But how could it be?
He wrote himself off as superstitious or perhaps desperate for a girl that he had concocted in his dreams. Perhaps his mother was right; he was sliding out of touch with reality after the horrible tragedy that he'd suffered. There was no way that this young woman, this spy, could have been pulled from his dreams. All of a sudden, he felt childish; the thought irritated him.
Iain and the strange young woman locked eyes for what seemed like days on end. The light sky-blue of her eyes captivated him; try as he might, he could not tear himself from her gaze. He let his eyes rove over her body, the soaked gown clinging tightly to her curves.
Get a hold of yourself, MacThomas.
Iain straightened, fixing his frown upon his face. He raised his chin, turning his thick brown brows down, and grunted. The young woman winced then, and for the first time, he saw the ghost of fear in her eyes.
Instantly, he was brought back to the dream. His memories of it offered him her screaming face, white with fear. He felt himself tighten inside his chest.
The young woman certainly didn't look like any spy that he'd ever seen, but that did not mean that she wasn't one. Somehow, it pained him to frighten her, but her true identity had not been revealed, and she had not denied anything at all yet. And so a spy she could still be; it was certainly not impossible. Iain imagined that the Robertson clan would have no qualms about sending a defenseless woman to spy upon his castle.
Iain was just about to question her again when he paused. The young woman had turned her heart-shaped face up to look at him, her lips parting.
"I'm not a spy," the young woman said. "I swear it, m'Laird."
She was speaking still, but Iain suddenly wasn't listening. He was spinning somewhere in his mind, reeling.
The voice of the woman was the same one he'd heard every night in his dreams. It really must be her; she had been pulled from his dreams, looking up at him with those two bright blue orbs that so resembled the sky above the moors on a cloudless winter day. He felt his hands shaking ever so slightly and fought hard to calm them, but they would not still themselves.
Iain's mouth tried to form words, but what could he have said?
It was impossible, and yet here she was. He would have believed it only a coincidence if not for her melodic, hauntingly beautiful voice. He heard it echoing in his mind, calling his name so many nights. It had captivated him and entranced him over again each night he fell under her thrall. He had to will himself back into the moment, mentally nudging himself.
As he recovered from his initial shock, questions began to dot the landscape of his mind, none of them having an answer.
What could this strange woman want from him? And how had she come to be here?
Iain told himself that he would make it his mission to find out whether she wanted to give him the answers or not.
* * *
Isla knew that she was in very much trouble and had no way to get out of it.
The Laird looming over her was intimidating, to say the least; his shoulders were broad and his limbs thick with rippling muscles. His fierceness was apparent, and she saw that her father had been right.
He had always spoken of the barbaric nature of the MacThomas clan, how impossible they could be to negotiate with. It pained Isla to think about, but de-escalating the situation as best as she could and actually talking to the man might be her only option. The man's temper flared, and she
Though, one thought rang out in her mind:do not tell him who you truly are.
To do so would be a death wish in itself. She knew of the hatred between the two clans. It was said that her father had slaughtered the previous Laird of the castle in combat. No, she could not reveal her true identity, but neither could she admit to being a spy. Either one was a path towards imminent destruction. Her thoughts were a cyclone on the waters, whirling around each other until she brightened.
The castle nearest the village she had been heading to belonged to the MacIntosh clan. It lay directly beyond the little crop of homes in the village, and she had been heading that direction...
The words came tumbling out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying.
"I'm not a spy," she said again, her voice wavering. "I'm... I got lost in the woods, y'see... I'm just a simple lass from the MacIntosh clan, m'Laird. I was out on the moors to take a dip in the loch during my nightly swim, but I lost my way in the storm. Please, you must believe that I am no spy for anyone; who would send a lass like me out in the rain alone? I dinnae ken what I can say to convince ye..."
"That MacIntosh clan?" he asked, his voice dripping with accusations. "Hmm... I was told that yer horse was headed in that direction, but who’s to say that ye aren't comin' up with a story as we speak?"
Isla froze, for that was exactly what she had been doing. Her expression almost cracked, leaving room for the lie to escape, but she righted herself.
"I have nothing that I can say tae prove my words," she said. She held her arms out wide to show that she truly had nothing at all; no words, no weapons, no defenses or excuses. She tried to make herself look as innocent as she possibly could, widening her eyes and lowering her head.
The Laird, for a moment, looked like he would soften; his face lost the hard mask that he wore for a split second, and Isla was able to take in briefly how handsome he actually was. His hair hung low, shaggy down his shoulders, and his tanned skin held the kiss of battle scars across what little she could see of his collarbones and chest. She felt herself let go of a little bit of the fear she housed but quickly remembered that she was in the presence of her family's greatest enemies and brought up her guard again.
"If ye have nothin' that can prove ye speak truly, then I suppose ye think I shall be lettin' ye go based on yer words alone, then?" he asked, lifting his chin defiantly at her.
