She had eaten her food with such voraciousness he had raised one brow high on his forehead. It had climbed higher when she'd requested the bottle of wine once more and had slogged down nearly a quarter of it herself. He supposed that had been his fault in the end. He had merely forgotten to order food to be brought to her cell when he'd had her imprisoned; it had not been out of malicious intent, but he'd been so overwhelmed with the news of her capture.
And then, there was the dream as well. He wanted very much to tell her about the dream, had even almost done it at one point during the ride, but he kept his mouth shut. There were few things he desired less than being seen as an imbecile, but that would certainly make him look as though he weren't all there.
Thoughts of the dream had not stopped plaguing him since he'd seen the young woman, however. Every expressive face she made, he had seen before in his slumber. He racked his brain, trying to piece together any connection that she could have to him, but he could come up with none. His mind was blank, and the mystery left still unsolved. She seemed to know nothing of him or acted very well as though she did not. For some reason, he felt himself beginning to open up to her more, though he was not sure where that intimacy stemmed from either.
It was all too much to think on, too much to consider. It was all he could do to focus on keeping their little band safe in the highland wilderness. When the bandits had struck, he had been drifting idly in thoughts of the dream and had almost failed to hear the rustling in the forest until the bandits had already advanced. He was sure it did not seem that way to his men and to the young woman, but he had nearly allowed them to be snuck up on.
That cannae happen again. I must keep my thoughts on what lies ahead; on the lass, on the letter, and on keepin' the clan safe.
Even as the words crossed his mind, he knew there was no truth to the thought. He had tried every day to kick the dream from his thoughts for two long years, and still, it plagued him, harassing him with thoughts of the maiden's beautiful face.
And now she was sitting here before him in the flesh. It was too strange to believe and yet too coincidental not to have an underlying meaning. It was driving him completely and totally mad.
The young woman was picking idly at another smaller slice of bread, her eyes on the darkness of the forest. She nibbled the slices slowly as though she were in deep thought. He liked the contemplative look on her face and found himself wondering what she was thinking about. He realized after a few moments that he hoped she was thinking about him. It had been hard to admit, but he wanted to take up space in her mind.
He left her the bottle and went back to the horses to fetch his own. The men, it seemed, had come prepared, packing what they had deemed to be the necessities. In one of the rucksacks, he'd found two canteens, a bottle of wine, and half a wheel of cheese. He shook his head, allowing himself a rare smile.
If the drinking had already commenced, he was not one to stand by and not partake. The lass had proven herself capable in more ways than one. He would not demand she hand the bottle back over, and if she wanted to continue to drink like a man, then he would let her.
Her eyes had not strayed from the forest depths, but her one pale hand struck out, feeling around in the darkness for the wine bottle. Iain watched her lift it to her lips and take a deep and satisfying drink. She was remarkably beautiful, especially like this; her hair was wild and windswept, and she had a rosy color to her cheeks. Whether it was the chill in the air or the intoxication from the wine that had brought it about, he could not tell.
There was a graceful way about her hands that he liked. She moved in a way that was thoughtful and soft sometimes, taking her time to think about her movements: the way her fingers curled around the green glass of the bottle, the way she tilted her head back subconsciously, enjoying the lusty taste of the wine. Her touch looked to be gentle; only a healer could have such a kind and delicate way about her.
At other times, her actions were quick and confident, like a babbling little creek in the forests which knew just where it was going and did so without hesitation. From what he could tell, she was a marvelous example of duality, and she had charmed him, though he could not show that in his expression.
"I see yer men have their priorities aligned properly when it comes tae packin' for a journey," she said, bringing him out of his deep thoughts.
There was a humor in her voice that he had come to unknowingly long for. He was not sure when that feeling had begun to stir, but he liked the sound of her voice lilting in a hidden smile.
"Aye," he said. "I cannae say tha' I blame them. I roused them early, and they had been trainin' hard beforehand. They're the three best warriors of the MacThomas clan, in any case. I would trust them wi' my life one thousand times over."
The young woman before him seemed to consider this. The moon brightened her blue eyes for a split second, and he was transfixed. When she turned back to him, he had waved the spell away.
"Trainin'?" she asked, after a moment of quiet. "I suppose it would make me look like quite the spy if I asked what ye were trainin' your men for, so I won't. Dinnae pay me any heed. My mind was elsewhere, and my mouth never closes."
"I would agree that itwouldmake ye look like quite the spy, to be certain," he said. "But I'll give ye this one for now. We'll say it was the bottle talkin' for ye."
She cracked that tiny smile again, the one that she tried to hide from him but that he'd still seen. She turned away, but he had seen the remnants of it in her eyes.
Iain had drained nearly a quarter of the bottle all on his own and was only slightly beginning to feel as though the alcohol was taking effect. He moved to stretch his arms, feeling them aching after the long ride, but his wound from the bandit's sword had opened once more.
Iain hissed in pain and clutched the sleeve of his shirt. The white cotton had been dampened with dark red stains. He frowned, holding the sleeve tight against the open cut, hoping to stop the bleeding.
"What's the matter?" Isla asked him. Her eyes followed to what he was focused on; when she saw the state of his arm, her mouth fell open, and her hands went to her slender neck.
"Oh!Yer wounded!" she exclaimed. "May I see? Perhaps there is somethin' I can do tae help ye."
He did not know why he offered her his arm, but he did it without hesitation. He would certainly not have done so to any other prisoner he had captured, healer or not. She reached out, taking his arm in both of her hands and her fingers slid the cotton of his shirt sleeve up to reveal the wound.
It was not as bad as he had thought it would be, but she let out a little gasp of surprise anyway. At the sound, Iain felt a rush of pleasure deep in his chest that spread out to his limb, dizzying him. The feeling of her gaze trailing over his skin was delightful somehow; the attention she showed him was addicting and enthralling. Again, he was reminded of the dream, of the intense way the woman fixed him with her brilliant blue stare.
When her fingertips grazed his skin, his first instinct was to pull back, but he did not. His arm jerked for only a moment before he steadied beneath her gentle grip.
"Yer skin is torn quite badly here," she said. "I dinnae have anythin' tae sew up the wound, but I can at least make certain that it does not spread intae yer blood... If ye would allow me, o' course."
Iain felt as though he could not speak. With her hand on his arm, he felt such an electrifying connection that he could not explain. It felt as though he had been struck suddenly by a bolt of lightning sent straight from the heavens; everywhere she touched, there came a tingling he felt long after her fingertips had moved on to other abused areas of his arm.
He nodded, signifying his compliance. She waited, searching his eyes to ensure that he was certain.
