12
Isla’s heart was in her mouth when she saw the laird’s son sit down beside her, but the feelings she felt inside emboldened her. She shifted closer to him, so close that she could feel her arm pressing against his. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Finlay Dougal moved so that he was sitting behind her, and then he wrapped his great kilt plaid around her shoulders too. When he was sure she felt comfortable with this position, he stretched out his long, muscular legs on either side of Isla. She had a good look at his leather boots because she was too shy to look anywhere else; they were stained from the sea salt and worn on the inner side from rubbing against stirrup leathers. Isla had a brief flash of how hard his life must have been for the last ten years. A never-ending cycle, with bursts of violence followed by brief interludes while waiting for the next attack. No peace or time to appreciate the comforts of a home. And yet it seemed to have only made him stronger.
The laird’s son’s great plaid was large enough to provide both of them with warmth, but all the same, Isla felt as if the heat rising up inside her might be enough to set the woolen weave alight. She wanted to say something even though his silence was not done in such a way as to make her feel ill at ease.
“Why did ye no’ come back to the castle for so long, sir?”
The crackling flames gave off an intense heat. The smoke blew into the room slightly, but not enough to make it untenable. Finlay sighed. It seemed as if he hugged her closer to him, or maybe he was simply flexing the large muscles that bulged on his arms as he shifted to make himself more comfortable.
“Och lass, a man can lose his affection for his family when he is forced to live rough for so long. It’s been ten years. By the time I took over me faither’s revenge, McTavish Castle had been fortified to be as strong as Dougal Castle. We were reduced to living rough in the mountains an’ on the wild heaths, huntin’ small animals an’ foragin’ off the land. Me men an’ I would attack convoys travelin’ to and leavin’ the McTavish boundaries. It was a tedious business, but I was able to come home when the winter snows began to fall. After I decided that infiltrating the port town the McTavishes used to bring in mercenaries would be the fastest way to end the feud, I had to don various disguises: sailor, travelin’ merchant, farmhand. I wintered at the port town instead of at the castle. By that time, I didnae miss home at all. Wherever I put down me bonnet was good enough to call home for a wee while.”
Isla felt so sorry for the warrior forced to wander far from his home. She touched his leg lightly, giving it a comforting stroke. Her hand rested on his plaid. Immediately, her fingers began to rub the woolen garment softly. She had never seen a plaid up close before.
“Faither does nae wear plaid kilts, sir.” She leaned her head back against his strong chest, thrilled at the sound of his heart beating underneath it. “He prefers to wear leather trews an’ a leather apron when he works.”
She heard his deep voice rumbling in his chest when he replied, “I wear leather trews sometimes, but the Dougals have three different plaids I can wear, dependin’ on the occasion.”
“Really?” Isla was intrigued. “Three? Are ye sure? Although I dinnae doubt yer words, it’s only that the weavers all left the castle some years back, an’ now the ladies who can still weave plaid are only able to weave enough for their families. This is why me kirtles an’ arisaids are plain wool an’ no’ cut from Dougal plaid.” She picked up the edge of the great kilt plaid he had wrapped around her and saw that the colors were faded and the wool was hooked and frayed in places. “I guess ye will have to find a way to get more plaid if ye want a new one. Will ye tell me about the other patterns an’ colors?”
He put his arms around her, pulling her closer. “Och Isla, I remember them as well as I do the palm o’ me own hand. The Dougal clan have a plaid for huntin’; its colors are bruin, black, an’ dark green shot through with white thread so it makes it harder for the animals to see lurkin’ in the bushes. Then we have the one I’m wearin’. If ye squint yer eyes closer, ye can see the colors are dark green, dark blue, and black shot through with bruin. It is the plaid we wear for war because the colors provide good camouflage at night if we are sneakin’ up to ambush someone while still being easy to recognize on the battlefield so the fightin’ men kent if ye are a friend or foe.”
Isla peered close at the plaid. It was hard to see in the dark bothy, but she could see a few of the colors he mentioned whenever the fire flamed higher to lick at the driftwood.
“And the last plaid?” she asked.
His hands covered hers as her fingers felt the soft wool covering her shoulders.
“The Dougal ceremonial plaid: dark green, ochre, and black shot through with white. We wear it for formal occasions. But it’s been many years since Dougal Castle held a ball or a royal reelin’. Is that what ye missed the most?”
Isla stared at the fire, not sure anymore what it was she felt she was missing at the castle.
“Have ye ever danced, sir?”
He made a sound that clearly meant no.
“I have nay time for such triflin’ matters, lass.”
She wriggled with excitement and snuggled against him as she warmed to talking about her subject.
“No’ ever when ye were younger? How sad. I suppose I miss dancin’ the most, and I want to do it—lots o’ it—before I get auld like…”
He stood up behind her so fast that she nearly fell back onto the floor.
“Auld like me?! I’m no’ auld! I’m in me prime. I’ll have seen only thirty summers next year. Why d’ye think I’m auld, Isla?”
She patted the place beside her in a calm manner. “I was about to say ‘like the steward,’ but seeing as I can tell ye have an aversion to the subject, I’ll let it drop.”
He sat back down next to her at once. They looked at one another and then began to laugh. Isla laughed so hard she fell over.
“Och sir, ye should have seen yer face! But I promise ye this: ye will look twice as handsome when we get ye out o’ those ragged clothes and trim back some o’ that dark beard o’ yers…”
It was too late for Isla to realize she had spoken her thoughts out aloud. Between the cozy chat, the warm fire, and being alone with an attractive stranger for the first time in her life, Isla had forgotten how to guard her mouth.
Finlay Dougal was far from upset with her suggestion, however.
“Ye think me handsome?”
He turned to stare at her with the same intensity she recognized from when he was thinking hard about a plan. Isla wondered what he was planning to do now, but she would not lie.
