Isla felt the laird’s son lean closer. With the lightest touch, he lifted her hair away from her ear and whispered into it softly, “Forgive me heated speech with ye at the window, lass. If ye help us get out o’ here, I will show ye how deeply I regret me harsh words. I think ye will like the way I do it. Will ye be me bonny, brave lass, an’ trick the guards into openin’ the door for us?”
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he brushed his lips over the side of her face. To Isla’s father, the blacksmith, it might have seemed like an earnest speech to convince Isla to risk her virtue with the guards, but to Isla herself, it was almost as if Finlay Dougal was giving her an invitation to heaven.
She bit her lower lip to stop the ecstatic sigh that rose up inside her, forgave him immediately, and said, “I will do me best, sir.”
The laird’s son gave her hand a quick squeeze and nodded to the blacksmith. Then he went to have a whispered conference with his men, too low for anyone else to hear. She saw that the way Finlay was telling his men about the plan was conducted like a parlor game. He whispered the words to Alex, who in turn whispered the words to the man sitting next to him. They had not got to telling everyone in the cell about the way they planned to escape before they were interrupted. This was what Isla and her father had anticipated would happen ever since they had moved out of earshot of the spyhole in the ceiling. It was the steward, and he was there after the guards at the spyhole told him what they had managed to overhear. He began speaking to them through the barred hatch set in the door.
“Ye seem to be justly tamed by yer incarceration, gentlemen and lady.” Here, he bowed his head in Isla’s direction, which only made her wish he was standing inside the dungeon cell and not outside of it so that she might push him into the privy hole. “Would I be right in sayin’ ye are all in the mood to parlay?”
Everyone looked at Finlay. He was a natural leader. There was something about him that commanded people’s obedience without him even asking for it.
“What are yer terms, McMichaels?” Finlay did not even bother standing up and moving to the door; he just raised his voice loud enough for the steward to hear him.
“Er…I have it on good authority that yon blacksmith has nae been payin’ his taxes, yet he has been made wealthy far beyond the average craftsman’s expectations by this long war.”
Finlay shrugged. “So what? Then stop this war, an’ he’ll stay.”
Even Isla knew the steward would not want that. If peace followed the return of the laird’s son, the castle dwellers would know it was because of Finlay and not Master McMichaels.
“That’s nae to the point! He’s been cheating the castle out o’ taxes!”
Isla’s father stood up. “Ye ken I was nae doin’ that! I have a letter from the auld Laird Dougal. He promised me that I would pay no taxes as ye well ken because ye were the one to draft the agreement!”
The steward gave a long, fake sigh. “Alas that we see the day when a man defies his laird’s request…even when his life is on the line. There was no such arrangement, an’ ye are a cheat, McDonnell.”
Isla spoke out, so badly wanting to wipe the smug smile off the steward’s face.
“Och aye, there is an arrangement! Even if ye have destroyed the document, me faither will never hand over the letter of proof to ye!”
Master McMichaels hissed through the door hatch, “Be quiet, girl! D’ye ken how the Highlands will nae blink an’ eye when I hang the lot o’ ye? I am a new laird an’ have the right to establish me power with bloodshed!No one cares,d’ye understand? This ridiculous war the last two generations o’ Dougals foisted on their clan has made the castle dwellers change allegiance over to me. I will be the one to end this war, an’ all ye will be is crow food!”
Isla stiffened. She knew the steward could bring peace because Finlay’s men had made it impossible for the McTavish to get mercenaries from the Norse Lands anymore.
The steward pushed his face close to the hatch. “Listen up. Ye can have yer freedom and keep yer lives if ye hand over that gold and the letter proving the former arrangement so that I ken ye will have no record of it, McDonnell. What d’ye say? Ye can leave yer daughter here as collateral while ye trot off to go an’ fetch it.”
The blacksmith scoffed, “What about me friends in here with me? D’ye think I would be such a knave as to rescue me daughter an’ go off an’ leave them?”
The steward sniffed. “Och, sure, if ye want to take this bunch o’ landless scoundrels with ye, then I’ll release them alongside ye.”
Isla saw her father did not have to think twice before saying, “I have heard yer terms, an’ now I need to think about them. Give me a day or two to gather me wits.”
A look of triumph crossed the steward’s face. “Good! An’ remember—I want all of it. Make sure it’s the whole six thousand gold sovereigns!”
“But half o’ that is me late wife’s dowry and Isla’s inheritance direct! Ye have nay claim to it!”
“Aye, I do,” the steward said, “because I’m the laird an’ can do what I like. If yer daughter wants to keep her dowry, she can always marry me. Me wife has been dead these five years an’ more, an’ I have nay sons. I need a nice young wife to provide me with an heir now that I’m laird.”
Isla sobbed. “Give him all the money, Faither. I would rather be penniless than marry such a man.”
The steward shrugged. “It’s yer loss.”
