little longer, and when the hawthorn trees opened up to a width he could walk the horses inside, he dropped down from the horse.
"Ye can stay on the horse," he said. "No sense in ye walkin' just yet. I can keep a better eye on ye from there."
He led the horse into the woods, the men trailing behind him at a short distance. The cover of trees was comforting to Isla; it felt less open and less vulnerable. The bandits would not bother them now, not after what had happened to their loudmouthed and drunken leader. It seemed to Isla that Iain's name was well known in this region, and anyone in their right mind would think twice about approaching him for a fight.
The forest was silent except for the low and haunting sound of an owl noticing their presence. The horses plodded through the dirt, snapping a fallen branch every so often. Isla kept her head ducked low, twigs snagging her dark hair. After a few minutes of walking, Iain looked around and nodded to himself.
"This place seems tae be as good as any other," he said. "We make camp here for tonight an' head back out in the mornin'."
He had chosen the base of a positively massive oak tree. The thing was huge, and its boughs hung low, some of them nearly as thick as Isla’s waist. It would be a good cover and would not allow them to be snuck up on easily. Isla took comfort in the fact that Iain was more of a strategist than her father gave him credit for. Perhaps her father was right to be wary of Iain MacThomas; he was certainly no brute, but he was intelligent and seemed to clearly think about each move before he made it.
