"Oh, aye," Duncan said condescendingly. "I dinnae blame ye. I cannae say that the MacThomas clan is known for their great warriors."
Fiona ignored this and lifted her chin defiantly, staring the Laird down. He must have seen something dangerous glinting in her eye because, for a moment, he looked unsure of himself. He took a glance back at the closed gates behind him, but when he turned back around, the arrogant gaze was back.
"As I said before, there is no lass in our dungeons, and we have no' seen anyone who could have been yer daughter," Fiona said. "Now, leave our lands and dinnae return. Ye have taken up enough o' our time."
It was a bluff to egg the man on, to get him to waste more time here, and it worked like a charm. The man stormed up to her and got as close as he could before the guards blocked his path.
"I, o' course, cannae believe ye until I have seen yer dungeons," he said. "Dinnae think that I will simply take yer word fer it."
"Ye want tae see our dungeons?" Fiona asked curly. "Fine. Follow me, m'Laird, but ye will leave yer blade with my men."
She turned her back on him, waiting until she heard the man hand over his sword. It took the man a moment, but eventually, she heard him swing the scabbard over and deposit it in her guard's waiting hands.
With that, she waved her enemy beneath the threshold of her home. With every passing second, though, she thought of her son and the danger that he could be in even now.
Chapter Twenty-One
Iain had taken in the whole story and re-told it to himself again and again.
Both of their fathers had been murdered by the same man. He sighed, shaking his head to himself. It was too much to think about, but he could not stop, all the same. The thought had beat through his mind again and again.
Isla was not Duncan Robertson's daughter after all... And not only that, but she had perhaps been more wronged by the man than even Iain. He could not even begin to guess what she was feeling now; if it had been him, he would have lost himself in rage, he knew.
Isla, though, seemed as though she were taking in the information one piece at a time. She had not cried, but then again, she did not seem too attached to the man who she had believed to be her father for her entire life. He had, no doubt, made her miserable for much of it. She had already alluded to the way the monster had treated her and even her sisters.
Perhaps the man was just a devil who had no love inside of him.
Iain frowned; he had been on the path to becoming someone just like that. After the death of Seona and his daughter, he had felt a void inside of him open up, and there had been nearly nothing else there other than rage and grief. The only person that he'd felt anything for had been his mother. Who knew what kind of man he would have turned out to be once she had passed on?
If he had never met Isla, he could have ended up just like the man he hated the most.
He looked at her, her dark hair catching little bits of the firelight and reflecting them, and his heartfelt light and nearly carefree. She brought to him a peace that he had not known in so long.
"Ye should stay here for the night," Helen told the two of them. "Father will be runnin' the inn and the tavern all nigh' and will be sleepin' there. We have an extra room for the nigh', if ye wish tae stay. I cannae say that I feel well turnin' ye out intae the cold."
"A night indoors would be welcome," Iain told the young lady. "I thank ye, lass."
"Yer men can sleep here next tae the fireplace," Aiden said. "There's plenty o' room. I cannae say that I take up too much space."
The man's laugh was weak and quiet, but he seemed as though he were in high spirits. The men had been welcomed inside as well; the night was falling fast, and the sky had darkened into a deep indigo blue. They tied up the horses outside, and Helen began cooking them a hot meal of pottage and oat breads.
Iain called the men to him, and in an instant, they were at his side. Gamelin, Aymer, and Jacob listened patiently as he relayed the story to them. He saw each of their eyes flick to Isla when he came to the part of who her father truly was, but not one of them spoke until they were sure that he was done.
"Duncan Robertson..." Jacob muttered under his breath. "The man is a murderer an' a liar more'n even we knew."
"Aye," agreed Gamelin. "What I wouldnae give tae slide a blade through that man's black heart."
The men spoke amongst themselves, their expressions dark. Iain knew well the hatred that each of his men held for the enemy Laird already. It seemed that Isla was now beloved by his three warriors as well. After healing Aymer's leg, the three men had become increasingly friendly towards her, and hearing about how the Robertson Laird had wronged her infuriated them.
Being in such a domestic setting with Isla was strange but satisfying. He could imagine her as his wife, sitting close enough to him that he could feel the heat from her body. It was a tempting thought, but even still, it would mean war with the Robertson clan. They would, of course, come to steal her back from him, and the longer she was missing, the greater the risk the Laird would come looking for her. Iain knew for certain he would be the first person suspected.
Isla, though, was too dear to give up. Now that she had restored peace to his heart, he could not see himself without her by his side. Not only this, but he had not even discussed with Isla what she desired to do now. It would be a difficult conversation; he was prepared to hear that she would want to return back to her home. It was always a possibility, though she looked just as content in his company as he felt in hers.
The thought made his heart twist in fear, and he fought the urge to put his head in his hands. When Helen called that the evening meal was ready for serving, he had nearly made himself feel sick with worry as he thought about what to do. He pushed the thoughts away, ignoring them as much as he could for the time being. The less he thought about the future, the hungrier he realized he was.
Iain ate gratefully; the stew tasted strongly of herbs and salt. It felt good to finally have something flavorful in his stomach, and as he looked over at Isla, he could tell that she felt the same way. She was shoveling the stew in as if she had not eaten in days, and he felt himself smile lovingly. A woman who could drink well was also one that could eat well. She had endeared herself to him without even knowing it. He himself had barely noticed his feelings growing for her until it was too late; thoughts of her consumed every second.
She smiled at him with the bowl in her hand, the spoon up to her lips. Her eyes were bright and joyful; he had supposed she would grieve over the news of her father or the man she had thought to be her father, but she had taken the shock of the news easily. Perhaps the years of abuse had made it difficult to feel hurt by a man who she already knew to be awful.
