Iain circled the area three times and then made his way back to the camp.
He had not been able to scrub his mind clean from Isla's face. He knew he would have to face her at some point but could not bear to see her looking so broken and alone. It was a miserable sight, and yet he was the cause.
When he made his way back, she looked to already be sleeping. The men were all awake and keeping watch as they had promised.
"Get some sleep, ye three," he said upon his return. "Tomorrow, we wake early and get as much travelin' in as we can."
They muttered their agreement and their thanks and rolled out the deerskins and blankets they’d brought with them. Iain sat up, watching the sky, or as much of it as he could see through the treetops.
Isla had her back to him; her body curled up as she slept. He let his eyes rest on her across the fire, the light of the fire playing across her body and throwing strange shadows across it. He wished he could stand and lay himself next to her; he wanted so much to tuck his arms around her and pull her close to him.
Iain was surprised when she turned over and opened her eyes. She caught sight of him across the campfire, her blue eyes reflecting the firelight. He glanced at the men before speaking quietly.
"Ye should think about tryin' fer more rest," he said. "Or I will no' feel bad fer ye if ye fall asleep on the horse."
He thought she might smile at that; he had certainly tried to lighten the mood, though her eyes were glassier than they should be. His chest tightened, and his hands clenched.
"I dinnae think I can sleep," she said. "Though I will certainly try."
He was surprised when she spoke up; her voice was hoarse from disuse. It had been the first time she had said anything to him since she had mumbled her half-response, and the sound had two opposite effects on him.
It lit his soul up to hear her voice and to see her blue eyes focused on him, but at the same time, it split his heart in two to hear her sound so dejected.
To know it was his fault was nearly unbearable. He would have apologized to her right there, but she had already turned away from him again and pulled her body in a little tighter.
She was afraid of him, that much was obvious, and he had no idea what he could do about it.
He slept, though it was restless, and he found no comfort in it. He dreamed of Isla, though it was not the same dream that had previously haunted him; in it, she fled from him in terror as though he would end her life brutally. It jolted him awake more than once, but each time he slept again, the dream would return.
When the sun started to peek through the branches, he was more than grateful. He sat up, his muscles aching slightly from the nights spent on the ground. Isla stirred at the sound, opening her eyes to look up at him.
At the sight of her, he nearly came apart. She blinked, her eyes bleary and red-rimmed from crying. A strand of black hair fell over her face, and she tucked it behind her ear. Iain glanced at the men, still asleep, and took a deep breath in.
"Isla," he said. "Can we talk?"
She sat up, her brows cinching and frowned; he felt judged then as her eyes ran over him, and he shifted in her gaze. After a moment, though, she nodded.
"O' course," she said, her voice as feeble as wet parchment. "Whatever ye wish, m'Laird."
She was again much too formal and cool. He dropped his gaze, unable to look at her in the hazy morning. In her beauty, there was a purity that was too heavenly to take in.
"Privately?" he asked hoarsely. His eyes strayed to the men, none of whom stirred.
Iain stood then, pushing himself up with his hands, and offered his hand out to Isla. He noticed she didn't hesitate to take it this time, and he lifted her up easily. She was so light he barely felt the pull of her weight.
Iain let her hand drop but motioned for her to follow him. He led her into the wood, the willow trees hanging overhead, and inhaled deeply as he summoned all of his courage. Iain had never been one to apologize and had only truly done so when he knew for certain he was wrong.
The anger he felt when she revealed her lie still simmered inside of him somewhere, but he knew it was misplaced. The truth had shocked and infuriated him; there was no one in the world that he despised more than Duncan Robertson.
But was it Isla’s fault that her father was his greatest enemy?
He knew it was not, though every instinct he had fostered over the years since his father’s murder screamed at him not to forgive her. He had lived his entire life hating her father, but she had suffered at his hand too.
It went against his nature to tell her how sorry he was, but he could not feel peace until the words were spoken. She had lied to him, and it struck him directly in the heart, but she could not help who her father was. This was something she could not change, and he’d condemned her for it. Shame grew inside of his heart, flooding out to fill him completely. The anger was still there, still trying to bite at him, but he forced it away from him. The image of Isla, her eyes full of tears after his accusation, was what he chose to focus on instead.
And so this apology was necessary; his pride could be sacrificed for her, for Isla, the woman who had enchanted him so. If he had to bare his soul before her to heal the wounds on her heart that he himself inflicted, then, so be it. It would be uncomfortable, but losing Isla because of his own behavior would feel much worse.
There was a desperate hope inside of him that she would accept his apology, followed by a fear so dark that, for a moment, it engulfed everything else. He had not even considered the fact she might not forgive him, that she might shun him and speak to him in that emotionless tone again.
