Isla came to sit next to him, and he instinctively wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to keep her warm. They had left their food, drink, and warmer clothes on the cart at the bottom of the hill.
“I don’ ken.” Finlay was not feeling that anxious, but he was intensely angry about the death of his soldier. But he knew the castle as well as he knew the back of his hands so he already had a plan forming in his mind. “I’ll wager me last supper the sentries never suspected a thing.”
Master McDonnell came to squat next to them, blowing on his hands to keep his fingers warm. He was not wearing a great kilt for the escape but had decided to wear trews instead, so he had no plaid draped behind his belt to pull over his shoulders. None of the men could help him out; they all had their great kilts pulled over their shoulders. It might have been a balmy summer evening, but it was wet and cold inside the dungeons. Their plaids were made of thick wool—warm in winter and rain, cool in summer.
Noticing her father’s distress, Isla stood up, went to the corner of the cell, and lifted up her kirtle. She stepped out of her plain woolen underskirt in the most ladylike way and brought the garment to where they were sitting.
“Here, Faither.” She wrapped the woolen petticoat around his shoulders. “I put on me traveling gown, the one with three layers under the kirtle, plus I have me stockings.”
When she came back to sit next to him, Finlay held her close. The blacksmith thanked his daughter for her clever idea.
“But if it was nae the sentries who ratted us out, who rumbled our plan?”
They were to find out later that day. The sky was lightening, but the dungeon air was still chilly. The steady dripping sound was driving them insane with its loud, intrusive annoyance. The skylight window darkened as someone knelt on the ground outside and whispered through the bars.
“Master? Isla? Are ye down there?” It was the cook.
Isla was too short of reaching the bars to speak, so Finlay lifted her up by the waist so she could whisper to the woman, “Cook?! Do ye ken what’s goin’ on? What are the charges they are usin’ to hold us here?”
The cook burst into tears. “Och, Isla. I am so sorry. I sent Pila down to the barracks to bring the food to ye yesterday. She was actin’ very strange when she came back, miserable an’ so sulky I could nae get a word out o’ her. Then I caught her sneakin’ out of our quarters late last night. When I bid her answer me truthfully—I feared was she plannin’ on sleepin’ with one o’ the Dougal’s men—she began howlin’ and complainin’ fit to bust. Her noise woke the guards, and they put pressure on her to answer me. She did nae want to tell them, I promise ye, but when they opened her shawl bundle, they knew Pila was planning to run away. They told her that if me daughter did nae tell them to where she was runnin’ away, they would put her in the town square pillories in the mornin’ so that she might be branded as a wench. Poor Pila told them the truth. She overheard ye makin’ yer plans when she brought the food down to ye; she was sour that ye were planning on leavin’ without so much as sayin’ farewell, so Pila decided to run away with ye.”
Finlay’s hands tightened around Isla’s waist as he heard the cook’s story. His hold was so strong that the blacksmith’s daughter gave a little cry and struggled to get out of his grip.
