With that, she pressed a kiss to his lips and drifted away, her hand trailing out of his grasp.
Aiden, it seemed, had found the strength to stand up and walk about after taking another dose of the mashed bloodroot. The mixture seemed to be doing wonders for him, though Helen kept an eye on him, ensuring he did not overexert himself. He tended to Gamelin, instructing Helen on how to help the farmers who had been struck by blades or arrows from their enemies.
Iain took the sight in; all in all, they had been very lucky. Gamelin had taken the most damage out of the lot of them. The farmers had not lost one among their number, though one young man looked worse off than the rest of them. He had been slashed multiple times with an enemy's deadly blade and was taken back to his home after Helen stitched his wounds, assuring his weeping mother that he would, in fact, live.
He watched as Isla went from man to man as well, checking their wounds along with Aiden and Helen, and his heart swelled with pride and love. She was so kind, so caring, and affectionate that he could not help but love her and want to be more like her himself. Isla brought about a gentleness in him that he had not seen for so long and was grateful every day for.
She moved towards him, and Iain smiled, unable to help himself. He reached out his hand for hers, and she tenderly trailed it up his arm to settle on his shoulder.
"What do we do now?" she asked, steering him towards the front door of Helen's home. “I dinnae want tae go back tae Robertson Castle, though, technically I would be the heir tae the clan… I would hate tae have tae spend my days there, even if ye were tae come with me. There’s too many terrible memories there. But I also cannae leave my sisters!”
“Ye dinnae have tae return if ye dinnae wish to, Isla, Iain said. “Ye can come wi’ me to MacThomas keep; we’ll live out our days there!”
He watched the worry rise up in her expression, conflicting emotions evident on her face. She shook her head, sighing heavily.
“But who will lead the clan?” she asked. “I… I have no such experience, nor would I even want such a title!”
“Weel, what about Fingal?” Iain asked. “He’s experienced, and the men clearly respect him. I’d say he’s the perfect choice!”
At the sound of his name, the man turned to look at them. He looked like a giant in the small cottage, and when he straightened, Iain watched each of his soldiers wait for him to answer.
The men around Fingal were looking at him with expectant eyes, but Fingal did not speak. He glanced around at them and then back at Iain, considering his words, and finally at Isla.
"Aye, General," one of the men spoke up. "There is no one else who could lead us better than ye. I cannae think o' anyone better!"
“Tha’ would be up to Isla,” Fingal said finally.
“Fingal,” Isla said. “Ye have been the true leader o’ this clan all along, even throughout these treacherous years with Duncan as Laird. I think yer the only person who deserves the title. I would be honored tae call ye Laird o’ the keep.”
All around them, the men were voicing their agreement. Fingal was nodding to himself, seeming to pull himself from his thoughts, and then picked his head up to look at the men. Iain saw in the man's eyes the moment that he himself agreed that he would be the best choice for such a responsibility.
“But tha’ does no’ answer my second question,” Isla said. “Where do we head tae first?”
"Dinnae worry about tha'," Iain said. "We'll be goin' tae Robertson Castle first with Fingal and the rest o' his men. We need tae stand with Fingal and let the rest o' yer clan know what happened here. And besides, I would love tae meet yer sisters; per'aps they would want tae come back with us."
Iain's smile only grew when he watched the joy touch her sky blue eyes.
"Aye, lass," Fingal said, turning to Isla. "We need tae let Annabella and Elayne what happened tae their father. 'Tis a shame, but we need tae give them the choice of what tae do now. Either they can stay in the home they've known all their life, or they can choose tae follow along with ye, Isla."
"We need tae be on our way, Isla," Iain said. "Every moment, we're losin' daylight, and now the men are wounded, and we have Aiden as well."
In truth, Iain knew it would take time to return to the Robertson clan's castle. Gamelin was in high spirits but was truly in no fit state to travel, and Aymer's leg was still wounded, though the stitching had held well.
He turned to secure the rucksack onto the back of his stallion and watched as Isla began to roll up the deerskin that had come untied when Duncan Robertson had first shown his face. His men were gathering their belongings with the aid of some of the farmers; it did not take long to ensure that they were ready to travel.
Fingal was already mounted sturdily upon his horse, a great black steed, and was poised to lead his men across the moors. He was looking to Iain, waiting for him and his men to ready themselves. Aymer was about to heft himself onto the back of his horse when a light voice called out from the front door of the cottage.
"Wait!" Helen cried. "Before ye leave, Aymer, I was wonderin' if... What I am tryin' tae say is tha' I would like tae go with ye, if ye have any room."
Aymer turned to Iain, a hopeful expression in his eyes. Iain felt himself soften; it had been some time since he had felt such a gentleness within himself, and he could attribute it all to Isla.
I cannae deny Aymer the same happiness tha' I feel. He and the young lass look so content together.
"Aye, lass," Iain said. "I'm sure tha' Aymer has a wee bit o' room for ye on the back o' his horse."
He felt Isla's eyes on him, silently telling him that she loved the man that he had become. The more that Iain reflected on himself, the quicker he realized that he was proud as well.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
