Her only hope was to pray that this Laird Iain was merciful, whoever he may be.
Chapter Four
Iain scrubbed his face in his basin, the water nearly freezing from the chill they'd had last night.
He'd heard the rain coming down from his window and had actually slept that night. He'd woken up with the sun, surprised and rubbing his eyes. It felt, somehow, like a new day in a new life, though he couldn't say exactly how. Iain stood up to his full height and stretched, groaning.
Perhaps he would go hunting today. He almost smiled at the thought. He would take no one, go alone, perhaps spend the whole day out on the moors enjoying the energy he'd gained from a good night's rest. A rush of something that felt nearly like joy filled his heart; he had not felt anything like it for so long.
He shook the knots out of his dark brown hair and scratched at the stubble on his chin. He had just thrown on his coat and breeches when there came an unwelcome knock on his door.
So much for a good day.
The Laird yanked his door open hard, startling the guard. The man jolted, his face flinching visibly.
"What?" Iain asked. "It had better be verra important, man, to be poundin' on my door so early in the morn’. Ye know how I struggle with sleep of late!"
The man winced before Iain, his expression regretful. Iain was aware that everyone in the MacThomas clan knew of his mental state, and this man would be no exception. It wasn't like he was able to hide his misery well, and he didn't even try. Ever since Seona's death, he was lucky to get one night of easy rest. Guilt clouded the guard’s eyes for only a second before he straightened; he must have realized that every second he stood without speaking was another second closer to Iain blowing up on him again.
"M'Laird," he stumbled. "The guard would like to inform ye of a recent capture."
Capture?
Iain gestured for the man to continue, his brows raising. Now, this was an interesting development, indeed.
"Yes, Laird," the guard said. "We believe her to be from the Robertson clan. She was caught lurking 'round the castle late last night. William tossed the lass in the dungeons; her fate rests upon yer decision, m'Laird."
"A woman?" Iain asked, confused. It didn't make sense for the Robertson clan to send a woman instead of a soldier or guard, but he would not put it past the fools to try and trick him.
The more he thought of how silly and childish that Duncan Robertson surely thought he was, the more the rage churned in his stomach. His mouth was a grim line, and he swore to himself under his breath.
"M'Laird?" the guard asked. But Iain was already pushing his way past him, slamming his bedchamber door.
He would go see this woman, this spy, whoever she turned out to be. His hands clenched into furious fists. He would see exactly just who this woman was and what she wanted of him and his clan. If she turned out to be spying for the Robertson's, then he would have to deal with her accordingly. Regardless of whether or not she was the woman who had haunted his dreams, he could not allow her to live. It would be a shame to kill a woman, and especially one so young, but spies would not be suffered by the MacThoomas clan.
He shook his head, his hair flying. He wouldn't think on it. He had to see her first, perhaps question her and find out who she is and what she was really doing outside so late at night in the pouring rain. None of it made any sense at all; it confused and confounded him in an infuriating way. He stormed down the stairs to the dungeon, the dampness causing all of his hair to stand on end.
A thin figure was huddled in the corner, as far from the door as she could possibly get. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, and her arms were wrapped solidly around them. He couldn't see her face; she had hidden it away in the nest that was her arms. Iain peered closer; she looked as though she were trembling, but he couldn't tell.
The woman didn't look up when the light of day fell upon her as he'd opened the door. He wondered then if she were alright, and for some reason, he felt swelling concern fill him. Remembering why he was here, he let the anger take hold of him once again.
"Well, lass," he said. "Have ye nothin' to say? Who are ye? What were ye doin' in my lands?"
She didn't react at first, but after a moment, she began to stir. He heard a muffled sort of whimper at first, her face still hidden away. He was beginning to feel the workings of impatience take hold of him, but she lifted her head up right as he was about to speak again.
When she opened her eyes to look at him, all words fled from his mouth. The breath left his lungs in a huff, and Iain felt his limbs go numb from shock.
The same sky-blue gaze he saw nearly every night stared back at him. Her black hair hung down long around her shoulders, framing her face. It clung in thick strands to her cheeks, still wet from the rainfall of the previous night. Those long lashes that blinked up at him night after night in the rolling, misty moors did so now, only this time the two of them were surrounded by four stone walls. Iain his chest tighten, and his hands go numb from the force of his squeezing.
She looked back at him for a long while, and he stared at her. He could find no words, nothing to say.
Would she know him?
She didn't seem to. He was certain that she would have called out his name if she really were the alluring dream woman that haunted his sleep.
And yet, she looked exactly like her in every way. The curve of her brows, her high, angular cheekbones... He had seen them again and again, nearly every night for two years.
Yes, it must be her.
